RICHARD 
 FURLONG 
 
 E. TEMPLE THURSTON
 
 ttTj 
 3
 
 RICHARD FURLONG
 
 BOOKS BY E. TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 THE ANTAGONISTS 
 
 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 THE APPLE OF EDEN 
 
 TRAFFIC 
 
 THE REALIST , 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF KATHERINE 
 
 MIRAGE 
 
 SALLY BISHOP 
 
 THE GREATEST WISH IN THE WORLD 
 
 THE PATCHWORK PAPERS 
 
 THE GARDEN OF RESURRECTION 
 
 THE FLOWER OF GLOSTER 
 
 THIRTEEN 
 
 180
 
 c
 
 You're goin' to stop 'ere that's all I want.'" 
 
 [PAGE 88 ]
 
 RICHARD 
 FURLONG 
 
 BY 
 
 E. TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
 AUTHOR OP "THE ANTAGONISTS," "THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE," 
 "THE GARDEN OF RESURRECTION," "THE OPEN WINDOW," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 19*3
 
 Comical, IQIJ, BY 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 I 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 TO Mr WIFE 
 
 If there is anything to you 
 
 In love or folly, pain or pride 
 
 In poor endeavor whipped and spurred, 
 
 In eager hope, unsatisfied; 
 
 If in the wonder of the years that were, 
 
 You see the promise of the years that may, 
 
 Then Pve not writ one word in vain, 
 
 Or set a star to see it fall away.
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 BOOK I 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 RICHARD FURLONG, who may be known 
 to you, if not from previous history, then 
 perhaps by name alone, set forth to meet 
 the world one early morning of an April day. 
 
 In an age when mechanical inventions shall have 
 made one vast city of the country in which we live, 
 when great schemes of transport have knit together 
 in one hideous design the towns of England of which 
 the vast Black Country is a pattern you may see to- 
 day this adventure of Dicky Furlong, starting out 
 to meet the world in a train which toiled so slowly 
 through the countryside, might well take upon itself 
 all the golden light of Romance. 
 
 Destinies no doubt are set in motion, threads are 
 fixed anew upon the empty loom whenever a child is 
 born; but not until that child has turned its face to 
 the world, seeking to conquer and alone, not until 
 then can you of a certainty discern the pattern it is 
 set by Destiny to weave. 
 
 i
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky Furlong had run away from home and, at 
 the age of eighteen, with twelve pounds in his pocket, 
 was going up to London to learn the Mystery of 
 Art. Whether this were the pattern Destiny in- 
 tended him to weave the pages which follow are 
 meant inevitably to show. For the mere determina- 
 tion of a man to follow a road is but faintly indica- 
 tive of the journey he will make or the destination 
 he will reach. A thousand by-ways he must pass, 
 refusing again and again the alluring hands that 
 beckon him their way. 
 
 Wherefore the heart of a man must be steeled and 
 strong or ever he reaches that journey's end which 
 in the first hot blood of youth he has set himself to 
 come by. And all the history that follows here was 
 the intent to trace the countless pit-falls and temp- 
 tations in just one man's journey to his heart's de- 
 sire. 
 
 The third-class carriage into which Dicky, with 
 his small bundle, had stepped was empty. It was 
 the first train in the day from Pershore to London, 
 and he had been the only passenger waiting on the 
 platform. A drowsy porter had closed the door be- 
 hind him as the train began to move off, and then 
 the roofs of the little town slipped away behind 
 them. He changed his seat, sitting with his back to 
 the engine, that he might see the very last of the 
 place. It had certain recollections for him which he 
 cherished. There on that very platform his mother 
 
 2
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 had said good-bye to him when he went to school. 
 But it was not his mother he thought of now. 
 
 Five miles away, over that belt of trees which lay 
 beyond the town, his whole mind centred. The first 
 parting between a boy and a girl, when the one sets 
 forth into the great unknown and the other remains 
 behind to pass the empty lanes where they have so 
 often walked together, is as great a wrench as you 
 well may know. Like the first sight of death, ter- 
 rible to youth in its inevitable finality, so such a part- 
 ing is the first fearful glimpse into the mysterious 
 struggle of life. 
 
 Until that moment it may well have seemed that 
 the matter were easy enough; but in one sudden 
 moment, as with Dicky Furlong, a boy must learn 
 that the whole world is his common enemy, and 
 scarce one will lend a hand to bring him ease. 
 
 Long after the belt of trees had dropped away 
 behind the rising land, he still looked in that direc- 
 tion where his Dorothy should be, and his eyes saw 
 nothing of the woods and meadows through which 
 they passed. But already his first battle had been 
 fought and won. He had seized his independence 
 and now was well set upon the high road, one trav- 
 eller amongst the many thousands who are all step- 
 ping forth eagerly or wearily towards the city of 
 their dreams. 
 
 That much accomplished, it is not so hard a busi- 
 ness to put the best foot foremost. As they steamed 
 
 3
 
 into the station of Evesham, Dicky brought his lips 
 together. 
 
 "I wouldn't turn back," said he to himself, "not 
 for a thousand pounds!" and then set to work, 
 counting the change of silver and coppers in his 
 pocket. Every penny was of value now. It seemed 
 hard to realise that, with so great a fortune as twelve 
 pounds in his possession; nevertheless, he counted it 
 all to the last halfpenny, and was thus engaged when 
 another passenger entered the carnage. Dicky put 
 the money away, and the train moved on again 
 towards London. 
 
 For a while the newcomer watched him, specu- 
 lating, as no doubt you do when you have come to 
 know the thousand interests in life, who such a boy 
 might be, why he was counting his money, and what 
 was his destination by that early train in the morn- 
 ing. It is always interesting to be curious; it is 
 always curious to find out. 
 
 Presently he moved across the carriage and seated 
 himself in the corner opposite to Dicky. 
 
 "Going to London?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied Dicky. 
 
 "You're making an early start." 
 
 Still conscious of the authority of home from 
 which he had just escaped, Dicky replied cautiously 
 in the affirmative again. 
 
 The stranger smiled. He perceived the cautious- 
 ness, and his curiosity was gently roused. He found 
 
 4
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 most people interesting in a day's journey, and this 
 boy, with his quick grey eyes and his set lips, whose 
 age, as he thought of it, he found most difficult to 
 gauge, -was not the companion one would expect to 
 meet on an early morning journey. He crossed his 
 legs and settled himself more comfortably in his 
 corner. 
 
 "Taking a holiday?" he continued presently. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Going back to business?" 
 
 "I'm going to work." 
 
 "What are you going to work at?" 
 
 Dicky paused and looked squarely into the 
 stranger's eyes. 
 
 "I'm going to be a painter an artist," he said at 
 last. He said it proudly. There was the ring of 
 confidence in his voice, the tone of enthusiasm, the 
 sure note of youth the note we must invariably 
 laugh at when we have passed all hope of it our- 
 selves. 
 
 His companion looked at his watch. There were 
 three more hours yet before they came to London. 
 He took a pipe from his pocket and filled it. When 
 it was lit, he looked again at Dicky. 
 
 "How do you manage to do that?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm going to learn." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "I don't know yet." 
 
 "Are you going to make your living by it?" 
 
 5
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well this is very interesting," said the stranger, 
 smiling again. "Do you come from Evesham?" 
 
 From the manner in which Dicky gave him the 
 negative, he felt it wise to pursue that point no 
 farther. In these little adventures of discovery one 
 must be cautious and quick to take a tone of voice. 
 From that moment he made no further effort to 
 learn where Dicky lived. 
 
 "Is this just an intention of yours," he asked 
 presently, "or have you done a lot of painting al- 
 ready?" 
 
 "I've been doing it for two or three years," re- 
 plied Dicky, and wondered if that seemed a short or 
 a long period to his companion. A momentary fear 
 that it might suggest a sense of brevity, made his 
 cheeks hot. He had a feeling that it might sound 
 ridiculous, though it spelt an age to him. "I've been 
 working pretty hard," he added. 
 
 "I'm sure you have," was the reply. "Have you 
 exhibited anywhere?" 
 
 Dicky shook his head. The thought that he might 
 seem very inexperienced was growing in his mind, 
 and with it grew the hotness in his cheeks. He felt 
 an inclination to refuse an answer to the questions, 
 but so quietly were they put that it appeared more 
 ridiculous to refuse than to answer them. He waited 
 with some misgiving for the next. 
 
 6
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Are you going to a school," the stranger went 
 on again, "or have you got a studio?" 
 
 "No, I can't afford a studio," he replied. "I can't 
 afford a school yet." 
 
 "Then how are you going to live?" 
 
 "Well, I've got a little money and and I'm 
 going to sell my pictures." 
 
 "Have you brought any with you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Might I see them?" 
 
 Dicky's hand went quickly to his bundle. The 
 work into which he had put all his heart was a better 
 answer to these questions than anything he could say. 
 It was not that he had an exalted opinion of them, 
 but they were what he had done. They represented 
 work accomplished, and the sense of justification 
 accompanied them in his mind. 
 
 His companion looked on with inward amusement 
 as he watched the sketches being brought forth from 
 the bundle that could have contained but little else 
 beside. Indeed, it occurred to him that no doubt 
 Dicky had some portmanteau in the van. His inter- 
 est was rather in the fact that he had not let these 
 treasures pass out of his keeping. 
 
 One by one, then, Dicky turned them face down- 
 wards until the whole collection was on his knees. 
 So, having arranged them in the order of their value 
 in his estimation, he brought forth one after another, 
 keeping the best until the last. 
 
 7
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 One by one his companion took them, offering no 
 criticism, only asking now and again for explanation 
 of the subject such questions as, "What time of the 
 day was this done?" "How long did you take over 
 this?" which Dicky answered with patient expectancy. 
 
 At last they had all passed from Dicky's hands 
 and, with eager eyes, he was watching his com- 
 panion's face as he sat in prolonged contemplation 
 of the first picture. Presently he looked up. 
 
 "This is not all you've done, of course?" said he. 
 
 "Oh, no I've left a lot at home a lot that 
 weren't any good. These are the ones I'm going to 
 sell." 
 
 The stranger put them all down on the seat beside 
 him. 
 
 "Well," said he after a pause, "what do you want 
 me to say?" 
 
 "What you think." 
 
 "Quite sure?" 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "Then you won't sell one of these sketches." 
 
 Dicky became aware of a feeling of sickness. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 "They're not what people want no dealer would 
 take them. They're unfinished. I'm criticising them 
 as sketches that would sell. These are only im- 
 pressions." 
 
 "But they are real impressions," said Dicky. 
 "They're mine." 
 
 8
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Do you know what a dealer would reply if you 
 said that to him?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "He'd say: 'Quite so but who are you?' Now 
 what would your answer be to that?" 
 
 For a moment Dicky looked at his companion; 
 then he leant forward and gathered up the sketches 
 from the seat and in silence put them back once more 
 into the bundle. 
 
 The stranger smiled again. 
 
 "That would be your answer," said he. "Well, I 
 suppose it's about the best one you could make. And 
 if he had any sense he'd say: 'Now go and finish 
 
 a picture for me something after this style ' 
 
 and he'd show you a picture in a frame in his gal- 
 lery, a picture, all excellent in completion, admirable 
 in technique probably far from an impression; 
 worked upon so carefully that all real impression 
 was gone right out of it. What 'ud you do then?" 
 
 The heat came back again into Dicky's cheeks. 
 
 "I'd tell him," said he hotly, "that he could buy 
 those pictures from the place where he got them. 
 Those are not the sort of pictures I'm going to 
 paint." 
 
 "What are your sort, then?" 
 
 "I'm going to paint meanings," said Dicky sud- 
 denly, expressing himself in words for the first time 
 in his life, and astonishing himself as much as his 
 companion, "I'm going to paint meanings I'm not 
 
 9
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 going to paint things. Trees mean something 
 they aren't just trees mountains mean something 
 rivers mean something everything has a meaning 
 besides its mere colour and shape. That's what I'm 
 going to paint." 
 
 "Ever heard of the Futurists?" asked the 
 stranger. 
 
 "No," said Dicky. 
 
 "Oh then I suppose you are the new mind, eh? 
 the new mind coming out of nowhere to fling itself 
 against the brick walls of tradition in London. It's 
 quite interesting. Very well, you pick ' up your 
 sketches then that's your answer to our friend 
 the dealer you pick up your sketches, and you 
 march out of the shop and you get a meal out of 
 the money you've got in your pocket. Now I'm 
 going to ask you an impertinent question." 
 
 "You can be as impertinent as you like," said 
 Dicky who, in the heat of the moment, felt that all 
 he had said was in the nature of impertinence. "I 
 don't mind what you ask." 
 
 "Then how much is this sum of money upon which 
 you propose to fall back when you can't sell your 
 sketches?" 
 
 "Just twelve pounds," replied Dicky. 
 
 His companion frowned as he looked at him. 
 
 "Are you going to stay with friends?" he asked. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You'll be alone in London?" 
 10
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Know anybody?" 
 
 "I have a letter of introduction." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 "A man on a newspaper." 
 
 The stranger knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SO soon as this had come Dicky's first meeting 
 with the world and, as you might expect, the 
 first feeling he had for it was contempt. For 
 just as he believed his love for his Dorothy was 
 unlike any man's passion, so if these were the ways 
 of the world he had to face he believed he was to 
 conquer circumstance as no man had ever conquered 
 it before. 
 
 Nearly every boy, setting forth to conquer, is a 
 super-man. Of danger he knows nothing of jeop- 
 ardy no more. No hope is forlorn to him; no temp- 
 tation strong enough to assail the high citadel of his 
 resolve. He is out to win with a whole heart, and 
 all compromise to victory is beneath the contempla- 
 tion of his mind. 
 
 When, that very first morning of his adventure 
 with life, Dicky was gently shown his own insignifi- 
 cance, there may have been misgiving in his mind, 
 but in his heart he laughed at the discomfiture. 
 
 What did this stranger know of all he could do? 
 All the sketches he had shown him were work of 
 the past. He could do better even at that moment, 
 
 and in a year ! He smiled when he thought to 
 
 12
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 himself of the great work he would be doing then. 
 
 Accordingly when, at the station in London, his 
 companion took a card from his pocket and handed 
 it to him, saying, "When you've had a week of it 
 alone in London, come and see me I can put you 
 up," he took it and smiled with a gratitude he felt 
 to be superior to the offer his friend had made. 
 
 "It's very kind of you," said he, "but I sha'n't 
 want that sort of help. I've got some money of my 
 own." 
 
 The stranger held out his hand. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I shall be glad to see you get 
 on. How old are you?" 
 
 "Eighteen nearly nineteen." 
 
 "Yes, it's a good age to begin. I suppose you 
 don't see any difficulties in front of you?" 
 
 "I know I shall have to work," said Dicky. 
 
 "And I expect you're yearning to be at it." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Splendid splendid. Let me see you again some 
 day. Good-bye." 
 
 He turned away to the back of the train where 
 the luggage was being flung out upon the platform 
 and, gripping his bundle, Dicky walked out of the 
 station into the streets of London. 
 
 He had seen the great city before, but only when 
 driving through the streets to change from one sta- 
 tion to another. Therefore, it was not all new to 
 him; but that moment, as he stood alone upon the 
 
 13
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 pavement, the countless vehicles passing, the count- 
 less people hurrying by, he found it very strange. 
 
 With the solemn silence of the hills still present 
 in his ears, this eternal discord of sounds confused 
 and bewildered, yet insensibly stirred his mind to a 
 knowledge of the conflict which lay before him. 
 
 This indeed is the spirit of London of all the 
 great cities of the world. It is not in them that the 
 pure metal of new mind is to be discovered, but that 
 there is the vast foundry where it is beaten into 
 shape. All day long and far into the night the huge 
 hammers are rising and falling. These are the ma- 
 chines of man at labour on the material of God. 
 
 Even as Dicky stood there upon the kerbstone, 
 with the small bundle of his belongings held tightly 
 in his hand, he felt the faint oppression of a power 
 mightier than himself; thrusting it, however, away 
 from him, he enquired his way to Fleet Street and 
 set off there on foot. 
 
 In those days the offices of the Evening Herald 
 were situated in antiquated premises in Whitefriars 
 Street, and to these offices Dicky carried his letter 
 of introduction. J. H. Marlow, to whom it was 
 addressed, was one of the sub-editors on the paper, 
 a position conveying power and importance to the 
 mind of Dicky, who gave his name to the office boy 
 with a cheerful confidence and took his seat in the 
 untidy waiting room full of expectation. 
 
 Occasionally, as he sat there, men in their shirt
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sleeves passed by, thrusting their heads in at the 
 door and going away again. For the first three or 
 four times he half rose to his feet in anticipation, 
 but not one of them was the man he expected. Three- 
 quarters of an hour went by and he still waited. At 
 last, catching sight of the office boy, he enquired if 
 Mr. Marlow had been told. 
 
 "What name was it?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Furlong," said Dicky. 
 
 With an effort of memory, the boy recalled the 
 name and informed Dicky that he would not have 
 much longer to wait. Yet still the minutes slipped 
 away, while Dicky learnt yet another aspect of his 
 own insignificance. At length, when his patience 
 was almost exhausted and he had risen to his feet 
 to go, a man, in shirt sleeves like the rest, looked 
 hurriedly into the room. 
 
 "Your name Furlong?" said he. 
 
 "Yes," said Dicky. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "I've got a letter of introduction here from Mr. 
 Hollom." 
 
 He brought it out of his pocket, feeling that now 
 at last the door was open and his foot upon the 
 threshold. Marlow took it hurriedly and extracted 
 the letter from the envelope. Dicky watched him 
 while he read it, finding a sense of disappointment 
 in his mind that this man, who was a sub-editor and 
 a friend of his friend, Mr. Hollom, was so insignifi- 
 
 15
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 cant both in manner and appearance. His face was 
 pallid and thin. The eyes were small and close to- 
 gether, the head narrow, the forehead high but 
 pinched. The very hastiness in all he said and did 
 was not that of a busy man, but of one who likes 
 to imagine himself pressed for time. In his short 
 acquaintance with journalists, Dicky soon learnt that 
 this was no uncommon pose. The hurry of going 
 to press, the occasional stress of emergency, all 
 tended to make them assume a constant attitude of 
 half-bewildered concentration. At first, with Mar- 
 low he thought it to be genuine pressure, and the 
 effect of it upon his mind was one of disappointment. 
 
 When he had read the letter, Marlow looked up. 
 
 "Is this Charles Hollom?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, yes. Then he was at Oriel with me. Well, 
 he wants me to get you something to do. Illustrat- 
 ing, I suppose, or something like that; but we don't 
 have illustrations on the Herald for our stories, only 
 fashion designs, and I don't suppose you want to do 
 anything like that." 
 
 "I shouldn't know anything about it," replied 
 Dicky. 
 
 "No, and, besides, we've got our regular staff for 
 that. Have you done any illustration work?" 
 
 "No, but that's what I think I could do." 
 
 Well, I'd better introduce you to Channing. He's 
 on an illustrated magazine The Feather. I shall 
 
 16
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 be seeing him at lunch. You'd better come and have 
 lunch with us. Have you got anything you can do 
 till one o'clock?" 
 
 "I've got to find a room somewhere," said Dicky; 
 "just a bedroom that's all I want." 
 
 "Well, you'd better try round about me. I've got 
 rooms in Long Acre. You might find something 
 there, in Drury Lane or Great Queen Street. Do 
 you know where that is?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "If you go up into Fleet Street, anyone'll tell you. 
 It isn't far. Then you come back here at one 
 o'clock." 
 
 "It's very good of you," said Dicky gratefully. 
 
 Marlow looked at him in surprise and then hur- 
 ried out of the room. 
 
 In Fleet Street Dicky was told the way to the 
 neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and there, at the 
 junction between Long Acre and Great Queen 
 Street, he contemplated a notice in the window of an 
 oil shop : Bedroom to let, for a single gentleman. 
 After a moment's hesitation he walked inside. In the 
 dimly lit interior smelling fiercely of paint and par- 
 affin and soap, he waited at the greasy counter until a 
 woman emerged from a room at the back, concealed 
 by piles of hardware, of brushes, brooms and mats. 
 
 She rubbed her hands across her eyes and said: 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "You have a bedroom to let," said Dicky.
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Yes, but you can't see it now," she replied. 
 
 "Isn't it to let, then?" 
 
 "Yes, but a gentleman only went out of it this 
 morning, and I 'aven't got it tidy yet." 
 
 "How much is it a week?" 
 
 "Five shillings." 
 
 "Does that include breakfast?" 
 
 She dragged a hair out of the corner of her mouth 
 and gazed at him. 
 
 "You want a lot, don't yer?" said she. "Yer 
 can 'ave breakfast if yer like but it'll be another 
 'alf crown. Bacon and heggs you'll get for that 
 and tea or coffee if yer prefer it." 
 
 "Very well," said Dicky; "that'll do. I can leave 
 my things here, and you can put them up in the room 
 when it's ready. I'll be back this evening." 
 ' 'Ow long do you want the room for?" 
 
 "Oh, a good time, I should think." 
 
 "Fortnight?" 
 
 "Longer than that, I expect." 
 
 Her face changed. For a moment she wore a 
 more agreeable expression. 
 
 "All right, then," said she. "I'll 'ave it nice and 
 clean for yer by six o'clock. You get in this way 
 through the shop. It's a bit smelly but you'll get 
 used to that if you're goin' to be 'ere a fortnight. 
 Nobody minds it after a day or two. I like it my- 
 self." 
 
 18
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I don't suppose I shall mind it," said Dicky. 
 "Here are my things." 
 
 "Is there another box coming?" she enquired. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, if yer pay yer week in advance, I suppose 
 that won't matter. Very well, then six o'clock. 
 Like a cup o' tea when yer come in?" 
 
 "Please, yes." 
 
 And so Dicky found his first abode in London.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN an upper room of a tavern at the gates of the 
 Middle Temple, where one enters into Crown 
 Office Row, Dicky was taken to lunch. It all 
 gave the impression of being very grand to him, ap- 
 peared to be very closely an acquaintance with Life. 
 For at the large table where they had their meal 
 there were many journalists who were well known 
 in Whitefriars and had a reputation even in Fleet 
 Street. It seemed to Dicky that he was dining with 
 men well known to the world at large. Marlow was 
 acquainted with them all and nodded to them. Some 
 of them nodded to him first. But when it was he 
 who led the salutation he generally told Dicky in an 
 undertone who it was. 
 
 "See that chap?" said he, after one of these 
 greetings which had formally been acknowledged to 
 him. "That's Shirlaw." 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 "Shirlaw why, he's the editor of The Feather. 
 He's written a book a novel. I haven't read it 
 it's not up to much." 
 
 "Thought you said Mr. Channing was the editor 
 of The Feather?" said Dicky. 
 
 20
 
 "No Lord, no. Channing's a sub. Shirlaw runs 
 it for Leader. But he's going to start one on his 
 own. It'll be huge. You may get a chance to do 
 some work on that. That's the best of Fleet Street 
 you're in touch with every new thing that's start- 
 ing and can get there before anyone else." 
 
 Dicky felt the world stretching out in front of 
 him. Just a little work, and with what money he 
 had he would be able to attend the night classes at 
 a school. Just a little work that was all; and 
 there he was in Fleet Street at the same table with 
 these men who could give it to him and set him fairly 
 on that road to the city of his dreams. 
 
 He ate but little at that lunch. So much was being 
 said that thrilled his mind to listen. Men spoke 
 familiarly of the great politicians. One of them 
 even alluded to his conversation with a member of 
 the cabinet whose name Dicky had often heard his 
 father mention with grave respect. 
 
 "Who is that man?" he asked Marlow in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "That fellow with the eyeglass?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh that's Jevens he's a free lance writes 
 for any paper that'll take his stuff. Says he makes 
 as much as twenty pounds a week sometimes." 
 
 "I didn't know you could make as much as that," 
 said Dicky simply. 
 
 21
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Oh, Lord, yes! Shirlaw gets close on twelve 
 hundred a year certain." 
 
 Dicky regarded the great man with awe. He was 
 mopping up the gravy on his plate with a crust of 
 bread which he held in his fingers, a thing Dicky 
 had wanted to do with a fork all his life until con- 
 stant forbiddance of it had made him regard it in 
 the light of bad manners. 
 
 "Is Mr. Shirlaw a gentleman?" he asked pres- 
 ently, and there was only this thought in his mind. 
 It was the question of a schoolboy, but Marlow took 
 it to be the enquiry of a snob. 
 
 "If you're looking for gentlemen," said he, "you're 
 wasting time in Fleet Street." And he meant it to 
 be a rebuke, but Dicky took it as the truth. 
 
 For some time after that he was silent, listening 
 only to the discussions and schemes for the new 
 magazine which Shirlaw was to run. He felt then 
 that he was in the tide of great enterprise. He did 
 not know at that time how many such schemes had 
 been discussed before ; how one and all of them had 
 tumbled to the ground. 
 
 Even those who entered most earnestly into the 
 conversation forgot the failures that had gone be- 
 fore, the numberless ideas that had been raised for 
 new magazines, new papers, and, for want of that 
 magic power of finance, had smouldered out and 
 been trodden into the dust. 
 
 22
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "See that little chap next to Shirlaw," said Mar- 
 low presently. 
 
 Dicky nodded. 
 
 "That's Bentley he's finding the money for the 
 new magazine there's a fellow he knows on the 
 Stock Exchange worth thousands. He's going to 
 finance the whole business. I think I'm going to 
 write some articles for them. I've got a splendid 
 idea for a series they could run one every month 
 about a couple of thousand words. They'd be able 
 to pay five guineas an article. That 'ud make a 
 nice little sixty a year more for me. They'd be jolly 
 good, too, if they were illustrated. You might let 
 me see some of your sketches, and then perhaps you 
 could do them. They'd pay you for them all right." 
 
 "How much?" asked Dicky, and he knew his 
 heart was beating quicker. 
 
 "Oh, about a guinea each. There'd probably be 
 two to each article." 
 
 "That 'ud be twenty-five pounds a year," said 
 Dicky. 
 
 "Yes, I know; but it all counts. They wouldn't 
 take you much more than an hour each one." 
 
 "Oh, I should take more than an hour over them," 
 replied Dicky with earnestness. "I should do them 
 as well as I could." 
 
 "Well, I'll just tell you the sort of article it's 
 going to be. I've had this idea for some time, and 
 
 23
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 I've just been waiting to plant them with a new 
 magazine the Herald's not good enough." 
 
 Forthwith, then, he described to Dicky his idea 
 for a series of articles that every paper to which he 
 had offered them had refused. And Dicky listened, 
 leaving untouched the food on the plate before him, 
 sometimes wondering how Marlow could eat and 
 talk so much at the same time. 
 
 At last the men began to rise from the table, and 
 Dicky was taken across the room to be introduced 
 to Channing, whom Marlow a moment later led 
 aside. 
 
 "Don't put yourself out, old chap," he said. "I 
 haven't seen any of his work. He looks as if he 
 might do something. A chap I knew up at Oriel 
 sent him with a letter of introduction. Has Shirlaw 
 got the money for the new magazine?" 
 
 Channing shook his head. 
 
 "Don't believe he has. Bentley told me this 
 morning that the fellow on the Stock Exchange was 
 not going to fork up." 
 
 "Has he told Shirlaw?" 
 
 "Not yet Shirlaw 'ud drop him like a hot spud 
 if he knew and Bentley's trying to place those short 
 stories of his with us. What's the name of this 
 kid?" 
 
 "Furlong. Comes from Gloucestershire, I think." 
 
 "Well, I'll take him over with me to the office. I 
 think I've got something he can do." 
 
 24
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Full of expectancy, with this first glimpse of a 
 radiant future shimmering before his eyes, Dicky 
 followed Channing down to the office of The 
 Feather. For half an hour he sat there, listening 
 to the sub-editor's schemes for supplementing the in- 
 come he already received. There were stories he 
 was writing for this paper stories for that; a book 
 he was going to do which some publishing house had 
 promised to read with the greatest consideration. A 
 certain well-known author he had written to was on 
 the point of letting him dramatise one of his books. 
 
 "He doesn't know it," said Channing, laughing, 
 "but I wrote a stinging review of it in the Herald. 
 It's a rotten book, but it ought to make a good play. 
 Of course, if I'd known he was going to let me 
 dramatise it, I shouldn't have written it like that. 
 But these authors are conceited bounders they want 
 taking down a bit." 
 
 And through all this, ready enough to listen, 
 Dicky felt that he was in the presence of a man 
 touching the fringe of fame. With one so little 
 versed in the ways of Fleet Street, this was an op- 
 portunity for egotism which Channing could not deny 
 himself. The more he saw the impression he was 
 making on Dicky's ready mind, the higher rose the 
 flights of his imagination as he related all the things 
 he was going to do, until it almost seemed to him, as 
 he enumerated them, that there really was a chance 
 of some of them being done. 
 
 25
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Of course I can help you a good deal," said he 
 presently. "You won't find Marlow much good, but 
 I can put quite a few things in your way. There are 
 all my stories. As soon as I place them I can sug- 
 gest you to the editor for the illustrations." 
 
 Dicky felt that this world of Fleet Street was 
 filled with generous men. In Marlow's defence, he 
 told Channing how he had been promised the illus- 
 tration of his articles. 
 
 Channing laughed. 
 
 "I Know those old articles," he said. "He tried 
 to get us to take 'em here. He'll never place 'em. 
 He's all right as a sub-editor, but he couldn't do any- 
 thing original for the life of him. Don't say I said 
 that, but everybody knows it except him." 
 
 For one moment Dicky's heart fell. But in the 
 first instance he had thought little of Marlow. He 
 was not surprised that this opinion was held of him. 
 His heart rose again immediately at the thought of 
 all the work that Channing could give him to do. 
 
 "I want," said he presently, "I want to make about 
 a hundred a year that'll keep me all right, and I 
 shall be able to attend night classes at one of the art 
 schools. Do you think I should ever be able to do 
 that?" 
 
 Channing laughed again, and, still smiling, he 
 pulled out a wash drawing from under a heap of 
 papers on his desk. He handed it to Dicky. 
 
 "What do you think of that?" he asked. 
 26
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky held it for a moment in his hand, then he 
 laid it down. 
 
 "Is it an illustration on your magazine?" he en- 
 quired. 
 
 "Yes. Say what you think." 
 
 "Well, I suppose he did it in a hurry," said Dicky 
 presently. "It it doesn't mean anything." 
 
 "How doesn't mean anything?" 
 
 "Well, those trees they're only lines and out- 
 lines. There's no air in it those people might just 
 as well be in a room they aren't out of doors." 
 
 Frankly, Channing thought he was talking non- 
 sense, and, from the point of view of illustrated 
 journalism, undoubtedly he was. 
 
 "The figures are all right," said Channing. "I 
 don't say it's a picture, but it's the sort of thing we 
 want. Anyhow, that chap makes his five hundred a 
 year and, if he worked a bit harder, he could make 
 more. Do you think you could do as good as that?" 
 
 Now, this was Dicky's very first contact with the 
 financial side of art, and it stirred in him just the 
 same spirit of contempt as when the stranger in the 
 train had spoken of the dealers. 
 
 "I hope to heaven I'll never do anything like it," 
 said he hotly. "It's not worth doing." 
 
 "It's worth two guineas to him," replied Chan- 
 ning. "You'll have to get rid of these high and 
 mighty ideas if you're going to make your living 
 at it." 
 
 3 27
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Well, give me a chance and let me see what I 
 can do/' retorted Dicky, and the keen note of confi- 
 dence in his voice persuaded Channing to hand him 
 a story the illustrations for which were already as 
 good as placed with another man. 
 
 "Take those proofs home," he said, "and see what 
 you can do with them. Three illustrations we want 
 one full page. If you can get them done by the 
 end of the week I might be able to get them in." 
 
 He knew there was not the faintest chance of 
 Dicky's drawings ever being used, but it gave a 
 flourish to the end of their conversation; it made 
 him seem the man in command. 
 
 He smiled to himself when Dicky had gone, but 
 in the back of his mind was some suspicion that he 
 had been talking to a better man than himself. 
 
 "Enthusiastic beggar," he thought; "but he'll get 
 it knocked out of him." He remembered his own 
 ambitions when first he began. "It won't last," he 
 thought. "They never do," and, with a sigh which 
 he did not even hear himself, he took up the scissors 
 from the table and cut a joke out of an American 
 paper by his side.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN a little bedroom under the slates of Mrs. 
 Baldwin's oil shop, Dicky drank the cup of tea 
 which that good lady had brought him, and 
 seated himself down to the first real work he had 
 ever had to do. In his father's mill in Gloucester- 
 shire it had been labour, not work. Even at that age, 
 Dicky knew the difference. From labour he had run 
 away, and to work he had come sooner than he had 
 ever dreamed of in his wildest hopes. Would his 
 father call it nonsense now if he knew that, on the 
 very first day, he had been commissioned for work 
 that would bring him in as much as the Mill itself 
 could earn in a whole week? Would his Dorothy 
 think he had played such havoc with their chances of 
 marriage if she knew the brilliance of the future that 
 stretched before him? He looked around the little 
 room with its small iron bedstead, its yellow painted 
 deal washhand stand and chest of drawers, and he 
 smiled. 
 
 The sounds of London came through his open 
 window. Already he was beginning to find in them 
 the impetus that they bring to some, and as yet was 
 all unconscious of the bitter monotony they mean to 
 
 29
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 others. There was a small square of linoleum before 
 his washhandstand that was all the covering that 
 the floor of his bedroom offered; there was no view 
 along the road to Bredon Hill from his window; it 
 looked out onto the roofs and chimney stacks of 
 Great Queen Street, and not a flower or a green 
 thing was in sight. No birds sang there. A few 
 sparrows with raucous voices squabbled and chat- 
 tered on the roof tops. Yet it all was a magic place 
 to him. He saw himself returning to it evening 
 after evening when his work at the night classes was 
 finished. The sheets on the bed and the towels were 
 clean they were clean that night, at least. What 
 more could one want in the world than this this 
 and the first work he had ever done. In the fresh 
 enthusiasm of it, he stood at the chest of drawers 
 and wrote his first letter to Dorothy. Therein he 
 painted all the glowing pictures that were in his 
 mind. 
 
 "In less than a year's time, I'm sure," he wrote, 
 "we shall be married." What was there, indeed, to 
 prevent it? The hundred pounds a year he had 
 hoped to make was by this time doubled in his bound- 
 less imagination. He might not be able to draw 
 figures so well as in the illustration which had beeft 
 shown him, but that would come with his work at 
 the night schools, and, in the meantime, he knew that 
 into his pictures he could put such meaning and such 
 
 30
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 depth as must arrest the attention of all those men 
 he had met that day. 
 
 Art was a great thing a great influence. Even 
 in such a commonplace service of it as illustration a 
 man might put all he knew. Then he believed that 
 every man did his best; indeed, that their best was 
 all men asked of them. 
 
 "As soon as these pictures come out in the maga- 
 zine," another part of his letter ran, "I'll send you 
 a copy, and you'll see my name up in the corner. 
 I'm going to do the very, very best I can. You'll see 
 Bredon Hill in one of them just as it is on October 
 evenings when the mist creeps up it through the May 
 trees. I'll make them see the country as I've seen 
 it. Isn't it grand to have work to do so soon?" 
 
 And then he wandered on, questioning her as to 
 how his father had taken his escape from the Mill 
 whether he had said anything about following him 
 to London. 
 
 "He may follow me," he wrote, "but nothing on 
 earth would bring me back. I don't care about not 
 being twenty-one. That can't really have anything 
 to do with it. If I'd stayed on at the Mill, I should 
 have been less a man at twenty-one than I am here 
 at eighteen with my own work to do." 
 
 In this letter to Dorothy Leggatt he enclosed one 
 for his sister Anne, one for his friend, Mr. Hollom. 
 
 "I don't want the pater to know my address," 
 he wrote to Anne, "so Dorothy will give this to you. 
 
 31
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 I'll write all my letters this way. London's a tre- 
 mendous place." He had the sounds of the traffic 
 in his ears as he wrote that. "I had lunch with a 
 lot of journalists to-day in an old tavern near the 
 Temple that's where the barristers live. One of 
 the men was an author, another knew one of the 
 ministers of the cabinet. I can tell you it's something 
 like being in the world to be here. And somehow 
 the noise of all the carts in the street reminds me 
 of the Mill when it's working." 
 
 How nearly it was like the grinding of those old 
 mill wheels he scarcely knew then. How closely he 
 and all around him resembled the dust of flour the 
 stones ground out, he could not be supposed to 
 understand. It was just a tremendous place ; as tre- 
 mendous as the great stones are to the grain of 
 corn. 
 
 His letter to Mr. Hollom was short ; perhaps be- 
 cause in the back of his mind he knew that he would 
 realise his difficulties. Dicky did not boast so much 
 in this. He struck the enthusiastic note with a firm 
 hand, but said nothing of all the money he knew he 
 was going to earn. 
 
 "Lunch to-day with Mr. Marlow," he wrote, 
 "cost two shillings and eightpence. I can easily see 
 how quickly money goes in London. I sha'n't have 
 a lunch like that again. But it was worth it. How 
 can I ever thank you enough for that letter of intro- 
 duction or the money you've lent me. I shall soon 
 
 32
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 be able to pay it back. Tell me what the pater says. 
 I suppose he'll be in a fearful rage." 
 
 It showed Mr. Hollom, as he read it, how little 
 these two had understood each other. 
 
 That night, as Dicky worked at his first drawing, 
 Mr. Furlong in the Mill at Eckington sat silently 
 in his armchair. Even Mr. Hollom's offer to play 
 chess with him was refused. 
 
 "I don't think I could quite give my mind to it 
 this evening," said he, but pride in himself would 
 not allow him to show that it was anxiety for his 
 son which troubled him. With an open book upon 
 his lap, he sat staring at the chair which once his 
 wife, Christina, had occupied, wondering if, in that 
 heaven he so firmly believed in, she knew of it all 
 and approved. 
 
 And far into the night, under those slates of the 
 oil shop in Drury Lane, Dicky worked with a tire- 
 less energy, until the candle guttered and the flame 
 sank into darkness. Then he found his way to the 
 bed. In that one hour of the night when at mo- 
 ments you can hear the silence of London he fell 
 asleep.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BEFORE the end of the week had arrived the 
 three illustrations were finished. For the 
 figure of the woman which they had needed 
 Dicky had employed the services of Miss Constance 
 Baldwin, daughter of the house, a young girl whose 
 aspirations rose high above paraffin and the needs 
 of the shop below. She had a voice and could sing. 
 The sentimental songs they sang at the Middlesex 
 music hall in those days were constantly on her lips. 
 People in the shop buying their pennyworth's and 
 their halfpennyworth's of the shop's commodities 
 would turn their heads and listen to her as they 
 waited to be served. Some of them told Mrs. Bald- 
 win that they had heard many worse on the real 
 stage. 
 
 And this, indeed, was her ambition. In a con- 
 test of amateur talent at the Middlesex music hall, 
 where the prizes were awarded according to the 
 amount of applause received, she had been placed 
 second amongst thirty aspirants. She would have 
 been first undoubtedly had it not been for an enemy 
 and women have so many who led a band of dis- 
 sension in the pit. They had hissed and booed, but 
 
 34
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the applause rose higher. Knowing nothing of this, 
 the judges accorded her second place. 
 
 She told Dicky all about it as he worked. 
 
 "The girl who got first," she informed him, "is 
 making two quid a week now at the 'Olborn." 
 
 Their conversation those two or three days while 
 he worked was stilted and brief. She found he did 
 not answer her questions, and after a time would 
 relapse into silence, during which she fidgetted with 
 little adornments on her dress. 
 
 "Don't you ever say nothin' when you work?" 
 she asked him on the third day. 
 
 "It's difficult to talk of one thing and think of 
 another," said he. 
 
 "But you've only got to copy the lines," she re- 
 plied. "I 'ope I look all right. The manager at 
 the Middlesex said Fd got a good figure." 
 
 She waited patiently for his acknowledgment of 
 it. He said nothing. 
 
 "Don't you think I 'ave?" she asked at last. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "yes very good," and at the 
 moment was feeling that the tone of his distance had 
 not all the mystery he desired. 
 
 "Don't say it as if you was certain," said she. "I 
 should 'ave thought, bein' an artist, you ought to 
 know. You must 'ave seen plenty of women's fig- 
 ures. What I mean, you 'ave to paint 'em without 
 any clothes on don'tcher?" 
 
 "I shall have to," he replied. 
 
 35
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "What 'aven't you done it yet?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Don't see 'ow you can call yourself an artist, 
 then. I thought, after drawing straight lines and 
 vases and things like that, that was the first thing 
 you did." She paused a while, contemplating how 
 she would like to be in such a situation. Seeing that 
 she had a good figure, it might perhaps merely be a 
 little uncomfortable for the moment just while she 
 felt the first sensation of the cold air on her skin 
 but after that well, she knew she had a good figure. 
 "It must feel funny for a girl to stand up to a lot 
 of men with nothing on," she said. "Don't think I 
 should like to do it." 
 
 Dicky laid down his drawing. 
 
 "Well, I've finished," said he. "That's all I shall 
 want. I shall have to go out somewhere, to a res- 
 taurant or some place, to make a sketch for the 
 
 man." 
 
 "Let's 'ave a look," she begged. 
 
 He showed it to her without hesitation. 
 
 "But that ain't like me," she said. "It's my fig- 
 ure, right enough, but it ain't a bit like my face." 
 
 That was true enough. So far as a portrait could 
 be made from memory, it was a portrait of his 
 Dorothy. Who else could he have thought of in 
 that scene upon the road from Eckington to Bredon 
 Hill? 
 
 36
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I didn't mean it to be a portrait," said he eva- 
 sively. 
 
 "But it's like someone ain't it?" 
 
 "Yes, perhaps it is." 
 
 "Someone you know eh?" 
 
 "Yes," he said slowly. 
 
 "I might 'ave guessed that," she replied, and, had 
 Dicky been eager to notice it, he would have heard 
 the faint little note of bitterness in her voice. 
 
 "Well, what am I going to give you for all these 
 sittings?" he asked quickly. "I've counted it up 
 and it's five hours altogether." 
 
 "I don't want nothing," said she, and the same 
 faint note was still there. "If I couldn't do that 
 much to 'elp, I'd be sorry for myself. Take me out 
 to a theatre one evening that'll do, instead." 
 
 Dicky's mind rushed to Dorothy. He thought of 
 that day when she had said of him how, if he went 
 to London, he would never be the same. A sudden 
 instinct told him that this was what she had meant 
 by it. But he would be the same. Not London nor 
 any place in the world should change him. 
 
 "Won't you let me give you the money?" he asked. 
 
 "You don't want to take me to the theatre?" 
 
 "It isn't that," he urged. 
 
 "You think she'd mind if she knew of it. Well, 
 if she wouldn't let you take a girl to a theatre I 
 don't know you must please yourself. I don't want 
 the money, anyway." 
 
 37
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 For a moment she waited. There was just a 
 hope in her mind even then. It was tantalising to 
 be refused. She thought even at the last he would 
 change his mind. Other men would have done so. 
 Pride turned her heel for her then. She opened the 
 door and closed it after her. Dicky was left there 
 alone in his little room, conscious of a faint odour 
 of perfume that mingled with the eternal paraffin 
 of the house. 
 
 He picked up the picture from the chest of draw- 
 ers and for ten minutes sat upon his bed, looking 
 at it, when all thoughts of Miss Constance Bald- 
 win were gone from his mind. 
 
 Working at them for the rest of that day and 
 the next, the three drawings at length were complete. 
 Wrapping them up in brown paper, he took them 
 down to the offices of The Feather and sent in his 
 name to Channing. This time at least he expected 
 to be sent for at once. They knew who he was; 
 they knew what he had come for. But three-quarters 
 of an hour dragged by, as they had done at the 
 Herald offices, before the boy looked into the wait- 
 ing room and told him to come this way. 
 
 Channing's feet were resting on a drawer of his 
 desk pulled out for the purpose. He was smoking 
 a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea. 
 
 "Hullo," he said. "Take a seat what have you 
 got there?" 
 
 38
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "The three illustrations," said Dicky. He might 
 have known. 
 
 "Oh, you've done 'em have you?" 
 
 "Yes. It isn't the end of the week yet but I've 
 worked pretty hard." 
 
 "Let's have a look at them," said Channing. He 
 stretched out a hand. 
 
 Dicky took them out of their brown paper wrap- 
 ping. His confidence was firm enough, but he knew 
 his heart was beating very quickly. They had to 
 be approved of yet; but he knew they were better 
 than the work of that man who made five hundred a 
 year. He stood there and watched Channing's face 
 as he laid first one and then another out upon the 
 desk before him. He tried to read in the sub-edi- 
 tor's expression what he thought of them before he 
 spoke. Small as it might be, he knew this was a 
 critical moment in his life. On the reception of 
 those three drawings lay all his immediate chances 
 of work in the art schools. 
 
 He knew he had a whole world of knowledge to 
 acquire, and that only through the medium of a 
 conventional art education would he ever succeed 
 in getting it. The acceptance of these drawings 
 meant the acceptance of other work to come. By 
 these illustrations alone, though they were so paltry 
 to the work he meant to do, he could make the 
 living he desired to enable him to study, and, as 
 he watched Channing's face, his heart lifted, be- 
 
 39
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 cause he saw there an expression of satisfaction. 
 Undoubtedly Channing was satisfied, but at that mo- 
 ment Dicky little guessed the reason. The illustra- 
 tions of this story had already been sent in by an 
 artist on the staff. They had even gone to the 
 block makers, and occasionally during those four 
 days, while Dicky was working so strenuously in his 
 little bedroom over the oil shop, Channing had won- 
 dered how he should meet the enthusiasm of this 
 boy to whom, in a thoughtless moment, he had given 
 the work to do. 
 
 Now the matter was simple enough; it had un- 
 tangled itself. No wonder he felt a sense of satis- 
 faction. The drawings were utterly impossible. 
 With a firm intention to be magnanimous, he laid 
 them carelessly on one side. He had seen so much 
 of this incompetence before. He firmly believed it 
 to be the same identically the same waste of time 
 and energy as is the lot of all these journals to 
 witness. 
 
 The romance of all art is that it seems so easy to 
 win, so generous a victory to come by. The tragedy 
 of art, which Dicky and thousands of others with 
 him come to London to learn, is that they must suf- 
 fer and strive and inevitably fail who would come 
 within sight of their ambition. In an indefinite and 
 unobservant way, Channing was aware of all this. 
 He considered vaguely, as he laid the drawings 
 down, how this was but another conscript in the 
 
 40
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 incompetent army of workers who besiege the offi- 
 ces of all the journals and magazines in London. 
 From close acquaintance with all this incompetency, 
 these men on the staff grow falsely conscious of a 
 sense of their own superiority. 
 
 Channing felt sorry for Dicky, so far as he could 
 feel sympathy for any man who was useless to him ; 
 but he was satisfied as he felt it that this boy who 
 had held himself superior to one of their regular 
 workers was really just as incapable as the rest. It 
 convinced him that he knew quite well what he was 
 talking about. It brought him that warm assurance, 
 which is the constant belief of all these men of the 
 press, that he knew the public taste. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, "I suppose you realise 
 that these won't do at all." 
 
 Indeed, he was sure that Dicky must know it as 
 well as he did himself. 
 
 The quick beating of Dicky's heart stopped sud- 
 denly. He could not quite believe the words he had 
 heard. 
 
 "Won't do?" he repeated. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 With but the slightest observation, a man would 
 Have been sensitive at once to the tragic note in 
 Dicky's voice. Channing caught no sound of it. His 
 hand stretched out across the desk, and from a pile 
 of drawings he extracted one at random.
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "That's the sort of thing we want," said he. "If 
 you want to get on to any of these papers, that's the 
 sort of thing you'll have to do." 
 
 Dicky's eye just fell upon it, then looked back at 
 his own. 
 
 "Why must I do what other men are doing?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Well, I don't mean slavishly copy them," replied 
 Channing. "This fellow Loftie always does a 
 certain type of man and a certain type of woman. 
 People get to know his work by that. They look 
 for his men and his women. I don't mean that you 
 should imitate his types but that's the style of stuff 
 clean, good outline, a nice finish about it." 
 
 "Mustn't one have a style of one's own?" de- 
 manded Dicky. "Mustn't one see things one's own 
 way for oneself?" 
 
 "Not if you're going to see them like you've got 
 in those drawings." 
 
 "What's the matter with them?" persisted Dicky. 
 
 "Well the drawing's weak the woman's not 
 bad, in a way, but the man's rotten. Then there's 
 not enough outline about them they sink back into 
 landscape too much. The landscape's not bad, but 
 we don't want a landscape. What people like in 
 an illustration is to see the characters they're read- 
 ing about and see 'em plainly." 
 
 "Would you see two people plainly who were 
 42
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 standing for shelter under elm trees, and the rain 
 was pouring down from heavy clouds?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't care a damn what I'd see it's what 
 I know the public want to see and you can take it 
 from me, as a good thing to go by, that what the 
 public want is their money's worth. They don't 
 want to think, they don't want to see. You've got 
 to think and see for them." 
 
 "I don't believe you're right," Dicky retorted 
 hotly. "You don't want them to think you don't? 
 want them to see, because you've got nothing to 
 make them think about, nothing to make them see !" 
 
 For a moment Channing was nonplussed. The 
 energy with which Dicky flung out the words almost 
 brought the truth of it home to him. Then dignity 
 asserted itself. He felt that his superiority was 
 being jeopardised. He asked himself why he was 
 wasting his time over the incompetence of a young 
 boy who knew nothing about his job. 
 
 With a sudden movement he collected the draw- 
 ings and thrust them towards Dicky. 
 
 "Oh, take your blasted drawings," said he. "I 
 can't waste my time talking to you. They're no 
 good isn't that enough for you? There isn't an 
 editor in London who'd look at them without laugh- 
 ing. Go on take 'em we don't want that sort of 
 impressionist stuff here. We want something with 
 an artistic finish." 
 
 He nodded to the door, and without another word 
 
 4 43
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky went. He walked quickly through the streets. 
 The heat of his mind hastened his footsteps. If any 
 thought was conscious to him, it was that they were 
 all wrong that he if he was alone amongst them 
 all that he was right. 
 
 That he had failed was not apparent to his mind 
 until he was back once more in his little bedroom 
 over the oil shop. Then he threw the drawings 
 down and flung himself upon the bed. 
 
 "Oh, my God!" he muttered. "What am I going 
 to do?" For in that first moment of failure cour- 
 age had left him. Indeed, he saw nothing but fail- 
 ure down the whole length of that long road he had 
 set himself to walk. And so, while Dorothy in 
 Eckington was reading for the twentieth time the 
 glowing promise of his success, Dicky lay on his 
 bed, and heavy sobs were shaking him from head 
 to foot. 
 
 Down in the parlour room below, Mrs. Baldwin 
 heard faintly the sounds of his crying. In the mak- 
 ing of her accounts, she stopped a moment to listen, 
 then crept upstairs. He did not hear her knocking 
 on the door. He did not even hear her entrance. 
 His head was buried deeply in the pillow. 
 
 "Goodness me," she said, as she stood beside his 
 bed, "what 'as been 'appenin' to yer?" 
 
 He sat up quickly quickly turned away his head. 
 
 "Please go away," he exclaimed. "Nothing is 
 the matter." 
 
 44
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "But there must be," she persisted. "A young 
 man don't go and cry for nothing. Wasn't the hegg 
 nice I sent yer up this mornin'?" She had had her 
 suspicions about that egg for some time. "What is 
 it? You can tell me. I've 'ad plenty of troubles. I 
 expect you're 'omesick, eh? Comin' all the way from 
 the country like this, Lunnon do seem a bit strange. 
 I should feel just the same if I went down into the 
 country. I did once and them trees and all those 
 green fields just got on my nerves I could 'ave 
 screamed. I could that's a fact. Look 'ere you 
 come down and 'ave a cup 'o tea with us in the par- 
 lour, and Constance'll sing a song to yer that'll 
 cheer yer up. Come on, wipe yer eyes. I shall 'ave 
 to look after yer." 
 
 She took his arm, and, in the midst of this mo- 
 notonous business of her oil shop, suddenly felt a 
 mother again. 
 
 "I'll come presently," he said. "I'll come pres- 
 ently." 
 
 She chose the wisest course and left him. Down- 
 stairs in the parlour she laid out the tea for three. 
 
 "Nice boy that," she continually muttered to her- 
 self. "Nice boy that." And it was all because he 
 had made her feel a mother again.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WHEN Constance came into the parlour and 
 found three plates, three cups and sau- 
 cers, she said: 
 
 " 'Oo is it?" 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin nodded to that region of the house 
 above her head. 
 
 " 'E came back this afternoon," she said. "I saw 
 'im come through the shop with a brown paper pack- 
 age under 'is arm I was servin' Mrs. Watson of 
 Peabody Buildin's with a 'apenny worth of beeswax 
 I think it was a 'apenny worth I wouldn't be sure. 
 Then I came up 'ere to do some accounts, and I 'card 
 a noise upstairs. Sounded like cryin', but I didn't 
 think it was at the time 'tis difficult, yer know, to 
 tell what I mean, properly. So I went upstairs, 
 and there 'e was on 'is bed, sobbin' 'is 'eart out." 
 
 "Cryin' over 'is girl, I expect," said Constance. 
 
 "Wot? 'As ? e got a girl?" 
 
 "Yes down at 'is 'ome, I expec'." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin began cutting some bread and 
 butter. 
 
 "Poor boy," she murmured. "I like 'im; 'e's a 
 nice boy. I said you'd sing to 'im if 'e came down." 
 
 46
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Constance sniffed. She wondered why mothers, 
 with all their experience, knew so little of the world. 
 
 " 'E doesn't want to 'ear me sing," she said. 
 "Wot an idea with 'im sickenin' for someone else. 
 D'you know Mrs. Collins's baby's dead?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "It is. She asked me if I thought our artist gen- 
 tleman 'ud do a portrait of 'im. She was cryin' 
 fearful." 
 
 "Well no wonder it's 'er first. Wot did you 
 say?" 
 
 "I said I'd ask 'im. She'll give as much as five 
 bob if 'e'll put a bit of colour in it." 
 
 "Well, you'd better ask 'im per'aps that'll cheer 
 'im up a bit." 
 
 When Dicky came downstairs they said nothing 
 about his crying. For a time the conversation was 
 very strained, the silence only broken by the audible 
 sounds made by Mrs. Baldwin as she ate her bread 
 and butter. At last Constance reproved her. 
 
 "Didn't know I was making no noise," she said. 
 "Wot sort of noise?" 
 
 "If yer don't 'ear it yerself," said Constance, "it 
 ain't much good tryin' to correct it." 
 
 And this was the most awkward moment of all 
 to Dicky. He was amazed that Mrs. Baldwin did 
 not seem to mind. In fact, she appeared to be 
 amused. 
 
 "She's always correcting me like that," she said 
 47
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 with a laugh. "You can never bring your children 
 up the same way as you was yourself. They get 
 new ideas from somewhere or other, and they're 
 always better'n yours. Tell 'im about Mrs. Collins, 
 Constance." 
 
 Then Dicky was told of his first commission, the 
 first portrait he had ever been asked to do. It was 
 with confused sensations that he listened to the offer 
 Mrs. Collins had made. There was something 
 ironical in it painting the portrait of a dead baby 
 for a woman who probably had not the faintest con- 
 ception of what a picture should be. Yet it was he 
 who had been asked. They had thought of him as 
 an artist who could do it. They were going to pay 
 him, too. There was no question here about his 
 work requiring approval before it was accepted. 
 Five shillings would pay for his room for a whole 
 week. 
 
 So it revolved in his mind. After all, the greatest 
 artists, every one of them, had painted babies at 
 some time or another. Why should he not make a 
 good portrait out of this? There was a subject in 
 it there was a subject in everything, if it was 
 treated the right way. He could treat this the right 
 way. There was something even tragic in the 
 thought of death with a thing so young. That was 
 how it began to appeal to him as tragedy he 
 would paint a picture, the meaning of which was 
 
 48
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 tragedy alone, a picture which, to those who saw it, 
 would tell the awful finality of death. 
 
 Yet was death so final, after all? He had feared 
 to see his mother's face in death, but he remembered 
 the night on Eckington Bridge, when first he had 
 declared his love for Dorothy. It had seemed then 
 that they might have died together and death would 
 have been but the beginning. Could he ever get that 
 into his picture, not the finality of death but the 
 beginning, the setting sail afresh, upon a journey 
 which was none the less real because it was so mys- 
 terious? Why should he not do that? There was 
 something big in it something tremendously worth 
 doing. In a little child the sense of mystery seemed 
 most wonderful of all. It was mystery he would 
 paint the mysterious journey, of which death was 
 but the raising of the anchor, the first great, glorious 
 setting sail. 
 
 In his mind the picture was already painted. In 
 his mind it was already named. Mrs. Collins and 
 her dead baby no longer existed for him. He had 
 found a subject. He would call his picture the mys- 
 terious journey. 
 
 And the two women sat there by him at the table, 
 wondering how long he would be before he said that 
 five shillings was not enough. 
 
 At last he looked up. 
 
 "I think death's frightfully interesting," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin glanced at her daughter. A dis- 
 
 49
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 turbing suspicion rose in her thoughts that Dicky's 
 mind was a little unbalanced. How could death ever 
 be interesting frightfully interesting? To her it 
 was always an extremely ugly business, about which 
 she thought as little as possible. He had never seen 
 people die in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, or 
 he would not talk nonsense like that. The face of 
 Constance was bewildered, too. She turned back 
 and looked at Dicky, scarcely knowing what to say. 
 But she could not leave it at that. 
 
 "You won't see much hinterest in it," she said, 
 "when you go round to Peabody Buildings. It's a 
 first child, is Mrs. Collins's, and she's taking on 
 about it terrible. P'r'aps you've never seen a dead 
 person." 
 
 "I haven't," said Dicky, and felt rather ashamed 
 of the admission. They probably thought he was 
 very young. 
 
 "Thought not," replied Mrs. Baldwin with relief. 
 It accounted in her mind for the peculiarity of his 
 statement. "I don't like seein' 'em myself. Course 
 we've all got to die I know that but it ain't a 
 thing to think about. Sometimes, when I sees myself 
 lyin' out stiff " 
 
 "Don't, mother!" Constance exclaimed. 
 
 "Well, I assure you it makes me feel quite creepy 
 sometimes. I'm not hinterested about it personally 
 myself." 
 
 "I don't expect you know quite what I mean," said 
 50
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky. "You talk of it as if it was the end of every- 
 thing." 
 
 "It 'ud be the end of mother," said Constance. 
 "I shouldn't care to see 'er goin' on in the shop after- 
 wards." 
 
 "Well, there's no need to picture it so plainly," 
 Mrs. Baldwin objected. "I'm sure I wouldn't care 
 to go on myself, once it was all over. It 'ud be 
 a rest, any'ow wouldn't it that s what my 'usband 
 said just as 'e was dying. 'It will be a rest,' 'e said. 
 But this ain't saying whether 'e's goin' to paint the 
 picture or not." 
 
 Dicky put down his cup of tea. 
 
 "Of course I'm going to paint it," he replied. "I 
 know what I'm going to call it." 
 
 The electric shop bell rang. Whoever had en- 
 tered stood persistently on the mat in the doorway 
 with every apparent determination of waiting there 
 until they were served. Mrs. Baldwin rose with 
 annoyance to her feet. 
 
 "I'll get a bell put on the door," she exclaimed. 
 "Then they can only ring it once when they come in. 
 Like their cheek!" 
 
 They could hear her expostulations all the way 
 down the stairs, accompanied by the unvarying 
 tinkle of the bell. A door slammed as she entered 
 the shop. Then the bell suddenly ceased. 
 
 "And she was as proud of that bell," said Con-
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 stance, "when she got it first. She used to smile 
 every time it rang." 
 
 She leant forward then with both her elbows on 
 the tea table. She was glad her mother had gone. 
 In some instinctive way she knew that Mrs. Baldwin 
 did not understand Dicky in the least. She did not 
 understand him herself, but there was a conscious- 
 ness in her mind that she wanted to. When, in 
 reply to what he had said about death, she had re- 
 marked that it would be the end of Mrs. Baldwin, 
 she knew that if her mother had not been there she 
 would have said something more serious than that. 
 She liked talking about serious things. Sometimes 
 at night, when the rest of the house was in bed, she 
 would lean out of her window and think what a big 
 place London was, wondering how many people 
 there were just within calling distance of her then 
 wondering how many lovers were locked she 
 phrased it so in each others' arms. And that was 
 as far and as deep as her serious thoughts could 
 take her. But her sensations went deeper than that, 
 however impossible it was to express them. It 
 was something like this that she meant when she said 
 that she liked talking about serious things. How- 
 ever, there was no one she knew who would talk to 
 her about them no one in Drury Lane. Yet here 
 was somebody. She felt certain that Dicky could 
 talk about serious things. 
 
 52
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "What are you going to call the picture?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Dicky looked at her quickly, wondering if she 
 would understand. There was an indefinable sug- 
 gestion in her attitude, in the look in her eyes, mak- 
 ing him snatch at the belief that she would. Per- 
 haps the need for understanding is half the impetus 
 to these men of Dicky's temperament. Perhaps the 
 urging desire to express themselves is greatly stimu- 
 lated in them by this. Certainly the thought that 
 she might realise his meaning caught fast upon his 
 mind. He leant forward in his chair. 
 
 "I'm going to call it 'The Mysterious Journey,' ' 
 said he. 
 
 She nodded her head in acceptance of the title, as 
 though she had thoroughly grasped its significance, 
 yet so little did she follow it that she was forced 
 to ask him why. 
 
 "Because that's what I believe about death," said 
 he. "It isn't the end it's the beginning like a 
 ship that comes into port, discharges her cargo, re- 
 loads and starts off again. And don't you see that's 
 what I want to get into this, not the feeling of the 
 end but the beginning." 
 
 Constance glanced at him queerly. These were 
 new ideas to her. With some effort her mind 
 stretched out to reach them, but they were com- 
 pletely beyond her grasp. 
 
 53
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Where does it go to when it starts off again?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Where does what go?" 
 
 "The ship?" 
 
 She clung strenuously to the symbol. So far as 
 the ship was concerned, she could understand. It 
 was quite beyond her to appreciate what it had to 
 do with Mrs. Collins's dead baby. 
 
 "Well, where does a ship go?" said he. "Right 
 miles across the sea on another journey. If you 
 saw her setting sail saw her dipping down below 
 the line of the horizon and hadn't the faintest idea 
 what part she was making for there'd be a certain 
 amount of mystery in it to you, wouldn't there?" 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 "I suppose there would," said she. 
 
 She chose her answers warily. There was nothing 
 likely to commit her in that, for, though she was in- 
 tensely interested, knowing instinctively that he was 
 talking about very serious things, there was not a 
 word of it she understood. In some confused way, 
 she supposed that he was going to paint a picture 
 of Mrs. Collins's baby; but whether he was going 
 to paint it on a ship that was sailing out of harbour, 
 or just as it was lying on that bed in Peabody Build- 
 ings she had not the faintest idea. It was the 
 wildest rigmarole to her, but she was tremendously 
 interested. You can imagine it was but little more 
 
 54
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 than a wild rigmarole to Dicky, and he was keenly 
 interested, too. 
 
 He was possessed with the same sensations as, 
 when, a boy in the country, he sometimes believed 
 as he lay down and peered into the forest of grass 
 stems that he was on the verge of discovering the 
 whole secret of life. No doubt it is a sensation we 
 all play with when we are young. We grow older, 
 and experience teaches us that the secret is not for 
 our discovery. We say we are wiser then and turn 
 our hands and thoughts to more material things. 
 But it might well be debated whether, after all, ex- 
 perience is so wise as that youthful straining to the 
 infinite. 
 
 In these incoherent speculations upon death, Dicky 
 was struggling with all the impetuosity of youth 
 and ambition for the unattainable. Great men keep 
 that impetuosity till the end. Little men lose it no 
 sooner do they touch life and learn that it can be 
 very comfortable to live. You will see how long 
 Dicky kept it how nearly he lost it how at the 
 last he regained it how great or how small a man 
 he was. 
 
 Here, then, they sat, these two children, in the 
 parlour sitting-room over the oil shop, the one floun- 
 dering in such deep water as she had never been in 
 before, the other striking out with all the vigorous 
 strength of youth, hardly knowing the direction in 
 which he went, scarcely conscious of what progress 
 
 55
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 he had made. He did not even realise how, with 
 that look of interest in her eyes alone, she was urg- 
 ing him on to fresh endeavour. 
 
 "I should never have thought," said he at last, 
 "that you'd be the sort to be interested in things 
 like that." His mind even wandered to a wonder- 
 ing if Dorothy would have shown so much interest 
 as this girl. The comparison was inevitable. He 
 was just touching life for the first time. Every new 
 thing he saw he compared with those he had known. 
 The suspicion that he was ungenerous to Dorothy 
 made him put the thought away. 
 
 "You see that's how I want to paint," he con- 
 tinued. "I want to put down what things mean, not 
 simply just what they are. I tried to do that in a 
 way with those illustrations I was doing." 
 
 " 'Ow did they like them?" she asked. 
 
 "They won't have them," said he. He did not 
 care by now. The prospect of the picture he was 
 going to do had long disposed of all the disappoint- 
 ment he had suffered. "They'll never take anything 
 of mine now. I had a row with the man. He told 
 me to take the blasted things away. He lost his 
 temper so did I. There's no more chance for me 
 there." 
 
 "But I thought you were counting on that," said 
 Constance. "You told me that was 'ow you were 
 goin' to get enough to go to the art schools." 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 56
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 A little eagerly she leant nearer to him across 
 the table. 
 
 "Was that why you were crying upstairs on your 
 bed?" she asked. 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "Mother." 
 
 He did not know what to say. Of course she 
 thought he was a fool. But how was she to guess 
 all that the loss of that work had meant to him? 
 It had only been for the moment. He cared no 
 longer now. He knew that the day would come 
 when he could make Channing eat every word he 
 had uttered. Did the money matter so much? He 
 still had eleven pounds and his sketches to sell. If 
 he sold some of those, he could do others. In some 
 way or another he was sure that he would find his 
 way to the schools. What seemed most of all to 
 matter at the moment was that she should think 
 him a fool. He did not stop to question why that 
 should be so; his only desire was to efface the im- 
 pression from her mind. 
 
 "I was still in a rage then," said he. "I don't 
 care a bit now. Doing those illustrations wouldn't 
 have done me any good. This thing I'm going to 
 do now's a million times better. I can make some- 
 thing of that." 
 
 "But you were crying," she persisted, and 
 through that cockney drawl, which he had disliked 
 
 57
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 so much at first, there sounded a note which fell with 
 a strange softness and pleasantness on his ear. 
 
 "And I suppose you think I'm an awful fool for 
 that," said he. 
 
 "I wish I'd come up instead of mother," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 For an instant there was a sense of overwhelming 
 pleasure in his mind as he heard her say it. For that 
 moment, too, he almost wished it had been she who 
 had come up and spoken to him. Not knowing how 
 valiantly she had struggled in complete bewilder- 
 ment of all he had been saying, he thought she 
 would have understood. And then, striking swiftly 
 in upon the eagerness of that moment, came the 
 burning remembrance of his Dorothy. He stood up 
 at once like one accused. 
 
 "How about this Mrs. Collins?" said he. 
 
 She laid a hand on his arm and she smiled. 
 
 "You're a queer boy," she said.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PEABODY BUILDINGS, Drury Lane, is one 
 of those vast tenement erections in London, 
 built around an open asphalt square which 
 not even the architect would presume to call a quad- 
 rangle. There are no hours of the day and few 
 of the night when this square is silent ; but at dinner 
 time, when the children come home from school, 
 and in the afternoon, when school for the day is 
 over, the place becomes a pandemonium. Their 
 shrieks and cries, the incessant clatter of their nailed 
 boots as they rush up and down on the hard asphalt 
 for this and the streets is the only playground 
 they have make a hell on earth of it to the out- 
 sider. To those who live within and have become 
 hardened to these disturbances it is home, and when 
 you have said that, doubtless you have accounted for 
 many things. 
 
 The different houses, distinguished only by their 
 doorways, are lettered from A to Z. In other 
 Peabody Buildings they may reach to the end of the 
 alphabet ; in Drury Lane they extend so far perhaps 
 as to the letter N. They are some four or five 
 stories in height, and on each floor are two or more 
 5 59
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 habitations consisting of three cramped rooms a 
 parlour-kitchen and two bedrooms. A washhouse is 
 the common property of each building. Stone stairs 
 with iron railings lead up to each floor, and a wooden 
 door, like that of a prison cell, bearing the number 
 of the habitation, stands in the bare wall upon the 
 bare stone landing, showing where one of the num- 
 berless families live. In this confined space they 
 give forth their contribution to the state and to 
 that teeming mass of humanity which shrieks and 
 clatters and leaps in the asphalt square below. 
 
 In all seeming unconsciousness of the prisoned 
 conditions in which they live, there stands on almost 
 every windowsill a small wire cage some not more 
 than six inches by six in which a silent bird mopes 
 out its days until some still morning when it finds 
 its great deliverance. On a few more windowsills 
 there are flowers, fighting gallantly against the 
 smoke. They stand there in their grimy pots, no 
 longer red, the eternal proof that mankind was 
 turned out of a garden and is forever struggling to 
 get back. 
 
 In number nine of F buildings, with the sounds 
 of the children playing in the asphalt square outside, 
 Mrs. Collins sat dejectedly by the side of the bed 
 on which the dead body of her baby lay. 
 
 You might imagine that, under such conditions as 
 these, life would not be held at so high a price. One 
 the less, it would seem, in these prisons must be 
 
 60
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 much more welcome than one the more. Yet, what- 
 ever you imagine, you know well that, strangely 
 enough, this is not so. No doubt, as Mrs. Baldwin 
 had said, it was more poignant in the case of Mrs. 
 Collins. This was her first child, and, though the 
 wonder of deliverance can surely never cease in a 
 woman, yet the first must be most wonderful of all. 
 Surroundings, conditions have less to do with the 
 matter than you are given to suppose. The discordant 
 cries of the children, the wheezing note of a caged 
 thrush on the windowsill, the straw mattress and 
 the untidy room which for some days she had felt 
 too ill to set to rights, counted for nothing when 
 she heard that first cry and knew that the thing 
 which she had thought about for so long was no 
 longer mysterious, but real. 
 
 She was a thin little woman with pinched cheeks. 
 None too young to be having her first child. The 
 romance of it had been all the greater for that. At 
 the age of thirty-four she had given up all hope of 
 anything wonderful in life and followed her business 
 of charring with a dry heart and thin lips tightly 
 pressed. And then one day, a man whom the other 
 women had often laughed at for his ugliness had 
 found some sort of beauty in her eyes. From that 
 moment her lips were often parted. She went some- 
 times singing to her work. 
 
 But it is a dangerous thing to find life too won- 
 derful, even in Peabody Buildings. After a six 
 
 61
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 months' struggle at the doors of death which stand 
 so nearly opposite to those through which one enters 
 into life, her baby had died. She counted it to Fate, 
 as so many women do. She had been too old, she 
 said, and it was never likely that she could ever have 
 another one. 
 
 Beside the bed, then, in that room which was 
 untidy now because she did not care, Dicky found 
 Mrs. Collins touching the hand of her dead baby. 
 
 He had knocked at the door and there had been 
 no answer. Had Constance not prepared him for 
 this, he might have gone away; but she had told 
 him that if he got no reply to his knocking he was 
 to enter. 
 
 "I've told 'er you were comin' round," she said. 
 
 The door of the bedroom opposite had been open, 
 and, as he entered, he saw Mrs. Collins within. 
 
 "Come in," she said, but she did not move. In 
 that instant Dicky received the impression that she 
 was clinging to something which very soon was to 
 be taken from her and would not spare one moment 
 from its side. In that egotism of his art he forgot 
 that afterwards. Wrapped in the desire to get his 
 meaning, the realisation that she needed a picture 
 of her child because she still wanted to keep it by 
 her when they had taken it away, soon escaped him. 
 
 Even when she said, "I thought almost of 'avin' 
 its photo taken," it did not make clear to him the 
 service he could do for her. He stood there by 
 
 62
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the bed beside her and looked at death for the first 
 time in his life; never understanding the sorrow of 
 it, forgetting everything in that keen and determined 
 idea to catch its meaning. 
 
 So for some moments, he remained there in silence 
 regarding, not her misery, but rather the nervous 
 susceptibility of his mind to the finest impression it 
 received. 
 
 And it was all as he had thought. Death did not 
 look like the end. The perfect quiet in the child's 
 face as it lay there so still on the bed proclaimed 
 not death to him but departure. Something that 
 had been there had gone away. The mysterious 
 journey was right. As he gazed at the pale cheeks 
 and the closed eyelids he believed he could convey it 
 all, and his fingers were burning to begin. For sud- 
 denly he had seen how it was to be done. It was 
 the mother he must paint as well as the child; for 
 there, in the mother's look of misery, was the knowl- 
 edge of those chains which bound he*; still in anchor- 
 age, and, through the contrast of that alone, could 
 he show in the peaceful quiet of those closed eyes the 
 sense of freedom, the joyous liberty of a life set 
 free upon its mysterious journey. 
 
 This, then, I take it, was the attitude of Richard 
 Furlong's mind in those early days before he had 
 come in touch with his later education. He sought 
 always for meanings; and it was always the mys- 
 terious meanings he inclined to most of all. Yet 
 
 63
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 it was never with symbols he chose to illustrate his 
 mystery. The mystery he saw himself and went 
 straight to the real for its expression. But as in his 
 early days he used the medium of contrast of ma- 
 terial things, so later, as his mind developed, he 
 portrayed the thing, the mystery itself. 
 
 In his "Romance," in his "Holiness," in that un- 
 doubted masterpiece, his "Adventure," the rippling 
 passage of a tiny stream which gives you all the 
 knowledge of the brook, the river, the torrent, the 
 wide and open sea it shall become even in this 
 "The Mysterious Journey," which again in later 
 years he painted once more, there is no reliance upon 
 contrast. For in the second painting of "The Mys- 
 terious Journey" the mother is left out. He went 
 straight to the meaning of the mystery itself it 
 would be well nigh impossible to say how he 
 achieved it, mainly, doubtless, it was through colour. 
 Form troubled him but little, though, indeed, I have 
 never heard him accused of bad draughtsmanship. 
 
 But in those early days, as when that afternoon he 
 stood in the bedroom of number nine, F, Peabody 
 Buildings, he could as yet only feel his way through 
 the medium of contrast. 
 
 And so he remained standing in silence while these 
 things formulated swiftly in his mind. 
 
 It was Mrs. Collins who spoke first. 
 
 "Seems just as if 'e was sleepin' don't 'e?" she 
 said pathetically. "Such a beautiful boy 'e was, too. 
 
 64
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Well, yer can see, can't yer? I've never seen a baby 
 with such blue eyes as 'e 'ad. A fair treat they 
 was to look at." 
 
 "When did he die?" asked Dicky. 
 
 ' 'S morning two o'clock. I was sittin' by 'im 
 just like what I am now." The poor creature had 
 told this in just the same way to every one who had 
 come to see her. Each time it refreshed the misery 
 in her mind, and that was the only joy she had left 
 to her. 
 
 "Sittin' 'ere by the side of the bed, I was. The 
 doctor'd said 'e mightn't last out the night, but that, 
 if 'e did, p'r'aps there'd be a chance for 'im. Well, 
 it 'ad just struck two. 'My Gawd,' I says to my- 
 self, 'it'll be daylight in another hour,' meaning in 
 me mind, yer know, that the night 'ud be over then 
 an' 'e'd 'ave pulled through. An' I suppose I 'adn't 
 said that 'bove a minute afore 'is little eyes open and 
 'e starts coughin' and wrigglin'. Gawd knows I did 
 what I could but it 'ad all come over 'im too quick 
 convulsions, yer know. It seemed to tear 'is little 
 body till I could 'a' cried lookin' at 'im. And then, 
 all of a sudden, when it was like as if 'e was in a 
 knot, yer know, 'e stopped and 'is little 'ead was 
 quite still on the piller. I thought it was the way 
 they'd passed for a minute, yer know and then" 
 the tears began to drop from her eyes "I could see 
 'e wasn't breathin'. My 'usband, 'e ran out for 
 
 65
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the doctor, of course, but it was too late. Gawd, 
 what an easy thing do kill 'em, don't it?" 
 
 She wiped her eyes and her nose on a corner of 
 the sheet. No doubt, when she said that, there was 
 a swift comparison in her mind with the struggle it 
 had been to give it life. And then how easy a 
 thing it was to lose ! That must be the bitter irony 
 of it to so many. 
 
 "I sha'n't be in the way, shall I," she went on, 
 "if I sit 'ere while you're doin' the picture? 'E's 
 going to be buried to-morrow." 
 
 "No, I want you there," said Dicky. 
 
 "Wot, you ain't goin' to do me, too?" 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "But I'm all untidy, and I don't want no picture 
 of meself. Besides, I can't afford more'n five shil- 
 lin's, an' a photograph 'ud be cheaper'n that only 
 I thought if you'd put in a bit of colour I'd 'card 
 yer was an hartist from Miss Baldwin I thought 
 it 'ud be worth the extry shillin' or two." 
 
 "You shall have it for nothing, if you like," said 
 Dicky, "only I must have you in it, too." 
 
 And so, though it was true that she wanted no 
 picture of herself, she sat there in order to be near 
 her baby, and Dicky set to work. 
 
 In the fresh heat of the idea, he painted quickly. 
 The canvas was not a large one, scarcely more than 
 two feet square. It was only the impression he 
 
 66
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sought for, paying little heed to construction or to 
 line. 
 
 At intervals as he worked Mrs. Collins told him 
 stones of the child, living over its brief life again 
 with each one she recounted, and forever wiping her 
 eyes on the corner of the sheet. 
 
 In two hours he had finished. Every fresh stroke 
 of the brush then was robbing him of the impression 
 he had caught. With an exclamation of despair he 
 laid his palette down. 
 
 "I daren't do any more," said he. 
 
 With the tone of his voice, the exclamatory way 
 in which he said it, Mrs. Collins, for the first time 
 since its death, forgot her baby and looked up from 
 the bed. 
 
 "What d' yer mean, yer daren't do any more?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I should lose it all if I did," he replied. "I got 
 it a bit at first. I could feel it as plainly as any- 
 thing. Just at the end I was trying to get the light- 
 ing the lighting's ripping. But the moment I did 
 that it began to go." 
 
 To the ears of Mrs. Collins this was some foreign 
 tongue. She looked at him in amazement and then, 
 for want of better explanation, she held out her 
 hand. 
 
 "Let's 'ave a look at it," she said. 
 
 He held it out. 
 
 "But yer 'aven't shown 'is eyes," she said. "I 
 67
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 told yer they was blue didn't I ? An' what's that 
 black thing spjawlin' across in front there?" 
 
 "That's you," said Dicky. 
 
 "My Gawd well, I don't want nothin' like that. 
 You 'aven't shown 'is eyes." 
 
 "But they're shut," said Dicky gently. 
 
 "Gawd don't I know that? But I wanted some- 
 thin' to remind me of 'im when 'e was alive. That 
 was why I wanted 'is picture taken. Why, it ain't 
 like 'im at all not the way I used to see 'im, laugh- 
 in' as 'e did sometimes. You don't want me to pay 
 five shillin's for that, do you?" 
 
 In Dicky's mind grew a great sense of relief. 
 Now he could keep it for himself. Undoubtedly he 
 would have given it to her for nothing, and with an 
 apprehensive mind he offered it to her then. 
 
 "I don't want it at all," she said. "I'll get a 
 photo taken that's what I'll do. They can paint 
 the eyes in like Mrs. Warner got done of 'er 
 'usband when he died." 
 
 "But it doesn't look as if he was dead, does it?" 
 said Dicky. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," she replied. "It doesn't 
 look to me like nothin'. I wanted to see 'im all sit- 
 tin' up like 'e used to. I thought if you was an 
 hartist yer could do that. I suppose it doesn't even 
 look as if 'e was dead to me. I don't know what 'e 
 looks like." 
 
 Dicky's eyes blazed. 
 
 68
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Ah, it doesn't seem quite like death, then," he 
 exclaimed. "You've said it and I never meant that 
 it should." 
 
 With a sudden impulse he dived his hands into 
 his pocket. 
 
 "Mrs. Collins," he said, "will you let me pay for 
 the photograph? I've wasted your time all for 
 nothing. Let me pay for it." 
 
 She gazed up at him with her red eyes. 
 
 "It's very kind I must say," said she. "I don't 
 know that I ought to accept it from you." 
 
 He took the tone of her voice and pressed the 
 money into her hand. 
 
 "Please," said he. 
 
 And, as she lifted up her skirt to put it in her 
 pocket, she burst again into tears.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WITH the severest economy, taking his 
 meals in cheap eating houses, reducing 
 his breakfasts to the plain cup of tea 
 and piece of bread and butter, Dicky soon saw 
 before him the moment when his twelve pounds 
 would be gone. 
 
 It was not this that worried him. After two 
 weeks in London he had prepared his mind for the 
 prospect of poverty. That which threatened the 
 breaking of his spirit was when day by day he saw 
 no further hope of getting to the art schools. For 
 the night classes their fees were reasonable enough 
 less even than he had imagined but they were 
 utterly beyond the reach of his purse. 
 
 For one whole week he walked the length and 
 breadth of so much of London as he knew, visiting 
 the shops where pictures were sold and offering his 
 sketches at any price they might be willing to pay. 
 They were unwilling to pay anything. Picture- 
 framers who hung small water-colour sketches in 
 their windows, marking them at prices which Dicky 
 would have thought a fortune for his own, all re- 
 garded his work in the same light. 
 
 70
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "You won't sell these," one of them said. "They 
 ain't the sort of stuff people buy. Not enough defi- 
 nition in 'em too 'iggledypiggledy, if yer know what 
 I mean too much fancy about 'em. People like a 
 figure or two or a few cattle in their landscapes. 
 Now, if you was to take that one and put a woman 
 in it carryin' a pail or somethin', I might give you 
 ten bob for it. 'Twouldn't be worth more." 
 
 And that day, with a lighter heart, Dicky returned 
 to his bedroom over the oil shop, and Constance 
 stood in a corner of the room, holding a slop-pail 
 the nearest thing to hand while Dicky brought in 
 the human interest which was to make his sketch 
 the more pleasing to the public taste. 
 
 They took it back together to the shop, and Con- 
 stance came in with him, standing by Dicky's side 
 while the picture-framer laid it out on the counter 
 and dispassionately regarded it from every point 
 of view. 
 
 "Well," said he, "it's better, of course. Got the 
 'uman note in it now, 'asn't it? I knew that was 
 what it wanted, but I don't like it really, yer know, 
 myself. I don't think I could sell it, not even if I 
 put it in a four-bob frame. I can see the merits of 
 it, mind yer it's probably better than this chap's 
 Walter Blaney's and I sell a good deal of 'is. 
 But I don't think I could sell it. You've improved 
 it, though you 'ave improved it." 
 
 With a bitterness of mind too great for words, 
 71
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 too crushing for retaliation, Dicky took the picture 
 from off the counter. It seemed just then that it 
 was no good to try. The great hammers were 
 pressing down very close upon his spirit. He asked 
 himself how any man could ever learn when he must 
 fight such odds as these. In this moment he 
 had forgotten Constance, but the next was made 
 aware of her. 
 
 "I suppose you think you know what's good?" 
 she exclaimed. The picture-f ramer looked surprised, 
 and, as Dicky glanced at her, her eyes were blazing. 
 It seemed she knew the bitter disappointment it had 
 been, and, whereas it had numbed the spirit in 
 Dicky, it had stung the spirit in her. 
 
 "You don't know no more about pictures than 
 what I do," she went on. "Talking all that blither- 
 in' nonsense about the 'uman note. If you'd a little 
 more of the 'uman note yourself, you'd pay for the 
 picture like a man after you'd ordered it. You told 
 'im to put the woman in it with a pail didn't yer? 
 You said you'd give 'im ten bob for it if 'e did. And 
 now 'e's spoilt 'is picture, you won't buy it." 
 
 Dicky took her arm, but she shook him off. 
 
 "Leave me alone," she exclaimed, "I know what 
 I'm saying, even if I ain't talkin' sense. 'E said 'e'd 
 pay yer ten bob an' 'e ought to pay yer ten bob." 
 
 And by now the picture-framer had regained his 
 breath. Surprise and bewilderment had given way 
 to incensed dignity. He was in his own shop. He 
 
 72
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 had never been spoken to in his own shop like that 
 before. With a certain quickness of mind, he had 
 gauged the difference in class between Constance and 
 Dicky, and, with that snobbishness of his race, he 
 was just as quick to use it in his defence. His face 
 was hot and his words tumbled one over the other, 
 but he knew what he was saying. 
 
 "Look 'ere, my young woman," he began, "I don't 
 know what the likes of you are doin' along with this 
 gentleman unless you've picked 'im up, 'ave yer? 
 But if yer don't get hout of my shop, I'll damned 
 well send the policeman for yer and I don't sup- 
 pose it'll be the first time Vs taken yer for a walk. 
 Go on ! Get hout! And if I was that gentleman I'd 
 wait till yer'd turned the corner of the street afore I 
 looked after yer." 
 
 Dicky took her arm. 
 
 "Come away," he said gently. "You can't do any 
 good." 
 
 Then suddenly he caught the sense of all the pic- 
 ture-framer had said and he turned back. 
 
 "If you ever have the good fortune to meet a 
 lady," said he, "ask her as a favour to tell you the 
 way she ought to be spoken to." 
 
 "What do you want the bobby, too!" he 
 shouted. 
 
 "Yes," said Dicky quietly, "but you'll have to 
 come over this side of your counter to get him if 
 you grasp what I mean by that." 
 
 73
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 He felt his legs were trembling, just as he had 
 trembled when he had fought his battle with young 
 Wilfrid Leggatt. The very thought of a fight dis- 
 gusted him, and already he could see in vivid pic- 
 tures the ugly scene that would follow. But he was 
 before a woman and his own conscience. However 
 much he feared the consequences, something within 
 him prevented him from turning back. 
 
 "Well, are you coming over," he repeated, and 
 he wondered if Constance heard the shaking in his 
 voice. 
 
 "I can go round by my back door if I want to," 
 said the picture-framer. 
 
 Dicky laughed to himself he confessed it was the 
 laughter of relief. 
 
 "In that case," said he, "I'm afraid you wouldn't 
 find me here when you got back. Mind you I'm not 
 asking to be run in only if you want to run me in, 
 come over this side and do it. Are you coming 
 over?" 
 
 "Are you goin' out of my shop?" the framer de- 
 manded. 
 
 And again Dicky laughed. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "yes, I'm going and shall 
 I just tell you something before I go?" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "You've got a dirty mind good morning." 
 
 Not until they were some distance from the shop 
 door, did Dicky's heart begin to settle down to a 
 
 74
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 normal pulse. He was strongly impressed with the 
 thought that he had been a coward. Another man, 
 he told himself, would have taken his satisfaction 
 without asking for it. He felt contempt for himself, 
 and the more he was conscious of that, the higher 
 rose his admiration of the girl beside him. 
 
 There had been a certain fearlessness about her. 
 It was with an effort that he had induced her to come 
 away. Moreover, it had all been in protection of 
 him. Her spirit had risen to that outburst because 
 of his misfortune. He glanced at her quickly, stalk- 
 ing along there by his side. She was finer than he 
 was. The comparison which he inevitably made 
 brought down his spirits to their lowest depths. 
 
 He had no doubt now that he was meant for fail- 
 ure. What prospect was there for him to entertain? 
 His work was not wanted. There was no hope in 
 his mind that he could ever begin the training he 
 knew to be essential to his success. The thought of 
 returning to his home, of going back to work in the 
 Mill, came unsought for to his mind. It stirred him 
 to a bitter anger. He would starve, he would put an 
 end to himself rather than go back. Even when a 
 vision of Dorothy Leggatt stood before his thoughts, 
 he flung it away. Nothing should bring him back! 
 Surely there was work he could find in London. He 
 set his teeth, his nostrils quivered and, looking at 
 him, Constance saw the strange expression in his 
 face. 
 
 6 75
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Buck up, Dicky," she said the first time she had 
 used his name and, without thinking what he did, 
 he linked his arm in hers as they walked. 
 
 "I am bucking up," he replied bitterly. "I'm not 
 going to give in. They'll take my pictures one 
 day." 
 
 She pressed his hand. When she chooses a man, 
 a woman likes him to fight. It might have appealed 
 more to the mind of Constance had Dicky blackened 
 the picture-framer's eyes. There was never a fight 
 in the streets but what she watched it with a glowing 
 satisfaction. But she was none the less aware that 
 he had a stern struggle before him now and was 
 keeping up his head, if ever so faintly, against over- 
 whelming odds. All that it meant to him it is not 
 to be supposed she could ever have guessed. It was 
 enough for her that she knew he was fighting, 
 and, from the moment that he had taken her 
 arm, from the moment that she had called him 
 Dicky, other woman or no other woman, he was her 
 man. 
 
 4 'Course they'll take yer pictures," she exclaimed. 
 "You'll be paintin' a poster for me one of these days 
 for the music 'alls." 
 
 Somehow or other, that showed him how little 
 she understood what selling a picture meant to him, 
 and, with that, he realised his arm was in hers. He 
 let it go, and all the goodness in life, it seemed to 
 her, went with it. 
 
 76
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "You seem to think I want to make money," said 
 he. "I only want to make money to learn." 
 
 She knew she had been rebuked. She had not 
 understood. 
 
 "All right," she said. "I'm sorry."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 FOUR weeks more went by, and the last of 
 Dicky's money lay in the palm of his hand. 
 One night he sat upon his bed and counted it. 
 Six shillings and a few odd pence remained. He 
 stared at failure, he stared at poverty, and knew 
 them both as you know the sight of a fate that has 
 been following you for days. 
 
 "Now I've come to the end," he said aloud, and 
 yet he knew it was not the end. Even though the 
 advertisements he had answered in the papers, the 
 situations in shops he had applied for, had all been 
 in vain, even when after that week there was no 
 prospect of a roof to his head, or a meal for him to 
 eat, yet he was sure it was not the end. 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin knew nothing of this, and Constance 
 only half guessed the truth. Had they realised he 
 was so closely put to it, doubtless they would have 
 suggested one of the numerous agencies where work 
 is to be found. But he had never heard of them. 
 When he answered the notices placed in a shop win- 
 dow, whereon all the requirements he thought ap- 
 plied to him were set forth, he found that they re- 
 garded him with no little suspicion, and one and all 
 
 78
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of them assured him curtly or kindly that he would 
 not do. 
 
 In those days his hair was growing long. Jagged 
 ends of it lapped over the collar of his coat. He 
 had not had it cut since he came to London. Being 
 an expense, even only of a couple of pennies, he was 
 quite ready to let it go. His appearance had never 
 attracted his attention, not even in those days when 
 first he fell in love with his Dorothy. Now, it meant 
 less to him than ever. 
 
 Yet it was his appearance, more than anything 
 else, that went against him in those efforts to find 
 work. At no moment in these civilised times of ours 
 is it any easy thing to do; and when a man's appear- 
 ance gives the impression of a character that is out 
 of the common, few will be found to give him em- 
 ployment. They were conscious of Dicky's long 
 dark hair, the bright light of energy in his eyes. 
 Even the quick, impulsive note in his voice was un- 
 favourable to his chances. Quickness is not what 
 they need. They must have the dull, dogged animal 
 at the machine. Dicky was a fire-brand. He splut- 
 tered and burnt up and flared. It was only when he 
 was alone, with the light of the one candle in his little 
 room, that he burnt low; then hope and energy were 
 faint glimmerings which his eyes must strain to see. 
 
 On Saturday, the last day of his last week, he 
 came into the parlour where Mrs. Baldwin was hav- 
 ing tea alone and laid the money for his lodging 
 
 79
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 upon the table. She put it away in a drawer, where 
 it chinked with other money that was there. 
 
 " 'Ave a cup o' tea," she said. 
 
 He took it eagerly. For the whole of that week, 
 the meal in the middle of the day had been sus- 
 pended. By tea time, the sight of food was almost 
 aggravating. For a few minutes he ate quickly and 
 in silence. Before he had sat down to the table, he 
 had felt that there was an element of tragedy in the 
 fact that he had to tell Mrs. Baldwin that this was 
 his last week to tell her, moreover, without her 
 knowing the next he might be starving. But with 
 four thick pieces of bread and butter inside him and 
 the warmth of the steaming tea, it seemed once more 
 that this was not going to be the end; that in some 
 measure these were the difficulties he had anticipated 
 and they were there for his fighting. 
 
 He asked if he might have another cup of tea and 
 then, with comparative cheerfulness, he told her. 
 
 "Goin'1" she repeated. "Where are yer goin'? 
 Aren't yer comfortable 'ere? I'm sure my place is 
 as tidy as anyone's. You wouldn't get clean sheets 
 once a fortnight nowhere else. And it ain't my fault, 
 is it, if yer don't 'ave yer egg or yer bacon for break- 
 fast? I've always said a young feller, growin' like 
 you, couldn't do on bread and butter. What do yer 
 want to be goin' for, just as we was beginnin' to like 
 yer? I tell yer it ain't no easy job gettin' a nice 
 lodger. Last one I 'ad behaved most improper, 'e 
 
 80
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 did I 'ad to arst 'im to go, and I know I was care- 
 ful enough to 'ave single gentlemen printed on the 
 notice. What d'yer want to go for?" 
 
 She said it almost petulantly. He knew quite well, 
 if he were to give her his reasons, she would put 
 aside all questions of his paying until another time. 
 Yet there was something in the nature of pride that 
 prevented him. Good-hearted creature as she was, 
 he felt that he could not bear her sympathy; for 
 with sympathy it seems there must be much of under- 
 standing, and of that he knew she was utterly de- 
 void. So he clung to his pride, as most of us do, 
 because it was his pride that pleased him. He felt 
 then that he would far sooner starve than be mis- 
 understood; the hot tea, moreover, had cheered him. 
 He stood up from the table ready to face a sea of 
 troubles. 
 
 "It isn't exactly that I want to go," said he, "be- 
 cause I have been very comfortable here. But I 
 think I'm going home." 
 
 This he said at random. It was the first and most 
 rational excuse that came to his lips. 
 
 "What aren't yer doin' no good 'ere?" she en- 
 quired. ' 'Asn't Mrs. Collins paid yer for 'er 
 baby?" 
 
 "Well, that was only five shillings," he replied. 
 "Besides, I couldn't do the sort of thing she wanted. 
 She had a photograph taken of it instead. Oh, no, 
 
 81
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 I suppose I'm getting on all right. But I think I 
 must go home." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin was a woman who quickly realised 
 and accepted the inevitable. With a gesture of dep- 
 recation, she began piling the tea things one upon 
 the other. 
 
 "Constance will be disappointed," said she, "now 
 that she's got 'er turn at the music 'all and all." 
 
 Indeed, this much was true. Constance had found 
 success. The Middlesex had taken her on for a turn 
 early in the evening. She had given them tickets, 
 and Dicky and Mrs. Baldwin had been to see her. 
 He wished afterwards he had not. Some of his 
 father's puritanism was still in his blood. In other 
 women, there was no thought against it in his mind; 
 but, with one whom he knew and admired more than 
 he allowed himself to imagine, a feeling of distaste 
 had forced itself upon him. He had felt that she 
 was making herself cheap, and it had induced in him 
 an unreasonable, ah uncomfortable state of resent- 
 ment. Self-analysis as yet was no characteristic of 
 his. Had it been so, he might have known that he 
 was nearing a deeper appreciation of Constance 
 than, with his love of Dorothy, he had ever thought 
 possible. 
 
 As often as he could, he had avoided this state of 
 mind. And now, when he came to think of it, he was 
 glad he was going; it took him out of touch with a 
 sense of disappointment which he had often found 
 
 82
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 irritating to his thoughts. He had caught himself 
 watching her departure for the music hall in the 
 evening. At times he was surprised to find that he 
 was wondering with what sort of men she was com- 
 pelled to associate on the stage. Doubtless, when 
 he had gone, he would forget all this. He was not 
 sorry he was going. 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped," said he, "but don't 
 think I haven't been comfortable. I have. You've 
 been very kind to me." 
 
 "Then you're goin' on Saturday," she said. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, and went up to his room. 
 
 He had come to regard that room with no little 
 affection by this. The picture of Mrs. Collins's baby 
 was pinned over his bed; some of the sketches he 
 had made in London were pinned to the walls. 
 There was infinitely more homeliness about the 
 room now than when he had first entered it. It 
 brought his work and his ambitions to his mind 
 whenever he was there. There, for the last two 
 months or so, he had thought of his work, day 
 and night. There he had elaborated the sketches 
 he had done in London, throwing out his mind to 
 hold the thousand effects he was always conscious 
 of in the streets. 
 
 Even in that short time, he knew he had im- 
 proved. One sketch, a wagon load of flowers, 
 crawling up Long Acre, in the mysterious grey of 
 an early morning, was so much above anything he 
 
 83
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 had done as yet that the mere fact of its having 
 been worked upon in that room brought the place 
 closely in sympathy with him. 
 
 As he looked at that sketch, stuck with stamp 
 paper to the wall, he did not really know whether 
 he was glad to be going or not. Ideas changed as 
 quickly with him as this. 
 
 He had called the picture "Fragrance" for 
 everything he did, he named and, as he looked at 
 it that evening, believing it to be good as judged by 
 the standard of his ability then, he felt that surely 
 he would be able to sell it and then might stay on 
 there for another week or two. 
 
 By this time he was realising that he was sorry 
 to go. Something would inevitably be gone out of 
 his life if he went away. He started at the sound 
 of a knock on the door. When Constance entered 
 to his answer, he knew that his heart had begun 
 beating to a quicker pulse. 
 
 "I shall miss this room terribly," he told himself. 
 "I can work here." This was what he forced him- 
 self to think as she stood there facing him. And it 
 was true. He could work there. But it was the 
 thought that she was present in the house; that, 
 though she did not understand his work, yet under- 
 stood the struggle he must face, this it was that 
 stirred and urged him on. 
 
 Each man as he works is subject to the influence 
 of a woman. He works for her, or because of her, 
 
 84
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 or in despite of her. It is only the love of the work 
 itself she cannot hinder or inspire. 
 
 When she closed the door, Dicky knew well what 
 she had to say. He stood there waiting for her to 
 speak, half joyful in his heart that she had come, 
 still conscious of his pride that he would not be 
 beholden to anyone. 
 
 "Mother says you're goin'," she began, "goin' 
 on Saturday." 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 "What d'yer want to go for?" 
 
 "I must." 
 
 She sat down on the bed. She had been to a 
 variety agent's and was wearing a new dress, a 
 dress she had bought recently with the money she 
 was earning. She knew she looked well. She knew 
 that, unless her calculations were all at fault, he 
 was not going to go. 
 
 "Mother says you're goin' 'ome," she went on. 
 
 The pause was minute, and then he said, "Yes." 
 
 But that pause was long enough for her. Her 
 heart jumped because she was sure it was untrue. 
 
 "You ain't goin' 'ome," she said quickly. "You're 
 'ard up broke you can't pay any more for yer 
 lodgin'. That's what it is. Yer can't kid me." 
 
 And, if he was not going home, then it was not 
 the other woman, after all. That was what she had 
 feared when first her mother had told her. "It's 
 'er," she had said to herself, and there was no sense 
 
 85
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of duty in her mind. From the moment he had 
 taken her arm after leaving the picture-framer's, 
 from the moment she had realised all the disappoint- 
 ment there lay before him, every sense of duty to 
 the other woman had gone from her thoughts. He 
 was her man, she was ready to fight for him as she 
 would, if necessary, have fought the picture-framer. 
 
 "You can't kid me," she repeated. 
 
 He looked her straightly in the face, the last 
 struggle in his mind to keep his pride. And then, 
 no doubt it seemed, what did pride matter? Wasn't 
 it better to have sympathy? He had failed in so 
 far as that he could no longer afford to stay there. 
 But it was not failure. If he had to live in the 
 streets, he knew he would go on; he knew that he 
 would win in the end. That sketch of the wagon 
 of flowers proved to him that he was going to win. 
 He could feel that he was getting nearer to the 
 understanding of himself. As he looked at it then, 
 stuck with its stamp paper to the wall, he knew that 
 it did not matter if she heard the truth. He was 
 going to win. 
 
 With a smile on his face, he pulled himself up 
 on to the chest of drawers, and swung his legs, 
 knocking his heels together. 
 
 "Well," he said, "what if I'm not going home?" 
 
 "You ain't?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you are 'ard up? You are broke?" 
 86
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He took the money out of his pocket and counted 
 it in his hand. 
 
 "At the end of this week," he said, "I shall have 
 seven pence half penny." 
 
 She screwed up her eyes and looked at him. 
 
 "Well, what are you goin' to do?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Where are yer goin'?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Why don't yer write 'ome for some? Yer fa- 
 ther 'ud give it yer wouldn't 'e?" 
 
 "I'd sooner go right under than do that," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 She got up from the bed and crossed the room, 
 standing beside him at the chest of drawers. 
 
 "You're not goin' under," she said quietly. 
 "When I said that about your paintin' a poster for 
 me one day, I was only coddin'. You're goin' to 
 'ave pictures 'ung in the National Gallery one day 
 d'yer think I don't know that? Good hartists don't 
 paint no posters for early turns on a music 'all. 
 Why, I sha'n't be even good enough to 'ave a poster 
 for meself when everybody's talkin' about you. 
 D'yer think I don't know that?" 
 
 He listened to all she said. It was like a soothing 
 ointment on an angry wound. It was not true, but 
 she was saying it, and she was saying it in that tone 
 
 8?
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 which only a woman knows how to bring into her 
 voice. 
 
 "I'll do a poster for you one day," he said, 
 "that'll make everyone stop to look at it and 
 they'll have to hang it outside where everyone can 
 see it." 
 
 "Is that a promise?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes a promise," he replied. 
 
 "Then I'll tell you what I'll do," said she. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I'll begin payin' you for it now. I've got lots 
 of money. They give me thirty shillings a week, yer 
 know, at the Middlesex. I'll begin payin' yer for 
 it now, and then you can stop on 'ere." 
 
 His first thought was that he could go on work- 
 ing. It would be impossible if he was living in the 
 streets. Then he tried to bring his mind to the be- 
 lief that it was a just transaction. He would paint 
 a poster for her one day. He knew well enough 
 that promise would be kept. But was it fair in the 
 way of business to take the payment for it now? 
 
 "But if I get it," said he, "I shall pay it back. 
 You're only lending me the money." 
 
 "I don't care what I'm doin'," she replied. 
 "You're goin' to stop 'ere that's all I want." 
 
 And then from her purse she took a sovereign, 
 and pushed it into his hand. It burnt there and his 
 cheeks grew hot. He could not bring himself to 
 
 88
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 put it straight away into his pocket, but held it there 
 in a sticky hand. 
 
 Where was his pride now? He looked across at 
 the picture sticking to the wall and knew his pride 
 was gone, yet scarcely felt its going in the thought 
 of the work he had to do.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IT has never been suggested, even by those who 
 knew and liked him best, that there was any- 
 thing heroic in the life of Richard Furlong. 
 Men are invariably selfish artists inevitably so. If 
 it can be said that they are generous at all, it is 
 with their vitality, and in this Dicky perhaps was 
 as generous, if not more so, as most of his type 
 have been. 
 
 In those first days in London, when he lived over 
 the oil shop in Drury Lane, he worked with a cour- 
 age and energy that were astonishing when one re- 
 gards the almost hopeless prospect that spread it- 
 self before him. Youth had much to do with it; but 
 there was more than youth beside. 
 
 The temptation to return to the security and com- 
 fort of his home must have been well-nigh over- 
 whelming at times. But the firm conviction of his 
 own ability never left him for long. He knew that 
 one day he would paint a poster for Constance, one 
 upon which every eye would be turned, and just as 
 surely did he know that the very best of his work 
 would eventually earn its recognition. There were 
 moments, too, when he could regard his position 
 
 90
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 from its humorous points of view; moments of good 
 health and a hunger satisfied, and then he would 
 laugh at the comic precariousness of it all. 
 
 Often, when in that mood, he wrote home to 
 Dorothy Leggatt, never telling her the true state 
 of his affairs, but hinting that poverty was a fine 
 school which had its cheerful intervals. And no 
 doubt, on occasion, he believed that this was true; 
 but there were long hours in that school when he sat 
 wearily learning the lessons of courage and experi- 
 ence, and, symbolist and dreamer as he was, he must 
 have gathered much then of the reality of life. 
 
 For another month he lived in Drury Lane upon 
 the generosity of Constance. She gave him money 
 every week, insisting always that it was in payment 
 for the poster he was one day to do, convincing him 
 against his better judgment that it was honestly 
 and fairly come by. Hardest of all he worked that 
 month, finding new meanings every day in the colour 
 and life of the city of London. 
 
 I have seen the sketches he did then, and, though 
 perhaps they are poor in technique, they are amaz- 
 ing in originality. All his mind, unhampered by 
 training, he threw into his work at that time. And 
 in later years, when, through conventionality, he had 
 become a master of his medium, that freedom of 
 originality was the lasting feature of everything he 
 did. 
 
 This is a biography of a man and his mind, rather 
 7 91
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 than of his work; and, even were I able, I do not 
 feel competent to describe that work in detail. 
 Whenever it is necessary, I shall give descriptions of 
 those pictures I have known as illustrations of his 
 development. But it is through circumstance and a 
 power of will that a man becomes what he is, and 
 this is a chronicle of circumstances alone. 
 
 With the assurance of money from Constance, he 
 forgot to look for work that would give him re- 
 munerative employment, and so for much longer he 
 might have continued in receipt of her bounty, had 
 not events brought him suddenly to his senses. 
 
 One day in the early autumn he took her to 
 Kew Gardens. Mrs. Baldwin made a parcel of 
 sandwiches for them, and they set off alone. This 
 was one of those days when the precariousness of 
 existence appealed in all its sense of comedy to the 
 mind of Dicky. His spirits were hilarious. In such 
 a mood Constance must have admitted she liked him 
 best. He made her laugh; his very boyishness was 
 infectious. All that intensity of manner and seri- 
 ousness of speech was gone from him then. So she 
 liked him best because so she understood him best. 
 
 In the woods in Kew Gardens, where in Spring 
 the blue-bells mass their blossoms till it seems the 
 very air beneath the trees is stained with blue as 
 well, they sat down to eat their lunch. The leaves 
 of the beeches were turning to the first faint shades 
 of orange. Now and again a gust of wind dis- 
 
 92
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 lodged one, to fall slowly, reluctantly, curling and 
 fluttering to the ground. 
 
 As the first one settled on the grass, Dicky looked 
 up into the beeches. 
 
 "I've been here just four months," said he, "and 
 the apples are nearly ripe at home. You should see 
 the orchard, sloping down to the river there. Ever 
 seen an apple tree in the autumn a wild crab-tree 
 in the hedges with all the fruit on it, just in the 
 evening when the light's beginning to go? The 
 leaves go plum-coloured and brown, and yet they're 
 still green, and the little apples hang on the 
 branches all the colour of amber like like oh 
 I don't know what they're like 1" He broke 
 down with an excited gesture. The picture was vivid 
 in his mind. 
 
 It was the energy, the vitality in his voice she 
 sat so still to listen to. What he said about crab- 
 apple trees meant nothing to her. She saw no more 
 of green grass and the leaves of trees than what you 
 find in the Embankment Gardens, and she was con- 
 tent with this from one year's end to another. Only 
 to please his fancy had she come with him to Kew 
 Gardens that day. The idea had been his, not hers. 
 But the sound in his voice, the glitter in his eyes, 
 that attracted her. His broken sentences, when a 
 despairing gesture brought them abruptly to an 
 end; when, with a toss of his head, as though the 
 words had utterly beaten him, he would say, "Oh 
 
 93
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 I don't know!" all this kept her eyes set upon his 
 face. She may not have known what it meant, but 
 she was conscious of the power of feeling behind, 
 the overflowing vitality, the mind quickly sensitive 
 even to the falling of a leaf. 
 
 "One of these days," he went on, "we'll go right 
 out into the country, you and I I'll show you 
 things not the sort of things that Turner painted, 
 but things like he'd have seen them if he'd been 
 there. There was a chap for you!" 
 
 "Who?" asked Constance. 
 
 "Turner." 
 
 "Who was 'e?" 
 
 "Turner? He was a painter. He could paint 
 the sun and make you feel as if your eyes were going 
 blind as you looked at it." 
 
 "That's a silly sort of picture to paint," said Con- 
 stance. 
 
 He looked at her as though he suddenly remem- 
 bered she was there; then for a long time he said 
 nothing. She knew she had said the wrong thing 
 again, and swept her mind for something appro- 
 priate to say which would make him forget it. But 
 nothing was there. It seemed foolish to talk about 
 the oil shop in Drury Lane; still more out of place 
 did it appear to refer to the Middlesex Music Hall. 
 Yet beyond these two things in her life, there was 
 nothing except that she loved him. She had 
 known that for some weeks, and, had it been any 
 
 94
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 other of the men she knew, would have told him so. 
 With Dicky it was different. This was not because 
 of the other woman, but partly because she feared 
 him. 
 
 Nevertheless, this being the only thought in her 
 mind now, the sandwiches being finished, and Dicky 
 having concealed the paper wrapping in the heart 
 of a bramble bush, she came a little nearer to his 
 side and said: 
 
 "Tell me a bit more about the country where 
 are we goin'?" 
 
 He looked into her green eyes and was not sus- 
 pecting even yet. 
 
 "We'll go one day next week," he replied. 
 "Where shall we go? I don't know anything about 
 the country near London. Wish we could go home. 
 Think what the willows'ud be like now on the Avon 
 and the May trees red and green. By Jove! 
 Wouldn't I love to show you it all." 
 
 She leant forward suddenly and caught his hand. 
 
 "Let's," said she. "I've got the money for the 
 tickets what sport it 'ud be !" 
 
 It seemed natural enough that her hand was 
 touching his ; the thing to which he could not recon- 
 cile his mind was the thought of Dorothy and what 
 it would seem to her if she saw him with Constance 
 in the very lanes where they had walked. 
 
 And if they did go, which he knew was utterly 
 impossible, how would they return the same night, 
 
 95
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 or where would Constance stay if they came back 
 the next day? So he played with the probability of 
 the impossible, and, tempted to ask her what they 
 would do, gave way, and found the words had left 
 his lips before he could call them back. 
 
 "Oh, what does it matter where we'd stay!" said 
 she. Mother 'ud never know, and I don't suppose 
 she'd mind if she did. Mother likes you, yer 
 know." 
 
 So then he got an insight into the lawlessness of 
 her morality, and, before he realised it, found her 
 arms round his neck and her warm lips murmuring 
 to his own. 
 
 "Do take me !" she whispered. "I want to see all 
 the places you talk about I shall understand 'em 
 better then. I've never known much about the 
 country, livin' in London see. We could go on a 
 Sunday and come back on a Monday so as I'd be 
 in time for me turn at the Middlesex. You will 
 take me won't you?" 
 
 Dicky listened to the hot torrent of her words, 
 and knew then the bitter impossibility of the posi- 
 tion in which he stood. He was taking money from 
 her; indeed, he was living on her money alone. 
 Over and over again he had deceived himself into 
 the belief that she was helping him because of his 
 work. Now he knew the truth. It was because she 
 loved him, and he had nothing to give in return. 
 
 With all unconsciousness, she was presenting her 
 96
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 account, and he had nothing with which to meet it. 
 His cheeks burnt hot, and even the passion which 
 her kisses roused seemed shameful to his con- 
 science then. He knew he was a debtor, dishon- 
 oured in his own eyes, perhaps dishonoured in hers 
 as well. With the gentleness of contrition he took 
 her arms away. He wanted to say that he was 
 sorry, but the words sounded caddish even in their 
 silent utterance in his mind. He said nothing. 
 
 For a moment or two she sat and looked at him, 
 weighing the situation in her mind, struggling 
 against the pulse that was beating in her brain to 
 know all that his silence meant. 
 
 "Yer don't love me?" she said at last. 
 
 For an instant the thought that silence would an- 
 swer for him prompted him not to speak. Then 
 he felt the cowardice of that and said, "No," with 
 eyes that were honest to hers. 
 
 She stood up to her feet, smoothed out her skirt, 
 and straightened her hat. 
 
 "Then let's come out of this damned place," said 
 she, and Dicky followed her, feeling that the world 
 was crushing him on every side to nothingness.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 . 
 
 PRIDE and self-respect, these are the serious 
 matters when your twenty years are coming 
 just in sight. For all the occasional hilar- 
 ity of his spirits, Dicky in these days was sadly 
 wanting in a sense of humour. Nothing indeed was 
 assured for him; everything was a gigantic specula- 
 tion. Any day he might be compelled to admit de- 
 feat and appeal to the generosity of his father to 
 take him back to the Mill. It is scarcely to be won- 
 dered at that he regarded life with intensity, beset 
 with such uncertainty of mind. 
 
 As he returned from Kew Gardens that evening 
 with Constance, even late into that night, he fretted 
 his soul to a fine depression. 
 
 Philosophy is the application of a sense of hu- 
 mour to the disproportionate seriousness of life. At 
 the age of nineteen, Dicky had none of it. He criti- 
 cised the relations between himself and Constance 
 as though it were the first time in the history of the 
 world that a man had ever taken money from a 
 woman. He imagined no condemnation too strong 
 for himself, and, the next morning, gathering to- 
 gether a dozen or so of the sketches he had made 
 
 98
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 in London, he set off eager and determined to find 
 a purchaser who would enable him to discharge his 
 debt to Constance. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon, when he had been 
 walking the whole day from one place to another 
 without success, that he turned into the Waterloo 
 Bridge Road. He had had no food since breakfast. 
 In their trip the day before to Kew Gardens he had 
 spent the last of the money that Constance had 
 given him, and, after what had happened, was pre- 
 pared to suffer any discomfort rather than ask her 
 for more. The discomfort he was suffering then. 
 He felt tired from hunger, but forgot all thoughts 
 of it when he came to a shop in whose windows he 
 saw water colours displayed for sale, at such prices 
 as gave him to understand that this was not a pic- 
 ture dealer in the recognised sense of the word. His 
 hopes rose as they had risen before. He had come 
 to know by now that the real picture dealer would 
 have little or nothing to do with him. This was 
 the class of man he wanted, and, seeing a customer 
 already within, he waited outside for the best part 
 of half an hour until the shop was empty, and he 
 found the owner by himself. 
 
 They called themselves the Waterloo Picture 
 Framing Company. This was printed over the shop 
 front; but Mr. Nibbs, who ran the business, had 
 long ago found that the making of frames was not 
 a paying proposition in itself. He bought the Christ- 
 
 99
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 mas numbers of the illustrated magazines and every 
 month The Studio, framing the coloured pictures 
 they contained in neat little oak frames and putting 
 them in the forefront of his window marked at 
 catchy prices. These were just the kind of things 
 to arrest the eye of the gentleman from the suburbs 
 on the way down to Waterloo station to catch his 
 train to Wimbledon and the south-west. With the 
 coloured print of Grieffenhagen's "Idyll" he had had 
 continuous success. A framed copy of it always 
 hung there conspicuously. 
 
 But the trade in pictures, reproductions or origi- 
 nals, was not enough to pay his rent. He took to 
 selling old prints. In his younger days he had 
 worked at a print-seller's up West, touching up the 
 prints that were damaged, restoring them to a sale- 
 able condition. He knew the value of Bartolozzis; 
 had seen the prices fetched by Borrow's tail pieces. 
 What is more, he had a love for these old engrav- 
 ings. "They did things well in those days," he said, 
 and he had a righteous contempt for the modern 
 half-tone reproductions from photographs. 
 
 He knew where old prints were to be found, and 
 he bought them. Seeing them in his windows for 
 sale, strange people from strange places brought 
 others for him to buy. He seldom sent them away 
 without purchase, taking them just as they were in 
 their old gold frames and placing them in his win- 
 dows or hanging them on the walls of his shop. 
 
 100
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 When they needed restoration, he took them home 
 with him to where he lived, in Greenwich, and 
 worked on them there far into the night. Those 
 that required touching up, he was always the more 
 ready to buy. Their restoration gave him occupa- 
 tion in the evenings. Without work, he was one 
 of those men who is lost. Energy and diligence, 
 they glittered in his eyes. 
 
 After a time these strange people with prints to 
 sell the people who haunt the pawn shops, are 
 down-at-heel and ill-equipped brought him other 
 things, because they had heard that old things had a 
 market value. When he knew they were in want, 
 Mr. Nibbs never sent them away without effecting 
 some transaction. He knew nothing about china 
 or about brass. Sheffield plate was only a name to 
 him, but he bought everything that came in and put 
 it in his window, labelling it with whatever descrip- 
 tion had been given him at the time of purchase. 
 
 Amongst all this nondescript collection of rub- 
 bish which at last he acquired you would find an 
 odd piece of value here and there a good old 
 pair of brass candlesticks, a piece of china you 
 might never know. It was always worth your 
 while to pay him a visit. In all that conglomerated 
 mass of china and brass, electroplate and frames 
 and pictures, with which he crowded his shop, you 
 might discover something to your fancy. They 
 were all cheap. He bought for little from those 
 
 101
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 who had little, and he sold for little often doubtless 
 to those who had much. There was nothing of the 
 wily tradesman about him. He knew too little about 
 the things he sold. If an article was plated with 
 silver upon copper, he called it old Sheffield plate, 
 for as such it had been sold to him. 
 
 He would point to the places where the copper 
 had worn through and he would say: 
 
 "You see copper, copper all through. They 
 don't plate silver on that sort of stuff now." 
 
 And he would sell it for such a price as, if it had 
 been genuine Sheffield plate, would have possessed 
 you of a bargain to make your heart glad. Some- 
 times, moreover, it was genuine, but he never knew 
 the difference. The little tricks of the business, the 
 silver turn-over, the inset shield of silver, he had 
 never heard of these. 
 
 There was the element of philanthropy, too, in 
 all the purchases he made. They pitched him sor- 
 rowful tales, those strange people who came with 
 their strange wares into his shop. Through the 
 old horn spectacles that he balanced on his button 
 of a nose, his eyes would twinkle with sympathy 
 as he listened. It was not that he did not know 
 the world well enough; he had been learning of it 
 for fifty years, yet he still believed all he heard. 
 Many a thing he bought with but the faintest expec- 
 tation of selling again, because the owner had hinted 
 of hunger, of children whose mouths must be filled. 
 
 102
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Once, under such circumstances as these, he had 
 bought an old milk jug that looked like pewter. It 
 was bent and dented and disfigured. He had never 
 hoped to see his money back on it again, but the 
 woman who had brought it was near the birth of 
 her child. She had just said, "Can yer give me 
 two bob for this?" It had been enough for him, 
 the sound of her voice, the look in her face. With- 
 out a word he had put down the two shillings on 
 the counter. 
 
 Then, because it was new and there was room 
 for it, he had put it in the window, and one day a 
 dealer he knew came into the shop, asking to see it. 
 
 When he had examined it thoroughly the dealer 
 looked up. 
 
 "What do you want for it?" he asked. 
 
 "What'll yer give?" Mr. Nibbs enquired warily. 
 
 "Give yer fifteen bob." 
 
 "It's silver," said Mr. Nibbs at a venture. It 
 must have been silver or he would never have of- 
 fered such a price. 
 
 "Yes, but very knocked about," the dealer re- 
 plied. "I'll say a quid." 
 
 "Two pounds," said Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "Right," said the dealer, and Mr. Nibbs knew 
 that he had been done, but he did not mind that. 
 It had proved to him the reward of kindness. On 
 the strength of that piece of good fortune, he never 
 turned away anyone who was in want. The good 
 
 103
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 fortune never occurred again, yet he spoke of that 
 incident from one year to another, as though such 
 things were happening every day. It became the 
 cornerstone of his philosophy, to give people a 
 hand whenever he could. 
 
 "Live and let live," he would say. "Everybody's 
 as much right to existence as what I 'ave." 
 
 And he had said this so frequently that in time 
 he came to regard it as a saying of his own. From 
 the corner where she sat in the shop, forever read- 
 ing novelettes until it was time for her to go out 
 on an errand, his wife would nod her head in ap- 
 proval of Mr. Nibbs' philosophy. She agreed with 
 everything he said with everything he did. 
 
 It was this little man, then, with his love of prints 
 and his generous philosophy, who made the first 
 turning point in the beginning of Dicky Furlong's 
 life in London. This is the strangeness, the mys- 
 tery in this eternal shuffling of the cards. You 
 never know which will fall together. Even the 
 hand that shuffles cannot decree. That is the joy of 
 it. Fate is outside the law. Not even the dis- 
 covery of a fourth dimension can ever reach its 
 limitations. Chance is infinite. 
 
 As soon as the customer had come out of the 
 shop, Dicky went in. Without curiosity, Mrs. 
 Nibbs looked up from her corner over her novel- 
 ette. Over his round horn spectacles, the round 
 eyes of Mr. Nibbs glanced up as well. Before 
 
 104
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky had spoken, he knew the object of his visit. 
 It was not difficult to guess. The slouch hat, the 
 long hair, they proclaimed him. And, if he thought 
 about it at all, Dicky preferred that they should. 
 He was quite agreeable to being thought an artist, 
 so long as it did not imply effeminacy. There was 
 only that carelessness of dress, the suggestion of 
 looseness about everything he wore which painters 
 seem almost to find necessary to freedom in their 
 work. 
 
 "Pictures?" asked Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 Dicky laid his portfolio down on the counter. 
 
 "You sell pictures, don't you?" said he. 
 
 The little man nodded. 
 
 "I've got some of Thomas Parker's in the win- 
 dow. I sell a lot of his well a lot? I sell a 
 few." 
 
 "I want you to have a look at these," said Dicky. 
 "They're all done round about different parts of 
 London." He began to take them out, holding 
 them up one after another and saying, "That's 
 down the Strand that's Westminster Bridge 
 that's a bit of Covent Garden at four o'clock in the 
 morning just when they're opening the market," 
 and so on, describing them all. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs settled his horn spectacles to his com- 
 fort and looked at them in silence. He was not 
 sure what he thought of them. In fact, he was 
 very uncertain. The work was strange to him. 
 
 105
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 With all of Thomas Parker's, you could see what 
 they were. The pictures of Venice, though he knew 
 Thomas Parker had never been out of Lambeth in 
 his life, they were all very accurate and like the 
 places they represented. Gentlemen on their way 
 to catch the train to Croydon, looking in to see him 
 in a spare moment, had often said how like the 
 place they were. Therefore, Mr. Parker continued 
 in Lambeth to paint in Venice. 
 
 But these pictures of London, which he knew so 
 well, were not quite recognisable to Mr. Nibbs. He 
 was not aware that he had ever seen Westminster 
 Bridge look quite like that; yet, as he stared at it, 
 there was some thought stirring in his mind that 
 you might see Westminster Bridge in such a way 
 if you had the mind for it. 
 
 There was something about Dicky himself, too, 
 which made him feel that the pictures might be 
 good. Although he believed the work of Thomas 
 Parker to be excellent, Thomas Parker himself 
 never gave him the impression that it was. But 
 Dicky, even in silence, forced his personality upon 
 the little man. When he had made up his mind to 
 say that he would not buy any that day he felt an 
 uncomfortable sensation that he might be refusing 
 a good thing and fervently wished that he did know 
 more about painting. The circumstance which de- 
 cided his refusal was that he had bought an old 
 shagreen spectacle case that morning with old 
 
 106
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Georgian spectacles inside. This was partly be- 
 cause he liked shagreen, partly because he liked old 
 spectacles. He always wore old ones himself. Most 
 of all, perhaps, he had bought them because the 
 man who had brought them in was blind of one 
 eye and could not get any work to do. 
 
 "Somethin' pathetic in a man blind in one eye 
 comin' to sell a pair o' spectacles," he had said to 
 his wife when the man had gone out with four 
 shillings in his pocket. 
 
 "Yer won't be able to sell them," she had replied. 
 
 "No, I sha'n't be able to sell 'em," said he, "but 
 I'll put 'em in the window. 'E's glad of the money 
 any'ow." 
 
 So, having made one philanthropic purchase that 
 morning, he was not eagerly disposed to make an- 
 other. Moreover, there was nothing about him to 
 suggest that Dicky was hungry. He looked a 
 healthy boy. Still, he did not like refusing them, 
 and, before a final determination, he took one up 
 and showed it to Emily, his wife. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "Westminster Bridge." 
 
 "Is it?" she replied. Her eyes twinkled up at 
 him because she thought it funny. There was noth- 
 ing unkind or malicious in her mind. After that 
 brief criticism, she went on with her novelette. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs came back to the counter. 
 
 "Afraid I can't buy any to-day," said he. He 
 8 107
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 hardly liked to look in Dicky's face as he said it. 
 "What are you asking for them?" 
 
 "Whatever I can get," said Dicky, and all the 
 day of trudging and disappointment that had gone 
 before came back in a moment, crushing hope and 
 casting all its weight upon his spirits. 
 
 There must have been this in his voice. His 
 moods were always plain to anyone who chose to 
 read them. Mr. Nibbs picked up the painting of 
 the wagon load of flowers, trundling between the 
 dirty houses of Long Acre. He knew he was going 
 to buy a picture then. He knew he could not help 
 himself. Live and let live was running quickly 
 through his mind, because in Dicky's voice he had 
 heard the patient note of disappointment. 
 
 "I'll give you ten shillings for this one," he said. 
 Emily looked up from her reading, but did not 
 speak. 
 
 For the first moment Dicky was elated. Disap- 
 pointment followed then as quickly in his mind. The 
 little man had chosen the best of them all, but he 
 had chosen it by accident more than intent. He 
 might just as well have laid his hand upon another. 
 Dicky had realised in two minutes that his powers 
 of appreciation were inconsiderable. Yet he had 
 selected the very painting in which lay Dicky's pride. 
 There may have been the element of chance in the 
 work of it. With water-colour more than any other 
 medium, there is a day when the gods are in your 
 
 108
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 fingers. It had been his day when he had done 
 this. He had put it in his portfolio because he 
 wanted to show it, but to sell it for ten shillings, 
 even though pride was at his elbow urging him to 
 get money at any cost, this was more than he could 
 bring himself to do. He took it up from the coun- 
 ter and looked at it with a feeling of pleasure he 
 had no thought to conceal. 
 
 "I can't sell this one," he said at last. "Any of 
 the others the Westminster Bridge, the ware- 
 houses at Blackfriars here, this one Lambeth 
 side any of those you can have for ten shillings 
 each." 
 
 "Thought you wanted to sell," said Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "So I do badly." 
 
 "Got any money?" 
 
 Emily was listening now to every word. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then why don't you want to sell this one?" 
 
 "Because it's the best thing I've done yet. I'm 
 going to keep it myself." 
 
 Mr. Nibbs cocked his head on one side, his eyes 
 twinkled. He looked at Emily, he looked at the 
 picture, he looked back at Dicky once more, his eyes 
 dancing with amusement all the time. Then he put 
 his hands inside the bib of his white apron and he 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 "Ton my soul!" he said. " Ton my soul!" He 
 gurgled with laughter again and swayed about with 
 
 109
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 his merriment behind the counter. "Won't sell me 
 the picture I want because he thinks it's too good. 
 I can have the bad 'uns for ten bob a piece!" 
 
 "You didn't know which was good and which was 
 bad until I told you," said Dicky. "Besides, they're 
 none of them bad none of them as bad as your 
 man Parker's." 
 
 Mr. Nibbs screwed up his eyes and in a moment 
 the expression of his face changed to seriousness. 
 He leant forward across the counter and, to Dicky's 
 amazement, he said: 
 
 "Ain't he any good, then?" 
 
 From that moment began Dicky's friendship with 
 the little old print-seller in the Waterloo Bridge 
 Road. There was something so unexpected, so 
 ingenuous in his question that Dicky knew he was 
 talking to one man in a thousand. 
 
 "Has he ever been to Venice?" he asked. 
 
 "How did you know?" replied Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "Well, Venice isn't like that," said Dicky. 
 
 "You've been there?" said Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "No," said Dicky. 
 
 For the second time the little man threw out his 
 stomach, threw back his head and chuckled with 
 laughter. 
 
 "Emily," he said, "how about tea?" 
 
 "Ready whenever you are," she replied. 
 
 " 'Ave a cup with us, Mr. ?" 
 
 "Furlong," said Dicky, 
 no
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Then 'ave a cup of tea, Mr. Furlong?" 
 The feeling of hunger came back to him at the 
 sound of it. He could only nod his head. When it 
 occurred to him a moment later, he said, "Thanks."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MRS. NIBBS occupied a chair, while her 
 husband and Dicky sat on boxes at the 
 back of the shop. There they had tea. 
 Out of the corners of his beady eyes the little print- 
 seller noted the eagerness with which Dicky ate the 
 plain, thick pieces of bread and butter. He saw 
 the look of genuine satisfaction on Dicky's face 
 with each bite that he took. It was a look he recog- 
 nised; a look he thoroughly understood. He had 
 done right in offering ten bob for a picture, which- 
 ever one he was to get. But then it was infallibly 
 right, to live and let live ; he had never known that 
 principle to fail. 
 
 There was, moreover, quite the human note in 
 his philosophy. He was not charitable without curi- 
 osity. He wanted to know all about the people he 
 helped, and he never forgot the numberless stories 
 that had been told him. To recount them over and 
 over again brought him an unfailing sense of grati- 
 fication. This was the reward he took. If it be 
 looked into, it will be seen how the most generous 
 amongst us take our rewards in some one kind or 
 another. This was the way Mr. Nibbs took his. 
 
 112
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 They had not been at tea for five minutes before he 
 was uncomfortable with curiosity, and, in searching 
 for the first question he might put, kept shifting his 
 position on the box where he was sitting. 
 
 He had an uneasy sensation in his mind that 
 Dicky, more readily than most of the people in 
 whom he had been interested, would recognise the 
 curiosity in his questions, and, being the most pal- 
 pable weakness in his character, curiosity was a fail- 
 ing he most vigorously denied. It was the one ac- 
 cusation which made him lose his temper with Emily, 
 wherefore it was a weapon she only used with the 
 utmost discretion. 
 
 Having tried various suppositions in his mind 
 about Dicky and finding them all unsatisfactory, he 
 at last threw out the question he had been burning 
 to ask. 
 
 "How is it you come to be so hard up?" he en- 
 quired. "What I mean, if you think your pictures 
 are better than Thomas Parker's, why don't you 
 sell 'em? He makes a livin' out of 'is. Bit of the 
 hand to mouth about it, but he does sell, there's no 
 doubt of that. I had a gentleman in here the other 
 day, and he said he considered Parker did the pret- 
 tiest pictures of Venice he'd ever seen, and he's been 
 to Venice himself. Well, I prefer Turner myself. 
 I don't think he always gets the place quite right, 
 but I know he's good, because everybody says so. 
 I asked this gentleman if he didn't like Turner bet-
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ter, but he'd never seen any of Turner's at least, 
 not to his recollection. Still, if you think your 
 sketches are better than Thomas Parker's, I can't 
 make out why you seem to be so hard up. Haven't 
 you got any money at all?" 
 
 There was the note of curiosity. He could not 
 keep it out of his voice. So often had she heard it 
 that Emily took no notice of it then. She looked 
 up, curious herself to hear what the answer would 
 be. But to Dicky it was plain enough. Yet he 
 felt no resentment at the sound of it. He had not 
 forgotten that first impression of Mr. Nibbs one 
 man in a thousand for, besides the note of curi- 
 osity, there was sympathy, too. He was not the 
 kind of man who made you feel proud. Dicky had 
 little hesitation in saying that he had not got a 
 penny in the world. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs looked at Emily; with expectation she 
 looked back at him. 
 
 "Well, what are we going to do?" said he, as 
 though it were a family matter and must be seen to 
 at once. And this was just what she had expected 
 him to say. She had wondered what they were 
 going to do herself. For there was this boy he 
 was only a boy and she, too, had seen with what 
 eagerness he had eaten that bread and butter. 
 Something had to be done. With implicit confidence 
 she left it to Mr. Nibbs to say what it was to be. 
 
 At last, by further questioning that was none 
 114
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 too adroit, they learnt the whole story of Dicky's 
 ambitions. Somehow the round, beady eyes of Mr. 
 Nibbs and Emily's half-opened mouth as she lis- 
 tened encouraged in him all the enthusiasm of his 
 hopes. He spoke of his work as he had had no 
 opportunity of speaking of it to anyone since he 
 had been in London. He had taken his hat off 
 while he had tea, and, as he talked, held up at every 
 moment for words with which to express himself, 
 he ran his fingers wildly through his hair. As he 
 watched him, Mr. Nibbs knew there was more of 
 the artist in him than in Thomas Parker. 
 
 Now, if curiosity was one fault in the character 
 of the little print-seller, there was yet another. He 
 had a weakness for making discoveries. It was he 
 who had discovered Thomas Parker, and, as may 
 be supposed, the discovery was not of much value 
 to anyone. Mr. Nibbs' was one of those tempera- 
 ments whose appreciations of art are unfairly handi- 
 capped by a total ignorance of what art really may 
 be. He believed Thomas Parker to be good be- 
 cause he sold. He believed Turner to be a better 
 painter because he had heard of the prices that a 
 Turner would fetch. But it must not be supposed 
 that his appreciation was a question of finance alone. 
 The opinions of others weighed heavily with him, 
 too, and it so happened that he had heard more 
 praise of Turner than of any other artist whatso- 
 ever. Therefore, Turner was his standard of com-
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 parison for every artist who was brought to his no- 
 tice. He had, in fact, done nearly as well with 
 framed coloured prints of "The Fighting Temer- 
 aire" as he had with Greiffenhagen's "Idyll" ; yet he 
 had never seen an original of Turner's in his life. 
 
 However, if Ruskin had made the discovery of 
 the greatest of all painters, he at least had discov- 
 ered Thomas Parker. Quite seriously and with a 
 twinkle of pride in his eyes, he would tell you this 
 himself. And now he was on the point of making 
 another discovery that bid fair to being of greater 
 importance than any he had claimed before. As 
 with many a man who is deficient in education, 
 his reasoning in all this matter was very much that 
 of a woman's. His instincts were acute. They 
 brought him where a little education and a little 
 logic could never have led him. 
 
 In this discovery, which I know in years after- 
 wards he continued proudly to lay claim to, his first 
 instincts were towards Dicky's personality. Had 
 Dicky told him that Turner was no good, he might 
 almost have believed him. But when he spoke of 
 the great man with a light of worship in his eyes, 
 then Mr. Nibbs knew that Dicky was on the right 
 track. He felt it proper, too, that this boy, with 
 all his enthusiasm, should be hungry and without 
 a penny in his pocket. He could see in years to 
 come how he would be able to say that he had 
 known young Furlong when he was penniless on 
 
 116
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the streets of London. And this indeed was often 
 what he did say. 
 
 Then, lastly, there was all the story before him 
 of how Dicky had run away from the Mill; how, 
 with those few pounds in his pocket, he had come 
 to London without a soul to befriend him. All this 
 convinced him that he was right. One thing only 
 was there to disturb the firm conviction of his mind; 
 it was that he could not persuade himself to a great 
 appreciation of Dicky's sketches. Even Emily had 
 not recognised the picture of Westminster Bridge, 
 and she was generally sharp enough at that sort of 
 thing. However, Dicky himself believed in them; 
 believed in them to such an extent that, though he 
 was penniless, there was one he would not sell at 
 any price. 
 
 As Mr. Nibbs looked at him he wondered if that 
 really were so. Was there a man living who would 
 not succumb to a fancy price? With a humorous 
 impulse and a brighter twinkle in his eye, he led 
 him back into the shop, picking up the sketch that 
 still lay with the others on the counter. 
 
 "Look here now, Mr. Furlong," he said, "I've 
 taken a fancy for this sketch. What do yer want 
 for it?" 
 
 Dicky shook his head. 
 
 "I don't want to sell it really," said he. 
 
 "Give yer a pound," said Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 This was the first appreciation that Dicky had 
 117
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ever received in his life. The remembrance of how 
 his father had called his painting nonsense came 
 warmly to his mind. If he could only hear the 
 offer this little man was making now! For this 
 indeed was appreciation. It was not the twenty 
 shillings he counted, but the pound that stood for 
 Mr. Nibbs' approval of his work. Even at that 
 stage Dicky knew, as every artist knows, the dif- 
 ference between praise and that appreciation which 
 is expressed in terms of actual purchase. 
 
 He felt a thrill of pleasure at the sound of the 
 sum Mr. Nibbs had mentioned, but it was not so 
 great as that he could forget he wanted the picture 
 for himself. He shook his head again. 
 
 "Well, thirty shillings, then?" continued Mr. 
 Nibbs. 
 
 "No, really, I don't want to sell it," said Dicky. 
 And all this while Emily's eyes had been opening 
 wider and wider. She was not perfectly sure which 
 of the two had more completely lost his senses, 
 but when her husband offered two pounds, then 
 she was sure it was he. He had never paid two 
 pounds for a picture in his life, and that which he 
 was offering to buy now he would never be able to 
 sell for more than fifteen shillings. However, she 
 said nothing. She, too, had been impressed with 
 Dicky's personality, and it is probable may have 
 guessed some of the thoughts that were passing 
 through her husband's mind. She had not known 
 
 118
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 him for eighteen years without learning his weak- 
 ness for the discovery of genius; therefore, it was a 
 considerable relief to her mind when, in the tone of 
 his voice, she realised that two pounds was the 
 highest offer he intended to make. 
 
 And to this proposal Dicky had as yet said noth- 
 ing. He could scarcely believe what he had heard. 
 Two pounds was a sum beyond the wildest dreams 
 of his expectation. He thought of the precedent it 
 established in his mind, the appreciation of his 
 work that it conveyed, and, lastly, of the money he 
 would be able to pay back to Constance. Yet even 
 then, running his fingers through his hair and turn- 
 ing his back on the temptation, he debated with 
 himself whether he could really part with it or not. 
 Realising the folly of it at last, he turned back with 
 a gesture of resignation to Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "All right," said he. "I can't refuse that you 
 can have it for two pounds. It isn't worth it. I 
 mean it isn't worth it to you." 
 
 Instead of being disappointed, as he had ex- 
 pected, Mr. Nibbs was satisfied that Dicky was no 
 fool. It even began to dawn upon his mind that 
 Dicky had possibly led him up to this extraordinary 
 offer. 
 
 "You worked me up to that pretty well," said 
 he, and, though there had been nothing ungenerous 
 in his mind, knew as he said it that it had been the 
 wrong thing to say. For Dicky had snatched the 
 
 119
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sketch from off the counter, and his eyes were bright 
 with indignation. 
 
 "I never worked you up to it!" he exclaimed. 
 "I didn't want to sell the picture, and I'm damned 
 if I'll sell it now. You can have your offer back 
 again." 
 
 Again the little print-seller was convinced he had 
 made a discovery, and, though he was very much 
 afraid that he was going to lose the picture alto- 
 gether, he leant across the counter and his eyes were 
 dancing with amusement. 
 
 "Give it back, Mr. Furlong," he said with a 
 chuckle. "Give it here. I know when I'm buying 
 a good thing. Why, I'd have given you three 
 pounds for it if you'd held out." 
 
 "But you said I'd worked you up to it," per- 
 sisted Dicky. 
 
 "Ah just my nonsense," said Mr. Nibbs, and 
 he appealed to his wife to say that that was always 
 the way he went on, and, without a moment's hesi- 
 tation, she said it was. So Dicky handed the pic- 
 ture back again. Mr. Nibbs took it over to the 
 window and looked at it more closely. Now that 
 he was about to pay two pounds for it, he began 
 to find more beauty in it than he had seen at first. 
 
 It was not a subject he would ever have thought 
 of himself, but, seeing it there before him, there was 
 certainly something about it. He could not explain 
 what it was. For the idea of one of those wagons 
 
 120
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 lumbering up Long Acre in the early morning on 
 its way to Covent Garden was not one that appealed 
 to him, yet as he regarded it he had pleasurable 
 sensations. He thought involuntarily of that little 
 patch of garden behind his house in Greenwich 
 where he grew a few stocks in the summer, a few 
 tulips in spring and the three or four clumps of 
 chrysanthemums flowered well into December. He 
 thought, too, of a well-filled garden he had once 
 been taken to see when he was a child. He could 
 not follow the association of ideas in his mind, but 
 as he stood there under the light in the window, 
 looking at the sketch in his hand, the feeling grew 
 upon him that he liked it. 
 
 "What do you call this?" he asked presently, 
 looking round. " 'On the Way to Covent Garden,' 
 I suppose. Something like that. 'Off to the Market,' 
 eh? That's not a bad name for it 'Off to the Mar- 
 ket' What do you call it?" 
 
 "I've called it 'Fragrance,' " said Dicky. 
 
 The little man was silent. He looked back once 
 more to the picture. Fragrance meant sweetness 
 a sweetness of scent. He tried to realise the apt- 
 ness of that in relation to Long Acre, that street of 
 dirty houses, and he failed. "Fragrance" was not 
 the title he would have given it. Yet again, as he 
 looked at it, came back the memory of that well- 
 stocked garden. It was strange, after all, that he 
 
 121
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 should have called it "Fragrance." Now that gar- 
 den was fragrant if you liked. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I should have called it 'Off to 
 the Market/ myself and, mind you, I think I could 
 sell it better if I called it that." 
 
 Dicky smiled. "Unless you call it 'Fragrance/ I 
 sha'n't sell it to you," said he. 
 
 The little man shrugged his shoulders, then, div- 
 ing his hand under his apron, he brought out from 
 his trousers' pocket a well-worn leather purse. From 
 this, without a word, he extracted two pounds and 
 laid them on the counter. Emily watched these 
 proceedings with interest. There was not a little 
 that she lost by this transaction. There would be 
 no picture palaces for them for the next three weeks 
 or more. 
 
 "Well, what are we going to do?" asked Mr. 
 Nibbs at last. 
 
 Dicky looked at him enquiringly. 
 
 "How do you mean?" said he. 
 
 "Well, you can't live long on two pounds. Do 
 you owe any money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Nearly three pounds." 
 
 "How soon must you pay it?" 
 
 "As soon as I can." 
 
 "Well, then, you can't live long on this. Emily" 
 122
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 he turned to his wife "how about old Marco? 
 Has he found anyone yet?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Well, now, look here," said he, "there's a man 
 lives near us at Greenwich he paints pictures by 
 the hundred and sells 'em by the hundred. They're 
 no good, yer know, not a bit of good. But he gets 
 a price for them in the Caledonian Market and 
 those auction rooms in the Strand. He asked me 
 the other day if I knew anyone as could give him a 
 hand, just to paint seas and skies and things like 
 that he does the finishing himself. They could 
 stay in the 'ouse, he said, and he'd give 'em five 
 bob a week for 'emselves. Now it's not your sort 
 of thing at all; but it's something to do, ain't it? 
 You could afford to go to the schools then at night. 
 His wife helps him, but she's a Frenchy; she's a 
 lazy creature." 
 
 "She ain't his wife," remarked Emily. 
 
 "Well, she ought to be," said Mr. Nibbs. "I 
 always say she is. At any rate, he wants a hand. 
 And that's what you'd better do for a month or 
 two, till you get your feet." 
 
 Dicky could hardly believe his ears. He thrust 
 out his hand across the counter and wrung the hand 
 of Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "I don't know why you should do all this for 
 me," he said. 
 
 "Well, I've got a fancy for it," said Mr. Nibbs, 
 9 123
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 and that was about the best reason he could give. 
 The whole of his life was a fancy. He comes in 
 the class of those people called sentimentalists, 
 which may be abuse of him to some, while it is a 
 recommendation to others.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ALL the way back to Drury Lane Dicky's 
 spirits lifted to the tune of a song. People 
 who passed him smiled at him in the street. 
 There was no doubt he was pleased with himself. 
 He had sold his first picture; he was jingling the 
 money in his pocket, and the whole world spread 
 no less before him then than did the vast breadth of 
 London as he crossed the bridge back again into 
 the Strand. And the thought of work cheered him 
 still more. Now he would be able to attend the 
 night schools. A thousand possibilities arose out 
 of his imagination. He felt like one surrounded by 
 a multitude of friends, all linking their arms in his. 
 Up Drury Lane, as he came near Covent Garden, 
 a little girl on her way to the theatre caught the 
 infection of his singing, smiled at the smile in his 
 face. He smiled back at her as they passed. Hear- 
 ing her footsteps stop, he turned. She was looking 
 after him. She was waiting to be spoken to. He 
 lifted his hat and smiled again and laughed. She 
 laughed, too, and beckoned with her head. He 
 would have gone on. It was not greatly his desire 
 to speak to her, but she took a step in his direction 
 
 125
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 and with her head, her eyes, her lips she beckoned 
 again. In the lightness of his spirits just then it 
 would have amounted to a want of manners had he 
 not turned back. 
 
 They met midway, and, feeling uncomfortable 
 now, he raised his hat again. 
 
 "You seem pretty pleased with yourself," she said 
 with plenty of presence of mind. 
 
 "I've just sold a picture," said Dicky. 
 
 "Thought you were an artist," she replied. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Your hair, I suppose." 
 
 They both laughed at that, and, as their laughter 
 ceased, fell into awkward silence. It was not her 
 fault. She had done as much as could be expected 
 of her. It was his turn to make the way easy; but 
 Dicky was not accustomed as yet to these odd en- 
 counters in life. He just smiled at her again; smiled 
 without conviction. 
 
 "Well, I'm just going down to the theatre," said 
 she to break the silence. "Come as far as the stage 
 door?" 
 
 He shook his head. He had just sold a picture. 
 He said he wanted to get back home. 
 
 She understood. He was not really interested; 
 not so interested in her as she was in him. These 
 things have to be borne with. So she just turned 
 her head and said, "So long," still cheeky, still with 
 plenty of presence of mind, as she walked off. 
 
 126
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky continued his way back to Mrs. Baldwin's. 
 This little incident had amused him. It was even 
 exhilarating; he felt it to be all in keeping with 
 the glamour of the day. Some corner, somehow, 
 had been turned. He did not know why it should 
 have happened on that particular day or whether 
 he had been instrumental in any way in its accom- 
 plishment. But there it was. A new road stretched 
 out in front of him, and when he thought of leaving 
 the oil shop in Drury Lane it was still with a feeling 
 of exhilaration. It never occurred to him to im- 
 agine what distress it might bring to Constance. In 
 fact, until that moment when he presented her with 
 thirty shillings in part payment of his debt and saw 
 the pained expression in her eyes, he had never 
 dreamed what it might mean to her. He might 
 even have thought she would be glad to get some 
 of her money back certainly never this, this look 
 of pained bewilderment as though he had struck 
 her. 
 
 She took the money in silence, as if it were an 
 acceptance of the inevitable; then laid.it down on 
 the table by her side. 
 
 "Where'd you get this?" she asked. Half the 
 hope perhaps was there that he had not come by it 
 rightfully and she might yet be able to give it back. 
 
 His eyes took up again that look of excitement. 
 
 "I sold a picture," said he, and expected her hand 
 impulsively clasping his. He waited, but he waited 
 
 127
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 in vain for a sign of her enthusiasm. Indeed, what 
 did she care? For she saw the turning he had 
 taken, too, and knew it led him away from her. 
 With his debt discharged, what was there left to 
 hold him? Willingly she would have increased his 
 obligations, to hold him if by his pride alone. 
 
 "Where did you sell it?" she persisted, still hop- 
 ing and in doubt. 
 
 "To a little old print-seller in the Waterloo 
 Bridge Road." 
 
 "Did he give you all this for it?" 
 
 "He gave me two pounds. I've kept ten shil- 
 lings." 
 
 Two pounds ! For one of those paintings that 
 he did! Certainly she believed in him, but there 
 was not a picture he had ever done for which she 
 thought anyone would pay two pounds. She was 
 all wrong, then. She did not know what a picture 
 was worth or when it was good. But he knew. 
 That was why he persisted in doing them. Her 
 turn at the music hall suddenly seemed intensely 
 futile to her, By hard work she made thirty shil- 
 lings a week; but in a week he could paint three of 
 those pictures of his. 
 
 She knew then how surely he was slipping away 
 from her. She could be no help to him now. He 
 was her man no longer. This was the turning Dicky 
 had taken. From that moment he began to belong 
 to himself. It brought no more surprise to her 
 
 128
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 mind, only a greater chill to her heart when she 
 heard that he was going at the end of that week. 
 
 "Sha'n't see no more of you after that, I sup- 
 pose," she said firmly. 
 
 "Why, of course," he exclaimed. "Why shouldn't 
 I see you again? I'm only going down as far as 
 Greenwich. That's not a long way off, is it?" 
 
 "It 'ud be much the same if it was the next 
 street," said she bitterly. "You won't come this 
 way no more. The Lane'll be a damn sight too 
 poor a place for you. It ain't your fault. I'm not 
 sayin' anythin', blamin' yer. You've sold a picture, 
 and that's made all the difference 'asn't it? I 
 don't say you won't come because I'm no more good 
 to yer but yer won't come. Why, there's a girl 
 at the Middlesex now, 'er fellar's got a turn at the 
 Pavillion, and do yer think he comes to fetch 'er 
 of a night like 'e did when 'e was playin' at the 
 'Olborn? My dear boy, it ain't the distance of 
 streets as makes the difference it's the distance 
 inside yer." 
 
 And Dicky knew it was all true every word of 
 it. He was not doing it himself circumstance was 
 there to do it for him. He had turned a corner. 
 He had sold a picture. There was a new and a 
 different world before him now. Yet he made the 
 best face of it a man can make. He put out his 
 hand, not because he felt pity for her, but because 
 he felt ashamed of himself. 
 
 129
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "You've been a tremendous brick," he said gently, 
 "and I'm going to paint that poster for you one 
 day." 
 
 It was a poor offer to make to her. Feeling there 
 was but little profit in it himself, it was yet the best 
 he could say. 
 
 She sat back on the table for a moment, looking 
 at him, and then she burst out laughing. 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake, don't take it so seriously 1" 
 she exclaimed. "After all, what's it matter one 
 way or another? Even if you'd taken me out into 
 the country for that week-end and wanted to 'ook 
 it now it wouldn't 'ave made much difference, 
 would it? But you ain't even done that. You've 
 got nothing to fret about, and yet to look at yer 
 one'd think you was getting all the losing." 
 
 Then suddenly the laughter went out of her eyes 
 as well. The look of an animal in its hunger glit- 
 tered there instead. She leant forward and stretched 
 out her hand. 
 
 "But I will go away for the week-end," she said 
 thickly. "You can take me if you like, and then 
 you can go off to your Greenwich and never see the 
 Lane again not if yer don't want to. I'll never 
 call yer back." 
 
 This was the high summit of her nature the 
 best, the very best she had to give. Her eyes were 
 alight as she offered it. She knew she could give 
 no more. 
 
 130
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 And Dicky stood there rocking in his mind, his 
 thoughts unsteadily trampling down all reason, out- 
 sounding the cry of conscience to a far thin voice. 
 
 This is not the way a woman moulds a man, but 
 who can deny that this is not in all men's making? 
 
 She caught the sight of a look in his face and 
 took it for what it was worth. He tried to hold 
 her back, but her arms were unresisting. 
 
 Dicky had turned a corner. He had sold a pic- 
 ture. In this fashion he entered the new world 
 that lay before him.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FROM that row of old houses known in 
 Greenwich as Ballast Quay you may see the 
 wide, bright stretch of the river as far as 
 Limehouse Reach. There it bends away to the 
 right and you can follow it no more. Only the tall 
 arms of Tower Bridge lifting upwards out of the 
 smoky haze will give you the direction of its jour- 
 ney then, and beyond that, on a gray day, all the 
 city is caught up into the misty horizon. But when 
 the sky is clear the buildings of Westminster can 
 be seen like palaces of gossamer that appear and 
 disappear as if by magic, in obedience to a magi- 
 cian's wand. For the smoke clouds are always 
 drifting across London, now concealing, now dis- 
 closing, as beautifully, as mysteriously as the work 
 of any wizard in a land of fairies. 
 
 This is a London that only the workmen and the 
 watermen ever see. Greenwich is not the place of 
 holidays and excursions that it was. The giant fac- 
 tories with their blazing furnaces, the towering 
 chimney stacks, pouring forth their smoke offerings 
 to the overburdened sky, these are the things that 
 have driven people from their fish dinners at the 
 
 132
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Ship," yet these are the very things making Green- 
 wich beautiful. 
 
 There by those waters it is a river full of the 
 mystery of adventure. All day long and all night 
 the wash of the steamers putting out to sea, of the 
 steamers coming into dock from every wonderful 
 quarter of the earth, laps with its soothing monot- 
 ony against the river walls. By day and by night 
 there is never a moment but what the urging bow of 
 some vessel turns the point, going whither, coming 
 from whence, unless you are a waterman you might 
 never know. There life is all the end or the prel- 
 ude to adventure, and ever above the far, dim note 
 of the distant city rise the voices of the river craft, 
 high and low, harsh and sweet, as the brown-sailed 
 barges drift and the tugs go chasing by. 
 
 They are so numerous, these voices; their cries 
 are as varied as the cries of the streets. Never is 
 the river truly silent. From the dull moan of the 
 swinging boom, as the great barge puts about 
 against the wind, to the lion-throated horn of the 
 liner as she roars her passage through the tiny craft, 
 there is always a story to listen to, some tale in its 
 inimitable telling. 
 
 As night falls and the tall chimneys retreat into 
 the darkness the watchful eyes of the ships, now 
 red, now green, now gold, all sway and glitter with 
 the wash of the tide. In great hoards the barges 
 lie, guarded by their lights. Tn those masses they 
 
 133
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 are like reptiles huddling close for warmth. And 
 all night long the voices murmur or they cry. The 
 tug, in all her impudence, shrieks out her petulant 
 note. Up and down the dark waters the police 
 launch creeps, with softened footsteps as a police- 
 man on his midnight beat. Late on the tide a barge 
 swings down, full broadside on the running stream. 
 With shouting voices and the clank of chains, the 
 snort of donkey engines and the dull thud of the 
 grinding screw, a steamer turns into her bed in 
 dock. And then, towards morning, comes a hush, 
 that still, faint hush you hear in London streets 
 a deep breath it might almost be before the sun is 
 up and the metallic sounds of day break out once 
 more. 
 
 This is the Greenwich of the waterman, of all 
 those forever going down to the sea in ships. But 
 there is another Greenwich which, because of his 
 familiarity with it, doubtless the waterman seldom 
 sees. For when the sun lends its gold to the drift- 
 ing smoke and the smoke lends its mystery to the 
 sun, all those factories and chimneys, all those gi- 
 gantic sheds by the wharf side, those towering 
 cranes and overreaching derricks become minarets 
 and palaces in the magic light. 
 
 Then it is a Venice built of iron, yet just as mys- 
 terious, just as elusive as that marble Venice of a 
 more romantic age. No domes of churches lift into 
 the smoky sun, but there stand in all their stern 
 
 134
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 majesty those iron temples of strenuous worship, 
 sending up the smoke of their incense to the tire- 
 less God of toil. No gondolas are there, skimming 
 the water to a pliant oar, but the black barges, sink- 
 ing heavily in the stream, drift just as silently on 
 the tide. And that leaning figure of the oarsman, 
 cut in silhouette against the light, he is the gondolier 
 of this iron Venice, riding the broad water into the 
 dim purple of the mist. 
 
 And here it was, at perhaps the most impression- 
 able period of his life, that Dicky came in hot pur- 
 suit of his ambition. It is not to be wondered at 
 that Greenwich, indeed the whole riverside proved 
 so powerful an influence in his early work. The fig- 
 ures to which he inclined were all the river types, and 
 for many years there was the sign of roughness and 
 boldness in every figure drawing that he made. 
 Doubtless it was these surroundings, also, which, 
 apart from the influence of Mr. Nibbs and his 
 prints, gave him the suggestion for his wood-engrav- 
 ings, by which alone he might be remembered. The 
 massive qualities of those foundries and the gigantic 
 sheds on every wharf lent themselves willingly to his 
 mind for the work he then pursued. And it was all 
 the mystery of atmosphere combined with these that 
 made him first see how coloured wood blocks need 
 not rely on form alone for the beauty which they 
 gave. It was he who first realised that tone and 
 
 135
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 mystery could be produced from the unyielding ma- 
 terial in which he chose to work. 
 
 His wood-engraving "The Scavenger" with its 
 massive dredger lying in the Thames, has all the 
 atmosphere of any painting in oil. The lines of the 
 vessel, with just the circle of one of the giant pails 
 cut out against the sky, stand forth with all the 
 clearness you would expect from such material as 
 wood. But on beyond this grim and iron thing 
 there spreads the golden light of Limehouse Reach, 
 and London lies upon the horizon like a sleeping 
 city, wrapped in all the mystery of its coverlet of 
 smoke. 
 
 One evening early in the week, when his work 
 in the shop was finished, Mr. Nibbs took Dicky 
 down with him to the house on Ballast Quay where 
 this Monsieur Marco lived. As they came out of 
 the shop the little print-seller stood still and turned 
 Dicky's attention to the window. In a plain gold 
 frame there hung his picture in the most conspicu- 
 ous position, outplacing Thomas Parker's and all 
 the coloured prints in their fumed oak frames. 
 Beneath it on a card was written, in what Mr. 
 Nibbs called his shop-window hand, "A fine original 
 water-colour Fragrance by Richard Furlong 
 Cheap Two pounds ten." 
 
 Dicky stood and looked at it, overcome by those 
 pleasurable sensations of importance which can 
 never be so great again as on one's first acquaint- 
 
 136
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ance with them. He had never seen a picture of 
 his framed before ; he had never seen his own name 
 writ up to catch the public eye. Possibly he felt as 
 great in that moment as ever he did when he reached 
 the highest summit of his career. He laughed a 
 little foolishly as he looked back at Mr. Nibbs. It 
 was very difficult to be quite himself, for he was 
 not himself. The story of Elijah caught up into 
 the heavens on a chariot of fire occurred to his mind 
 in likeness to himself, and his smile became a laugh 
 a nervous laugh as he wondered whether even 
 Elijah had behaved quite naturally under the cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 "It looks jolly well framed, doesn't it?" he said 
 at last; "much better, even, than I thought it was. 
 I like it awfully. It looks ripping. Don't you 
 think you'll sell it easily enough if you keep it 
 there?" 
 
 Mr. Nibbs nodded his head dubiously. 
 
 "It all depends," said he; "all depends who sees 
 it. The centre of the window ain't always the best 
 place. Some people like findin' what they're goin' 
 to buy they don't want to 'ave it pushed in front 
 of 'em." 
 
 But Dicky hardly heard what he said. He was 
 lost in admiration of his picture an admiration that 
 did not satisfy but spurred him on to higher en- 
 deavour. He wanted to get to it then and at once, 
 and, taking the arm of Mr. Nibbs, he pulled him 
 
 137
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 away. And the little print-seller walked by his side 
 in such fashion as that Dicky might continue to hold 
 his arm. He was seriously thinking how one day 
 he might say that young Richard Furlong had 
 walked through the streets of London with him, 
 arm in arm. His belief in his discovery was as 
 strong as that. 
 
 That Monsieur Marco had been expecting them, 
 and, when they knocked at the door of his house on 
 Ballast Quay, he was not long in opening it. 
 
 At most there are not more than ten in this little 
 crescent of houses that fronts the river looking 
 across the broad stretch of water towards the West 
 India Docks. For a hundred and fifty years, per- 
 haps, they have been standing there, quite near to 
 old Trinity Hospital, and not a thing in them, I 
 have any doubt, has been changed. They wear the 
 same old Georgian bowed windows, reminding you 
 of the high stocks worn by the men of that period, 
 with the small bowed balconies below, as though 
 like the black cravats of the time. They are only 
 two stories in height, but the ceilings are lofty 
 within. Perhaps they had a certain quiet grandeur 
 once, were enviable houses in which to stay when 
 Greenwich claimed the fashion it has lost. But 
 they have no grandeur, only quietness now. Some 
 let their rooms, and the others who have avoided 
 this necessity make no pretence to high estate. 
 
 Only Monsieur Marco, amongst all those famil- 
 138
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ies on Ballast Quay, presumed to be anything bet- 
 ter than he was. He, indeed, would have nothing 
 to do with his next-door neighbours, and they, in 
 fact, would have nothing to do with him. Madame 
 Marco wore no wedding ring. Certainly she wore 
 many rings which everyone had seen; but it was 
 Mrs. Henniker, who kept a general shop in a small 
 alley behind the Trafalgar Hotel, who had observed 
 that, amongst all these gee-gaws, the wedding ring 
 was conspicuous by its absence. 
 
 "I looked, my dear," she told her friend, Mrs. 
 Weyburn, "I looked carefully because these for- 
 eigners do live queerly I've 'card it said often. 
 You'd 'ave thought she might 'ave worn one only 
 for appearance, or to 'ave a keeper for them rings 
 she 'as but there wasn't no sign of it." 
 
 And Mrs. Weyburn, who lived at number four 
 of the Quay, was a talkative little person. She 
 warned the Quay at once, and the Quay ignored 
 Monsieur Marco as persistently as Monsieur Marco 
 ignored the Quay. Whenever his good lady came 
 out into the street there were eyes behind white 
 lace curtains to watch her women's eyes, for it 
 seems women are most interested in those women 
 they condemn. And she was quite well aware of 
 those eyes. She liked them; smiled to herself when 
 she saw a lace curtain quiver or heard a window 
 open up above. It meant that they had called all the 
 way upstairs that Madame Marco was going by 
 10 139
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 for when they did not speak of her as "that 
 woman," Madame Marco was the name they gave 
 her. So she would walk down past the whole row 
 of houses, in those different gowns of hers, always 
 a trifle overdressed. And if she walked slowly it 
 must be excused of her. She liked these little at- 
 tentions so much. She liked the politeness of Mrs. 
 Henniker, whenever that good lady served her over 
 the counter in the general shop. She liked the envy 
 and admiration in Mrs. Henniker's eyes as she 
 gazed at the rings on her fingers. None of the 
 stones was real, but she knew Mrs. Henniker was 
 not aware of that. Nothing, in fact, was real about 
 Madame Marco at all, nor about Monsieur Marco 
 either; but so long as they carried their deceptions 
 with success they were both as happy as if they 
 owned all the riches they pretended to display. 
 
 It was known by no one on Ballast Quay, and I 
 am sure that few are aware of the secret beside 
 myself, but that Monsieur Marco was none other 
 than the Signer Pelloni who some three years be- 
 fore had practiced his mesmeric tricks upon a 
 credulous public in London. He had described 
 himself as having all the diplomas and qualifica- 
 tions of a medical man, obtained in Italy, who, 
 having perfected the practice of mesmerism, had 
 come before the public to give them the manifold 
 benefits of his research. 
 
 For some months he pursued a successful career, 
 140
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 partly by the aid of accomplices, of whom Madame 
 Marco in those days Signorina Allievi was one; 
 partly by that consummate art of braggadocio of 
 which he was a master. In time they found him 
 out. The medical profession exposed him. He was 
 hunted out of London by all those credulous patients 
 he had deceived. What became of him for those 
 three years I have never been able to trace, and 
 then at last, describing himself as an artist, he ap- 
 pears once more as that Monsieur Marco and takes 
 a house on Ballast Quay. 
 
 They merely knew him as an artist there; but of 
 the kind of pictures that he painted only Mr. Nibbs, 
 the little print-seller, was aware. Why he had 
 called himself Signer Pelloni, or why Monsieur 
 Marco, it would be almost impossible to say. He 
 had been born at Cricklewood, when Cricklewood 
 was the outskirts of London and looked across the 
 green fields to the little village of Edgware which 
 is not really so very long ago. His name was 
 Cheeseman truly a name that any man might drop. 
 He was of humble origin, too ; for his father was a 
 little cobbler who sat on his haunches in the win- 
 dow of his shop and stitched leather from morning 
 till night. 
 
 But this was a trade that Emanuel had no wish- 
 fulness to pursue. There was the divine, perhaps 
 the satanic, spark of temperament in his composi- 
 tion. He began by deceptions with the very boots 
 
 141
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 he made, until a customer discovered how he had 
 been imposed upon, and his father turned him out 
 of the shop, prophesying no good for this son who, 
 in the religious devotion in his heart, he had called 
 Emanuel. 
 
 Thrown thus upon the world, he soon learnt that 
 the name Emanuel, coupled with that of Cheese- 
 man, was not the one to succeed. It carried no 
 conviction with it to his mind. It was the foreign 
 suggestion of his black hair and small brown eyes 
 which doubtless prompted him to his first assump- 
 tion of a foreign name. For, though he had never 
 been out of London in his life, he began at an early 
 age to call himself by names either Italian or French, 
 according to his purpose. No doubt he was influ- 
 enced in this by the period in which he served as 
 English waiter in a small French restaurant, one 
 of the first that started in Soho. 
 
 In that restaurant, attending to any of the Eng- 
 lish customers who chanced to come in, he remained 
 for at least a year. Again for a period after that 
 you lose sight of him. Then, with his hair grown 
 longer, looking more foreign than ever, he was to 
 be seen singing in the streets. He had no voice to 
 speak of, yet a certain trick of producing it earned 
 him a lively income. Here again he deceived the 
 public. The look he could put into his eyes, as he 
 sang the sentimental love songs of the day, the 
 cunning way he took his voice from tenor to fal- 
 
 142
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 setto whenever a note was to be reached, these were 
 the little things that made him popular wherever 
 he went 
 
 And then a bout of wet weather, a terrible chill, 
 followed by pneumonia, finished his career as a 
 singer. After this he took the name of Signor Pel- 
 loni, and, with tricks he had learnt from a Spaniard 
 in Soho, he began his practice as a mesmerist. If 
 his success in this capacity lasted nine months, it 
 certainly was no longer. But in that short time he 
 must have amassed a considerable amount of money, 
 for his disappearance for three years seems to mark 
 the period during which he was living at his ease. 
 Finally he conies to this painting of pictures by the 
 hundred, as Mr. Nibbs had justly said, and selling 
 them by the hundred, too. What was most extraor- 
 dinary in the character of this Monsieur Marco was 
 the extent to which he took himself seriously in all 
 his various practices of deception. It was never in 
 the nature of him to accomplish anything by honest 
 measures, so that in time he comes to regard his 
 powers of deceit as seriously as the true artist con- 
 siders his own sincerity. 
 
 This, then, was the man, eaten up with the con- 
 ceit of his own accomplishments, who comes into the 
 life of Dicky Furlong and adds that link to the 
 whole chain of circumstance without which this his- 
 tory would be incomplete. 
 
 143
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 WHEN you consider that the name of the 
 man was Emanuel Cheeseman, that he 
 was the son of a little cobbler in 
 Cricklewood, and that he had never been out of 
 London in his life, his welcome to Dicky in the 
 character of Monsieur Marco, the artist, if eccen- 
 tric, at least was masterly. Seizing both of Dicky's 
 hands in his, he wrung them warmly, then affection- 
 ately laid an arm on his shoulder. 
 
 "Brothers eh, Mr. Nibbs?" he said, and there 
 was even the trace of a foreign accent in his voice, 
 that accent which, with patient application, he had 
 acquired during his servitude in Soho. For this 
 was another peculiarity in his temperament. He 
 had the genius for taking pains, but only in the de- 
 ceits he practised. As a singer, he never learnt to 
 sing, only to master those little tricks by which he 
 made the public his public of the streets believe 
 he had a fine voice. So, with infinite trouble, he 
 had rid himself of a cockney twang and assumed 
 this foreign accent in its place. 
 
 "Brothers of the brush, Mr. Nibbs," said he, 
 rolling his r's; "the older brother and the younger 
 brother eh !" 
 
 144
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Then, striking an attitude of protection, he re- 
 garded Dicky with a genial expression of camara- 
 derie. 
 
 "It's a noble profession, my boy," said he; 
 "noble but poorly paid. If I sent my pictures to 
 the Academy, believe me, I should be a rich man. 
 But what is the Academy to-day? What is it? The 
 trademark do I mean the hallmark the hallmark 
 of of ineptitude." 
 
 He stood away and watched the effect of that 
 last word upon Dicky's mind. But Dicky was too 
 bewildered by these effusions to be capable of any 
 impression. So Monsieur Marco turned his glance 
 upon Mr. Nibbs. But Mr. Nibbs knew well enough 
 that all this was nonsense just Monsieur Marco's 
 talk. He listened stolidly and blinked his eyes. 
 
 "You don't believe what I say!" exclaimed Mon- 
 sieur Marco. "You're thinking of those pictures I 
 
 paint to sell those terrible, terrible things 
 
 Oh, my God, man! don't think of them! They 
 make my living that is all. A man must live, Mr. 
 Nibbs. But have you seen my portrait of Madame 
 Marco? Have you seen my portrait of the King, 
 for which he gave me six sittings as long as two 
 years ago? No you have not seen them. I do not 
 boast about the things I do. They are there in my 
 studio. Do I show them to you? No! But they 
 have my heart in them, Mr. Nibbs. I am painting 
 Madame Marco again now the tout ensemble, the
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 glorious altogether! But would she let me show it? 
 No! She is so shy with that figure! A Venus, 
 Mr. Nibbs, but shy and modest as a little girl. And 
 you would judge me by these pot-boilers that I do 
 to make my living!" 
 
 In despair and disgust he turned away. Even 
 Mr. Nibbs was impressed by his grief, and Dicky 
 felt that the wretched man's life was a tragedy. 
 
 "Why don't you sell your portrait of the King?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Monsieur Marco turned on him in an instant. 
 "Sell my portrait of the King!" he exclaimed. "To 
 whom? I ask you to whom? To the nation! 
 Yes! But would they buy it? No! Why, my 
 dear boy, you will learn in good time that this Eng- 
 land of yours has no more art in its noddle than I 
 have in the tip of my little finger. What do they 
 buy? Sargents, if they can get 'em. Watts, Tur- 
 ner, Rossetti !" 
 
 Dicky's eyes lit up. 
 
 "What have you got to say against Watts and 
 Turner?" he exclaimed. 
 
 The wise Monsieur Marco understood the look 
 in his eyes and bowed in submission to their superi- 
 ority. 
 
 "Great men, my boy, great men. But who recog- 
 nised them? No one. That's the fate of all fine 
 artists. Never never should I dream to call my- 
 self a fine artist but that'll be my fate, too. Well 
 
 146
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 well let's come and have our meal. There are 
 sausages for supper." 
 
 All this while they had been standing in the nar- 
 row hall, but at the thought of that delicacy for 
 supper he rubbed his hands and led the way into the 
 dining-room, where Madame Marco was already 
 pouring out the tea. 
 
 "My darling," said Monsieur Marco with a fine 
 gesture, "our little brother of the brush." 
 
 Dicky stood in the doorway, confused, just con- 
 scious that a little woman, who was none too slight 
 and none too young yet as fascinating as any woman 
 he thought he had ever seen, was smiling at him so 
 engagingly that first he smiled and then he looked 
 away. 
 
 "Kiss your little brother, my darling," said Mon- 
 sieur Marco; "brother and sister. It is the right 
 thing to do. One kiss, my dear," and, taking the 
 arm of Mr. Nibbs, he stood by, chuckling pleas- 
 antly to see his command so willingly obeyed. For 
 without a moment's hesitation she came prettily to 
 Dicky's side. He felt a soft, round cheek pressed 
 against his own and two lips meeting on his. When 
 she stood back, his own cheeks were crimson, and 
 they all laughed. Even Mr. Nibbs gurgled in his 
 throat. But to Dicky, who had not yet found his 
 sense of humour, it was a terrible moment that. He 
 was heartily glad when they all sat down to table 
 
 147
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 and a steaming plate of sausages and mashed pota- 
 toes was placed in front of him. 
 
 All through the meal Dicky slowly emerged from 
 the confusion of his mind. Madame Marco fasci- 
 nated him. She was just that age inevitably attrac- 
 tive to a boy as young as he. But all the time he 
 kept wondering how Monsieur Marco could speak 
 of her as a Venus. She was so plump and good- 
 natured that the comparison seemed almost ludi- 
 crous. He ascribed it to Monsieur Marco's for- 
 eign ways. There was no doubt that his deception 
 in this was successful. Everyone did take him for 
 a foreigner, an illusion that found every support in 
 the evident nationality of Madame Marco herself. 
 
 She indeed was French, though no history dis- 
 closes her name before she took that of Madame 
 Marco. His constant association with her doubt- 
 less accounted for the perfection of his imitation. 
 Indeed, if by this time it was imitation at all, then 
 it was almost unconscious. He never lapsed into 
 the cockney twang, never made any mistake of 
 speech, and always accompanied everything he said 
 with such spontaneous gestures as deceived everyone 
 who knew nothing of his past. 
 
 When supper was over they all climbed the stairs 
 to the top of the house, where was the low-ceilinged 
 attic which Monsieur Marco called his atelier. Fol- 
 lowing in the rear of this procession with Dicky, 
 
 148
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Mr. Nibbs found the opportunity of catching his 
 arm and whispering in his ear. 
 
 "Remember, mind," said he, "I told yer 'e was 
 no good. But don't you let 'im think yer know it. 
 It means five bob a week to you and a night class 
 at the art schools." 
 
 It was wise advice to Dicky, who, when it came 
 to pictures, was always ready to say exactly what 
 he thought. But even with this warning of Mr. 
 Nibbs, he was not prepared for the sight that met 
 his eyes. On the four walls of the attic were pinned 
 long strips of canvas, not more than two feet wide. 
 All of these were in various states of preparation 
 for the hundreds of pictures that Monsieur Marco 
 painted, for the hundreds of pictures that he sold. 
 On one strip nothing but broad lines of sea and 
 sky were visible, the canvas divided into two parts 
 to carry these two mighty elements. Dicky was 
 just conscious that it was sea and sky, because the 
 deep blue of the sea was covered with lines of 
 ripples in mathematical precision, and the paler blue 
 of the sky was flecked and dotted with conventional 
 white clouds. On the next wall the canvas was 
 more advanced; great cliffs towered out of the 
 water, dim distant headlands lay on the horizon. 
 Still on another wall was a strip of canvas nearer 
 completion. The cliffs were filled in with detail. 
 Huge boulders rose one above the other, crowned 
 with shrubs in flower that never grew except in 
 
 149
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Monsieur Marco's atelier. Then, lastly, on the 
 fourth wall, the wall on which all the genius of 
 Monsieur Marco was employed, there was the fin- 
 ished article a strip of canvas covered from one 
 end to the other with these lines of cliff and sky and 
 sea. But here there were sea-gulls flying; ships 
 were being wrecked or riding gaily with white sails 
 on the sea of royal blue. 
 
 From one stage to the other Dicky turned and 
 looked at them; from one stage to the other they 
 became more impossible in' his eyes. He struggled 
 to remind himself of that five shillings a week, and, 
 realising at last that his silence was a more damning 
 criticism than anything he could have said, he forced 
 himself to show some interest in this preposterous 
 exhibition. 
 
 A sense of humour would have saved him there 
 again, but he took it all seriously, wondering why 
 the struggle in life should be so hard as to condemn 
 him to such work as this. However, there was 
 Monsieur Marco waiting, with hands on his hips, 
 his long hair thrown back, his eyes glistening with 
 pride at the ingenuity of his work. They all stood 
 and looked at Dicky, curious or eager, while in 
 Madame Marco was a pretty indifference to what 
 he had to say. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't quite understand it," he said 
 at last. "Don't you ever construct your pictures?" 
 
 And this almost these very words was just 
 150
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 what Monsieur Marco had been waiting for. He 
 slapped Mr. Nibbs on the shoulder and he beamed 
 with delight. 
 
 "The very thing," he exclaimed, "the very thing 
 I should have asked myself! But that, my boy, is 
 where the cleverness of it all comes in." 
 
 He took a large scissors out of a small drawer, 
 and, brandishing them excitedly before Dicky's face, 
 he said: 
 
 "Here's the little instrument I do all my con- 
 struction with. They all do it, but they wouldn't 
 admit it. A cut too much, a cut too little, and the 
 picture is spoilt. Now watch this. This canvas 
 was dry to-day." 
 
 He ripped one end from the fourth wall and, 
 applying the scissors with a certain amount of care, 
 he cut off about half a yard. Without showing it 
 to them, he picked up an empty gold frame that 
 leant against the wall and fitted the picture within. 
 Then he held it up for all of them to look at. 
 
 It was such a picture as you see in public houses, 
 in country inns, in the drawing-rooms of suburban 
 villas, on the walls of artisans' cottages. There was 
 the steep wall of cliff with its gaudy ornamentation 
 of flowering shrubs and gorse; there were the con- 
 ventional gulls flying above the conventional water, 
 the impossible ship riding on the impossible sea. 
 Many was the time Dicky had stood in front of 
 such a picture in the houses about Eckington, won-
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 dering who painted them, how there could live a 
 man who had the patience to paint such trash. Now 
 he knew, and he himself had entered into that man's 
 service. 
 
 "Well," said Monsieur Marco, "what do you 
 think of it, young man? Say your mind out. Am I 
 afraid of criticism, my darling?" He turned with a 
 loving gesture to his wife. "Am I greedy for 
 praise?" 
 
 She shook her head, then laid it on his shoulder. 
 But there was a twinkle in her eyes which no one 
 saw as she idly watched Dicky's face. 
 
 "Well," repeated Monsieur Marco, "out with it. 
 You don't like it eh?" 
 
 His tone of voice had subtly changed now with 
 the prolongation of Dicky's silence. Madame Marco 
 knew that change so well, and even Dicky was 
 dimly conscious of what it meant. At last, with a 
 note of conviction that was forced from him by the 
 irony he felt, he exclaimed: "I think it's marvel- 
 lous!" At which Monsieur Marco threw his arm 
 round his neck and told him they were going to be 
 as fond of each other as two brothers. 
 
 When he had gone to bed that night in the attic 
 room that had been allotted to him, Dicky hid his 
 face in his hands and cried, more from shame than 
 disappointment. It was the insult to his ambition 
 which he could not bear, for it wants the experience 
 of years to know that ambition is like religion, need- 
 
 152
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ing the buffeting of adverse circumstance to give it 
 lasting power. Such experience as this Dicky had 
 not yet won. He thought that night as he lay awake 
 that there was no hope for him in these sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Indeed, it was only after some years that he came 
 to realise the full value of those days in Monsieur 
 Marco's atelier.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 FOR five shillings a week, his food, and a bed 
 in an attic room of that house on Ballast 
 Quay, Dicky was expected to do the work 
 which Madame Marco had done before him. His 
 duty it was to paint the skies, the seas, and all the 
 foundations of landscape which Monsieur Marco's 
 cunning brush completed. And it was not long be- 
 fore he found that other things were expected of 
 him, too. He had to run errands, to help in the 
 kitchen, fetch Monsieur Marco's slippers of an 
 evening, and, when this was done, betake himself 
 to the Crown and Thistle for that pot of beer in 
 which Monsieur Marco drowned all the cares of 
 the day and brought himself to a fine condition of 
 good temper. 
 
 And all these inferior duties Dicky cheerfully 
 accepted for the sake of that five shillings and the 
 opportunity it gave him to join the art schools. 
 The first moment that he could afford it he entered 
 the night classes at the Polytechnic, where every 
 evening, after his duties were over, he worked for 
 two hours with all the energy and tirelessness of 
 which his youth was capable. 
 
 154
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 These days in his life are the making of the man 
 when he is so many times more interesting than in 
 the full tide of his success. The clock would be on 
 the stroke of eleven, the house in darkness, and the 
 sounds of Monsieur Marco's heavy sleeping rever- 
 berating like thunder before Dick returned, tired 
 and exhausted, from his work. 
 
 On the table in the dining-room he always found 
 a plate of sandwiches, which, however nasty they 
 were, made good eating at that hour of the night. 
 This was the expression of Madame Marco's grati- 
 tude for the work he had taken from her shoulders. 
 For since he had come she could spare the time to 
 put on her gaudy dresses and walk slowly down of 
 an afternoon past all the houses on the Quay, and 
 from thence on to the Greenwich High Street, where 
 people turned to look at her. So she kept fresh in 
 her mind that knowledge of how attractive she was, 
 and, when occasion presented itself, she would take 
 a tram up to London to walk in the streets there, 
 too, and look in the shop windows. Gentlemen 
 sometimes spoke to her, and, though she turned 
 away without answer, these little attentions were 
 very pleasing. After such incidents as these she 
 would come home to Monsieur Marco that evening 
 and be more affectionate and attentive than ever. 
 
 Dicky himself interested her, too. He was young. 
 She expected little flatteries and gentle recognitions 
 11 155
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 from him, and, when she did not get them, began 
 to regard him with greater interest still. 
 
 It became obvious in time to her that he was in 
 love, and, in her idle, sensuous way, she thought of 
 him with amusement as a lover. He would be hot- 
 headed, passionate and impetuous. Across the 
 table at meals, when neither he nor Monsieur 
 Marco were watching her, she would look at the 
 sensitive curve of his lip, at the bright glitter of his 
 eyes and that half-puritanical expression of reserve 
 he always wore when in repose. She admitted to 
 herself it would be amusing to see him make love; 
 to be at a safe distance and watch that flash of his 
 eyes with which in every argument they swiftly 
 lighted up. There was too much lethargy in her 
 nature to wish that she might kindle these emotions 
 on her own behalf. She was one of those women 
 whose passions are mostly curiosity, and when, as 
 time slipped by, Dicky did not come to her with 
 his confidences of his own accord, she set out to dis- 
 cover them herself. 
 
 It was one morning when Monsieur Marco had 
 taken up a great batch of his pictures to Town that 
 she put on one of her best dresses, which, had she 
 known it, was her worst, and, mounting the stairs, 
 rapped gently on the door of the studio. 
 
 Almost before the sound of Dicky's voice had 
 answered her, she had entered to find him sitting 
 disconsolately on the floor. 
 
 156
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Tired?" said she. 
 
 He jumped at once to his feet, and she smiled. 
 After the ponderous good intentions of Monsieur 
 Marco intentions that were never fulfilled man- 
 ners like these were quite charming to the little lady. 
 But she liked him better at his ease, so, dropping 
 herself unceremoniously on to the floor with little, 
 or perhaps with careful, consideration as to the way 
 her ankles were disclosed, she bid him sit down 
 again beside her. 
 
 "You're an artist," said she. "I prefer you on 
 the floor. Don't you like this business heh?" 
 
 She nodded prettily with her head, to the long 
 strips of canvas; she sniffed with her nose at the 
 pervading smell of paint. 
 
 All this encouraged confidence, persuaded hon- 
 esty. After two hours' work, Dicky had thrown 
 down his brushes just before she came in, and there 
 had almost been tears of despair in his eyes as he 
 sat down, exhausted, where she had found him on 
 the floor. 
 
 "I can't do it," he said suddenly, feeling safe with 
 her. "I can't take any interest, can't put my heart 
 into it it's it's such " 
 
 "Trash?" she suggested, and her eyes twinkled. 
 
 "I didn't say so," he replied, half-laughing. 
 
 "No but why do you do it? Heh?" 
 
 "Because it pays for my term at the school. I've 
 got to learn to make my living, and I've got to 
 
 157
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 make it at the same time. Do you know, I've been 
 nearly six whole months in London, and all that 
 time I've done nothing." 
 
 "Nothing?" She arched her eyebrows, and, to 
 one with more experience of the world than Dicky, 
 need have said no more than that. But it was easy 
 to see that he was still thinking of his work, sub- 
 limely unconscious of her blandishments. "Not even 
 fallen in love?" she added. 
 
 He looked up quickly to her eyes and read there 
 her invitation to his confidence. It was a dainty 
 invitation, too; full of promises of sympathy and 
 generous in understanding. Another moment and 
 he was telling her all of Dorothy, opening out his 
 heart, disclosing the deepest corners of his emotion. 
 
 She smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled as she 
 listened. It was just as she had expected. He was 
 an ardent, a passionate lover. The gratification of 
 her curiosity was pleasant and soothing; but as his 
 story came to the night when he and Dorothy had 
 said good-bye, she felt inwardly disturbed, despite 
 herself. 
 
 "Well?" she said. "Well that was not all, 
 heh?" 
 
 Her eyes were dancing in a scrutiny of his face, 
 and she found her answer in his eyes that straightly 
 met her own. 
 
 "You behaved well? You behaved badly eh 
 which? And now you are ashamed of yourself 
 
 158
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 you are an Englishman and you are ashamed of 
 yourself is that how it is?" 
 
 "I'm not ashamed of that," said he. 
 
 She detected the faintest tone in his voice as he 
 replied. Had she not guessed it? He was hot- 
 headed, impetuous. It would be amusing to see him 
 in love. 
 
 "You are ashamed of the other one, though," 
 said she. 
 
 Then he knew she knew, for indeed he had meant 
 her to know, had wanted to tell someone of his 
 folly, and why not her? It is so easy to tell these 
 things to a woman; to begin with, they are so in- 
 teresting to her, and a woman always has a big 
 heart for the follies of every man but him she loves 
 herself. Nodding and smiling again, she listened 
 while he told her of Constance. If there had been 
 a hundred others, she would have listened just as 
 sympathetically. Indeed, curiosity was truly the 
 passion in her. 
 
 "And you are ashamed of that?" said she when 
 he had done. 
 
 Dicky bent his head. 
 
 "It isn't possible for a man to love two women, 
 is it?" he said at last. "Because I know I love 
 Dorothy absolutely terribly. I couldn't convince 
 myself that I loved Constance, too could I? I 
 hardly thought what I was doing till it was all over. 
 She seemed fine to me then big and generous 
 
 159
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 she seems that still. It's only I who find myself dif- 
 ferent now it's over. I I seem just a cad!" 
 
 For a moment or two Madame Marco was si- 
 lent in her admiration of his self-contempt; then, 
 throwing back her head and laughing, she clapped 
 her little hands. 
 
 "Oh you nice Englishmen!" she cried. "If I 
 were a little Dorothy or a little Constance what a 
 splendid lover you'd make. Why does a woman 
 ever grow old? Why couldn't I have kept young a 
 little longer?" 
 
 "But you're not old," said Dicky. 
 
 She had waited for that, but he did not say it 
 quite the right way. In the faint inflection of his 
 voice she knew that he found her just as old as she 
 was. Thirty-eight? Perhaps. The worst of it is 
 the ease with which one remembers when one is 
 always trying to forget. Imperceptibly her spirits 
 fell. Those little disturbances quietened within her ; 
 her pulse dropped to a slower measure. 
 
 "My dear boy," said she, "don't you see you're 
 only beginning. Young men's fancies, is it, turn to 
 thoughts of love is that it? But they're only 
 fancies. Your Dorothy and your Constance, they're 
 only helping you on your way, exciting you to work. 
 Between them they're making you do all this nasty 
 business just so that you can get to your old night 
 classes. And Gladys and Emily and all the rest of 
 them, they'll all come in somewhere or other and 
 
 1 60
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 help their little as well. Can you work on two pic- 
 tures at once heh?" 
 
 "I don't see why I shouldn't," he replied. 
 
 "Well, then there you are ! You're in love 
 with them both with this little Dorothy because 
 she's gentle and sweet and complacent that is a 
 good word heh? And you're in love with this 
 little Constance because she's big and fine and gen- 
 erous. And little Dorothy makes you do this 
 beastly business because you want to get on, and 
 Constance makes you go and paint fine things, and 
 you don't care a damn that naughty word! 
 whether you get paid for them or not, because if 
 you have no money she's so glad to give it to you. 
 Isn't it so?" 
 
 "No!" cried Dicky vehemently, the more vehe- 
 mently because he feared it to be true. "Dorothy's 
 the one I care about. I only admire Constance 
 I've only felt just passion for her, and I'm ashamed 
 of that now." 
 
 Madame Marco shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Have it your own way," said she patiently. 
 "You all have it that way over here in England. 
 You treat love like an appetite; you give it a meal, 
 and, like your food, you don't ever want to talk 
 about it. Come over here and give me your 
 brotherly kiss. I'm going out for a little walk down 
 the Quay into the High Street." 
 
 161
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 He kissed her obediently, when she went laugh- 
 ing out of the room. 
 
 "He's very young," she said to herself all the 
 way down the attic stairs; "he's too young," and it 
 was comforting to think that. She never would al- 
 low herself to think uncomfortable thoughts, they 
 creased the smoothness of her forehead, they added 
 little lines to her eyes. 
 
 "He's too young," said she, as she put on her 
 hat, "but how impetuous!" At the hall door she 
 repeated it once more. Then she stepped out on to 
 the Quay.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A HISTORY of such a nature as this must 
 of necessity take time by the forelock, re- 
 counting only those incidents which are es- 
 sential to the whole. 
 
 Of all the eight months during which Dicky 
 worked at the house on Ballast Quay, only the main 
 issue can be regarded, or there would be matter in 
 hand for more volumes than one would have pa- 
 tience to pursue. 
 
 The very first evening when he visited Mr. Nibbs 
 an evening when he was not attending the art 
 schools he formulated the idea of beginning his 
 work upon wood blocks. The little print-seller's 
 love for his prints, the tenderness with which he 
 handled them, the gentle way in which he pointed 
 out their beauties to Dicky's ready eyes, all com- 
 bined by that force of example which is the foster- 
 mother of ambition to make him wish to work in 
 such material himself. 
 
 In that little room with the bright light of an oil 
 lamp thrown obliquely on the table and concentrated 
 on to the print through a round glass bowl of water, 
 Dicky found the little man at work. The first sight 
 
 163
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of him sitting there as he himself stood in the door- 
 way, the old horn spectacles on his nose, the head 
 bent low over the faded print, brought home to 
 Dicky the love in Mr. Nibbs for his work. At that 
 moment he envied him, and it was that envy perhaps 
 which first led him to adopt the medium of engrav- 
 ing for himself. 
 
 When once they had shaken hands and Mr. 
 Nibbs had made all enquiries as to his progress 
 with Monsieur Marco and his study at the schools, 
 the little man settled himself back again in his chair, 
 readjusted his spectacles, brought the ray of light 
 from the glass bowl on to that part of the print on 
 which he was at work and began again. For some 
 time there were only the sudden exhalations of his 
 breath to break the silence, while Dicky watched 
 with increasing interest. 
 
 "Why doesn't anyone do wood-engraving now?" 
 he asked suddenly. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs looked up. 
 
 "Some do," said he, "but there ain't no sale for 
 it. It's too bold people don't like it. They can't 
 appreciate it now. They like etchings if they like 
 anything. A good etcher'll fetch high prices in 
 Bond Street with the big dealers. Just a few does 
 wood engraving, but really it's a lost art. Look at 
 Borrow's tail-pieces they couldn't do simple things 
 like that now. People don't think it worth while to 
 be simple, it seems to me. They like colour and tons 
 
 164
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of it or they fancies they 'aven't got their money's 
 worth. Look at the way them prints of Albert 
 Moore sell, and I don't think much of him myself." 
 
 From Mr. Nibbs, Dicky learnt all that Mr. 
 Nibbs knew of the art of wood-engraving. It was 
 not much. Truly he had an eye for quality. He 
 liked a bold line; he liked a fine line, too. But be- 
 yond the mere simple rudiments of the art, it was 
 left to Dicky's imagination to seize upon the possi- 
 bilities it offered to him. So he listened to all the 
 little man had to say about Diirer and Borrow and 
 Bartolozzi, the few names he knew well, and he 
 watched all that the little man did in restoring the 
 prints that were brought into his shop. Every 
 evening that he was free from the Polytechnic he 
 made his way round to the room where Mr. Nibbs 
 worked far into the night, and there he sat with 
 him till it was time for him to go back again to his 
 attic bed. 
 
 One evening when he came in, Mr. Nibbs was 
 deeply engaged upon some tricky manipulation with 
 his pen. His breath was held, his head was bent 
 low, and all his features were screwed up in the 
 concentration of what he was doing. He did not 
 look up, and Dicky came quietly to his side, taking 
 his seat in the chair already placed out for him. 
 When it was finished, the little print-seller let go his 
 breath with a burst, pushed his spectacles on to his 
 forehead, and sat back rubbing his eyes with a red 
 
 165
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 pocket handkerchief from the strain of his exer- 
 tions. 
 
 "Poof!" said he, then looked up at Dicky if possi- 
 ble with a more genial expression than ever. 
 
 "Well, you're gettin' on, my boy," said he; 
 "you're gettin' on." 
 
 "How do you know?" said Dicky. 
 
 "How do I know well I'll tell you. A gentle- 
 man come along this afternoon, he was comin' from 
 the other side of the river across to the Strand. 
 Now, the ones that go the other way from the 
 Strand they're goin' to catch a train at Waterloo 
 station, and they've got no taste at all. They don't 
 know a good picture from a bad'un but he was 
 comin' the other way. I saw him stop outside the 
 window, and presently in 'e comes. 'I want to 'ave 
 a look at that picture,' 'e says, 'the water-colour 
 you've got in the front.' ' 
 
 "Mine?" exclaimed Dicky, and from a quiet pulse 
 his heart suddenly started pounding in his breast. 
 
 "Yes yours. I got it out for 'im and 'e stood 
 there lookin' at it for five minutes." 
 
 "Did he say anything?" asked Dicky. 
 
 "Oh, yes after a few minutes 'e looked up, and, 
 'What's 'e call it "Fragrance" for?' says he. I told 
 'im I'd said that wasn't the name for it. 'Wot 
 would you 'ave called it?' 'e says. "Going to the 
 Market," ' I said same as what I told you. 'Well, 
 you'd 'ave been all wrong,' 'e says. 'It'ud only 'ave 
 
 166
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 been worth thirty bob then,' 'e says. 'That title,' 'e 
 says, 'is worth the extry quid.' And without a 
 word 'e paid it I did it up for 'im in paper and 
 out 'e went." 
 
 T 'Didn't he say anything more?" said Dicky. 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 Just then Emily came into the room, and Mr. 
 Nibbs turned to her with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " 'E ain't satisfied, my dear," said he. "I told 
 'im the gentleman paid the full price for it, but 'e 
 ain't satisfied." 
 
 "I only wanted to know if he'd said he liked it," 
 said Dicky. "That was all." 
 
 "That's all!" Mr. Nibbs blew his nose, an action 
 he resorted to frequently when words eluded him. 
 "Didn't 'e buy it? Isn't that enough for you? Do 
 yer think 'e paid two pound ten and didn't like it? 
 Why, a picture 'as to be a masterpiece in the Wa- 
 terloo Bridge Road before anyone'll pay two pound 
 ten for it. You don't seem to see what 'e's done 
 for you." 
 
 "What's he done?" 
 
 "Why, I want another picture don't I? And 
 I'll pay the same price for it, too." 
 
 "Two pounds again!" exclaimed Dicky. 
 
 "Yes, two pounds." 
 
 Dicky could hardly believe that it was true. The 
 great iron gates that lead to success were slowly 
 opening for him. He could almost feel their weight 
 
 167
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 giving way before the pressure of his desire. He 
 wanted to dance round Mr. Nibbs' little room. He 
 would have liked to kiss Emily, who stood there 
 smiling with a look of pride, too, in her eyes. 
 
 "It is ripping, isn't it?" he exclaimed. "By Jove, 
 it is ripping!" 
 
 It was not only the sale of a picture or the pur- 
 chase of another that he meant by this it was 
 all of life, the joyous knowledge that he was mak- 
 ing his own destiny, conquering circumstance and 
 rising above the surroundings that so long had held 
 him down. 
 
 "Which one do you want?" he asked. "There's 
 'The Mysterious Journey' no that's not good 
 enough. I can do better than that. I never got it 
 quite there the figures worried me too much. They 
 won't worry me soon, though, not after I've been 
 through the life class. I'll paint one for you, Mr. 
 Nibbs, that's what I'll do. It's packed with sub- 
 jects here. If old Marco'll let me off to-morrow, 
 I'll go and do one for you." 
 
 Dicky took his day off without asking, for the 
 next morning Monsieur Marco went up to town. 
 
 He patted Dicky on the back as he left him. 
 
 "You are getting on first class," said he cheer- 
 fully. "Next week perhaps if I see still more im- 
 provement I will let you paint a shipwreck all by 
 yourself." 
 
 168
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dicky stood on the steps with Madame Marco 
 and watched him depart. 
 
 "Isn't he just sweet?" said she, with a twinkle 
 in her eyes. She had seen the look on Dicky's face 
 as he listened to Monsieur Marco's promise, and 
 her lips were twitching to laugh. 
 
 "You'll love to paint a shipwreck, won't you? 
 Eh? And you'll put all your soul into it won't 
 you? Eh?" 
 
 Dicky's face had become so serious that at last 
 she burst out laughing. 
 
 "You may kiss me," said she, a thing she had 
 often said since that day when they had talked to- 
 gether in the studio, and Dicky always obeyed be- 
 cause she was Madame Marco and the five shillings 
 a week had to be earned. It was certainly prefer- 
 able to fetching Monsieur Marco's beer at the 
 Crown and Thistle. He kissed her then, and, when 
 he had done it once, she put up her cheek and said, 
 "The other side," all of which they saw from the 
 front bedroom window of number four. Indeed, 
 Mrs. Weyburn felt the blood hot in her cheeks with 
 shame, for Dicky was far too nice a boy, she 
 thought, to be caught by that minx of a woman, that 
 Madame Marco. 
 
 It was this day that Dicky did his first study of 
 the dredger lying in the Thames with Limehouse 
 Reach spread out beyond it. He called it "The 
 
 169
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Scavenger" then and, as he was bringing it into 
 the house, was discovered by Madame Marco. 
 
 She said she had the right to see it because he had 
 been wasting her husband's most valuable time, and, 
 never observing that constant light of laughter in her 
 eyes, he showed it her in doubtful apprehension. 
 
 She took it to the window, standing it where the 
 light was best, and then, when she had looked at it 
 for a while, turned suddenly, almost with anger in 
 her face. 
 
 "You little fool!" she said. 
 
 Dicky prepared himself for the announcement 
 that she was going to tell Monsieur Marco how he 
 had been wasting his day. 
 
 "Why do you come and do those daubs upstairs?" 
 she went on. "You can paint." 
 
 "I know I can," said Dicky, and felt a lump rise 
 in his throat because he knew she was speaking 
 from conviction. 
 
 "Then what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Making five shillings a week to go to the night 
 schools," said he. 
 
 "Well, never let Monsieur Marco know you can 
 paint a thing like that," she replied. "He'd turn 
 you out of the house if he did."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE influence of those evenings with Mr. 
 Nibbs and his prints was not long in bear- 
 ing fruit in Dicky's mind. At the Poly- 
 technic, he bought a small wood-engraver's outfit, 
 and, long after Monsieur Marco and the household 
 had gone to bed, would sit in his attic, cutting out 
 the first wood-block he had ever done. The subject 
 was a simple one; undoubtedly the influence of Bor- 
 row and his tail-pieces was there. It is the hands 
 of the great men that lead us all toward great 
 endeavour. 
 
 A barge full-sail was the picture that he chose, 
 a barge bending the turn by Woolwich corner. He 
 had made a sketch of it in pencil only a few days 
 before. Now, with infinite labour and love he cut 
 it out in wood, and, never mentioning a word of it 
 to Mr. Nibbs, took it up to the school when it was 
 done. From the printing press there he took a 
 pull of it on old India paper in black ink, and, when 
 he saw his picture visualised, felt all the delight and 
 excitement of a child. The hours seemed endless 
 before he could take it the next evening to Mr. 
 Nibbs.
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Anyone more observant than the little print- 
 seller would have known from his manner that 
 Dicky had some matter on his mind. Even Emily, 
 who had opened the door to him, was aware that 
 something unusual had happened. She followed 
 him into the room and stood there waiting, just as 
 she waited in the back of the shop for the errands 
 she had to run, waiting to hear what it was. 
 
 When a suitable opportunity arose, Dicky at last 
 drew the print out of his pocket. 
 
 "How do you like this?" said he, and threw 
 it down casually on the table, as though he had 
 never been less excited over anything in his life. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs took it up and looked it all over. His 
 expression was more that of a dealer than a lover of 
 the work itself. But then Dicky expected that. 
 Never, in the wildest moments of his enthusiasm, did 
 he ever credit Mr. Nibbs with a true power of ap- 
 preciation. He was just a little print-seller who 
 loved his prints, good or bad, as he would have 
 loved his children. 
 
 "How do you like it?" repeated Dicky. 
 
 The little man looked up. 
 
 "Well it ain't Borrow," said he, " 'cos this was 
 never one of Borrow's subjects, but it's on old pa- 
 per, or a damned good imitation of it. It's bold, I'll 
 say that for it; it's bold. Where'd you pick it up?" 
 
 "It's mine," said Dicky. 
 172
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Yes, I know; I supposed that. But where'd you 
 pick it up; where'd you buy it?" 
 
 "I did it myself," said Dicky, as quietly as he 
 could, but he felt ready to burst out into excited 
 laughter. He had deceived Mr. Nibbs ; Mr. Nibbs, 
 who had been handling prints half his life. It did 
 not prove to him just then how little Mr. Nibbs 
 must know about it. His mood at that moment was 
 to take all the credit to himself. He had only 
 thought it was not a wood-cut by Borrow, because 
 the subject was not one that Borrow would have 
 chosen. 
 
 "Knew there was something up," remarked 
 Emily from the background, and, having waited 
 long enough to make this observation, she went out 
 of the room to household duties far more impor- 
 tant than these. 
 
 And, when he had really grasped the truth of it, 
 Mr. Nibbs was thoroughly delighted. He rubbed 
 his glasses clean and chuckled over the matter like 
 a jackdaw with a stolen trinket. 
 
 "Well, I'd never have thought it, I'd never have 
 guessed it," he kept on saying. "You'll take to 
 wood-cuts now, my boy. And one of these days, 
 in a hundred years or so, there'll be some fusty old 
 chap like myself poring over a rusty old print and 
 wondering if it's a Furlong, a genuine Furlong." 
 
 All this no doubt was nonsense, with such slen- 
 der promise as the engraving he held in his hand. 
 
 173
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 It was only his talk, but it was just the talk that 
 Dicky needed then to urge him on. They sat to- 
 gether till late into the night, discussing what he 
 should do next; how Mr. Nibbs would frame his 
 prints and put them in the fore-front of the win- 
 dow, pushing his name before the public until they 
 came to buy everything he did. 
 
 That was a great evening, one that Dicky remem- 
 bered for many a long day to come. 
 
 "But I'm not satisfied," he said as he was going. 
 They neither of them realised the colossal impu- 
 dence of that. They neither of them realised how 
 it was the keynote of all Dicky's genius, that he 
 never reached satisfaction all his life through. 
 
 "Why not?" said Mr. Nibbs, who was cheerful 
 enough to be satisfied with anything. 
 
 "Well, it seems to me I ought to have got the 
 sails of that barge in the colour that they were. 
 Why should you limit yourself to black ink?" 
 
 "They all did," said Mr. Nibbs. "You can't get 
 away from that." 
 
 <T Yes, I can," said Dicky. "I can make two 
 blocks; print the first in black ink and the second 
 with just the sails in brown. Why shouldn't I do 
 that?" 
 
 "It's never been done before," said Mr. Nibbs; 
 "never to my knowledge. Why don't you colour 
 your prints like Bartolozzi did?" 
 
 "No, I am going to print them," said Dicky. 
 174
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "You wait and see. I'll make you sit up when you 
 see them." 
 
 But Mr. Nibbs was already sitting up. These 
 ideas were revolutionary. He could not cast his 
 mind forward in an imagination of what they were 
 going to lead to. And, when Dicky had gone, he 
 still sat on in his chair rubbing his spectacles and 
 saying aloud to himself, "But Diirer never did it, 
 and he can't beat Diirer." 
 
 Which was quite true; but, though you may not 
 beat a master at his job, you may yet become mas- 
 ter of your own.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 NOW there comes another stage, another 
 period is reached in Dicky's development. 
 It would seem with him, at least, that 
 Madame Marco with all her French ideas about love 
 was right. Certain it was that it played a mighty 
 part in all the work he ever did. 
 
 The two pounds he had received from Mr. Nibbs 
 for his picture was the first cause of it all, and per- 
 haps it is more British and proper to regard it 
 rather in this light than the other. Whichever way 
 you take it, he spent that money in a journey to 
 Eckington to see his Dorothy. 
 
 That talk with Madame Marco in the studio had 
 set his mind a-longing back to the days when they 
 had walked the countryside together. Pictures of 
 the green meadows beside the Avon filled his eyes 
 at night, and, though the leaves were fast falling 
 now, he felt a hunger to see the place again, even to 
 see the mill where he had spent so many days of 
 tribulation with the stern conception of duty which 
 his father had held like a sword above his head. 
 
 The remembrance of that had softened much with 
 time. He even looked forward to the prospect of 
 
 176
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 seeing his father again. There was no doubt in his 
 mind but that he would be interested in his work 
 now, now that he was really beginning to see 
 success. And at the thought of Dorothy, of Doro- 
 thy's arms and Dorothy's kisses, his heart came up 
 into his throat and every sense in him rose up to 
 greet the first light of that day when they should 
 meet again. 
 
 With Monsieur Marco's permission he had writ- 
 ten to her to say that he would come, begging her 
 to be up early that morning and meet him by the 
 first train that reached Pershore from London. To 
 his sister Anne he sent no word. Part of the joy 
 of that journey was the thought of how he would 
 surprise them at home; how they would hear the 
 click of the wicket gate that stood in the hedge of 
 laurels; how Anne would look out from the window 
 and see him coming up the path between the Mi- 
 chaelmas daisies which then would be in bloom. All 
 the way down in the train, which left London in 
 grey darkness, speeding through the country into 
 the daybreak, he sat in the corner of his empty car- 
 riage, thinking of the delight of all the hours of 
 that dcy which lay before him. 
 
 The sun was well up, the country ablaze with 
 light when the train slowed into Pershore station. 
 Memories began fast to beset him here, but had no 
 hold upon his mind in his eagerness to see his Dor- 
 othy. 
 
 177
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 For some moments before his arrival, he had 
 stood up and was leaning out of the carriage win- 
 dow, and, when first the station came in sight, all 
 the pent-up excitement in his mind fell to a slow, 
 sick beating of his heart. It was empty, empty to 
 him. A solitary porter stood upon the platform 
 waiting the train's arrival from which, at that 
 hour of the morning, he expected no passengers for 
 Pershore. 
 
 Dicky stepped down from his carriage, closing 
 the door. The porter stared at him and the train 
 moved on. 
 
 "Have you seen anything of a lady waiting here 
 for this train?" Dicky asked. 
 
 The porter shook his head. 
 
 "No lady hereabouts this morning," said he. 
 
 Dicky turned away. Perhaps she had been late 
 in getting up. It was scarcely seven o'clock then. 
 She might be on the road and he would meet her. 
 It was a long walk from Eckington. He turned 
 away out of the station, gathering hope to himself 
 and setting out down the road with a quick step. 
 Round the bend of every corner he expected to find 
 her in sight, and, the nearer he drew towards Eck- 
 ington, the faster fell his hopes away. 
 
 The country had no pleasure for him then. The 
 pale gold to which the willows had turned, the 
 warm purple of the oak-trees, the burning orange 
 of the beech, they filled his eyes, but never reached 
 
 178
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 his heart. Beauty must be in the mind of a man to 
 find it, and, glorious an October morning though 
 that was, Dicky could find no beauty anywhere. He 
 thought bitterly how Madame Marco was quite 
 right. The whole world was beautiful, he knew 
 that, but, in the bitter disappointment of his heart, 
 he could not find it so. 
 
 There was also an ugly apprehension in his mind 
 that something was wrong. Dorothy was sick, or 
 she was away; and, the more he thought upon 
 what it might be, the more the remembrance of Con- 
 stance smote upon his conscience. By the time he 
 had reached Eckington Bridge, and still there was 
 no Dorothy, he had come to regard her absence and 
 this nameless apprehension in his mind as a just 
 punishment for his unfaithfulness. Yet there was 
 the world, and he was in it and of it, and a thousand 
 times he had expiated his folly with remorse, but 
 the punishment was yet to come. 
 
 As he thought over the last letters she had writ- 
 ten him, it began to force itself upon his mind how 
 there had been a faint coldness in them, a greater 
 distance which he had not fully realised till now. 
 
 Witli a sickness of foreboding, he walked up to 
 the door of Mr. Leggatt's house, knocked and 
 waited with the rush of a thousand sensations swell- 
 ing in his mind. The door at last opened, and Wil- 
 frid Leggatt stood there with mouth wide open and 
 eyes gazing in surprise. 
 
 179
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Thought you were in London," said he. 
 
 "I've just come down for the day," replied Dicky. 
 "Didn't Dorothy tell you? I wrote." 
 
 Wilfrid shook his head. 
 
 "We're at breakfast. Come on in." 
 
 He just had time to think that she could not have 
 received his letter and then knew that the door of 
 the morning room had been swung open. Dorothy 
 was there. She was sitting the other side of the 
 table. Her eyes were the first his eyes met, and 
 there was fear, not joy, in them. Something had 
 happened. He knew it then. The smiting of his 
 conscience told him that she knew of Constance, 
 and he felt like one condemned, not questioning how 
 she knew. 
 
 "Here's Dicky," said Wilfrid. He was all awk- 
 wardness, like one introducing a new boy to the 
 school. And Dicky felt much as an interloper, not 
 knowing which way to turn. In a heavy silence he 
 shook hands with everyone, last of all with Doro- 
 thy. Her hand was damp and cold; the fingers for 
 that instant lay loosely with aloofness in his own. 
 
 "Sit down," said Mr. Leggatt. "Sit down, my 
 boy; have you had your breakfast?" 
 
 "No," said Dicky, "not yet" 
 
 "Well, sit down then and have a bit of something. 
 There are some eggs. Give him an e^g, Wilfrid; 
 pick a brown one. Well, well, fancy low. You've 
 come back, I suppose. Has it bee o much for 
 
 180
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 you? It's a hard life, a great struggle. But you 
 took it on your own shoulders, didn't you? If I've 
 said it once, I've said it twenty times since you went 
 away. 'That boy,' I've said, 'that boy had to have 
 his fling, but he'll come back.' And, when I've said 
 that to your father he's just nodded his head and 
 turned off to something else." 
 
 For a moment in silence, Dicky drank his cup of 
 tea and ate his bread and butter that felt like leather 
 on the dryness of his tongue. Then he looked up. 
 
 "I've not come back," said he. "Only just for 
 the day. I'm going to London again early to-mor- 
 row morning. Monsieur Marco gave me a day off, 
 that's all. I'm working. I wrote and told Dorothy 
 so." 
 
 He looked across the table at her. She tried to 
 look back at him. 
 
 "Is that so, Dorothy?" demanded her father. 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 He cut the top off an egg. 
 
 "Then why didn't you tell us so?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I wonder if you know anything," said he, then 
 having, as he imagined, successfully covered his 
 retreat, he turned to Dicky. "Well, this is better 
 than I expected," he remarked, "and who's this 
 Monsieur Marco? Marco what?" 
 
 "Just Marco," said Dicky; "he's a painter." He 
 tried to call him an artist, but failed. 
 
 181
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "What sort of a painter, a house painter?" 
 
 "No, he paints pictures. I work in his studio and 
 go to the life classes at the night schools in the 
 evening." 
 
 Mr. Leggatt nodded his head. Once he had met 
 an artist, and often he had heard of the lives they 
 led. 
 
 "And what do you mean by life classes?" 
 
 "Drawing from the model." 
 
 "Plaster casts and things like that, I suppose." 
 
 "No people models the life class." 
 
 "What? Not ?" 
 
 He could not bring himself to say what he meant, 
 but they all understood. In a moment of exas- 
 peration Dicky looked up at the narrow face, the 
 close set eyes that were questioning him. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "the nude." 
 
 Mr. Leggatt looked at his watch. 
 
 "I must be going in for prayers," said he. He 
 folded his napkin with great precision. There was 
 such a lot he could have said, but it wanted only five 
 minutes before the school opened, and he felt that if 
 he said it in brief it would lose half its importance. 
 But at the door he turned. He could not resist it. 
 
 "It seems to me a man must be. very sure of being 
 a great artist before he begins playing about in life 
 classes," he remarked. "I call it shocking myself. 
 I never could see any beauty in nakedness. Well 
 I shall see you again I suppose before you go back, 
 
 182
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 but you think it over a bit. That sort of life can 
 lead to no good. Come along to prayers, Wilfrid. 
 Finish your egg, my boy, and have another if you 
 want it." 
 
 He said this in great kindness of tone and spirit. 
 He always found that kindness did a great deal of 
 good with boys, but he believed that they should be 
 thoroughly humiliated first. 
 
 Nothing he had said, however, had humiliated 
 Dicky. Indeed that kindness of tone had only stung 
 him to greater resentment. Directly the door had 
 closed, he laid down his spoon. 
 
 "Hadn't I better go?" said he. 
 
 Mrs. Leggatt laid a hand on his arm. 
 
 "Stay and talk to Dorothy," said she. "I'm go- 
 ing upstairs, and I think she's got something to tell 
 you." 
 
 Again his heart fell, for there was an ominous 
 sound in those words. He knew it could not be 
 Constance now. It was something else and some- 
 thing worse than that. He waited until Mrs. Leg- 
 gatt had gone, then, quickly, eagerly, hopefully, 
 he stretched out his hand across the table. She took 
 it limply and reluctantly in her own. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked thickly. "What is it 
 you've got to tell me?" 
 
 She gazed at him beseechingly, and with that 
 look, appealing to him, he felt all the tenderness for 
 her return, felt all the weight of his own folly. 
 
 183
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I've got something I must tell you first," said he. 
 "It's hanging on my mind, and I shall be miserable 
 until I've got it off. Yours can't be like mine, Dor- 
 rie; let me tell you first." 
 
 She looked at him curiously; asked him what it 
 was, struggling in her mind against that power of 
 his influence which dimly was returning now across 
 the months of absence. 
 
 But he could not say it straightway. He must 
 tell her first how much through all this time he had 
 kept the spirit of his love for her. Now he was 
 holding her hand, still cold and listless in the hot 
 pressure of his own. 
 
 He thought then, as he came in gradual nearness 
 to his confession, how never had a man been placed 
 as he, to tell of his folly to the woman whom he 
 swore he loved. How could she ever believe him 
 when she knew? Where was the truth or the logic 
 of it if she asked to swear to love and in a breath 
 to own to heartless folly? Experience had not 
 taught him then how many a man is brought to such 
 a predicament. He thought himself alone that he 
 should hurt the thing he loved, and did not know 
 the world was full of such anomaly. 
 
 At last it came when, with head bent down and 
 hidden in his hands and hers, he told her of the thing 
 that shamed him. There was little or no excuse to 
 make. The overwhelming suddenness of it, and all 
 the vileness of men, she must know that of herself. 
 
 184
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 No blame he laid on Constance. Whether Dorothy 
 could understand it or not, Constance he praised. It 
 was her idea of life. She had lived up to it. Only 
 he had fallen; for at least there had been time for 
 choice, but his blood was hot and he had chosen. 
 She must judge him as she thought best, but, above 
 all, he loved her. 
 
 For some moments silence. He kept his face still 
 hidden, then at last looked up for what she had to 
 say. Her whole expression had changed. There 
 was no fear but satisfaction now. It leapt to his 
 mind to believe her understanding was so great that 
 she had seen the pity of his folly, but would not see 
 its shame. 
 
 "Dorrie !" he exclaimed. 
 
 She freed a hand and laid it on his head. 
 
 "Poor old Dicky," she said gently. "I always 
 thought when you went away you'd be like that. 
 IVe thought it all these months. I know you think 
 you care. I'm sure you've suffered, in a way. 
 You've got so vivid an imagination. You've 
 thought it would hurt me when I knew. But I've 
 expected it ever since you went to London. And I 
 think it's dear of you to tell me. I can't really think 
 why you did." 
 
 "Why, because I love you," said he. 
 
 She shook her head and smiled. 
 
 "No, no, you imagine that," she replied. "IVe 
 known that, too. When you gave up the Mill, I 
 
 185
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 knew we should never marry. Didn't I tell you so, 
 even then." 
 
 "But, Dorrie, we shall marry!" 
 
 Again she shook her head. She tried to smile 
 once more to carry off what she must tell, but it 
 was weak and unconvincing. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Do you 
 mean that's what you're going to tell me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But why? Won't they let you? Do they think 
 I'm no good?" 
 
 "No, it isn't that, Dicky. Father doesn't think 
 much of your chances, as you can see, but it isn't 
 that." 
 
 He sat and stared at her, stared with frightened 
 eyes. His throat was dry, his mouth parched. He 
 tried to moisten it with his tongue. 
 
 "Some one else?" he whispered. 
 
 Her head acknowledged it. 
 
 "You're going to be married?" 
 
 "Yes. He asked me only the day before yester- 
 day, the day before I got your letter. And I'd 
 known, t'd guessed all that was happening to you. 
 Father knows what an artist's life in London is like. 
 He knew an artist once. But he didn't persuade me. 
 I knew myself, and now you come and tell me. 
 We should never have been married, Dicky, you 
 know that, not after you left the Mill." 
 
 He stood up slowly to his feet, looked one way 
 186
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 and then another. At last he walked to the door. 
 A woman is quick to suspect when she is a fool. 
 Dorothy stretched out a hand across the table. 
 
 "Aren't you going to say good-bye?" she asked. 
 
 He turned at the door. 
 
 "Does he know, this this man?" he said. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Good-bye," said he. 
 
 13
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHEN he had left the house and was out 
 once more in the street, Dicky turned 
 automatically towards Bredon Hill and 
 his home. He was not walking slowly, yet there 
 was an absence of conscious decision in his move- 
 ments. His mind was labouring under an acute 
 strain, and, for the first quarter of a mile along the 
 road, was incapable of any thought more definite 
 than the contemplation of the mere fact of what he 
 had just heard. Dorothy no longer cared for him. 
 If any other idea presented itself to his conscious- 
 ness in a concrete form, it was that the retribution 
 had its aspect of justice. 
 
 These two thoughts revolved ceaselessly and be- 
 wilderingly before him as he walked. He tried to 
 steady his brain, to catch hold of some trivial com- 
 monplace upon which to pivot the unsteady balance 
 of his mind. In a vain effort, he endeavoured to 
 recall the people in London and said their names, 
 first one and then another, to himself. But it was 
 impossible to visualise them. They refused to stay, 
 were only names, vanishing as quickly from his 
 thoughts as they had come. All that remained be- 
 
 188
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 fore him was Dorothy, Dorothy plighted to some 
 other man, Dorothy no longer caring for him, and 
 himself, destitute of love, alone in his remorse, 
 adrift upon a sea of bitterness from which no land 
 of promise was in sight. 
 
 At a turning of the road the figure of a man pre- 
 sented itself before him, and for the first time his 
 mind steadied as he recognised the figure of old 
 Angel, the shepherd, making his way towards his 
 flocks on Bredon Hill. Yet this served only to 
 bring back memories in a mocking crowd, each 
 clamouring for recognition. It was Mr. Angel who 
 had met them that Sunday morning when first they 
 had realised the human element of passion in their 
 love, when the whole world was swimming before 
 their eyes. He remembered so well how the old 
 shepherd had talked on unceasingly, just when they 
 themselves were past all utterance of words. It was 
 because of what he had felt that morning, that he 
 had spoken to his father of his eagerness to be mar- 
 ried. Now ! His breath was deep, long-drawn, out 
 of the bitterness of his heart. 
 
 At the sound of Dicky's footsteps, Mr. Angel had 
 turned, ready to welcome any companion on the 
 road. When he saw who it was, the boy whom 
 he had carried on his back when death was creeping 
 at their heels, that same little boy at the door of 
 manhood now, he stood motionless in mute astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 189
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Master Dicky!" cried he at last, when speech 
 had come to him. "Well now, there now!" It 
 was a remark in true keeping with the standard of 
 Mr. Angel's intelligence, bringing almost a smile 
 to Dicky's lips. 
 
 "Hav'ee come home for good, now?" he asked. 
 
 Dicky shook his head. 
 
 "Just for the day," said he. "I'm staying at the 
 Mill to-night and going back to London to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Mr. Angel nodded at least half a dozen times. If 
 that were so, then the young gentleman was in a bet- 
 ter grace with his father than he had been led to 
 understand. But that was none of his business, 
 wherefore his head kept nodding till the thought 
 had sluggishly passed from his mind and he was 
 safe from any fear of speaking of it. 
 
 "Are'ee goin' that way now?" he asked. 
 
 "I am. You're going up to the hills, I suppose?" 
 
 "About that," replied the shepherd. 
 
 So they walked together, and, till the first turn- 
 ing of the road, in silence. 
 
 "The last time I saw 'ee, Master Dicky " 
 
 the old man began presently. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I remember. You were coming from 
 Little Cumberton. Have you seen my sister lately?" 
 
 "I have now, beginning this autumn she's been 
 times again with that gentleman of hers up on the 
 hillside there above Woolas Hall. But 'tis your 
 
 190
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 mistake, Master Dicky; I was not coming from Lit- 
 tle Cumberton that day. Look you, I'd been to 
 Elmly Castle. 'Twas there I'd be comin' from no 
 doubt when I met you and Miss Dorothy by the 
 hedge." 
 
 Until they reached the Mill, the old shepherd 
 did his utmost to recall that morning, and by noth- 
 ing he could say was Dicky able to distract his mind 
 from the subject he seemed determined to dwell 
 upon. It was with no little relief that he turned 
 aside at last through the open gate as their ways 
 parted and walked down the sloping meadow to the 
 Mill house. 
 
 His steps were quicker, but self-conscious now. 
 For the moment, Dorothy and the desolation of his 
 mind retreated before the sensation of sudden ap- 
 prehension. He was about to see his father for the 
 first time since he had run away from home, and, 
 with the mood that now was mastering him, it 
 seemed there might be retribution here as well. 
 
 In those six months that he had been away he 
 had forgotten nothing of his father's character. 
 Yet judgment was warped in him by his knowledge 
 of himself. He was conscious even of eagerness to 
 see them all a^ain; was preparing himself for that 
 moment when his father must see in his outstretched 
 hand that there was gladness in him to be home 
 once more. For, as he came down the sloping or- 
 chard beneath the apple trees and saw the grey roof 
 
 191
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of the Mill house spread with its bright-green 
 patches of moss; when his eyes had taken in the 
 familiar waters rushing by the weir, the friendly 
 willow trees calling back all the hours of his child- 
 hood, he knew that the meaning of home was 
 deeper-seated in the heart than ever his mind had 
 been aware of. 
 
 With his pulse rising again to a quicker measure, 
 he went round to the front door, that same door at 
 which Christina, his mother, had taken him from 
 the shepherd's arms while death was waiting for him 
 at the gate, then, when his hesitation had passed, 
 he knocked. The sound of his rapping echoed 
 along the passage of the broad hall within. He 
 could picture his sister Anne, stopping from her du- 
 ties to listen, for a moment standing still to wonder 
 who it was. At that hour of the morning his father 
 would be working in the Mill where the noise of the 
 tireless wheel would drown all sounds beside. 
 
 He waited on the doorstep listening to it then. 
 The years might never have gone by, everything in 
 that moment might have been just the same as when 
 he was a little boy, for the splashing of the water, 
 the dull hum of the revolving machinery, all were 
 pitched on the same unchangeable note. 
 
 A sensation that he had forfeited something of 
 this when he had left the Mill deterred him from 
 opening the door before him and walking into the 
 house. It remained with them to whom in every 
 
 192
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sense of the word it was still home, it remained 
 with them to give him the freedom of it once more, 
 and, with the desolate isolation in which it seemed 
 he was then, he desired nothing more earnestly. 
 
 Here was indeed the return of the Prodigal, yet 
 when he thought of himself as such pride denied the 
 perfect similarity. He had not found failure in the 
 world. He was drawing near to success. Two pic- 
 tures he had sold, moreover there was work for him 
 to do to which he must return. In but one sense 
 alone was his case analogous. He looked for wel- 
 come to cheer the bitterness of his heart, so that 
 when at last the door did open, and his sister Anne 
 was standing before him in silent amazement, he 
 took her suddenly in his arms and crushed her to 
 him. 
 
 When at last she gained her freedom and held 
 him at arm's length the better to regard him, she 
 found there were tears in his eyes, that his lip was 
 quivering, more manfully now, but with just that 
 same expression which he used to wear when he was 
 a little boy. This was not merely the delight of 
 coming home. With some of that instinct common 
 to women and exaggerated as it had been in her 
 mother, Anne knew that he was in trouble. In a 
 moment her heart was up to help him. She closed 
 the door behind them, anticipating iiis need to be 
 alone, and, putting an arm on his shoulder, she 
 brought him to the dining room. 
 
 193
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 There for a moment he stood looking about 
 him, at the familiar furniture, the same wall paper, 
 the chair his mother had always occupied empty 
 now as it had always been since her death. Then, as 
 he gazed at the place he knew so well, something in 
 the strength of his reserve snapped in twain. He 
 sat down in the nearest chair, and, throwing his 
 arms upon the table, leant forward, bursting into 
 tears. 
 
 Anne was by his side in an instant. The pathos of 
 his sudden and unexpected return wrung her heart, 
 brought from her the deepest pity, the warmest 
 emotions of which her nature was possessed. He 
 had failed. The world had beaten him. The mother 
 that is in every woman came out triumphant in her 
 to such appeal as this. He had come home to ad- 
 mit his discomfiture; she could think of no other 
 meaning in his tears than this. 
 
 "My poor old Dicky," she whispered, "but I'm 
 glad to have you back. It's been horrid without 
 you." 
 
 So she murmured her sympathy in his ears, gentle 
 words that were like an ointment on the burning 
 pain of his wounded heart. And all the time his 
 head was buried in his arms, until he realised that 
 she did not understand. Then, with red eyes and 
 tears he brushed away in shame, he looked up. 
 
 "I've not come back," said he; "I'm not beaten. 
 I'd go starving before I'd say that. But I'm not 
 
 194
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 near starving. I've got work to do and I'm selling 
 my pictures." 
 
 "Then why?" she asked. 
 
 "I came back to see you all here, to see Dor- 
 othy and and I've seen her." 
 
 He got up from his chair; walked to the window, 
 standing there with his hands deep in his pockets 
 until he found her at his side again. 
 
 "Didn't you know?" he asked. "Couldn't you 
 have done something?" 
 
 She shook her head to convey her ignorance of 
 what he meant; but she knew by then. A month 
 before she had seen Dorothy on the road with one 
 of the two masters at her father's school. Thinking 
 nothing of it then, it came back to her with illumi- 
 nation now. 
 
 "What has she said?" she asked. 
 
 He told her, every word embittered by what he 
 was suffering, yet none accusing Dorothy. She would 
 have let him know; in time she would have let him 
 know. She had never believed in him, that was the 
 truth of it. The waiting had seemed too long, and 
 then, what chance has a man when he is not there 
 to protect his own? Anne had promised, his friend 
 Mr. Hollom had promised too; but what could they 
 have done? Hfc laid a hand wearily on her shoul- 
 der as they stood there together at the window. He 
 did not blame her. It was his luck. He thanked 
 
 195
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 God without conviction that he had work he could 
 return to. 
 
 "But I don't care now!" he exclaimed. "There's 
 something gone out of it. I know she was no help, 
 I know she didn't understand, never understood one 
 of the things I ever tried to do, but there's some- 
 thing gone out of it. I don't feel as if I could try 
 now." 
 
 And here, without thinking it, was he echoing all 
 the beliefs of Madame Marco with her French ideas 
 of life. It is preposterous in this country to con- 
 ceive how such ideas as these might be true; yet 
 there was Dicky Furlong an example of them, find- 
 ing the incentive driven out of life by the mere 
 breaking of a woman's word. 
 
 "Don't say that, Dicky !" Anne begged of him. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I say it? What should make me 
 care? What's there left to work for?" 
 
 It was inspiration or it was Divine Providence 
 with Anne, for hers was no.t the nature to grasp 
 the deeper verities of life; but now she took his arm 
 and, because she found it was the thing to say, de- 
 clared that there was the work itself to work for. 
 Divine Prov'dence it must have been, for even now 
 she never contemplated a future for Dicky, or real- 
 ised that there could be a future for an artist at all. 
 Yet this was the word his courage needed then. In 
 the depths of his pockets his hands clenched tighter, 
 his jaws set firmer as he looked into her face. 
 
 196
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "What made you say that?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. She did not know. 
 
 "Because you're right. There's the work itself. 
 It may be all for nothing, too; but that's not sure 
 till it's proved. There're those coloured wood-cuts, 
 there's something in them. Why, I've only just be- 
 gun, haven't I?" 
 
 Then the despair of it flung back upon him again. 
 How much easier it would have been with Dorothy 
 caring for him still! How eagerly he would have 
 returned on the morrow with fresh energy to paint 
 the monotony of Monsieur Marco's skies and seas! 
 Now, indeed, there was still the work itself, but the 
 drudgery of those hours in Monsieur Marco's ate- 
 lier faced him with an overwhelming depression. 
 
 "I'm going to stay the night, Anne," he said at 
 length. "Can I have my old room?" 
 
 "You can have anything you like," said she. 
 
 He looked at her suddenly. 
 
 "What do you think the pater'll say?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "What does he say about my going?" 
 
 "He never speaks about it." 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "Not a word." 
 
 It was in the silence that fell upon them then that 
 Dicky heard the slam of a door, the door leading 
 from the house into the Mill. The sounds of foot- 
 steps that followed were another note that had not 
 
 197
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 altered with the years. So many times in apprehen- 
 sion or in anger he had waited for them before. 
 Now it was with confused sensations, for one instant 
 in pleased expectancy, the next in nervous dread. 
 Nearer they came until they stopped before the 
 door. The handle turned with its old, accustomed 
 squeak. Dicky remembered that squeak so well as 
 to expect it, and then the door was open, his father 
 was standing on the threshold, and Dicky had lost 
 his presence of mind. The picture he had framed 
 for himself of their meeting was now confronted by 
 the moment itself, when nothing was happening as 
 he had conceived it. 
 
 For a while they all stood there in silence, then 
 Mr. Furlong entered the room and closed the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IT was quite true, as Anne had said: all those 
 six months had gone by and over Dicky's 
 absence Mr. Furlong had maintained un- 
 yielding silence. He had never mentioned Dicky's 
 name. That he had thought of him often both with 
 affection and with resentment may readily be sup- 
 posed. That he had been hurt, and to the quick of 
 his emotions, may easily be imagined, too. Yet in 
 all this time of silence, when he had brooded often 
 enough upon Dicky's sudden departure, it had never 
 occurred to him that he had been partly responsible 
 for it himself. 
 
 On his knees often at night, where no sense of 
 humour ever illuminated his thoughts, he had asked 
 to understand this burden of disappointment that 
 had been placed upon him. Again and again he had 
 prayed that in good time Dicky might realise the 
 folly of his ambitions and return repentant to the 
 Mill. 
 
 Repentance he must have, repentance meekly of- 
 fered and in all humility. With that he would have 
 taken Dicky back in a true joy of heart to his arms, 
 killed for him the fatted calf and made festivity for 
 
 199
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the return of his own authority in fervent and ear- 
 nest belief that it was for the return of his son. 
 
 Seeing him there before him then, Mr. Furlong's 
 first thought was that his prayers had at last been 
 answered. Dicky had learnt the folly of his ambition 
 and in secret his heart went out to him in gladness. 
 But to Dicky and to Anne, who, in that moment of 
 silence, watched him as he stood beside the door, 
 the only light in his eyes was that of stern amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" he asked. 
 
 And those words were interpreted in his look, yet 
 were no interpretation of his mind. They could not 
 see, these two, how all his gladness he was holding 
 back until that moment when Dicky, admitting his 
 defeat, should place himself upon the generosity of 
 his mercy. Then he was prepared to be generous 
 indeed, and all his heart was yearning for that mo- 
 ment when he could give it rein. 
 
 Receiving no answer to his first question, he put 
 it more plainly still. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he asked. 
 
 It even seemed to him that in all fairness he was 
 giving Dicky his chance. If he had failed, there 
 was his opportunity to say so then. 
 
 "I've come back to see you," said Dicky simply. 
 This was his father's house. He knew it was his 
 no longer. Even in Mr. Furlong's eyes he realised 
 he had forfeited that, and there was humility in his 
 
 200
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 voice. But the answer was not that which had been 
 expected of him. 
 
 "Come back to see me, have you?" said his father 
 slowly. "What do you want to see me about?" 
 
 Could he be giving him a more honest chance 
 than this? He had failed. It was his duty to his 
 elders to be the first to admit it, admit it freely 
 without question to his aid. Yet here he was giving 
 him all assistance. 
 
 "About nothing," replied Dicky; "just to see you 
 and Anne and the place again, that's all." 
 
 What did this mean? Had he failed and was he 
 too ashamed to admit it? Then that shame must 
 be overcome and by the true spirit of repentance. 
 So much, at least, was due to him as a father. He 
 crossed to the fireplace and stood there with his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 "If only he knew," he thought, "if only he real- 
 ised the love and forgiveness I'm longing to hold 
 out to him." 
 
 "So you've just come to see us?" said he, and he 
 made no effort to keep the tone of irony from his 
 voice. "And how long are we going to have the 
 pleasure of your company?" 
 
 The spirit in Dicky was too numbed as yet. 
 Retribution was pursuing him at every turn. At 
 every turn he felt the bitter justice of it. 
 
 "I was just going to stay till to-morrow," said he 
 201
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 meekly, "if I might have the bed made up in my 
 old room." 
 
 "Oh, you were going back to-morrow. Are Anne 
 and Mr. Hollom still keeping you in cash, then?" 
 
 "Father !" exclaimed Anne, but said no more. His 
 eyes, bright with a terrifying anger, had driven her 
 to silence. 
 
 "I'm not taking money from anyone," said Dicky 
 quietly. 
 
 "Really. Do you want me to suppose that you're 
 making your own living?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How? What work has anybody found you 
 capable of doing?" 
 
 "Painting." 
 
 He said it with intense quietness. Perhaps the 
 absolute triumph of it was all the greater for that; 
 greater because he had not sought it. Yet even then, 
 Mr. Furlong could not believe that his instinct had 
 been so completely at fault. 
 
 "Painting pictures?" said he. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then he had not failed! He had come back in 
 triumph, and to the unhappy man it seemed that 
 he had come back to flaunt it in his face, to laugh 
 at his father's discomfiture. All the anger then 
 that had been in his eyes came rushing, uncontrolled, 
 to his lips. 
 
 "And you expect a welcome, do you?" said he, 
 202
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 with a rising voice. "You run away from home, 
 you fling all my authority, all the love I have given 
 you, all the duty you owe me, you fling them in my 
 face, and when my back is turned, when the house is 
 asleep and no one is looking, you sneak away to a 
 life in London which, after what you said that Sun- 
 day to me about marrying Dorothy Leggatt, I have 
 no desire to enquire into. And now you come back 
 expecting a welcome, my lord, expecting his bed to 
 be made, his servants to wait upon him just as he 
 pleases." 
 
 He paused in his anger. The picture he was 
 painting had grown so vivid in his mind that words 
 choked him in their utterance. He pointed with 
 shaking finger to the door. 
 
 "You can go out of this house the way you came !" 
 he cried, and, knowing that his temper was beyond 
 his control, it angered him the more. "You gave 
 up all right to be treated as a son of mine," he 
 shouted, "the night you left this house! Never ex- 
 pect a welcome from me again, for this is the sort 
 of welcome you'll get." 
 
 In trembling silence Dicky stood watching his 
 father's face, and, through all the bitterness, the 
 hopeless despair that overwhelmed him, came by 
 chance at understanding. If he had failed, there 
 would have been no such recriminations as these. 
 But he had not failed; he had set his feet upon the 
 long, long road, but it was the road to success. 
 14 203
 
 RICHARD FURUONG 
 
 In that moment both of them had forgotten 
 Anne. At the sound of her voice they both turned 
 in surprise, finding her eyes were blazing, too, her 
 fingers nervously pulling at the tassels of the table- 
 cloth. 
 
 "If Dicky doesn't stay here to-night," said she, 
 "I'm going too, father! I couldn't stop in the house 
 when I thought he was being treated like this. He's 
 unhappy and he comes here to us for sympathy, and 
 this is how you give it him." 
 
 Dicky was unhappy, was he? The wretched man 
 looked from one to the other. Had they no con- 
 ception of the misery that was aching in his heart? 
 In one moment to lose both his children; in one 
 moment to realise that they cared less for him than 
 for each other! 
 
 But if that were so, it was so. A sense of fatal- 
 ism came upon him then. 
 
 "Then go," said he, "both of you! And may 
 you never know the sorrow of children who give 
 you nothing of their love." 
 
 In silence Dicky came to Anne's side and gently 
 took her hand. 
 
 "She doesn't mean what she said, father," he 
 declared. "She's upset, that's all. I wouldn't have 
 her come." 
 
 "She can speak for herself," said Mr. Furlong. 
 
 "Yes, she can speak for herself," replied Dicky, 
 "and that's what she will say, isn't it, Anne?" 
 
 204
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 He squeezed her hand tightly m his own, and, 
 with the spirit as suddenly quieted in her, she bent 
 her head. 
 
 "But you're not going to-night, Dicky!" she 
 begged. 
 
 "Yes, I am going," he replied. "It's only a mat- 
 ter of a few hours. I should have had to go early 
 to-morrow morning. Don't you come out now, try 
 and think I haven't been at all. I suppose it was 
 silly of me to come." 
 
 He took her head in his hands and kissed her. 
 The tears from her eyes rolling down her cheeks 
 had wet his lips. He tasted the salt of them. Then, 
 without looking at his father again, he took his hat 
 and left the room. 
 
 Anne's head was bent with weeping. She did not 
 notice that sudden movement of her father's towards 
 the door; she did not notice the agony in his face as 
 pride checked it for him. She scarcely noticed 
 when at last he went away. 
 
 But the moment he had closed the door his foot- 
 steps quickened. He hurried into the Mill. From 
 a window there in one of the lofts he could see 
 along the road to Eckington, and, climbing quickly 
 up the ladder, he looked out. 
 
 The figure of Dicky had just turned in sight, and 
 his eyes bent eagerly upon it. 
 
 "Come back," he muttered to himself, and, as he 
 heard his own words, shut his lips tight upon them. 
 
 205
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Yet there he stayed until Dicky was out of sight, 
 the tears dropping from his eyes, too, falling in 
 thick splashes on the accumulated dust of flour at 
 his feet.
 
 BOOK II 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 NOT long after his return to London calam- 
 ity fell upon Dicky in the departure of 
 Mr. Nibbs from Greenwich. The land- 
 lord's lease of his cottage had expired. There was 
 no renewing it; the site was wanted for business 
 premises. The whole row of old cottages was razed 
 to the ground almost before Mr. Nibbs had settled 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Now, with that hankering for green fields not- 
 withstanding that, because of his late return from 
 London, he seldom saw them he moved further 
 out into the country, depositing himself at Elstree. 
 And here, except for his hours in the shop, 
 he was further from Dicky than ever. They met 
 only on such rare occasions as when Dicky could 
 spare a moment from his classes, but all those even- 
 ings when he would sit alone with the little print- 
 seller and his prints, those were gone forever. In 
 one sweep of the arm of circumstance he had lost 
 the influence of two people in his life, and from the 
 
 207
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 moment of Mr. Nibbs' departure his days were 
 filled with disappointment. 
 
 Madame Marco and her wiles, with her pretty 
 cynicism of life that threatened to rob him of al] 
 his illusions; Monsieur Marco with his bewildering 
 conceit, they both jarred upon his spirits. Mr. 
 Nibbs had gone, and he had no respite from them 
 now. In the evening after supper he would go up 
 to his attic bedroom, sitting there alone with his 
 blocks of wood, where, by the light of a solitary 
 candle, he worked desultorily at his wood-cuts with- 
 out pleasure or inspiration. 
 
 For a week or so in a fine depression, he learnt 
 for the first time that gloom and disappointment 
 which can overtake an artist at his work. For 
 many days the creative ability in him seemed dead. 
 Nothing he put his hand to took upon itself the 
 charm of life. At the night classes the charcoal 
 burnt no longer in his fingers; for long minutes to- 
 gether he would stand, holding it listlessly in his 
 hand. 
 
 He believed now that his work was finished, that 
 his power and his energy were spent. Thoughts of 
 suicide came unbidden to him at night. At all 
 times of the day it seemed to him that he was crimi- 
 nally wasting the hours that life held out to him. 
 
 Now, in this^ mood, he feared even to visit 
 Mr. Nibbs in his shop. The little man believed in 
 him. He would believe no longer if he were to 
 
 208
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 hear the opinions that Dicky entertained about him- 
 self. So he dragged out the days, giving food in 
 his loneliness to this gnawing spirit of despair. 
 
 And so it might have continued had not Monsieur 
 Marco unwittingly put an end to it and brought 
 about that change in his life which was the one 
 thing at that moment that he needed. 
 
 Of Dicky's painting that Madame Marco had 
 seen she had told her husband nothing. He had 
 taken the word of Mr. Nibbs that the boy could 
 paint, but of the kind of work he did he was com- 
 placently ignorant. He had seen the work of 
 Thomas Parker at the shop in the Waterloo Bridge 
 Road, and, believing them to compare so unfavour- 
 ably with his own ambitious efforts at portraiture, 
 he had come insensibly to the conclusion that Dicky 
 was no artist at all. 
 
 Then, too, one evening when Dicky had been at 
 his classes he had climbed up to the attic bedroom 
 and found there the blocks of wood upon which 
 Dicky was desultorily working. He smiled as he 
 picked them up. In that stage they looked so much 
 like the work of a child that he had become con- 
 vinced of Dicky's inability. 
 
 "Ill show him some of my portraits one of these 
 days," said he aloud, and one of those days of 
 Dicky's depression he did. 
 
 With a great deal of pomp and ceremony, calling 
 up his wife to the studio and arranging the light 
 
 209
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 from the window in the roof, he unlocked a big 
 cupboard door from which he took out his portrait 
 of Madame Marco, framed in a frame of massive 
 gilt. 
 
 "There, now," said he, and, swelling his chest, he 
 stood away with pride to look at it, "I don't show 
 my work do I, darling? I shall never sell this, 
 not because I want to and can't, but because I could 
 but won't." 
 
 He crossed the room, laying an arm heavily on 
 Dicky's shoulder. 
 
 "Twenty sittings, my boy all a labour of love. 
 You see the foreshortening of that arm. Sargent 
 might have done a thing like that. I'll point out the 
 beauties to you. You can see them, too you are 
 an artist you will be one day but I'll point them 
 out. That flesh colour I don't boast about it 
 there it is. You might prick it and it 'ud bleed. 
 The eyes just go up close and look at them no! 
 closer still. Don't they speak? I worked and 
 worked at them till of their own perfection they 
 looked at me and said stop! And the likeness. 
 What can I say it is my darling. Sometimes I 
 take it out when I am working alone up here, and 
 she keeps me company. Now tell me what you 
 think just what comes into your mind. I defy 
 criticism. You could not hurt me if you tried." 
 
 He thrust both his hands deep in his pockets. He 
 stood with his legs apart; his face glowed with 
 
 210
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 satisfaction. In Dicky's silence he imagined he 
 heard the glowing terms of praise and could not 
 from where he stood see the twinkle of laughter in 
 Madame Marco's eyes. 
 
 "Am I to say exactly what I think?" said Dicky, 
 turning round, and though the twinkle in Madame 
 Marco's eyes became a sudden frown he took no 
 notice of it. His mood had been desperation for 
 many days by then. He did not care what happened 
 to him. 
 
 "Exactly what you think," replied Monsieur 
 Marco, still in the fullest confidence of voice. 
 
 "Then I think," said Dicky, "that it's a photo- 
 graph you've stuck on to a piece of canvas. It 
 isn't a picture, you've only just coloured it that's 
 all." 
 
 With the airiness of his conceit he might have 
 carried off the sting of adverse criticism, but to be 
 found out in his own deceit, this was more than 
 Monsieur Marco could bear. His cheeks flamed up 
 a scarlet in his anger. His moustachios bristled, 
 and words spluttered on his lips. 
 
 "I've never been so insulted in my life!" he cried. 
 "A coloured photograph! By God, sir when you 
 paint as well as that go down on your knees and 
 and thank God for your your ability. A col- 
 oured photograph ! To me ! A greater artist than 
 he can ever hope to be! My darling, what shall 
 I do?" 
 
 211
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 But, without waiting Madame Marco's advice, he 
 acted on the uncontrollable impulse of his anger. 
 
 "Get out of this house, sir!" he shouted. "Out 
 you go this very minute and take your filthy pay 
 with you!" 
 
 He took some money out of his pocket, carefully 
 counted out five shillings, and flung them with a fine 
 gesture of disregard upon the floor. They rolled 
 past Dicky's feet. He took no notice of them. 
 "Pick up that five shillings, sir!" cried Monsieur 
 Marco, who had never been so generous with money 
 in his life before. 
 
 "Thank you it's yours," said Dicky quietly, and 
 he walked towards the door. 
 
 "You're not going to take it?" demanded Mon- 
 sieur Marco, scarcely believing it could be true. 
 
 "No," said Dicky. 
 
 Madame Marco looked at him in pity. 
 
 "You little fool," she whispered, and he just 
 heard her. 
 
 "Am I?" he exclaimed bitterly. "I've been a fool 
 to stay here as long as I have. Do you think it 
 does me any good to paint those beastly skies and 
 seas? I'd sooner go and paint signs over shop win- 
 dows." 
 
 Words were beyond Monsieur Marco now. Had 
 he not been an arrant coward at heart, he would 
 have taken Dicky by the collar of his coat and flung 
 him down the attic stairs. That is what he would 
 
 212
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 dearly have loved to do. He believed that it would 
 have made him a great hero in Madame Marco's 
 eyes. But there was an ugly look in Dicky's face as 
 he stood there in the heat of his defiance, so Mon- 
 sieur Marco called a ready spirit of discretion to 
 his aid, and, instead of proving himself a hero, he 
 strode to the door, opened it, and flung out his arm 
 in the direction of the stairs. 
 
 "Get out!" he muttered, and, as it sounded well 
 and he believed he must look impressive, standing 
 like that, he repeated it. "Get out 1" said he. 
 
 Dicky walked through the door to his room where 
 he straightway began his packing. It was late in the 
 afternoon and he was pressing the last of his few 
 possessions into the limited capacity of his little bag, 
 when the door opened and Madame Marco came in. 
 
 "Are you coming down to tea?" she asked. 
 
 "To tea?" said he 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No thank you." 
 
 "But you're not really going?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I am indeed," he replied. 
 
 "But he didn't mean it. He's beginning to be 
 sorry now you're such a help. If you go and say 
 it was not a coloured photograph, he'll have for- 
 gotten all about it by to-morrow." 
 
 "But it was a coloured photograph," declared 
 Dicky, "a photograph enlarged. Do you mean to 
 sav he'd be satisfied with a lie like that?" 
 
 213
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "He would," said she. 
 
 "Well I've said I'm going and I'm going. I 
 wouldn't stop for anything now. You can tell him 
 that. I don't want to see him again." 
 
 Such was the desperation of his mood that 
 no persuasion of hers could detain him. As they 
 sat over their tea in the dining room downstairs, 
 they heard the hall door slam and looked at each 
 other in silent surprise. 
 
 Monsieur Marco peeped out behind the curtains 
 to watch him go by them, and then, with a shrug 
 of his shoulders, he returned to the table. 
 
 "That boy," said he, "will never be an artist, my 
 darling he has not got the perseverance. He 
 might have learnt a lot from me. I had promised 
 him one of these days he should paint a shipwreck 
 instead of which now he will be a shipwreck heh? 
 Ha! ha!" 
 
 He took her hands and drew her arms about his 
 neck. 
 
 "He will be a shipwreck heh!" 
 
 She laughed at his little joke and she kissed him. 
 And that was quite sufficient for Monsieur Marco; 
 he did not ask her why she sighed.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IT had not entered into Dicky's calculations, 
 when he refused the five shillings which Mon~ 
 sieur Marco had flung at him, that he only had 
 three pennies in his pocket. Pride is a luxury only 
 the rich can afford. That was why Madame 
 Marco had called him a little fool. He was far 
 too poor to indulge in it. 
 
 It was not until he was out in the streets that 
 he remembered the extent of his possessions. Three 
 pennies! Enough to get up to town! He looked 
 at a passing clock. It was a quarter to six. With 
 good fortune he might find the shop open in the 
 Waterloo Bridge Road. Mr. Nibbs would lend 
 him some money for the immediate present. It did 
 not occur to him to return to Monsieur Marco's 
 and demand the five shillings there which were 
 rightly his. A sense of humour might have sug- 
 gested it. There would have been a touch of 
 comeHy in his return, asking for that five shillings 
 with which Monsieur Marco had been so loath to 
 part. But, in his pride, it never occurred to him. 
 
 He jumped onto a passing train and soon the 
 sight of Greenwich Observatory was lost amidst the 
 
 215
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 tangle of house-tops. He had left Monsieur Marco's 
 atelier; was on his way to a sterner school, a harder 
 master than he had served as yet. For when at last 
 he reached the Waterloo Bridge Road the little 
 print-seller's shop was shut. The old worn shut- 
 ters stared down at him, expressionless and without 
 sympathy. 
 
 He peered through the letter box. There was no 
 light within. A policeman stood on the other side 
 of the road, watching him until he moved away. 
 There was all the night in front of him. He looked 
 helplessly to right and left, wondering where he was 
 going to sleep. 
 
 Turning then towards the Strand, as he had gone 
 that first day when he had sold the picture to Mr. 
 Nibbs, the association of ideas brought the thought 
 of Constance to his mind. 
 
 She had said, when they had parted, that if ever 
 he needed help he was to come to her. But, as he 
 thought of it, he knew it was more than just help 
 that he needed. The utter loneliness of his posi- 
 tion then demanded more than mere assistance. He 
 wanted sympathy. He wanted even more than that. 
 In the last few weeks, since he had learnt of Dor- 
 othy, the absence of any affection in his life was 
 like a hunger that he could not satisfy. Now each 
 moment, as he reviewed the situation in his mind, 
 the remembrance of all those fine qualities in Con- 
 stance rose up before his eyes. He recalled that 
 
 216
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 day in the picture-framer's shop when, with a heart 
 he could almost see beating beneath her bodice, she 
 had taken up arms in his defence. There was that 
 day in the gardens in Kew, those memorable mo- 
 ments of his folly which, truly enough, as Madame 
 Marco had said, he was coming to regard with less 
 and less remorse. Her generosity, too, with her 
 money, all these things came back to him. But the 
 faster they found resurrection in his mind, the more 
 firmly did his pride bid him take no advantage of 
 them. 
 
 He had come by this time with his thoughts to 
 the oil shop in Drury Lane, and here the almost 
 childish folly of his pride forced him, after one 
 glance at the familiar windows, to turn away. 
 
 If indeed it had come to sleeping in the streets, 
 he told himself, "then for God's sake!" he ex- 
 claimed beneath his breath "let me have the cour- 
 age to do it." So, with quickening strides, he set 
 off for the Polytechnic Institute, where for the next 
 few hours in the classes, at least, he was sure of a 
 roof to his head. 
 
 There was not much work done that evening in 
 the life room. Always there are some who can af- 
 ford to waste their time, to whom art is a game and 
 their pursuit of it something in the nature of a prac- 
 tical joke. Yet, notwithstanding the distractions 
 when the master was out of the room, never had 
 Dicky worked so seriously. The study in oils he did 
 
 217
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 that evening was sold some months later by Mr. 
 Nibbs for the paltry sum of two pounds, yet as a 
 studio sketch, as a study not of the figure but of a 
 model in all the smoky atmosphere and mystery of 
 the studio, it was ingenious ; it was almost masterly. 
 
 For some little while a girl student standing near 
 him left her easel, coming to watch him as he 
 worked. 
 
 With delicate and suggestive brush strokes he had 
 taken the eye beyond the model's throne to the dim 
 line of students' faces beyond. One high light upon 
 the model's shoulder was the culminating interest in 
 the picture. But for that, it all drifted into the 
 atmosphere of the room leading the mind on tip-toe 
 of imagination beyond and away into the whole 
 spirit of the surroundings. 
 
 "Doing that for a paper?" she asked presently. 
 
 Dicky shook his head. 
 
 "Wish I were," said he. 
 
 "Any paper would take it," she replied. 
 
 "Would they? You don't know the papers." 
 
 With a dry laugh he thought back to his own 
 experience. He knew what Channing would say to 
 such a sketch as that. 
 
 "They want more definition," said he; "the col- 
 oured photograph." 
 
 She let him continue in silence for a time; then 
 she enquired if he did work for any of the dealers. 
 
 He put his brushes down and lit a cigarette. 
 218
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Do you think I'm selling pictures, then?" said 
 he. 
 
 "Well aren't you?" 
 
 His laugh was dry again. But by infinitesimal 
 degrees he was coming to the humour of his situa- 
 tion. What would she say if he told her that he 
 was going to sleep in the streets that night? It was 
 at this thought he laughed. Yet there still was 
 bitterness in it. 
 
 "No," he said at last, "I'm not selling pictures 
 well, I've sold two since I came to London in eight 
 months two pounds each." 
 
 "Figure?" 
 
 "Landscape." 
 
 tT T should think you're good at that you're 
 afraid of this figure, aren't you?" 
 
 "No, why should I be ? I don't just feel it, that's 
 all. I just feel like doing exactly what I see. What 
 you call facing things as they are eh well, I feel 
 like facing 'em." 
 
 She looked at him quizzically, and then, as the 
 master came by, returned to her easel. The master 
 stopped at Dicky's back and watched him for a 
 moment. 
 
 "Do you think you're learning anything?" he 
 asked at length. 
 
 Dicky stood aside. 
 
 "Yes," said he. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 15 219 ,
 
 RICHARD FURLOiN. 
 
 The man's tone was abrupt. Had there been 
 any sympathy in it, Dicky might have looked for 
 more. There was none and he looked for none. 
 
 "Do you want to know all the things I'm learn- 
 ing?" he enquired. 
 
 "All the things yes." 
 
 "Well, I'm learning that the less you learn by 
 rote, and the more you see by nature, the better for 
 you. That's one thing. I'm learning that when a 
 chap's up against it, so to speak, he'd better look it 
 right in the face I'm learning " 
 
 By this time the master had recovered from his 
 astonishment. He was there to teach, not to listen 
 to platitudes. With a little more perception of 
 human nature, he might have recognised that note 
 of bitterness in Dicky's voice and known that some- 
 thing was the matter. As it was, he ignored it. 
 
 "I don't want you to talk nonsense," said he. "I 
 meant what are you learning from the model? 
 Nothing as far as I can see. What's all this blue? 
 That draped background is dark purple." 
 
 "That blue," said Dicky, "is the smoke from 
 the numerous pipes and cigarettes that are burning 
 in the room." 
 
 "Well, you're not here to paint that. You're 
 here to learn the figure, and I'm here to teach you it. 
 If you go and paint daubs like that, I can't teach 
 you anything. Paint it all out and draw that figure 
 in properly." 
 
 220
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Supposing I were painting that to sell it?" said 
 Dicky. "Supposing I wanted money aren't I at 
 liberty, if I pay my fees, to come here and make it?" 
 
 "Certainly then you don't want any help from 
 me. Do you expect to sell that?" 
 
 "No," said Dicky. 
 
 "So I should have thought," said he. 
 
 "I don't expect to sell anything," Dicky retorted. 
 "It's a bit of luck when I do." 
 
 "Were you a student here?" 
 
 "No." ' 
 
 "Where?" 
 " Nowhere." 
 
 The master turned on his heel with a laugh. 
 
 "You ought to be careful," said he. "You're get- 
 ting ideas before you know what to do with them. 
 If you like to draw that figure properly, I'll tell you 
 where you're wrong when I come round again." 
 
 A smile came into Dicky's eyes. His sketch was 
 finished. He took the canvas from the board and 
 pinned a paper in its place. More than an hour 
 later, when the class was just breaking up, the master 
 returned. He was new to them all and slow in 
 reading the character of his pupils. . It was the last 
 thing he expected of human nature to find that Dicky 
 should have done what he suggested, and when he 
 saw the charcoal drawing of the model he stood 
 astonished but in silence. 
 
 It was not that it was perfect by any means, but 
 221
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the faults were such that for the moment he could 
 not place his finger on them. In every way it was 
 the best of any he had seen that evening, and the 
 girl student, who had overheard their conversation, 
 having watched Dicky's drawing in charcoal from 
 beginning to end, stood by with a smile of anticipa- 
 tion on her face. 
 
 He felt her presence and looked round. 
 
 "The class is over you can go home," said he. 
 
 She nodded her head and slowly edged away. 
 
 "Well," said Dicky at last. 
 
 "Well," said the master, "now here, of course, 
 you well, you come more into my province, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "I've no doubt I do," said Dicky, "and I want 
 to know where it's wrong." 
 
 "Well, let me see now isn't isn't that arm a 
 bit short?" He held up his hand to the model. 
 "Just one moment, please one moment. You see, 
 it comes it comes " 
 
 "Comes where?" said Dicky. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; perhaps it's right." 
 
 "The shoulder doesn't come round this way 
 enough," said Dicky. "That 'ud make it longer." 
 
 "Yes yes I knew there was something. Do 
 you think the head's large enough?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And the modelling of that leg's not good." 
 
 "No it's rotten." 
 
 222
 
 The master pursed his lips. He was accustomed 
 to speak about drawings that were hopeless from 
 every point of view. The general correctness of 
 this one had disarmed him. To be a master in an 
 art school is to be a failure, is mostly to spend one's 
 days watching failures at their work. Competence 
 is not a quality that a master is competent to deal 
 with. This little man was at a loss for more to 
 say. 
 
 "But it's very good in the time," he went on 
 presently. "You ought to do all right, you know. 
 But don't waste your time over that other sort of 
 stuff. It doesn't do you any good. You've got a 
 natural aptitude, you know. How long have you 
 been here?" 
 
 "Nearly two months." 
 
 "And no lessons before that?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh then quite a natural aptitude." He dis- 
 missed the model with a glance. "You'll sell your 
 work soon if you don't try too soon. It's bad to 
 begin selling pictures too soon." 
 
 "Is it?" said Dicky. "I don't think it 'ud hurt 
 me." 
 
 "No? Well, beware of it. Good-night good- 
 night." 
 
 Dicky watched him as he walked away. He 
 was going home, no doubt, to a cheerful little sup- 
 
 223
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 per, to the comfort of a glowing fire and a warm 
 bed. Yet for all these possessions, as his eye fol- 
 lowed the little man, Dicky would not have changed 
 places with him for the world. 
 
 On the steps outside in Regent Street he found 
 the girl student waiting by the door. 
 
 "Seen Mr. Mason go out?" she enquired. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I expect he's gone, then," said she, and she 
 walked down the steps by Dicky's side, successful 
 and pleased with her little subterfuge, for she had 
 been waiting for him. 
 
 "Why do they have fools like that man is?" she 
 asked presently "the master, I mean Mr. Thing- 
 um-me-bob." 
 
 "He's not a fool," said Dicky. "I expect he 
 
 knows a good deal about the figure Lord! 
 
 what a life." 
 
 "Ah you're lucky," said she. "You're all right." 
 
 And somehow for the next hour or so that was 
 as warm to him as a cheerful supper, a crackling 
 fire or a warm bed. 
 
 At her tube station he left her. She vanished 
 with the crowd of others coming from the theatres; 
 disappeared like a little animal into the warm 
 heart of the earth. Then he turned away and 
 walked down Regent Street towards the brighter 
 lights of Piccadilly Circus. 
 
 224
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I'm all right, am I?" he kept on saying to him- 
 self. "I'm all right." But the air was growing 
 colder every moment and each time it sounded less 
 comforting than the last.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ANIGHT in winter in the streets of London 
 is not an easily forgotten thing. A thou- 
 sand times Dicky cursed his folly for not 
 going to the oil shop in Drury Lane, yet as many 
 times then was glad of it. There were other 
 creatures more miserable than himself, with no am- 
 bition such as his to keep warm the spirit within 
 them, men and women and children who had to face 
 that night without a hope of shelter. 
 
 Till two in the morning, people were moving in 
 the streets, the county council men in their oil-skins 
 were cleansing the roadways. The mere sight of 
 humanity kept a certain warmth within him. He 
 walked round and round the frequented thorough- 
 fares, his hands deep in his pockets, the collar of 
 his coat turned up. Only when some miserable 
 woman passed him on the pavement did he feel the 
 real chill of life in the marrow of his bones. Some 
 looked at him with tired eyes, some spoke an en- 
 ticing word. Usually it was a word of fatuous, 
 ironical endearment such a word as every man has 
 used to the woman whom he loves, and, hearing it 
 thus, wonders if he can ever use it again. 
 
 226
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Yet there was a bravado of courage about them 
 which sometimes shamed the drooping spirit in 
 himself. They walked with their heads held high, 
 that well-known walk of pinching shoes, struggling 
 against fatigue to be coquettish. Their voices were 
 cheerful. Never did they whine. Tradeswomen, 
 not beggars, they were until the very last; and, as 
 the hours drew on, when they knew well that cus- 
 tom was not coming their way, still never showed 
 despair, but, with a marvellous bravery, faced the 
 bankruptcy of that night alone. 
 
 So long as they were abroad upon the streets, 
 Dicky kept burning the tiny spark of fortitude that 
 brought him warmth. There was the faint, chill 
 interest of life to keep the bitter cold away. 
 
 Down Oxford Street one little girl looked to the 
 right and left, then crossed the road to speak to 
 him. 
 
 "Take me 'ome, dearie," she said, and her teeth 
 were faintly chattering. 
 
 He came jerkily to a sudden halt and stood then 
 looking down at her. She was not more than eigh- 
 teen years old, but life already was finding its way 
 into her face. Her clothes were scanty. Warmth 
 and comfort had been sacrificed to a pitiable show 
 of finery the shop-window bravely decked to hide 
 the miserable poverty within. 
 
 "I'm not going home," said Dicky quietly. 
 
 "Well, take me to an 'otel, then I don't want 
 227
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 nothinV And she added to her persuasions in a 
 matter-of-fact way that might have been comical to 
 one older than Dicky. He shuddered as he heard 
 her. 
 
 "I've been walkin' about ever since four o'clock 
 this afternoon," she went on, reaching for his pity. 
 "A bit sickenin', I can tell yer. Come on be a 
 sport." 
 
 The grotesqueness of that invitation made him 
 smile. 
 
 "I'm in the same predicament as you are," said 
 he. 
 
 "Same what?" she asked. 
 
 "Same way same difficulty. I've got to sleep 
 out to-night." 
 
 "Go on!" 
 
 "Quite true. I shall turn into a doorway sooner 
 or later. I can't stand this cold much longer." 
 
 She looked him up and down. 
 
 "You're a fine sort," she said with a grin. "What 
 'ave you been doin'?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. The thought of ex- 
 plaining things to her was amusing, but on those 
 cold pavements seemed scarcely worth while. 
 
 She turned away at last. He had neither money 
 nor kind to offer her. He realised her cheerfulness 
 betrayed a greater courage than his own. She 
 looked over her shoulder at him and winked. 
 
 "Well, good luck," she said, and, still standing 
 228
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 there, he watched her flirting down the street with 
 those pinching high-heeled shoes towards a dim fig- 
 ure that was approaching out of the distance. 
 
 "My God!" he muttered and walked away. 
 
 When two o'clock had struck and all that terrible 
 city for one moment rang full of churches in his 
 ears, then the streets began to empty. Impercep- 
 tibly the human element drifted away, the night 
 began to swallow up its own. Inversely as a crowd 
 collects from nowhere in an empty street, so these 
 creatures of unhappy chance dispersed and faded 
 away into nothingness. Through Oxford Street, 
 through Regent Street, wherever he walked, Dicky 
 found himself alone. It was then the bitter cold 
 found its mastery of him. His teeth were chatter- 
 ing. The thought of sleeping in a doorway on the 
 ground, which at first his mind had refused, insensi- 
 bly now was forcing itself upon him. 
 
 He had set out from the Polytechnic steps with 
 the belief that he could walk the streets all night. 
 The idea of being turned out of a doorway by a 
 policeman had no liking for him then. But now he 
 was coming to know that this walking of the streets 
 needs a stern and bitter training. Every limb grew 
 wearied to exhaustion. He commenced to look out 
 for a deep and friendly doorway, caring no longer 
 if the police disturbed his rest, so only he might 
 lie down and close his eyes. 
 
 The doorway of a shop in Wigmore Street of- 
 229
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 fered him the deepened shadow that he sought. 
 Looking up and down the empty street, smiling, a 
 smile which his chattering teeth made a grin, to find 
 how quickly necessity teaches, he crept under the 
 porch and dropped down upon the step. Would 
 his father refuse him that bed in his old room now, 
 he thought, and fell asleep. 
 
 At what hour it was he had no means of know- 
 ing, but he awakened with a start. Someone had 
 entered his doorway. The police had come to move 
 him on. He sat up, blinking his eyes. But it was 
 not the police. An old woman, wrapped in rags, 
 carrying a wooden tray of match-boxes, had seated 
 herself on the step beside him. 
 
 On the moment it came to his mind to be up and 
 going, but relief at the discovery that he was not 
 to be disturbed let the weight of his eyelids droop 
 again. He settled himself back into his corner. 
 Half returning to his sleep, he yet had interest 
 enough to watch her. She might have been any 
 age. Once the years have made their mark upon 
 these creatures of the streets, there is no way of 
 telling how many have been added. 
 
 With more care for them than for herself, she 
 placed her tray of matches in the sheltered corner, 
 covering them with a rag from her body against 
 the wetting of the ever possible rain. When cir- 
 cumstance demands you take it at a discount, a few 
 possessions may be dearer than life. She looked 
 
 230
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 after her matches first as a highwayman to his 
 horse. Then, rubbing herself in her clothes against 
 the door at her back, she drew up closer to Dicky 
 to steal the warmth of his body. 
 
 In a first sensation of disgust, he shrank into his 
 corner, held his breath as the odour of the rags 
 reached his nostrils. This seemed life with a venge- 
 ance, and, like most in their first acquaintance of 
 it, appeared nothing but horrible. He was to learn 
 the humour, the cleaner sentiment of it then. 
 
 She took no notice of his movement, said noth- 
 ing, but, determined in her intention, moved nearer 
 still. 
 
 He made as if to rise and go. This was loath- 
 some. There were other doorways. His shudder- 
 ing was not from cold alone and when she caught 
 hold of his arm he felt the touch through his blood 
 running Tike cold water. 
 
 "Sit down," she said. The only favour he found 
 in her voice was its human note. It was a voice of 
 the streets. 
 
 "Sit down," she repeated. "You ain't goin' out 
 of 'ere." 
 
 "Why not?" said he. Involuntarily he waited to 
 hear. 
 
 "Yer cold, aren't yer? Ain't pipin' 'ot in 'ere 
 is it? And it's a damned sight colder outside." 
 
 "I don't mind the cold so much." 
 
 But his teeth chattered and betrayed him. 
 231
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 She chuckled and still held his arm. 
 
 "All right, I know all about that," said she. 
 "Yer dainty to it yet, aren't yer? Think yer can 
 stick it by yerself ? Just come to it, I s'pose. Ever 
 slep' out afore?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Thought so. Dainty to it that's whatcher are. 
 Likes a corner by yerself. I know. Bloody cold, 
 ain't it?" She rubbed herself in her clothes again 
 and saw the look in his face. "That's for warm," 
 she said with a grin. "You're a kid aren't yer? 
 I don't want to know nuffin' about yer. Yer meet 
 all sorts in doorways I do. 'Ow do yer feel 
 now?" 
 
 It was true, he could feel the warmth of her 
 body as she leant against him. At first it came to 
 him in a thought of how chill the wind was whistling 
 down the street outside. When she asked, he knew 
 it was the warmth of her next to him. His teeth 
 had stopped chattering. She was comfortable, no 
 doubt. Even those first feelings of revulsion slowly, 
 insensibly, were being lulled in him. He still would 
 sooner have gone, leaving her the doorway to her- 
 self, but with what excuse that must not uncharitably 
 offend her? 
 
 As he came to think of it, it was a fair exchange, 
 the warmth of her body for the warmth of his. 
 And if this were life, as, indeed, it seemed, was it 
 so horrible, or so ugly as he had at first believed? 
 
 232
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Doubtless he would have continued to find it just 
 as ugly if, as the moments went by, he had not 
 come to appreciate the difference between that door- 
 way and the naked street outside. 
 
 ' 'Ow do yer feel?" she repeated when he had 
 forgotten her question and when she had forgotten 
 she had asked it. 
 
 "All right," said he. 
 
 "Warmer?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You'll get used to it. Few weeks, and you'll 
 be lookin' out for a body in a doorway, same as I 
 do. But strange at first, ain't it? I remember the 
 first man as came and slep' up alongside of me. I 
 pushed 'im off quick enough. 'Like yer cheek,' I 
 says. 'Never mind me cheek,' 'e says. 'Yer bloom- 
 in' well keep yerself warm,' 'e says. But no like 
 a fool, I gets up and never slep' a wink that night 
 not for the cold I didn't." 
 
 Dicky smiled sleepily and, turning his head away, 
 he moved his body a little closer to hers. She was 
 quick enough in answering to it. In silence they 
 shifted about until their positions were comfortable. 
 And in that silence, Dicky felt a strong desire to 
 laugh. 
 
 Philosophy is not a science that you may learn. 
 Circumstance leads you to it, and, like a horse to 
 the water, the drinking is to your own discretion. 
 It should go ill with you if you do not grasp it then; 
 
 233
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 and to find that life in its bitterest deprivations is 
 just as funny and perhaps just as tragic as any 
 clown in a circus, that is the foundation of it all. 
 
 The moment that Dicky, discovering himself in 
 such a situation as this, conceived the desire to 
 laugh was a turning point in his life, greater than 
 that when he had left the Mill. He had come by 
 chance upon the clown in the circus, and in his own 
 despite was forced to laugh.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IT was the grey dawn that awakened him again, 
 when the feeble light of day crept timidly 
 down the streets. Life was astir once more. 
 There came to his ears the sudden rattle of milk 
 cans, the sounds of the dustmen emptying their bins. 
 But beside him, in her rags, the old woman still 
 slept on. It needed more than the light of day, or 
 the lethargic sounds of the early morning, to stir her 
 from her dreams. He looked with curiosity at her 
 face that he had only dimly seen as yet, and, though 
 he had first shuddered to find himself awake beside 
 such a bedfellow, yet there was nothing in her face 
 to bear out his disgust. 
 
 She was no longer young. Can that be said 
 against her? Her cheeks were pale and thin, but 
 there was no grossness there. It is not to be taken 
 for granted that those who live upon the streets live 
 evilly. There were patience and forbearance in the 
 repose of her lips, a certain proud contentment in 
 the closed eyes. She was old, she was ugly, she was 
 dirty, she was a pauper these were the sins against 
 her, the only sins Dicky could see. Her virtues, as 
 he had found them that night, were her common 
 16 235
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sense; she had refused to let him behave like a fool 
 because she had known the nature of folly herself, 
 and, above all, she had been fair and just in a 
 human transaction. She had lent the warmth of 
 her body, every degree of it, for the warmth of his. 
 
 He crept gently to his feet lest he should disturb 
 her, propping her weary body against the corner he 
 had left. She still slept. It needed the rough hand 
 of the law to waken her. He was conscious as he 
 came out into the street again that something had 
 been learnt by him that night. He had realised the 
 law of life which demands that you must give as you 
 would take, with an open hand, a free spirit, and a 
 heart to see the everlasting humour of it all. 
 
 Never in his life till then had Dicky realised the 
 full delight of his existence, the joyous adventure 
 of the struggle that still lay hopefully before him, 
 the glorious abandonment of chance which circum- 
 stance was free to give to all. 
 
 He came away from that doorway where he had 
 slept, and, though an empty stomach was teasing 
 every thought while the grey chill of the early 
 morning made his teeth chatter again, he hummed 
 light-heartedly to himself as he walked quickly 
 towards the Strand. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs opened his shop at half-past eight. 
 He set out to get his breakfast there. By the time 
 he reached it, the shutters were down. His own 
 picture, "The Scavenger," was hanging in the fore- 
 
 236
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 front of the window. Even his eagerness for food 
 could not prevent him from standing there a mo- 
 ment to admire it. He had not seen it in a frame 
 until then. The artist alone knows how a frame 
 will add to his self-respect. 
 
 "When Fve a studio," he muttered. "My God, 
 when I've a studio!" 
 
 There again only an artist could know all that 
 he meant by that. 
 
 At last he turned into the shop. A man he had 
 never seen before was standing behind the counter, 
 cutting out the gold mount to a frame with the little 
 pointed knife that Mr. Nibbs had always used him- 
 self. 
 
 "Where's Mr. Nibbs?" asked Dicky in some con- 
 cern. 
 
 " 'E ain't 'ere this morning." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " 'E ain't 'ere." 
 
 "I know. I can see that. Isn't he coming this 
 morning?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 The man looked at him, unexpected authority re- 
 senting these enquiries. He was in charge. If any- 
 thing was wanted, he was there to do it. 
 
 " 'E ain't comin'," he replied. "That's why I'm 
 'ere to do 'is job for 'im." 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" asked Dicky. 
 237
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 The man leant casually on the counter. He flat- 
 tered himself he knew how to deal with people of 
 this kidney. 
 
 "What's that to do with you?" he enquired. 
 
 Dicky curbed his impatience. He wanted his 
 breakfast. 
 
 "I'm an artist," he replied quietly. "Mr. Nibbs 
 sells my pictures you've got one now in the win- 
 dow in the middle of the window 'The Scaven- 
 ger,' and I want to see Mr. Nibbs most particu- 
 larly." 
 
 "Well, I'm 'ere to take any orders." 
 
 Dicky looked at him critically. These thoughts 
 of his breakfast were mastering every other con- 
 sideration. He felt the matter needed careful 
 handling. 
 
 "Well, the fact is," said he, and he grinned in 
 anticipation of the man's amazement, "the fact is, 
 I I want to borrow sixpence. I want some break- 
 fast. I'm well, I'm hungry." 
 
 It was more than mere amazement. The man 
 stood up from the counter, saying, "Well, I'm 
 damned!" And, having said it once, he said it 
 again. 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear that," remarked Dicky. 
 
 "What yer mean yer sorry to 'ear that? I am 
 damned. I never heard such a thing in my life 
 comin' in 'ere and askin' me for sixpence to get yer 
 breakfast. Why if I liked, I could get a police- 
 
 238
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 man and 'ave yer run in. Friend of Mr. Nibbsl 
 Wonder 'ow many friends Mr. Nibbs 'ud 'ave if 
 everybody was in want of a breakfast." 
 
 Dicky felt the pains of hunger, felt them the 
 more when he saw the hopelessness of his case. 
 
 "Don't you believe me, then?" he asked seriously. 
 
 "No, I don't. 'Ow am I to know who you are? 
 Mr. Nibbs 'as gone to bed with a cold, and he's put 
 me in charge 'ere to look after the shop till Vs well 
 again. I should like to see 'is face if I told 'im I 
 gave sixpence to the first person as came in and 
 said they wanted a breakfast." 
 
 "I know what he'd say," said Dicky. 
 
 "Oh, do yer?" 
 
 "Yes ; he'd say a breakfast wasn't enough to keep 
 a man alive through the day." 
 
 "Oh, would 'e? You know Mr. Nibbs very well, 
 don't cher? Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll 
 just clear out, becos I've got work to do." 
 
 Dicky regarded him cynically. He was so pleased 
 with himself, so confident of his knowledge in hu- 
 man nature. With all that confidence, the man re- 
 turned his look boldly, defiantly. He had nothing 
 to be ashamed of; nothing that Dicky could ever 
 know. The advantage was all on his side. Dicky 
 was begging for his breakfast. Poverty is a crime 
 to some, a crime with no extenuating circumstances. 
 
 "I suppose you've never been hungry," said Dicky 
 in his contempt. 
 
 239
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "No, thank yer never. I've always 'ad my 
 meals, and I've always worked for 'em." 
 
 "What a comfort that must be when you see an- 
 other man going hungry." 
 
 "Yes mustn't it! Now, look 'ere, none of your 
 lip! If you don't clear out of this shop, I'll fetch 
 a bobby to yer. Beggin' ain't permitted in this 
 country, yer know." 
 
 The chance of his breakfast was gone now. 
 Plainly he recognised that. He turned on his heel 
 and began to walk out of the shop. It was a waste 
 of time to stay there. 
 
 "I hope you'll be here when Mr. Nibbs comes 
 back," said he. "I should like to see your face 
 when I tell him." 
 
 That was poor enough satisfaction. To add to 
 it, he slammed the door as he went out, forgetting 
 the pneumatic contrivance to prevent the door from 
 slamming of itself. Expecting to hear with some 
 little gratification to his. mood the crash behind him, 
 it merely stopped some few inches from the frame, 
 then closed quietly and gently by itself. 
 
 That seemed to him quite funny. He saw the 
 humour of that and laughed out loud. Looking out 
 through a chink in the rows of pictures, the man 
 inside saw him walking away with a broad smile on 
 his face, and said he was damned again. He knew 
 that Dicky had not wanted his breakfast then. That 
 
 240
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 was not the countenance of a man who was going 
 hungry for a meal. 
 
 But Dicky smiled to himself all the way across 
 Waterloo Bridge. He could not forget his sub- 
 lime impotence with that door. He had meant the 
 slam of it to shake half the pictures in the shop, and 
 that ridiculous breathing sound was all that had 
 reached his ears. Instead of thinking of his hun- 
 ger, he drifted into a contemplation upon the use- 
 lessness of rage. 
 
 However, the need of his breakfast was still 
 there, but by now he knew where he was going to 
 get it. That night in the streets, it seemed, had 
 rid him of the folly of pride. Without so much 
 as a moment's hesitation now, he was going to Con- 
 stance with a clear conscience for company. There 
 was no accusing thought of Dorothy at his elbow; 
 he was free, free as air, and, for the first time since 
 he had left Eckington, felt glad of it. Youth is 
 quick to recognise the inevitable. If he had lost in 
 romance, he had gained in freedom, and that 
 morning, as the cold air nipped him to a spurt of 
 energy, he felt that he could fling regrets to the 
 wind that chilled him. A sight of Dorothy w r ould 
 doubtless have overthrown the airy inconsequence 
 of his humour then. But there was no Dorothy to 
 be seen, only the little girls with their novelettes in 
 their well-worn muffs, going up to their offices in 
 the West. 
 
 241
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Not one of them would have believed that that 
 striding figure, full of energy, the collar of his coat 
 turned up, his hands deep-thrust within his pockets, 
 could ever have slept in the streets the night before, 
 or was aching and empty for a meal. Insensibly, 
 as Dicky passed them all, they quickened their steps. 
 He was carrying energy like a current with him. 
 They saw him cross the Strand and dart up Drury 
 Lane. More than one of them perhaps had won- 
 dered who he was. 
 
 Reaching the oil shop at the corner of Great 
 Queen Street, he did not pause as he had done the 
 night before, but marched straight in, breathing the 
 old familiar smells of paraffin, oils and soap. 
 
 A new boy was behind the counter, cleaning his 
 hands with an oily rag. 
 
 "Run upstairs," said Dicky, "and tell Miss Bald- 
 win there's a gentleman in the shop to see her." 
 
 Energy was there in his voice, too, and the boy 
 ran with the oily rag in his hand. 
 
 He heard her footsteps descending the stairs. 
 With heart beating, he stood there waiting until 
 she should turn the corner of that bundle of brooms. 
 
 And when she saw who it was her heart was up 
 in her mouth, too. 
 
 "Dicky!" she cried. 
 
 A welcome is worth having on an empty stomach. 
 He swallowed his emotion, felt giddy, and knew 
 just how hungry he was. 
 
 242
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 EXCITED and with an eagerness she had no 
 reason or desire to conceal, she took him 
 upstairs to the sitting room above the shop, 
 holding his hand, dragging him after her. 
 
 "Mother's in bed," she said. "Went to a theay- 
 ter last night; goes out with some friends after- 
 wards to their 'ouse and doesn't get 'ome till two 
 o'clock this morning. Coin' it, ain't she? My 
 Lord! You've come back again! Never thought 
 you would, yer know. Never thought it not once." 
 
 She closed the door of the sitting room behind 
 them and came back to take a long look at him. 
 Just gladness, just pleasure would not describe the 
 joy she had in seeing him once more. She had kept 
 her promise, had been true to the letter of her 
 word. From the day when they had parted she 
 had never sent for him, never troubled him; had 
 counted him lost and steeled herself with a fine cour- 
 age to face the knowledge that her heart was bank- 
 rupt. 
 
 Now he had returned why, she did not wait to 
 question. He was there, of his own accord and all 
 the hope of which her nature was possessed rose 
 
 243
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 triumphantly to greet him. Yet what it was she 
 hoped for, she could not have said. Every sensa- 
 tion was nameless to her in those moments, except 
 the joy of seeing him. 
 
 "'Eavens! This is good!" she exclaimed, and 
 put her hands on his shoulders, turning his face 
 to the light. "How are you gettin' on? What are 
 you doin'? Still at Greenwich all ships, ain't it? 
 Sold any more pictures? D'yer remember that man 
 we'd a row with the picture-framer? Saw 'im the 
 other day passed 'im in the street. You should 
 'ave seen 'im look at me. What did I do? I burst 
 out laughin'. Why what's the matter with yer? 
 You look as white as a sheet. What's 'appened?" 
 
 He smiled smiled with as much confidence as he 
 could. 
 
 "I'm so hungry," he said simply. "I haven't had 
 anything since yesterday morning, and last night I 
 had to sleep out in the streets" he laughed now as 
 he thought of it "a doorway in Wigmore Street." 
 
 She asked no more questions, where a man would 
 have asked a thousand. The next instant she had 
 seated him in a chair and had left the room. Be- 
 fore almost he had understood her going she was 
 back again with plates and cup and saucer in her 
 hand. Not another word did she say to him until 
 he was seated at the table, eagerly eating the food 
 she had placed before him. 
 
 To wait upon his urgent needs, to minister to his 
 244
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 slightest wants, indeed, she was in her element then. 
 There might be no help she could give him in his 
 work, but this, with nothing forgotten, not a thing 
 he might ask for omitted, here she could excel. By 
 the side of his plate she placed matches and a packet 
 of cigarettes and then sat down to watch him eat. 
 When for a while he had eaten in silence, he looked 
 up at her, into her eyes, smiling with all self-confi- 
 dence returned. Her heart jumped up to meet that 
 glance, for it was into her eyes he had looked. 
 
 "I wonder if the poor wretch I slept with last 
 night is eating a breakfast like this now," said he, 
 and, once she heard him speak of his own accord, 
 she knew she could question him then, could gratify 
 the curiosity that had begun to burn in her from 
 the moment she had laid the last dish on the table. 
 
 From the day he entered Monsieur Marco's atelier 
 to the day he left, he told her everything. But now, 
 had he had judgment of himself, he would have 
 been amazed at the humour he found in it all. 
 Again and again he brought the laughter to her lips 
 as he described that amazing trickster with his yards 
 of pictures and his consummate conceit. And when 
 it came to describing the portrait of Madame 
 Marco in her gaudy gown, he laughed aloud him- 
 self, was like a boy again, and all because he had 
 learnt the give and take in life from the woman 
 with whom he had shared his doorway, all because 
 chance had led him into the circus where every man 
 
 245
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 who will may be a clown to make life go the merrier. 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do now?" she 
 asked, not daring to hope that he would ever be a 
 debtor to her bounty once again. "Are yer goin' 
 'ome?" With apprehension quivering in her, play- 
 ing a thin note of trepidation in her voice, she ut- 
 tered the thing she feared. When he shook his 
 head, her eyes lit up once more; she drew the breath 
 deep down into her breast. 
 
 "I've been home," said he. "I went home about 
 a fortnight ago. I was going to stay the night. 
 That was my idea, but the pater didn't seem to 
 share it." 
 
 " 'E turned you out?" 
 
 "Something like that." 
 
 "My Gawd! What a father!" 
 
 "I don't believe he liked it any more than I did," 
 said Dicky, for now, in retrospect, he seemed to 
 understand that stormy interview better than he 
 had. 
 
 "What did your sister say?" 
 
 "She was for coming with me." 
 
 "So would I. I like your sister." 
 
 "Yes but surely that would have been too ter- 
 rible for him. Anne's all he's got now." 
 
 "And the other? What did she say?" 
 
 Here was the thin note of apprehension once 
 more. He had told her all about Dorothy; it was 
 
 246
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Dorothy she knew he had been home to Eckington 
 to see. 
 
 "She didn't know," said Dicky. 
 
 "Didn't know?" 
 
 "No it happened after I'd seen her." 
 
 "Why didn't you go back and tell 'er?" 
 
 "Because" he screwed up his lips, but there was 
 no good his pretending that he did not care, that 
 he had not been hurt, or had forgotten the pain of it 
 by this "because I'd found out already that she 
 didn't care for me any more. She's, going to be 
 married." 
 
 Then he looked up at her and smiled a smile 
 that would have brought the heart out of any woman 
 with less sympathy to her nature than Constance. 
 For, beside the pain she felt for him, there cried 
 aloud in her the triumphant belief that she could 
 be to him what no Dorothy had ever been; beside 
 the memory she knew he still cherished was the 
 knowledge that he was there beside her, without a 
 home, without money, even hungry for a meal, per- 
 haps hungry for love as well, and she was there to 
 give him one and all of them. 
 
 So, when she realised what he had told her, out 
 came her hand across the table, and the grip of 
 her fingers was better than words. With instinctive 
 discretion, she made no comment. It is not often 
 one woman knows when to refrain from criticising 
 
 247
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 another; but here Constance was wise with the wis- 
 dom of love, and she was silent. 
 
 "And what are you going to do now?" she asked 
 at last. 
 
 He shook his head and laughed. 
 
 "To tell you the honest truth," said he, "I was 
 going on sleeping in the streets like I did last night 
 till Mr. Nibbs came back to the shop again. Other 
 people do, my goodness ! It isn't such a terrible 
 thing, after all. It's worst just now, I suppose, this 
 time of year. But it won't be for long, you know. 
 Mr. Nibbs'll be back in a few days; I can work in 
 his shop then if I can't get anything else. Anyhow, 
 I've paid for my night classes. They can't stop me 
 from going to them. Food's the only thing. I 
 had to come to you this morning." 
 
 She let him say it all, smiling as she listened. It 
 was such nonsense, such delightful nonsense when 
 he talked like that. It was so sublimely conceivable 
 to think of her lying in a warm bed while all night 
 long he shivered in an open doorway. When he 
 had done talking his nonsense, she laughed. 
 
 "Now you listen to me," she said. "Up in the 
 top of the 'ouse there's a bedroom where I stood 
 once, 'olding a slop-pail while you put a little 'uman 
 interest into yer picture that's where you're goin' 
 to sleep, an' no foolin' about it, either. D'yer think 
 I could sleep 'ere for five minutes if I thought you 
 
 248
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 was out in the streets? Where's yer bag of 
 things?" 
 
 "I left it at the Polytechnic last night." 
 
 "Well, you bloomin' well go and get it, and I'll 
 tell mother she's got a lodger." 
 
 "But, Connie, I I can't pay." 
 
 "No and 'oo's asked yer to? Don't be such 
 a blitherin' idiot. 'Ow can yer pay when yer 'aven't 
 got it? If it's got to be paid, I'll pay it. But I 
 know what mother'll say. Do you remember the 
 day you were on yer bed cryin', an' she come up 
 and found yer there?" 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 "Well, she ain't forgotten that yet. There's 
 somethin' .of the old fool in mother. She's got a 
 'eart, soft like putty. She ain't fit to be left alone, 
 yer know. You go and fetch yer bag of things and 
 come back 'ere. I'll see to 'er." 
 
 With the comforting sensation of being managed 
 over matters he was far too inconsequent to manage 
 for himself, Dicky departed, and, when he returned, 
 found Mrs. Baldwin with her hair in curling pins, 
 serving in the shop. 
 
 A broad smile of welcome spread over her face 
 as she saw him. She winked knowingly, as though 
 something were up, and, when the customer 'had 
 gone, beckoned him to a back part of the premises, 
 where they were hidden behind the bundles of 
 brooms and all those numberless things that de- 
 
 249
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 pend from the ceiling in an overcrowded oil-man's 
 shop. 
 
 "Don't tell Constance," she whispered. "Don't 
 say a word about it to 'er when you go upstairs, but 
 you're to 'ave that room you 'ad before, with break- 
 fast just the same, and I don't want no pay for it; 
 but for Gawd's sake don't tell Constance ! She'd 
 let in to me like a cat for givin' that room away 
 for nothing. She told me about yer yer must 'a 
 been cold. Thank Gawd, I've never slep' in the 
 streets meself. I said we'd 'ave to do somethin' 
 for yer, and she says sharp at once, yer know, like 
 she is, 'Don't you go and let 'im 'ave the room for 
 nothin',' she says. Well, I 'adn't thought of that, 
 yer see; but that's the only thing to do. It don't 
 cost me nothin', not 'avin' any lodger there now. 
 'Don't you go and let 'im 'ave the room for nothin',' 
 she says but that's what I'm goin' to do, and you 
 let on you're payin' me later, see. I don't ever 
 want the money. Gawd knows I should be glad of 
 anyone givin' me a bed if I was down an' out. But 
 you let on, see 'cos she's got 'er' ead on 'er shoul- 
 ders. She don't give things away for nuthin'. She's 
 got more sense'n what I 'ave. Now up yer go and 
 put yer bag in your old room. The bed's not made 
 up yet but I'll see to it at dinner time." 
 
 It all took Dicky's breath away. When at the 
 top of the stairs he met Constance, he scarcely knew 
 what to say. 
 
 250
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 "I've got to put my bag in the room," he replied. 
 
 "And tell me nothin' about it eh? She's an 
 easy one to manage, she is. Just tell 'er not to do 
 a thin', and I'm blowed if she can 'elp 'erself from 
 doin' it." 
 
 She stopped suddenly. The look of laughter 
 went out of her eyes. She put her hands on his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Dicky!" she whispered. 
 
 For an instant, as he paused, he thought of Dor- 
 othy then thought no more. It was not only his 
 breakfast he had needed. There flashed across his 
 mind what Madame Marco had said. Madame 
 Marco was right. 
 
 17
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 FOR the first few days Dicky and Constance 
 were as shy of each other as children to 
 whom the world is new and every emotion 
 a magic revelation. By silent and a common con- 
 sent they never alluded to their last parting. Al- 
 most it might never have happened. They might 
 have been meeting for the first time, only that the 
 spirit of the inevitable was conscious to both of 
 them whenever they met or spoke. It was inevi- 
 table that the day would come when this barrier of 
 reserve would tumble before the importunate de- 
 mands of nature. With trembling anticipation, 
 thrilling at a look, both waited until that day should 
 come, half afraid to face it, wholly joyed in their 
 hearts for the moment when it should be. 
 
 When, almost distantly, they bid each other good- 
 night, departing to their rooms, it was with pulses 
 throbbing, to lie awake until the small hours brought 
 them sleep. Through all her songs in the music- 
 hall, Constance sang to her thoughts of him. In 
 all his work at the night classes Dicky was conscious 
 of her. 
 
 Both of them were living at the very jaws of a 
 252
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 volcano; both of them could feel the burning earth 
 beneath their feet. Yet the days sped on, and 
 Dicky still trembled on the verge; only in moments 
 dared Constance let her eyes meet with his. 
 
 "Don't yer like 'im so much as yer used to?" 
 asked Mrs. Baldwin one day. 
 
 And, being that soft-hearted fool of a mother to 
 whom no daughter in her senses bares her heart, 
 Constance merely shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I like 'im well enough." 
 ' 'E's quite a gentleman, yer know," said Mrs. 
 Baldwin, and, without appreciating why, Constance 
 found that chilled her to the heart. The blood ran 
 with a sudden shudder through her veins. She 
 shivered. 
 
 "Got a chill?" asked her mother. 
 
 "Ghost walking over my grave," she replied. 
 
 For the moment she tried bravely to face the 
 thought that had chilled her; then, with the philos- 
 ophy of one who needs no devil till the journey's 
 done, she put it out of her mind. 
 
 It was into the future, almost unconsciously, she 
 had looked. And it is the future that every woman 
 dreads. The accumulation of years, the years that 
 will be good and the years that will be bad, they 
 all lie there in wait for her. For the full bloom 
 of her youth, that is her greatest achievement. 
 When that is passed, the best is a graceful failure 
 
 253
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 when the heart may still be young and the eyes 
 deny it. 
 
 Yet it was not so far as this that Constance 
 looked. In that moment she had seen an end of 
 joy before those years had run, then thrust the ugly 
 vision from her mind. It is given to every woman 
 to prophesy out of her heart. Constance had been 
 prophetic then. 
 
 That night she lay long awake, but in the morn- 
 ing the present was with her again. Once more she 
 found herself on the very verge of that moment 
 which she knew must come, and, as her eyes met 
 Dicky's across the breakfast table, involuntarily she 
 drew a deeper breath. 
 
 It was three days later when Mrs. Baldwin an- 
 nounced her intention of going to a theatre again, 
 of stopping out with her friends, maybe to supper, 
 that the same thought rushed simultaneously to their 
 minds. Dicky tried to smile, but it was Constance 
 who succeeded. With a voice sounding unnatural 
 to her, unnatural to the quick ears of Dicky, too, 
 she teased her mother for her frivolity. 
 
 "Nice way to go on at your age," said she. 
 "Where are you goin'?" 
 
 "Over to the Elephant and Castle. I like them 
 melodramas, yer know. I suppose they couldn't 
 'appen really, but they don't waste no time talkin'. 
 There's always somethin' to watch. Cheatin' at 
 cards an' fightin' that's what I like. Makes yer 
 
 254
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 feel as if yer was seem' somethin' for yer money 
 don't it?" 
 
 This was an evening when Dicky had no night 
 class to attend. Without telling Constance, he went 
 to the Holborn Music Hall, where she was then 
 appearing, and, taking a seat in the gallery, waited 
 for her entrance. 
 
 In the stifling atmosphere he sat with the perspi- 
 ration glittering on his forehead, drenching his 
 hands. He knew, as Constance knew as well, that 
 that evening was the moment in their lives when 
 chance and fate and all the destinies of lovers held 
 their offerings in their hands. 
 
 As the curtain rang up on her number he swal- 
 lowed nervously, leaning forward in his seat. Hers 
 was not a popular turn. She came on early 
 in the evening, but there was always that in her 
 appearance which called for a flutter of applause. 
 She had found the art of making herself attractive 
 to these people. Her figure was worth all the 
 trouble she took to dress it, the shoulders full, the 
 ankles fine, the neck and head well set to make men 
 pleased with her. Beauty might never be granted 
 her, though her eyes had beauty in themselves. Big 
 brown eyes she had, keen with pride, sparkling with 
 courage. Her mouth was large, still there was 
 beauty there, never the pursed prettiness, but a gen- 
 erosity that none could fail to see. It was her nose 
 that cancelled beauty, yet made the charm and char- 
 
 255
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 acter of her face. With a sudden unexpected lift, 
 it turned up to irresistible humour. You saw that 
 there all beauty had been lost, yet never missed it 
 for the character you found instead. 
 
 This was the impression which brought that will- 
 ing loan of approval from everyone. Before she 
 had sung a word they were prepared to like her, 
 and when Dicky heard the clapping of hands about 
 him, with hot cheeks he clapped his perspiring hands 
 as well. 
 
 And then she sang one of those songs which, 
 like Monsieur Marco's pictures, could have been 
 written by the yard. Dicky felt his cheeks still hot- 
 ter as he listened. He knew she was no good. Not 
 all the passionate anticipation in his mind could de- 
 ceive him as to that. Yet his heart went out to her, 
 nevertheless, as she gave it forth. It was the pluck 
 of it he felt, no other quality but that. Often she 
 had told him how she knew she could not sing, and 
 that every time she went on to the stage she more 
 clearly realised her hopeless inefficiency. He knew 
 she was trembling then as she sang, for, as she 
 had once said to him, she always thought of the 
 people in the audience who could probably sing 
 much better than she and what damned cheek they 
 must think it. Never receiving that full burst of 
 applause, she always anticipated the sound of hiss- 
 ing when her song was done. 
 
 256
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I think if I was 'issed," she had told him, "I 
 could never show my face on the stage again." 
 
 It was that he knew she was anticipating then. 
 Wherefore, when the last chords were played, 
 Dicky applauded with all his might. Indeed, 
 it was forced from him by the realisation of her 
 pluck, whereupon, caught by the spirit of his en- 
 thusiasm, there set up a clapping of hands all round 
 him. The curtain went up again. She came on once 
 more, and bowed. At last the conductor in the or- 
 chestra nodded his head, he tapped his baton on the 
 rest. She had received an encore. She was to sing 
 again. 
 
 As soon as her turn was over, Dicky left his seat 
 in the gallery, coming downstairs out into the cooler 
 air. He felt he could bear the stifling atmos- 
 phere no longer. At that height above the stage 
 his senses seemed to be swimming, yet he knew it 
 was not the height alone, but the thoughts of Con- 
 stance, and the anticipation of that evening which 
 was theirs. 
 
 No word had passed between them as to how 
 they should spend it together. They had been too 
 shy even for that. 
 
 "Have you a night class this evening?" 
 
 This was the only question she had put to him, 
 and, when he had shaken his head, both of them 
 had understood without further need of speech. 
 
 Waiting upon the other side of the street, it was 
 257
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 his intention when she came out to accompany her 
 home. But those moments before she made her 
 appearance were long in passing. His heart jumped 
 up, quickening his breath at the sight of every fig- 
 ure emerging from the dark passage that led to the 
 stage door, so that, when at last she did appear, he 
 felt the nervous sickness of a lover who knows that 
 the hour of his deliverance has come. For the mo- 
 ment he could not move to follow her, but stood 
 there with leaping pulses, watching her as she hur- 
 ried away in the direction of Drury Lane. 
 
 By the time he reached Great Queen Street she 
 was but thirty yards ahead of him. He slackened 
 his pace and let her enter the house, watched her 
 close the door before he came up. Then, when it 
 seemed he had waited a lifetime, he, too, went in, 
 slowly mounting the stairs to the sitting room. He 
 was even passing the door, was even continuing his 
 way to that attic room above, when her voice called 
 him. 
 
 "Are you going upstairs to work?" she asked. 
 
 "I was," said he. 
 
 She looked at him timidly. 
 
 "Can I be any good? Do you want me to pose 
 for anything?" 
 
 "No I'm cutting a wood-block." 
 
 He felt it was going all wrong; that, unless he 
 said something, he would find himself making his 
 way up to that attic room alone. He tried to think 
 
 258
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of something that might be said by him, but 
 his mind refused to act. It was Constance who was 
 equal to the occasion, the danger of which she, too, 
 had realised herself. 
 
 " 'Ave a bit of supper first," she said. "I brought 
 a bit of fried fish in." 
 
 He watched her laying the table, as she had laid 
 it that morning for his breakfast, his eyes taking 
 in every perfection that he found in her. 
 
 ' 'Ad an encore to-night," she said, as she sat 
 down. 
 
 "I know," said he. "I was there." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 Her cheeks were scarlet. She knew what he must 
 have thought. She could face those people in the 
 theatre, but not him. 
 
 "Up in the gallery." 
 
 "Why, all the clappin' came from there!" 
 
 "Did it?" said he. 
 
 "Did you do it?" 
 
 "No we all did. Everybody liked it." 
 
 It flew to her tongue to ask him did he, but she 
 shut her lips in time. If he did not, it would be 
 pain to him to say so. With an effort, she went on 
 with her meal in silence. 
 
 "Why didn't you wait to see it all?" she enquired 
 presently. "There are some good turns later." 
 
 "It was the heat up there in the gallery, I sup- 
 259
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 pose," he replied. "I felt as if my head were going 
 to burct." 
 
 "Did you go away directly after then?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Funny I didn't see you comin' back." 
 
 He caught the sound of that note of excitement 
 in her voice. She had realised he had been there 
 only to see her. The thought came to him then to 
 put out his hand across the table, but she had risen 
 and was beginning to clear away the dishes. 
 
 Later when the supper was done and their ciga- 
 rettes were lighted, he crossed deliberately to the 
 lamp that stood on the modern mahogany side- 
 board, as deliberately turned it down, as deliberately 
 put it out. 
 
 When he turned she was standing there, black 
 against the firelight, and even at that distance he 
 knew she was trembling as much as he. 
 
 "Why did you do that?" she asked. Her voice 
 was on her breath. She had no power to produce 
 the full note of it. 
 
 "Because the firelight's nicer. Everything in that 
 lamplight's hard it's hard even to talk. Do you 
 mind?" 
 
 She shook her head, pulled an armchair out by 
 the fireside, and looked to him to take it. 
 
 "You," said he. 
 
 Her head gave him the negative again. Before 
 he could insist, she had dropped to the floor and 
 
 260
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 was settling her feet like a tailor's, crossed before 
 her. 
 
 For a long while they were silent. In such a 
 light, at such a moment, speech is indeed a superflu- 
 ous thing. The firelight danced on their faces; on 
 hers, watching the bubbling gases that hissed and 
 flamed and blew out their thin streams of smoke; 
 on his, that gazed in passionate contemplation of 
 her. There was no need for her to look up. She 
 knew he was watching her and left it to chance who 
 should speak first or what should be said. Those 
 were moments of absolute contentment. She was 
 sure of him then. It needed only the waiting, and 
 such was the joy of that delay she would not have 
 lost it or altered one instant of it then. 
 
 Even at last, when Dicky did speak, she never 
 turned her head, but still looked on into the heat 
 of the glowing embers, knowing that this was the 
 moment of her heart and soul's achievement, that all 
 the past and all the future were as one in her then. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, "that after that time 
 when I went down to Greenwich, after we'd said 
 good-bye do you know that I suffered terribly with 
 remorse?" 
 
 "I knew you would," she replied. 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 261
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 He glanced at her face, still gazing at the fire. 
 
 "When I went home that time," he continued 
 presently, "I I told Dorothy not who it was, but 
 I told her." 
 
 Now she looked up at him. 
 
 "Before she'd told yer about the other man?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He might have seen her eyes glitter 
 
 "You're not a funk are yer?" 
 
 "I don't know," said he. "I couldn't have let 
 her think that there'd been nothing like that." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "That she'd guessed it all along that she'd 
 known when I came to London that it would hap- 
 pen." 
 
 Constance looked up quickly into his eyes. 
 
 "Oh she'd guessed it 'ad she? What 'ad she 
 got to guess by? Eh? How did she know yer so 
 well as to guess that?" 
 
 Dicky looked back straightly at her, believing 
 then that he might lose her. There was no need to 
 answer her question. He realised she knew without 
 his answering. 
 
 "Now do you hate me, too?" he said at last. 
 
 She rose from her tailor's posture, crawled across 
 the floor to his side, leaning her elbows on his knees 
 and staring up close into his face. 
 
 "I wouldn't care what you did," she whispered. 
 "I don't believe yer could do anythin' that wasn't 
 
 262
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 straight. And, thank God, I don't believe yer could 
 do anythin' as wasn't 'uman. She'd known that 
 about me all the time, 'ad she? Well I'd known 
 that all the time about 'er. Women know about 
 women from one end of the world to the other. 
 They don't want to meet each other. It's quite 
 enough to meet the man as soine of 'em 'as been in 
 love with." 
 
 She lifted her elbows and her arms crept round 
 his neck. 
 
 '"Ate yer?" she whispered. "My Gawd! I 
 shouldn't 'ave thought it was possible to love a man 
 like I love you. You're such a kid and such a man, 
 and you're cleverer than anybody I've ever met in 
 all my life I know I don't know what I'm saying 
 but " 
 
 And so she murmured on, almost with incoher- 
 ence, in the overwhelming burden of her love. She 
 had no words to speak it all, just looks and eager 
 gestures, broken phrases and caresses of her hands. 
 
 And Dicky, who had thought he had known what 
 love could be, was bewildered, overcome. The halt- 
 ing words broke on his ears, the caressing hands 
 touched his eyes, and he could not answer, had no 
 power to bid her stay. If this was the love a woman 
 could give, he wondered had Dorothy ever loved 
 him at all. 
 
 "Are yer ever goin' to feel remorse now?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 263
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 It was then amazement left him. He took her 
 madly in his arms. It was not only she who could 
 love; it was not she alone whose hands could caress, 
 whose lips could kiss. Now his hands wildly were 
 stroking her eyes, her cheeks, her hair. He held her 
 and she was his. He let her go, then caught her to 
 him again. No moment was there for her to 
 breathe. He crushed the breath from her and heard 
 the broken sobs by which she tried in vain to re- 
 gain it. 
 
 "My little child," he muttered, "my little wife!" 
 
 He knew what he had said. With full intention 
 he had meant to say it; yet at the sound of the word 
 involuntarily his arms relaxed their hold. In that 
 instant she was free of him and, with panting breath, 
 was standing there staring with wonder into his 
 face. 
 
 "Dicky!" she whispered. 
 
 "I meant it," said he quickly. "I meant it then 
 and I mean it now. Why? Why do you look like 
 that?" 
 
 She shook her head and slowly she dropped down 
 again to her posture on the floor. 
 
 The strain had snapped. He had snapped it 
 snapped it with the weight of something more won- 
 derful than she had ever dreamed. For a moment 
 he stayed where she had left him, then, realising by 
 instinct part of all that was passing in her mind, he 
 knelt down on the floor beside her. 
 
 264
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I mean it," he whispered again. "Why do you 
 think I don't? My God! I never meant anything 
 more in my life. We're going to be married at 
 once if we can." 
 
 She gave no answer, but looked up to his eyes. 
 For a moment he saw in hers that gratitude which 
 only women know the meaning of; then tears 
 flooded it out. He found her crying and sobbing in 
 his arms.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 DICKY had placed a temptation before the 
 mind of Constance which was the more 
 subtle and the more poignant because of 
 its absolute surprise. This talk of marriage she 
 never for one moment had expected. It had never 
 entered her thoughts. He was quite a gentleman, 
 Mrs. Baldwin had said it; but she had known it 
 from the first. The highest summit of her hope 
 when he had left the oil shop in Drury Lane was 
 that one day he would return, if only for so brief a 
 time as that which they had enjoyed together. 
 
 Even when she had learnt from him of Dorothy, 
 had realised that then no rival stood upon her path, 
 her greatest ambition was that the months might 
 slip by into a year or more, before the inevitable 
 future took him from her. 
 
 Then, out of the radiant blue had come this bolt 
 from heaven. He had asked her to marry him, 
 and almost all that night she lay awake, never once 
 closing her eyes, but counting in the fever of her 
 mind the rights that were hers to consent, then 
 weighing them involuntarily against obstacles her 
 conscience thrust before her eyes. 
 
 266
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 At three o'clock in the morning, when the chime 
 of the Law Courts clock had just dimly reached her 
 ears and then was drowned by all the other bells of 
 Covent Garden, she crept out of bed to light her 
 candles. Placing them on the dressing-table, she 
 stood before the mirror, appealing to her beauty 
 for the answer she most yearned to give. 
 
 Her eyes looked tired, but that was want of sleep. 
 In the morning they would be bright again. But 
 when they were often tired and the years had gath- 
 ered in them, would he be proud of her then? What 
 help would she be to him? There were painters 
 she had heard spoken of almost with reverence, 
 surely with respect. How would she seem as a wife 
 of such a one? Through the thin gossamer of her 
 dainty night dress she could see the dim line of her 
 figure. That would be a help to him. She could sit 
 for his pictures. He could not afford a model now. 
 When she thought of any other woman taking 
 her place in that respect she knew that she would be 
 at his service at all times. He was poor, too, and 
 she was making money. There she could help again. 
 But that help could be given without marriage. All 
 the things she could possibly do for him, they could 
 all be given without that. 
 
 Yet there was herself to consider. But when she 
 
 forced her mind to rise in her own defence, there 
 
 came in overpowering realisation the knowledge of 
 
 her own inefficiency. He had not even said he liked 
 
 18 267
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 her singing. She felt no interest in it herself. It 
 was a means of making money, relieving her of de- 
 pendence upon her mother; but that was all. There 
 was no future for her. She had fine eyes, she knew 
 that, a figure, too, and a mouth that brought men to 
 her. But what would they be in a few years when 
 he had conquered his world and was great, as she 
 knew he would be, amongst men? 
 
 Clasping her hands about her face, she cried out 
 in the misery of her doubt. Why had he ever 
 spoken of it? Why had he not left things just as 
 they were, instead of torturing her with this tempta- 
 tion? Why had that word ever left his lips? How 
 infinitely simple it would have been without it. And 
 yet, because of it, she appreciated her love of him 
 all the more. 
 
 There was no one she could ask; no one whose 
 advice would aid her to decision. She knew well 
 what her mother would say and, talking all this 
 time as she was to herself, she imitated her mother's 
 voice aloud. 
 
 "Well, my dear, if he's in love with you what I 
 mean it's 'is lookout isn't it? 'Course, I knew 'e 
 was a nice boy, I've always said 'e was a gentleman, 
 and it isn't as if you'd dragged 'im into it. Besides, 
 marriage is always better than the other thing 
 ain't it? But you must please yerself. I'm not the 
 match-makin' sort." 
 
 And then she laughed at the utter futility of it, 
 268
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 for that, indeed, was what her mother would have 
 said. But whom could she ask? Not Dicky him- 
 self. He would not listen to her for a moment. 
 He was in love with her, "Thank God for thatl" 
 she muttered, and in the impetuous impulse of his 
 nature would hear no word of doubt, or contemplate 
 the faintest deprecation of her perfections. 
 
 Was there no one, beknown to him or her, who 
 could in such a pass afford her counsel? She 
 thought of his father, then laughed the thought 
 away. A man who could turn his son out of the 
 house would never appreciate a situation such as 
 this. His sister? With the gentle up-bringing she 
 knew Anne must have had, no sympathy in the world 
 could make her understand. No, a woman was not 
 the person. Instinctively she knew that a woman in 
 this matter would take her part. Such a woman as 
 Anne would never consider any possibility but their 
 marriage. 
 
 It must be a man, and a man who knew Dicky, 
 too, who had those interests at heart which, against 
 all thought of herself, she realised must be consid- 
 ered. And as she did this battle in her mind, there 
 came to her the remembrance of Mr. Nibbs. Dicky 
 had told her a great deal about him, about the little 
 print-seller's interest in his work, of the evenings in 
 Greenwich they had spent together. 
 
 He was the man! With sudden conviction she 
 269
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 deliberately blew out the candles, creeping back to 
 her bed, whispering again and again to herself, 
 "Why did he ask me, oh, why did he ask me?" until 
 she fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE next morning Constance stayed late in 
 bed to avoid their meeting at breakfast and 
 when she had made sure from the sound of 
 hammering that Dicky was working on his wood- 
 block in the attic room dressed quickly and went out. 
 
 As she passed through the shop Mrs. Baldwin 
 called to her from her desk behind the boxes of 
 scented soaps. 
 
 "Where are you off to in that get-up?" she en- 
 quired. "Got yer best clothes on, 'aven't yer?" 
 
 "An' what's that matter?" demanded Constance. 
 "P'r'aps I'm goin' to see an agent, yer never know." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin humbly returned to the entries in 
 her ledger. She never asked her daughter more 
 than one question when she needed information. 
 One question was sufficient, to which she either re- 
 ceived the information for which she sought, or was 
 checked, as now, when it was plain to be seen that 
 all further enquiry was useless. 
 
 "Anythin' else you want to know?" asked Con- 
 stance at the door. She knew she was being aggres- 
 sive but could not help herself. Her mother's notice 
 of her best clothes had brought to her conscious 
 
 271
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 mind the reason she had put them on. In this going 
 to see Mr. Nibbs, she was putting much to the haz- 
 ard, and human nature would have been wanting in 
 her had she not taken every available advantage. 
 
 Not daring to risk a meeting wiih Dicky again 
 until this mission was fulfilled, she had determined 
 that Mr. Nibbs should see her at her best and, in 
 the anticipation of their interview, her mind was 
 ready for aggression. 
 
 "Anythin' else you want to know?" she had asked, 
 and the line of her upper lip was not so full then as 
 Nature had designed it. 
 
 Her mother looked up, caught that expression, 
 and lost all desire to be told anything. She shook 
 her head, a moment later peering round the pile 
 of soap boxes to make sure her daughter had gone. 
 
 "She 'as got a temper, that girl," she muttered to 
 herself, as she added up a column of farthings. 
 "Never shows it, I will say, no more than that; but 
 I wouldn't like to be the one to upset 'er." Having 
 delivered herself of which reflections aloud, Mrs. 
 Baldwin found she must add up her line of farthings 
 again. 
 
 It was a habit in the Baldwin family that the 
 women talked to themselves and talked aloud when 
 they were alone. By some subconscious process of 
 the mind (for they were never aware of the habit) 
 they modulated the sound of their voices in accord- 
 ance with the occasion. In the quietness of the shop, 
 
 272
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 for instance, when Mrs. Baldwin knew she was 
 alone, her voice rose up to the pitch of ordinary con- 
 versation, while Constance, hurrying through the 
 streets, reduced her voice to an inaudible murmur. 
 
 "You're a little fool, aren't you?" she muttered, 
 as she crossed the broad bridge where the sea-gulls 
 were gathering from a storm at sea. "Only for 'is 
 sayin' that, you'd never 'ave been upset at all. Why 
 'don't yer put it out of yer 'ead and 'ave done with it 
 straight away? Yer can't keep 'im no better if yer 
 are married to 'im. Marryin' 'im won't stop 'im 
 from bein' successful, and then it'll only be a trouble 
 for 'im to get rid of yer." 
 
 Partly in her own defence, she divined that it 
 would be a trouble anyway. Dicky, she believed, 
 was not the man to treat a woman ill. Out of his 
 own mind, when he knew she was his without asking, 
 he had proposed marriage to her. He would always 
 find it difficult to put her away whatever their rela- 
 tionship might be. 
 
 But why was she worrying herself like this? Why 
 did she not refuse to marry him straight away, let- 
 ting it all take the course that she had seen for it, 
 before he ever mentioned that binding word? 
 
 It would be well-nigh impossible to say what mar- 
 riage means to a woman when she loves. For the 
 greater her love, the more possible it is for her to 
 understand that no law but love is binding. Yet it 
 is only the decadent woman who, falling by ill-for- 
 
 273
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 tune upon an exaggerated opinion of her powers of 
 intelligence, it is only she who would choose a life 
 of freedom. Nature does not admit of many of 
 these, and Constance certainly was not one of them. 
 
 In those quieter depths of her heart where the 
 surface of belief remains unruffled, she knew that 
 she would sooner be married than not. Yet beside 
 that belief and just as sure as it, was the conviction 
 that it was not in honest justice to him. 
 
 So she wrestled in her heart until the door of the 
 little print-seller's shop was reached and she found 
 herself face to face with the round-faced little man 
 whose eyes looked up through the old horn spec- 
 tacles, twinkling with pleasure at the sight of her. 
 
 "Yes, miss?" he said. 
 
 She coughed, nervously, but came quickly and 
 bravely to her point. 
 
 "You've got a picture in the window," she replied, 
 "by Mr. Furlong." 
 
 He nodded. Emily's eyes appeared above her 
 novelette. 
 
 "What, what is it worth I mean, is it very 
 good?" 
 
 "I'll show it to yer," said he. 
 
 She held out her hand and detained him. 
 
 "No, I've seen it outside. What I want to know 
 is, is it very good?" 
 
 "Don't you think it is, miss?" 
 
 "Yes, I do; but then I don't know." 
 274
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 It was going to be harder than she had imagined. 
 Men are never quick to know that a woman is not 
 saying all she means. 
 
 "Do you want to buy it?" he enquired. 
 
 "No, I'm sorry, I couldn't afford two pounds 
 ten." 
 
 "It's worth it," declared Mr. Nibbs; "I sold one 
 a week or two ago." 
 
 "Four weeks," said Emily from her corner. 
 
 "Four weeks," repeated Mr. Nibbs. 
 ' 'Ave yer got any others?" Constance asked. 
 
 "Yes, a coloured wood-block, the first one 'e ever 
 did the first I ever see, too." He brought it out 
 from the window. "What d'yer think of that? 
 That sort of way of doin' 'em, that's 'is own idea. 
 I was all against it at first, but 'e stuck to it would 
 'ave it 'is own way. And he'll make his name with 
 them things one of these days." 
 
 "'Ow much is this?" 
 
 "Ain't for sale, miss. I put it in the window, but 
 it ain't for sale. Four people 'ave asked me that 
 very same question, but it ain't for sale. That's the 
 first Furlong coloured wood-block sounds all 
 right, that, don't it?" 
 
 He had said this to each of the four people who 
 had made similar t nquiries about it, and he knew 
 they had all been impressed, especially the ones 
 making their way over the bridge toward the 
 Strand. It impressed Constance as she heard it. 
 
 275
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 The words fell on her ears and sank dully to her 
 heart. 
 
 "Yer think 'e's goin' to be a great man, then?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Don't think it," said Mr. Nibbs. He suddenly 
 leant across the counter. "Look 'ere," he said, in 
 a lower tone, "I'll tell yer somethin' about 'im." 
 And forthwith, unable to keep it to himself, he told 
 of Dicky's first visit to his shop, of how he had rec- 
 ognised the genius in him, had known it from the 
 moment he entered the door. 
 
 "You didn't know it till 'e said 'e wouldn't sell 
 the picture," said Emily. 
 
 "Well, no, p'raps I didn't," assented Mr. Nibbs, 
 "but I've seen it before anyone else. They won't 
 look at 'is pictures in Bond Street, and 'e's afraid 
 to go into the best dealers there. But one of these 
 days I'm goin' to send 'im along. I don't want to 
 make money out of 'im. Why, if I liked to offer 'im 
 two 'undred a year, like some of 'em do, 'e'd let me 
 'ave all 'is work for three years at least and I'd 'ave 
 more than six 'undred pounds' worth at the end of 
 it. I bet a quid I would." 
 
 He could not have afforded two hundred pounds 
 a year, so it did not matter to Emily, who was not 
 concerned in any way, that he would ever be likely 
 to offer it. But at the same time he knew it was a 
 generous sentiment, and his face smiled up at her, 
 full of good-nature, in expectation of her approval. 
 
 276
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 However, Constance had been listening, not to his 
 sentiments, but to the sentence passed upon her own 
 conscience. She knew now. The choice was very 
 plain. And yet it would have been easier to receive 
 a definite answer to a definite question. Her eyes 
 narrowed in speculation as she looked at Mr. Nibbs, 
 wondering how great would be his astonishment 
 were she to ask him if it would be right for Dicky 
 to marry her. 
 
 That question, however, she could not bring her- 
 self to put, and so, still with some faint degrees of 
 hope, she struggled on to learn her own confusion. 
 
 "Does every painter turn out to be what what 
 you think Vs goin' to be?" she asked presently. 
 
 The little print-seller shook his head, sorrowfully, 
 as though with great experience. 
 
 "One in a thousand," he replied. "There's 
 Thomas Parker I used to sell a lot of 'is things." 
 
 "You sell a lot of 'em now," Emily remarked. 
 
 "I sell a lot of 'em now," he repeated; "but 'e 
 ain't what 'e used to be. 'E's goin' off. Yer can't 
 paint pictures of Venice, yer know, with the smell of 
 a fried fish shop comin' through yer windows in 
 Lambeth. Mr. Furlong, 'e said to me one day, 
 'That picture smells of fried fish,' 'e said. Down on 
 each other these artists are, yer know. Well, Par- 
 ker's no friend of 'is 'e don't know 'im or I've no 
 doubt 'e wouldn't 'ave spoken like that. But they 
 can't 'elp it. If a thing's bad, they've got nothin' to 
 
 277
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 say for it. Why, 'e came in 'ere one day you re- 
 member Emily 'e was dancing about, as excited 
 and jolly r.s 'e could be. 'I'm awfully bucked,' 'e 
 said. 'I've just been to the National Gallery and 
 Constable's not really a bit of good!' ' 
 
 The little man put his hands under the bib of his 
 apron, he threw out his stomach and he laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 "Awfully bucked, yer know! Constable's not 
 really a bit of good! Did yer ever hear anythin' 
 like the cheek of it? Constable an R. A., mind yer, 
 'oo was a friend of the Earl of Dysart, a regular 
 top-notcher and 'e thinks Vs not a bit of good and 
 is awfully bucked about it. And I shouldn't wonder 
 if 'e wasn't right, either. Mr. Ruskin didn't think 
 so much of him, and Mr. Ruskin discovered Turner, 
 yer know, so they say." 
 
 "Who did this man Constable marry?" asked 
 Constance. Upon this question, she hung all her 
 hopes, waiting with sickness and joy to hear. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs turned to Emily, deep in her book. 
 
 "Who did Constable marry?" he asked. 
 
 She looked up with a jerk. 
 
 "Constable who?" she asked with annoyance. 
 
 "Not Constable anybody Constable the 
 painter." 
 
 "I dunno," said she, and was buried again. 
 
 Taking no more notice of her, Mr. Nibbs went 
 278
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 to a shelf of second-hand books. An encyclopedia 
 was there. He brought it down. 
 
 " 'Ere we are," said he "Constable Con Con 
 stable stable John Constable, R. A. Son of a 
 miller, born nth of June, 1776, here we are mar- 
 ried Mary Bicknell, daughter of the solicitor to the 
 Admiralty and got 20,000 with 'er. A nice little, 
 fat sum that, wasn't it?" He looked up with a 
 smile, but in a moment the smile had gone. Her 
 face was set and hard, yet her eyes were glittering. 
 If Mr. Nibbs had known who she was, he might 
 have believed there were tears there. As things 
 were, he just realised that something had happened 
 and he put the book away. 
 
 This was fatalistic, it was prophetic. The son of 
 a miller, as Dicky was as well, and had married a 
 gentleman's daughter with twenty thousand pounds ! 
 That was her answer. She swallowed bravely, tak- 
 ing it with all the courage you might have seen in 
 her eyes, you might have found in her mouth. 
 
 "Well, thank you very much for telling me," said 
 she. "I'm afraid I've taken up a lot of your time." 
 As she walked quickly to the door, she heard him 
 declaring gallantly what a pleasure it had been 
 and that if he could have sold her the picture for 
 less he would, but that he had given two pounds for 
 it himself and then she was alone in the street. 
 
 Not until she had walked the Bridge was she 
 conscious of any definite thought, and then suddenly 
 
 279
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 it occurred to her how surely Mr. Nibbs would tell 
 Dicky of her questions. She hurried back. The 
 door was ajar. The pneumatic contrivance was not 
 in working order, and as she entered, timidly, in 
 fear of what she had to say, she heard Emily's voice, 
 raised in argumentative declaration. 
 
 "Lots of girls is pretty," she was saying, "but 
 that don't prevent 'em from bein' common. Look 
 at the way she talked. Fine feathers, I know that! 
 But pluck 'em ! Then you'll see what's underneath." 
 
 For one instant Constance hesitated. At last 
 she walked in. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she said, and she spoke with 
 a voice that was foreign to her not an aitch was 
 dropped. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs hurried forward. 
 
 "I know Mr. Furlong," she continued, "and I 
 must ask you most most " 
 
 "Earnestly?" suggested Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "Earnestly," said she, "to say nothing about my 
 having been here. I have my reasons, and they're 
 good ones. I shall hear from him if you tell him, 
 and it'll only mean unhappiness." 
 
 "I won't tell," said Mr. Nibbs, and she knew he 
 meant it. 
 
 When she had gone again, he turned and looked 
 at Emily. 
 
 "Beats yer old novelette," said he. 
 
 "Beats me" said Emily. 
 280
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 FOR the rest of that day Constance avoided 
 the oil shop, took her lunch in an obscure 
 restaurant alone, went down to the neighbour- 
 hood of St. Paul's where a friend of hers was in 
 charge of a little tobacco shop, and there, behind 
 the counter, she sat all the afternoon. They talked 
 of hats and dresses, of things that had been said to 
 them, of things they had replied. Miss Shadbolt 
 had a number of admirers constantly in attendance 
 upon her; was one of those girls who involuntarily 
 collects a retinue of young men and, harmlessly 
 enough, is always finding herself in awkward pre- 
 dicaments. The conversation never flagged for one 
 moment when once she embarked upon her confi- 
 dences. All these young men, in the time since last 
 she and Constance had met, had said a multitude of 
 things that were worth repeating. Her replies were 
 of equal Importance. They had tea together be- 
 hind the counter, Constance half-hidden from the 
 gaze of the customers who came in, where, till long 
 after tea was over, the stories were told, with little 
 nods of the head, expressive gestures and exclama- 
 
 281
 
 tions of annoyance whenever a customer inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 Yet all this time Constance said nothing of Dicky. 
 Many times her inclinations prompted her to seek 
 her friend's advice, but now it appeared to be boast- 
 fulness and then she knew the advice was such that 
 she would never follow it. In the end she kept her 
 own counsel and was silent. 
 
 Nor was this silence for want of prompting. 
 When Miss Shadbolt had exhausted her confidences, 
 had returned from a customer at the counter, seated 
 herself with a deep sigh and regarded Constance's 
 new coat and skirt and all the details of price and 
 material which had been told her long ago, she said: 
 
 "How about you, my dear?" 
 
 From one woman to another, when they two have 
 not met for some considerable time, this question has 
 but one meaning. It is just possible for you to as- 
 sume ignorance of that meaning, but not when the 
 question is prefaced by a glance from your hat to 
 your coat, your coat to your skirt, and from thence 
 to the shoes upon your feet. Constance knew there 
 was no avoiding it, and smiled. 
 
 "Nothing about me," said she. 
 
 "Oh, go on!" said Miss Shadbolt, for women 
 know when a coat and skirt are irresistible. "I've 
 told you." 
 
 "I'd tell you if there was anything," Constance 
 replied. "The music 'all ain't such a lively place as 
 
 282
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 you'd think. Fellers send round a note now and 
 again, but it ain't my way to pick up with anyone 
 I don't know nothin' about." 
 
 "Why are yer wearing those things to-day then?" 
 
 "Oh, nothin' been to an agent's, that's all." 
 
 Miss Shadbolt looked disappointed. She knew 
 that there must be something. Life from her point 
 of view was at a standstill when nothing of this na- 
 ture was afoot, and, seeing that she was not to be 
 told what that something was, it was not merely her 
 imagination that urged her to suppose it was quite a 
 serious matter. The mere fact of her not being told 
 proved how serious it must be. 
 
 "You ain't goin' to be married, are yer?" she 
 asked, after a long pause, and, from the serious way 
 in which Constance shook her head, she knew her 
 assumptions were correct. 
 
 In the hour of freedom that she was given be- 
 tween six and seven they dined together at Con- 
 stance's expense, when, all through the meal, she en- 
 deavoured in a thousand cunning ways to steal the 
 secret away. 
 
 With a weary little laugh Constance turned to her 
 at last. 
 
 "I'm not goin' to tell you, my dear," said she. 
 "There's nothin' to tell just one of those things 
 you've got to swallow and look pleasant over. I 
 haven't swallowed it yet, that's all." 
 
 It was Dicky's evening at the night class. She 
 19 283
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 counted upon returning from the music hall and dis- 
 appearing to her bedroom long before he returned. 
 One more night to herself, talking herself to sleep, 
 and she knew she would be able to accept the inevi- 
 table, be able, as she had told Miss Shadbolt, to 
 swallow it and look pleasant. Other girls she had 
 known, even Miss Shadbolt herself, had been friend- 
 ly with men who for want of a better name she 
 thought of as gentlemen. But none of them had 
 ever proposed marriage. There was one who had 
 taken her friend out to dinner, but never to restau- 
 rants where he was likely to meet his own acquaint- 
 ances. He had given her presents, had paid her a 
 thousand little attentions, and Miss Shadbolt had 
 talked by the hour about him, wondering if he were 
 going to propose. He never had. The little affair 
 had drifted away into nothingness. He had lost 
 interest; had just fallen out of her existence. A 
 brooch, a bangle, a little hand-bag, were all the 
 things that remained to show his passage across her 
 path. And these were the men whom Constance 
 thought of now. 
 
 She saw Dicky's future far plainer than he saw it 
 himself, far plainer even than it glowed in the ambi- 
 tious vision of Mr. Nibbs. A day would come, she 
 could see it vividly in her mind, when her accident of 
 birth would rise between them like a phoenix out of 
 the flame of their passion, and, impulsive in that 
 passion though she was, there was a mental balance 
 
 284
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 in her equipment which no desire or emotion could 
 destroy. 
 
 That day she had needed to herself, away from 
 Dicky, away from all her surroundings, in order to 
 bring her mind to the belief that she did not even 
 wish to marry him. It was a stern struggle, but in 
 the end she won. 
 
 "You 'adn't thought of marryin' 'im," she said 
 aloud in her dressing-room of the theatre. "It 
 wasn't what you wanted at all. 'E'll stick to yer 
 right enough as long as 'e wants yer, and you'll 
 know quick enough when 'e don't." 
 
 In all these solitary conversations her gestures 
 were emphatic; neither did she make effort at re- 
 finement in her voice. It was the real woman speak- 
 ing then. With bitter energy she daubed the grease 
 paint on her face as she talked; but even before she 
 was made up ready for the stage her mood had 
 quieted, aggression against fate had fallen and was 
 still. Her battle was won. 
 
 "I've been goin' on," said she, "as if I was goin' 
 to lose 'im. But my lord I we're goin' to be as 'appy 
 as a pair o' kids. 'Tisn't as if I was one of those 
 women in society as 'ave to go into a market and be 
 bought. I suppose marriage is all right for them. 
 Once they're spliced, they're spliced, and if they 
 don't like it they lump it. But I wouldn't lump it 
 with any man, not if I was married sixty times over. 
 Marriage ain't no real good to a girl like me, yer 
 
 285
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 know, it ain't, and that's a fact. A bit o' gold 
 wouldn't tie me up not if I wanted to be off. If 
 you was to ask me," she said, as she stood up, re- 
 garding her face in the mirror for the last time, "if 
 you was to ask me, I should say you'd be a fool to 
 marry 'im a kid like that, just twenty. 'E thinks 
 'e knows 'is own mind. No you're well out of it, 
 my dear. Come on on yer go. Get onto the stage 
 and do your bit. You're well out of it." 
 
 At last, with a cheerful smile at her reflection, she 
 went out of the room. She had won. She had de- 
 ceived herself. With a stern resolve never to look 
 back to those moments when the thought of marry- 
 ing Dicky had so thrilled all her thoughts, she came 
 onto the stage and sang with the joy of life awake 
 in her once more. 
 
 As she changed again in the dressing-room, where 
 another girl was getting ready for a later turn, she 
 determined in silence then that she would go up to 
 the Polytechnic schools and meet Dicky as he came 
 out. 
 
 "What sort of a 'ouse is it?" enquired her com- 
 panion. 
 
 Constance shrugged her shoulders. She had 
 hardly noticed the audience to whom she had sung. 
 
 "If it's like that," said the girl, "I shall 'ave a 
 drop o' port." She went to the door and called for 
 her dresser. "I've got the deuce of a cold on me." 
 She sang a few notes with her hand laid on her 
 
 286
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 chest. "Thick, ain't it! An' I've got a boy in front 
 to-night. Always the way, ain't it? Get me a glass 
 o' port, Mrs. Evans that's the third this evenin'. 
 I'm all right, ain't I?" 
 
 "Yes, you're all right," said Constance. "It ain't 
 so easy to get tight with a cold on yer." 
 
 She came quickly up the passageway from the 
 stage door, settling her hat, putting the finishing 
 touches to her hair as she walked. In Drury Lane a 
 figure came out of the darkness and joined her. It 
 was Dicky. 
 
 "Thought you were at the Poly!" said she; but 
 her surprise at finding him there was as nothing to 
 the delight of seeing him by her side. 
 
 "I couldn't go there to-night," he replied; "I 
 couldn't have done a stroke. Where have you been 
 all day? Mrs. Baldwin said you went out this morn- 
 ing after breakfast. I've been looking for you 
 everywhere. She said you might have gone to your 
 agents. I went there they hadn't seen you. I've 
 been all over the place. What's happened? After 
 last night I thought " 
 
 She clutched his arm and she laughed aloud at 
 the joy of being missed. 
 
 "I 'aven't been nowhere," said she; "anywhere, I 
 mean. Just been thinking about last night, that's 
 all." 
 
 "Well well?" 
 
 287
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 He bent down, looking beneath her hat into her 
 face. 
 
 "I haven't known what to think," he went on. 
 "You wouldn't say anything last night. We are 
 going to be married, aren't we?" He squeezed the 
 arm he held. He meant it. The night had not 
 changed him. 
 
 "Let's wait till we get inside," said she. 
 
 "But your mother's there." 
 
 "Well, then, we'll sit in the shop." 
 
 For the rest of his life the odour of paraffin was 
 a memory to Dicky. Gently they opened the door 
 and softly closed it behind them. A hanging lamp 
 with a bright tin reflector was burning dimly in a 
 corner of the shop. Oil in an oil shop is cheaper 
 than gas. For a moment or two they stood and 
 listened. Mrs. Baldwin was moving about in the 
 room above. Until she had seated herself and all 
 was still, neither of them moved. When she heard 
 the creaking springs of the old armchair upstairs, 
 Constance put out her hand and at once it was in 
 his. 
 
 "Yes," he said eagerly, "you're going to say yes." 
 
 She shook her head. There was a wooden case 
 of candles in a corner of the shop, beside it was a 
 heap of wood bundles stacked for sale ; she led him 
 there and sat down. He stood waiting beside her. 
 
 "Listen," she said softly, "it was all a mistake 
 last night. I never meant marryin'. I'm not the 
 
 288
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sort as ought to marry. What 'ud you do if I got a 
 fancy in me 'ead for someone else, or supposin' you 
 did what 'ud we do then? No, listen, I'm goin' to 
 say it all just what I've been thinkin' about to-day. 
 We're kids, both of us. Why, I'm older than you. 
 'Ow do we know what ain't goin' to 'appen to us in 
 a couple of years or so? It's no good your sayin' 
 nothin' anything I haven't finished. You've got 
 to be sensible." He was listening, like a child. "If 
 you think it's wrong for us two to be together, well, 
 you'd better go away, see what I mean it wouldn't 
 be no good your stoppin' 'ere because would it? 
 We're too fond of each other for that. Would you 
 sooner go?" 
 
 She hung her breath in her throat as she waited 
 for his answer, guessing how all the desire in him 
 was to say then that he would go. If she were firm 
 in her determination, as indeed it seemed to him she 
 was, then he knew it was his duty to be gone and 
 expedient that that going should be soon. But he 
 could see life without her then as vividly as he be- 
 held her by his side, and life without her seemed the 
 more impossible of the two. What would his father 
 say? What did that really matter? It was what 
 he must say of himself; nothing but condemnation, 
 it is true, yet there were things in life that no con- 
 demnation could depreciate. 
 
 Had there been no folly between them before, 
 doubtless he might have turned upon his heel and 
 
 289
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 there would she have been at his shoulder to hold 
 him back at any cost. It is one or the other who is 
 firm in this world, seldom both. Nature sets the 
 weak against the strong, lest the battle be neither 
 won nor lost. 
 
 And all this while she waited for his reply, clasp- 
 ing and unclasping her hands, watching his face, 
 silent with fear lest, if he so chose, then she would 
 let him go. 
 
 "What are yer thinkin', Dicky?" she asked at 
 last, when patience could bear no more. 
 
 He made up his mind what to say. "I'm think- 
 ing" he determined that this should be his answer 
 "I'm thinking that in fairness to you I ought to 
 go." He was trembling as he listened to his voice 
 saying the first two words. "I'm thinking," said he, 
 "what it 'ud all be like without you." 
 
 Sweat of shame broke out on his forehead. He 
 had not said it. What he had said was a different 
 thing indeed. How had he come to say it? It 
 might almost have been someone else who had 
 spoken. Those were not the words he had intended. 
 Yet he was secretly glad when he saw the effect they 
 had upon her. She caught hold of his hot hand 
 pressed her lips to it. That oil shop with its dim 
 light and its pungent odours was the most wonderful 
 place in the world. Each kiss upon his fingers lit it 
 up with a burst of light; nothing was real about him, 
 nothing was itself. 
 
 290
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "You'd miss me?" she whispered. 
 
 Something or someone was prompting him. He 
 hear himself say, "Yes." 
 
 "Frightfully?" 
 
 "Frightfully." 
 
 She dragged him down to her side and three bun- 
 dles of wood rolled down from the heap onto the 
 floor. The sound of them reached their ears but 
 brought no message to the brain. 
 
 "Then you're not goin'?" she murmured. 
 
 She felt him tremble in her hands. He could give 
 no other reply. His head was hidden on her lap. 
 So there she sat, her hand stroking his hair, knowing 
 her sacrifice was made, glad for his sake that he 
 still was free, glad for her own that he was not 
 wholly lost to her. There were the years before 
 them, and who could ever know what the years 
 might bring? 
 
 The opening of the door behind them the door 
 that led into the house brought Dicky stumbling 
 to his feet. A light appeared, and in trembling tones 
 they heard the sound of Mrs. Baldwin's voice. 
 
 "Whoever's in there," she called out in a high 
 key, "had better go out the way they come. 
 I've got a p'lice whistler in me 'and, and I'm 
 goin' to blow it." 
 
 Only Constance laughed. The smile that came to 
 Dicky's lips died away. 
 
 291
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Don't be a fat-head, mother," she said. "It's 
 only us." 
 
 A deep sigh preceded the enquiry to know what 
 they were doing. 
 
 "Just talking," said Constance. "We're comin' 
 up now. Keep the light." 
 
 "Well, I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Baldwin, as 
 Dicky passed her. When it came to her daughter, 
 she put an arm on her shoulder and held her back. 
 
 "What is it?" said Constance. 
 
 The good lady waited till Dicky was out of hear- 
 ing. 
 
 "I'm so glad, my dear," she whispered, "though 
 you don't know what a fright yer gave me." 
 
 "You're a silly old fool, mother," said Constance 
 gently. Then she took the wrinkled cheeks in her 
 hands and kissed her, and all the way, as she fol- 
 lowed her daughter upstairs, Mrs. Baldwin contin- 
 ued to declare her pleasure in every different way 
 she could think of expressing it.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Baldwin heard from Constance 
 that she and Dicky were not going to get 
 married, the weight of a feather, so she 
 declared, could have knocked her down. Yet, deeply 
 within her, she was not really so surprised as all 
 that. 
 
 The so-called moral attitude of a third generation 
 of Londoners is not what you would expect to find 
 in a thirtieth generation of country folk. That so- 
 called moral attitude is often a matter of expediency 
 where it is not one of tradition, and, while amongst 
 Londoners there is little or no tradition at all, ex- 
 pediency, too, is a negligible quantity. Amongst the 
 Bohemian classes, in that class, too, to which Mrs. 
 Baldwin belonged, marriage may sometimes be a 
 convenience; it is not often a state of blessedness. 
 Tradition does not demand it, and few if any un- 
 pleasant consequences arise from the want of its 
 observance. For, if marriage is anything, it is a 
 social law, preserving unity and order amongst 
 those who find these qualities of service in the daily 
 round. To Mrs. Baldwin and her like marriage is 
 a financial convenience often doubtless illumined with 
 
 293
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 affection, but beyond that has little or nothing to 
 recommend it. The difficulty of divorce for the 
 poor make of it a condition that has many draw- 
 backs whilst the advantages are few. 
 
 She was not shocked when she heard it. Her 
 allusion to the weight of a feather was only her way 
 of expressing the setting-back to her expectations. 
 She had believed that all gentlemen proposed mar- 
 riage, even if they did not keep faith with their 
 propositions. 
 
 "Well, I did think Vd 'ave asked yer to marry 
 'im," she said, " 'cos I suppose he'll come into a bit 
 of somethin' some day." 
 
 Constance rose hotly and at once in Dicky's de- 
 fence. 
 
 "He did ask me," she declared, "and I refused." 
 
 "Did ask yer? Well, it isn't me that's a fat- 
 head." 
 
 She looked at her daughter in bewilderment, 
 knowing for certain then how little she understood 
 her. 
 
 "What did you do that for?" she enquired. 
 "Don't you think 'e's good enough for yer? You're 
 a queer sort, I must say. What's the good of your 
 goin' on the stage, if yer don't make use of it like 
 the rest of 'em does. You've lost a chance, you 'ave. 
 I don't say 'e's much of a catch not a penny to 
 bless 'imself with but 'e's a nice boy, and 'e's a 
 gentleman, and as I say p'raps 'e'll come into a bit 
 
 294
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of somethin' some day, if 'e don't make nothin' out 
 of 'is paintin'. What are yer goin' to do then? 
 Yer weren't sittin' down there cuddlin' on a pile of 
 firewood for nothin'. What are yer goin' to do?" 
 
 "We 'aven't decided yet," said Constance. 
 
 "No, but you know what you're goin' to do. You 
 can't kid me. I won't 'ave yer stayin' on 'ere." 
 
 "We're not goin' to. I'm makin' two quid a 
 week now. We're goin' to get a little place some- 
 where." 
 
 "And live on your money?" 
 
 "What we make between us. He gets two pounds 
 for a picture when 'e sells one." 
 
 For a moment or two Mrs. Baldwin thought it 
 over and, when she came to the realisation that she 
 was to be left alone, her lower lip began to tremble. 
 Seeing her feeling for the corner of her apron, Con- 
 stance put a hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "There's no good blubbin', mother," she said 
 gently. "It can't be helped. It's no good your pre- 
 tendin' that you've never 'eard of people livin' to- 
 gether before, because you 'ave. We shall say 
 we're married no one'll know. I'm fond of 'im 
 and 'e's fond of me, but I'm blowed if I'm goin' to 
 marry 'im. One of these day 'e'll marry a lady 
 that's fit for 'im and I 'ope it won't be for a 'ell of 
 a time yet." 
 
 "Yes, and what's to become of me?" whimpered 
 295
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin. "I don't want to be 'ere all alone. 
 I like young people about me." 
 
 Constance assured her that they would not go 
 far. 
 
 "There are rooms to let in Great Queen Street," 
 said she. "We'll get a place there and you can come 
 round of an evening." 
 
 The sudden thought of those evenings, of their 
 life together for as long as it would last, caught hold 
 upon her imagination. She took her mother in her 
 arms and hugged her. 
 
 "Mary Pannell was 'appy enough with 'er feller 
 when she went and lived with 'im!" she exclaimed. 
 "Nobody thought none the worse of 'er. Anyway, 
 I don't care. I'm fond of 'im I'd do anythin' in 
 the world to keep 'im." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin looked at her tearfully. 
 
 "I suppose it's all right," said she. "You won't 
 be the first and you won't be the last. But it never 
 turns out well on the stage I will say that. It never 
 turns out well on the stage, not in those plays at the 
 Elephant and Castle." 
 
 On the top floor of number twelve Great Queen 
 Street there were two rooms with sloping ceilings 
 to be let. A skylight in one of them made certain 
 of the matter. Constance put on her oldest dress 
 and went to see the landlord, who lived next door. 
 She knew her way in a matter of business, said noth- 
 ing about her work on the stage where fabulous sal- 
 
 296
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 arles are talked about and, as Mrs. Furlong, se- 
 cured the rooms for five shillings a week. 
 
 A water-tap on the stairs, midway between first 
 and second floor, was common to the entire house- 
 hold. The ground floor was occupied by a tobac- 
 conist, but there was a separate entrance to the 
 house. This in Great Queen Street is impressive. 
 Painting and papering was done by the landlord, 
 brown paper on the walls of the living-room this 
 was Dicky's taste. In the bedroom Constance pe- 
 titioned for bunches of roses on a cream ground, 
 and was allowed to be perfectly right. Of her own 
 accord, she had an electric bell fitted which rang in 
 their room from the hall door in the street below. 
 On Sundays this was a temptation to all little boys, 
 but it placed them superior to everyone else in the 
 house and was truly a convenience. 
 
 It has been said elsewhere that Mrs. Baldwin was 
 quick to accept the inevitable. No sooner were the 
 rooms in Great Queen Street taken than she entered 
 with interest into the excitement of furnishing. 
 There were things in the oil-shop she declared she 
 could quite easily do without. The premises of a 
 furnishing company were visited by Dicky and Con- 
 stance and Mrs. Baldwin where, on a hire purchase 
 system, such things were bought as the richest peo- 
 ple in Christendom might well have been proud of. 
 In ten days there was no knowing those two rooms 
 at number twelve. Even the landlord, who had a 
 
 297
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 motor-car that brought him up to business every 
 morning from his house in Brixton, opened wide his 
 mouth when he saw them, telling himself he was a 
 fool for not asking a larger rent. They were not 
 his taste. He liked plush on the seats of his chairs 
 and green plush for choice; but he said they were 
 damned fine. 
 
 It was Constance who arranged and superintended 
 everything. Dicky looked on in quiet wonder, say- 
 ing timidly what he wanted when he was asked. 
 Not a word was said to him by Mrs. Baldwin, who, 
 after she had heard the landlord on two occasions 
 address Constance as Mrs. Furlong, was almost of 
 the belief that they were married. 
 
 To Dicky, indeed, it was all a dream. Every 
 night when he went upstairs to his attic bedroom he 
 made an effort to understand it. What he had al- 
 ways regarded as a daring mode of life appeared so 
 absurdly easy when it came to be adopted that at 
 times it seemed to him as if the world were upside 
 down. But there it was and, seeing that since that 
 night when he had slept in the streets he had ac- 
 quired his sense of humour, he took things as they 
 came; realised that he was the beggar dropped into 
 the soft cushions of the king's own bed and accepted 
 the delight of the inevitable with but a vaguely trou- 
 bled mind. 
 
 A clear conscience, indeed, is a comfortable bed- 
 fellow. He slept no whit the worse, those last 
 
 298
 
 * 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 nights in his attic bedroom, for, if he had not pur- 
 sued the most heroic course, if he had not gone 
 straight away and left her, at least he had done his 
 utmost to persuade Constance to marry him. Many 
 times since that night in the shop he had urged her 
 to it again; but, now that she knew she was sure of 
 him, there was no dissuading her from the course 
 she had determined to adopt. 
 
 "You're never goin' to say no more about that," 
 she said. "You've got your paintin' to do, and when 
 I 'aven't got a job at the music-'all you'll be sellin' 
 pictures. I just want you to tell your Mr. Nibbs you 
 aren't married. He won't say it to no one. Other 
 people can think what they like. I'll wear a weddin' 
 ring if yer want me to. It is nonsense, ain't it? A 
 little bit of gold and a parson 'ud call yer respect- 
 able. You're not frettin' about it now, are yer?" 
 
 Dicky shook his head. 
 
 "It's no good," said he. "I'm not going to lose 
 you. Anyhow, I'll buy you a ring we may as well 
 have the parson calling you respectable. By Jove I 
 There's Anne, too. What am I going to do about 
 them at home?" 
 
 "Write and tell 'em you're married. I sha'n't 
 'ave to meet your father, shall I?" 
 
 Dicky laughed. 
 
 "There's no fear of that," said he. "What 'ud it 
 matter if you did?" 
 
 20 299
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 She looked at him steadily. It was the first time 
 she had reminded him of it. 
 
 "I'm so common," said she. 
 
 "You! Common!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes ; the way I speak. And look at mother Sun- 
 day mornin's in 'er curlin' pins!" 
 
 "You ! Common !" he repeated. He took her by 
 the shoulders and held her there before his eyes. 
 "It isn't the way people speak that's common, that's 
 only a matter of chance. You may drop aitches but 
 you pick up pearls that's what you do, you dear 
 thing, and there's not a lady in England has got the 
 jewels in her heart that you have." 
 
 This was warm like wine to her. It burnt her 
 throat, brought the tears hot to her eyes. 
 
 "Do I drop my aitches?" she asked quaintly. 
 
 He took his hands from her shoulders and clasped 
 them round her neck. 
 
 "I do h-ear myself do it sometimes," she went on. 
 "Only when I think of it, I'm so afraid I shall put 
 'em in the wrong places. Doesn't notice when I'm 
 singin', yer know; that's the funny part of it." 
 
 "Don't you worry about your aitches, you pre- 
 cious thing," he whispered. "Just you say what you 
 think and don't you think how you say it. You'll 
 spoil it all if you do. Words don't want aitches 
 half so much as they want a mind as noble as yours 
 to say 'em." 
 
 He went off whistling one of her songs, cheerful 
 300
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 as a cricket, to borrow money from Mr. Nibbs to 
 buy the bit of gold to cheat the parson with. And 
 there she stood some moments after he had gone, 
 wondering if, after all, she might not have taken 
 him at his word and married him. 
 
 "But it ain't only aitches," she said presently; 
 "it ain't only be'aviour at table, an' things like that. 
 I couldn't leave mother, yer know that wouldn't 
 be fair, an' think of mother in a drawin'-room 
 you'd never get the paraffin off of 'er."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ON the day Dicky and Constance took up 
 their abode at number twelve Great Queen 
 Street they gave a party. The idea of it 
 originated through Mrs. Baldwin, who conceived 
 that if not the proprieties, then at least the customs 
 should be observed. It was the first time she had 
 tackled Dicky on the subject. He stood at the win- 
 dow of the sitting-room upstairs, blushing and flam- 
 ing to his forehead. 
 
 "There's no good your bein' upset about it," 
 said she. "If Constance gets a thing into 'er 'ead, 
 not an operation wouldn't get it out." 
 
 "Well, I'd sooner you knew I did my best. I 
 wanted to marry her, I do still, I shall always." 
 
 "It's very nice of yer, I'm sure. Marryin' into an 
 oil shop ain't much of a catch." He did not deny 
 it from that point of view, though he scarcely 
 thought of marriage as a catch one way or another. 
 However, when he made no reply to her remark, 
 she set to defending the oil-trade while he agreed 
 with every word she said. 
 
 "Of course, it's a trade," she remarked, when he 
 had agreed so much that to praise it was no longer 
 
 302
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 worth while. "It ain't a profession like paintin' 
 your sort of paintin'." 
 
 "My father's in a trade," said he. "I suppose 
 Constance thinks she might get tired of me and 
 then we should be in queer street." 
 
 "Well, you stop in Queen Street instead," said 
 Mrs. Baldwin. "I never knew such people as men 
 for frettin' 'emselves. Seems to me if a thin's goin' 
 to be done a little bit funny like, women set their 
 minds to it a good deal quicker than men. She's not 
 a-gom' to marry yer, and there's an end of it. It 
 staggered me a bit at first, but now I've seen the 
 weddin' ring you bought 'er and the rooms is fur- 
 nished I dunno, but I've got quite used to it. Mind 
 yer, I wouldn't tell my sister over at Lambeth, but, 
 Lord, there are lots o' things I wouldn't tell my 
 sister at Lambeth as get to seem nothin' when they're 
 done. Still" and here she made a wise amendment, 
 seeing that she was going too far in her endeavours 
 to quiet Dicky's conscience "you mustn't suppose as 
 I agrees with that way of livin'. I disapproves 
 downright disapproves but, as it's got to be, there 
 it is, and I think yer ought to 'ave a sort of party 
 on Thursday night, yer know, because, to me, a per- 
 son as goes miserable when 'e's doin' what 'e ought 
 not to ought to be ashamed of 'imself. I'd 'ave no 
 patience with 'im." 
 
 So a party there was. Mr. Nibbs and Emily, 
 Mrs. Baldwin herself in the dress in which she went 
 
 303
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 to the theatre on the Surrey side, Miss Shadbolt, 
 too, and one of those admirers, Mr. Gossage, who 
 came out of a haberdashery establishment in the 
 Strand and brought its best silk socks, its most fash- 
 ionable shirt, its latest tie, all displayed upon his 
 elegant person they all were there. 
 
 There was first a meal in the studio. The tramp- 
 ing of feet up to the top floor of number twelve 
 was such that first and second floors left their doors 
 open to see the party go by. In fact, Mrs. Beasly, 
 of the second floor, spent at least ten minutes filling 
 a jug from the water tap on the staircase the better 
 to see them all as they made their way to the party 
 given by the new tenants. A wedding has its fas- 
 cinations. Mrs. Beasly was over forty, but she sat 
 long that evening listening to the voices and the 
 laughter overhead and, when her husband returned, 
 reminded him that they hadn't been to a picture pal- 
 ace together for a month of Sundays. 
 
 By the time that the first greetings were over, 
 Dicky had forgotten to think of it all as a sham. 
 There it was and, so far as he was concerned, they 
 might have been married that morning. Only Mr. 
 Nibbs and Emily knew that they were not, but when 
 once he had felt the grip of the little print-seller's 
 hand, and knew that the matter had not earned his 
 disapproval, he was prepared for anything. 
 
 Indeed, secretly, Mr. Nibbs was entirely satisfied. 
 
 "Mind yer," said he to Emily, "I'm not sayin' it's 
 304
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 the proper thing to do, but most great artists 'as 
 done it, but I wouldn't even 'ave 'im do it for that 
 reason. She's common, too it was you said it first 
 but I wouldn't 'ave 'im do it for that. She's a 
 real good sort." 
 
 "Then I can't see why yer pleased about it," 
 said Emily. 
 
 " 'Oo said I was pleased?" 
 
 "Look at yourself in the glass," she retorted, and 
 this was while he was dressing for the party when a 
 glass was handy. "Yer eyes is stickin' out of yer 
 'ead. I never saw such a bulge as you get in yer 
 eyes when yer pleased with somethin'." 
 
 He looked in the glass and, seeing how much his 
 eyes did bulge, knew it was fruitless to deny it. 
 
 "Well, if I am pleased," said he, "it's because 'e's 
 goin' just the way as I should expect 'im to. 'E'll 
 be a fine artist, 'e will. There's no stoppin' 'im. 
 Even this girl, and she knows nothin' about it, she'll 
 'elp 'im. You see if she don't. She's a rare sort. I 
 wish 'e would marry 'er; but if she won't and you 
 can put two and two together, can't yer you know 
 why it is, it was Constable as did it Constable and 
 'is Mary Bicknell. Well, if she won't, she won't. 
 But 'e's goin' to be a great artist." 
 
 So it is to be accounted for that when he arrived 
 at number twelve Mr. Nibbs was in the best of spir- 
 its, taking his introduction to Constance a superb 
 piece of acting, inclining to the methods of the old 
 
 305
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 school and the Surrey side as though they, too, had 
 never set eyes on each other before. 
 
 "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Furlong," said 
 he with an excess of geniality. "You've 'card I'm 
 interested in our young friend" his eyes swelled 
 with laughter "I've 'card 'e's interested in you. 
 Both of yer, yer 'ave my 'eartiest congratulations." 
 
 He wrung her hand like a pump-handle and con- 
 trived in the process to draw her on one side. 
 
 "That was all right, wasn't it?" he whispered. 
 
 She smiled and pressed his hand. It had been the 
 one moment she had feared. Now that it was over, 
 there was nothing but merriment. She turned round 
 to greet Miss Shadbolt with eyes radiant. 
 
 "So you've swallowed it, my dear," whispered 
 that young lady. "I'm so glad truly I am ! Fancy 
 you married! Do seem queer, don't it? I'm long- 
 in' to be introduced to 'im. Oh, beg pardon. Just 
 like me to be forgettin' this is my friend, Mr. Gos- 
 sage." 
 
 At. this signal, Mr. Gossage left his cuffs alone, 
 made one hasty arrangement of his tie, straightened 
 himself from the easy negligence of his attitude and 
 came forward. 
 
 "Hearty congrats, Mrs. Furlong," said he. "Very 
 pleased to make your acquaintance." 
 
 This being perfectly correct and said with the air 
 of one who was well used to the awkward ceremony 
 of introduction, he relapsed into silence, assuming 
 
 306
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 his former attitude of negligence with a hand on the 
 nearest chair. 
 
 There were half a dozen bottles of claret stand- 
 ing by the wall in readiness for the repast, one after 
 another of which Dicky opened, regardless of sedi- 
 ment, as the meal progressed. On the floor below, 
 Mrs. Beasly listened enviously to the sounds of mer- 
 riment and to Mrs. Cooper who had come up from 
 the first floor, the better to appreciate the noise of 
 jollity, she remarked that they had had just such a 
 bean-feast when she was married. 
 
 "Laughed, I did," said she, "until my 'usband 
 spilt a plate of that tinned soup over my dress 
 such a nice dress it was, too all grey chiffong with 
 just a bit of pink trimmin', yer know suited me to. 
 a T, that dress did." 
 
 Whereupon Mrs. Cooper brought forth recollec- 
 tions of the dress she was married in and from all 
 that she could call to mind it would have seemed to 
 be a better dress than Mrs. Beasly's. There was a 
 piece of real lace on it. Mrs. Beasly had some real 
 lace, too, on that occasion. Mrs. Cooper speaking 
 of it had reminded her; but hers was really too 
 valuable to wear. Hadn't she got it still? Because 
 if she had might not Mrs. Cooper have a look at it? 
 But unfortunately that piece of real lace had been 
 sold long ago. 
 
 "It ain't easy to keep things after yer married," 
 said she, the truth of which being so profound that 
 
 307
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Mrs. Cooper could only nod her head, remembering 
 all the things which she had parted with. 
 
 There came a moment when the laughter upstairs 
 ceased. They heard the legs of a chair scraping 
 on the floor as it was pushed back. A few murmurs 
 of approval reached their ears. 
 
 "One of 'em's goin' to make a speech," said Mrs. 
 Beasly. She rose quickly from her chair, crept quiet- 
 ly to the door and opened it. 
 
 "It is a speech," said she, and turned round, 
 gasping as she found Mrs. Cooper on her heels. 
 "Shall we go out on the landin' ?" 
 
 They did go out on the landing, but the landing 
 was not near enough. They tried the first step of 
 the stairs. Before the speech was finished, they 
 were outside the door on the landing on the top 
 floor, both with their mouths open, both breathing 
 heavily, as if they had colds, both profoundly im- 
 pressed by all they heard. 
 
 For it was indeed a speech. After three large 
 glasses of claret dregs and all Mr. Nibbs in an 
 instant's silence had suddenly risen to his feet, glass 
 in hand. 
 
 "A speech!" cried Mr. Gossage, who had been to 
 public functions and knew what was expected of a 
 man when he rose to his feet at table. "I was at a 
 big dinner at the Holborn Restaurant last week," he 
 said to Mrs. Baldwin on his left. "A dress affair." 
 
 308
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 She nodded her head, thinking how nice her Con- 
 stance was looking. 
 
 "Speech!" said Mr. Gossage again. 
 
 "Sit down, William," said Emily. 
 
 But no, Mr. Nibbs was upon his feet and, once 
 he gets there, it is no easy matter to seat a man 
 again when the words he has been preparing in 
 silence for the last ten minutes are on the tip of his 
 tongue. He took no notice of Emily. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," said he, then shifted a 
 fork upon the table, "it's not often I 'ave the oppor- 
 tunity of makin' an after-dinner speech " 
 
 "You never did to my knowin' before," said 
 Emily. 
 
 "Quite right,'* he admitted, "I never did before; 
 so you can't expect me to be much of a 'and at it." 
 
 The fork looked crooked. He put it back in its 
 original position. 
 
 "Any'ow, this is an occasion when I feel it my 
 bounden duty as the oldest 'ere " 
 
 "Modest!" murmured Mr. Gossage. 
 
 "Thank you, sir as the oldest 'ere " No one 
 ever prepared a meal with the things straight on the 
 table. He could see that the fork was crooked. He 
 shifted it. "As the oldest 'ere " 
 
 "Don't rub it in," said Mr. Gossage. 
 
 "To drink the 'ealth of the bri or shall I say of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Furlong." 
 
 Mr. Gossage loudly rapped the handle of his 
 309
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 knife on the table. Mrs. Baldwin felt the rising of 
 a lump in her throat and said, " 'Ear, 'ear!" thickly 
 but audibly. Seeing his fingers feeling for the fork, 
 Emily pushed it toward him and Miss Shadbolt 
 looked up at him with eyes of admiration. This 
 was the first company in whose presence she had 
 ever heard a speech. She was wondering how he 
 could think of the words. Only Constance and 
 Dicky were disturbed; Constance since the moment 
 of that half-spoken word, in fear of what he was 
 going To say next; Dicky, caught in a furnace of 
 self-consciousness, wishing the floor would open and 
 plunge him in a well of water where all was darkness 
 and no one could see his face. 
 
 When the sounds of the murmurs of approval 
 had died away, Mr. Nibbs took a draught of his 
 claret and went on : 
 
 "But before you fill up your glasses, I want to add 
 a word or two to that toast." 
 
 Where was that fork? He clenched his hand and 
 bent his knuckles on the table. He was determined 
 to leave the fork alone. 
 
 "I want you all to take a deeper " Words were 
 confusing things. He gripped the fork. It was 
 easier to say it quite simply, "a bigger mouthful and 
 add to the toast by drinking" the end of the sen- 
 tence hove in sight "to the success of Richard Fur- 
 long. Not many of you I suppose 'as much to do 
 
 with artists, but I 'ave, and I can say this " 
 
 310
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Oh, don't !' r said Dicky. 
 
 "I can say this," persisted Mr. Nibbs, "that I 
 never come across a young feller of such promise in 
 the 'ole course of my career. I sell 'is pictures for 
 'im and 'e can put up 'is price if he likes, but I don't 
 care whether 'e knows what I think of 'im or not, 
 but I think 'e's got a future in front of 'im, and with 
 the 'elp of Mrs. Furlong" he raised his glass high- 
 er in the direction of Constance "damned if I don't 
 think 'e'll make a big name for 'imself, and I 'ope 
 I live to see it. Ladies and gentlemen the bride 
 and bridegroom" well, it couldn't be helped; he 
 had said it; he laid down the fork "and the suc- 
 cess of Richard Furlong." 
 
 In a confusion of nervousness Dicky was just 
 about to drink his own health. When he saw Con- 
 stance's hand stretched out for her glass, he came 
 to his senses and laid a hand gently on her arm. 
 
 "To the bride and bridegroom," said everybody, 
 and Mr. Gossage contrived that his voice should be 
 the last and sound alone "and the success of Rich- 
 ard Furlong!" 
 
 The hand that Dicky had put forth to restrain he 
 held beneath the table. Their fingers locked in a 
 vise and neither of them felt the pain of it. When 
 they had all seated themselves once more, Mr. Gos- 
 sage rapped with his knife handle on the table. 
 
 "Pray silence," said he, "for Mr. Richard Fur-
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 long," which, he informed Mrs. Baldwin, was what 
 they always said at big dinners. 
 
 "No, no, I'm not going to speak!" cried Dicky 
 in dismay. 
 
 "Must reply to the toast, sir," said Mr. Gossage. 
 
 "Say somethin'," whispered Constance. 
 
 "I would like to 'ear 'im," remarked Miss Shad- 
 bolt, and Mr. Nibbs told him it was all good prac- 
 tice for when he was President of the Royal Acad- 
 emy, at which all laughed, for no one believed it but 
 Constance and Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 With the pressure of Constance's hand, at last 
 he rose to his feet. 
 
 "Everybody," he said tremblingly, "if I could 
 make a speech like Mr. Nibbs, I would; but it isn't 
 a bit of good. Saying thank you, all of you isn't 
 a speech, is it? And that's all I've got to say, except 
 that I'm I'm a jolly lucky beggar. That's that's 
 what I want to say." 
 
 The glasses rattled, knives and forks were 
 thumped on the table. Mrs. Baldwin, thicker in 
 speech with emotion than ever and less and less 
 audible, kept saying to herself, "Poor boy 'e is a 
 nice boy poor boy," for she felt precisely the same 
 sensations of motherliness as when she had found 
 him crying on his bed in the attic room of the oil 
 shop. As the noise died away, Mr. Gossage seized 
 his opportunity; he pulled down his waistcoat, 
 straightened his tie, and rose to his feet. This was 
 
 312
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 an occasion for speeches. He knew no one present 
 but Miss Shadbolt, and never before had he aspired 
 to oratory; yet in that moment it became his ambi- 
 tion to make a speech. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," said he he was so self- 
 possessed that he heard himself telling his compan- 
 ions the next day how he had made a speech at a 
 dinner the night before. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," he said again, and then 
 Constance looked at her watch. 
 
 "Good Lord!" she exclaimed. "I'm on at the 
 music 'all in twenty minutes," when there was rush- 
 ing for hats and coats, and only Mr. Gossage stood 
 still. 
 
 "Why shouldn't we all go to the music 'all and 
 give 'er a rouse?" said Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 They shouted delightedly at the suggestion. More 
 hats, more coats were fetched. Mr. Gossage slowly 
 drank the remainder of his claret and buttoned the 
 bottom button of his coat. They were running and 
 scrambled everywhere, and out of the midst of them 
 went Constance like a flash. 
 
 "Sha'n't be more than an 'our !" she cried. "We'll 
 all come back 'ere. So long!" 
 
 They flung open the door for her. She pitched 
 into the speechless figures of Mrs. Beasly and Mrs. 
 Cooper and was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 HOW these things come about no one pre- 
 sumes to have a notion, but it drifted 
 through the theatre that Constance had 
 been married that day. Mr. Gossage may .have been 
 speaking of it to Miss Shadbolt as they entered the 
 vestibule. That gentleman in evening dress, whose 
 business is described technically as the front of the 
 house, with no reference to what he has to do there, 
 he may have overheard Mr. Gossage's remarks. 
 This is the way it may have happened. However it 
 was, the stage hands and the orchestra had wind of 
 it. Possibly the gentleman in the front of the house 
 told friends in the fauteuils; the young lady attend- 
 ants may have carried it to the pit and to the bar, 
 where it is uncomfortable to drink in silence, and, 
 seeing that things must be said, gossip is a god- 
 send. 
 
 Without further speculation it may be taken for 
 granted that almost the whole house knew of it, for 
 when Miss Constance Baldwin, vocalist and number 
 four on the programme, came onto the stage, she 
 got the rouse that Mr. Nibbs had promised, but such 
 a rouse as no six persons in the dress-circle could
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ever have accounted for. On and on it went, shout 
 after shout, until the blush burnt through the paint 
 on her cheeks as she realised that the whole house 
 shared her secret. 
 
 With a motion of her eyebrows, she begged the 
 conductor to begin, but he only laughed, sent her a 
 kiss on the tip of his baton and let the applause beat 
 itself out, while she must stand there, her eyes 
 searching across the dazzling lights to the balcony 
 where she knew her Dicky was sitting. 
 
 This was a moment when she could prove herself 
 a favourite and ingenuous bewilderment did it for 
 her. Had she taken it for granted as merely signs 
 of their approval, in time the applause would have 
 died away and the chance in her little career had 
 been gone. But there she stood, nervous, amazed, 
 no actress then, just a woman. The whole theatre 
 saw that, and a mass of people form their judg- 
 ments quickly as one. There was no paint, no lime- 
 light or footlights between her and her public then. 
 She was one of them and every single person there 
 in the audience who knew of it was proudly wring- 
 ing her hand. 
 
 When at last she did begin, her voice was trem- 
 bling, and Dicky in the dress-circle felt a lump in his 
 throat which, without concealment, rose in tears to 
 the eyes of Mrs. Baldwin. But they none of them 
 minded that trembling. 
 
 "Don't worry yerself, miss; take it easy!" cried 
 21 315
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 a voice from the gallery, and her trembling song 
 was drowned in laughter and cheering once more. 
 When that fell again to silence, she had found her 
 voice such voice as she had and was singing as 
 she had never done before. 
 
 Three encores she took and could have had as 
 many more as she pleased but the next turn was 
 waiting. When a little bunch of violets came up 
 like a conjuring trick over the footlights, she bowed 
 herself off and the curtain fell. This way came 
 Constance to be a favourite of the Middlesex. They 
 never forgot her after that night. 
 
 She knew a little tide of favour had turned, her- 
 self, and with a pounding heart went back to her 
 dressing-room. It was not until then she found the 
 violets in her hand, and, with a little cry at the joy 
 of it all, buried her face in the flowers with a deep- 
 drawn breath of gratitude for everything. In the 
 heart of them her nose found something hard. She 
 pulled it out a note. She laughed to think of her- 
 self a popular favourite, receiving notes in bouquets 
 over the footlights. Her thought came to Mr. 
 Nibbs, that little man in a thousand. She tore it 
 open and read: 
 
 "God bless you you dear thing. 
 
 "DICKY." 
 
 And then the strain, that gradually had been in- 
 creasing all that evening, snapped with a quick catch 
 
 316
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 in her throat. The old dresser who attended to half 
 a dozen of the girls came in and found her slipping 
 off her clothes with the tears dropping down her 
 cheeks and she ready to laugh or cry at will. 
 
 "Well, you are 'appy, ain't yer?" said the old 
 woman, whose genuine idea of happiness was tears 
 such as these. "You've made a 'it of it to-night; 
 they're all sayin' so." 
 
 Constance chose to laugh, light of the sun through 
 a fall of rain, and the old woman talked incessantly 
 to her silence of complete contentment. 
 
 Outside the theatre they were all waiting. No 
 more of the show was needed by them. To accom- 
 pany a popular variety artist home from the theatre 
 was more than Mr. Gossage had ever hoped for in 
 that evening. It was more than he did. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs, with an inborn sense of gallantry, the 
 desire to speak with Constance alone, and the stimu- 
 lus of four tumblers of claret, took her arm and led 
 her off himself, to Dicky's, to everyone's amusement 
 but that of Mr. Gossage. 
 
 "My dear," said he, knowing but concealing the 
 fact from himself that the wine had excited his gen- 
 erous curiosity, " 'ow is it yer won't really marry 
 'im? Now don't take no offence. I'm an old man, 
 old enough to be yer father. 'Ow is it yer won't?" 
 
 She walked with him in silence for a while, think- 
 ing how much more difficult is the way you choose 
 from that you wish to go. 
 
 317
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "D'yer remember," she said presently, "what 
 Mrs. Nibbs said to yer that day I came to your 
 shop?" 
 
 "Said what?" he declared, "She said you was 
 pretty." 
 
 "Yes, but as I came back that time, I 'card 'er. 
 She said I was common, she said she wondered at 
 'im at him taking up with the likes of me." 
 
 "Just 'er nonsense," said Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 Constance shook her head. 
 
 "Don't spoil it all this evenin'," said she. "I'm 
 as 'appy as I've ever been in my life. I don't want 
 nothin' better'n this. It wasn't 'er nonsense. She 
 was quite right. You said this evenin' he'd got a 
 future in front of 'im. You talked about 'is bein' 
 the President of the Royal Academy, and makin' 
 speeches and all that. Think of me sittin' beside 
 'im then, droppin' me aitches, and gigglin' not 
 knowin' what to say to all them people. Don't go 
 and spoil it all I don't want to think about it. 
 We're just as good as married, I don't want nothin' 
 better'n this. Come on, let's catch 'em up. What 
 did yer think of 'is little speech? And look at 
 these " She took the violets out of her dress. 
 "His he sent 'em. Ain't I lucky? Come on, let's 
 catch 'em up." 
 
 Mr. Nibbs was no match for her. She had put 
 an end to his best intentions. What with the warmth 
 of that claret still in his blood and the excitement
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 of her success, he was ready to forego all his ambi- 
 tions for Dicky. Women always found a weak spot 
 in him. It was a spot he had no little affection for. 
 He liked feeling weak about a woman. It was an- 
 noying not to be allowed to. He tried to resist her 
 dragging him along to catch the others; but she 
 knew the value of the present and would not have 
 it spoiled with vain regrets. 
 
 "Come on," she persisted, and, before they 
 reached the door of number twelve, her arm was in 
 Dicky's, when no one, not even Mr. Gossage, pre- 
 sumed to intrude upon their whisperings. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," she said, below her breath, "I 
 found the little note, I found it, Dicky right in 
 the middle of the violets. Oh, my dear!" 
 
 That was not much to say, but it was full of ex- 
 pression. When he said nothing because he could 
 say nothing, it was more expressive still. 
 
 They all assembled again in the room on the third 
 floor, when Mrs. Beasly and Mrs. Cooper, both 
 despairing of any hope of entertainment that even- 
 ing, had taken each other to a picture palace. Then 
 Constance sang to them and Mr. Gossage, with but 
 little pressure from the company, recited "The Ab- 
 sent-minded Beggar," brushing back the hair from 
 his forehead and telling them, as he stood up to 
 the effort, that once he had thought of going on the 
 stage himself. 
 
 Notwithstanding that Mrs. Baldwin was getting 
 319
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sleepy, she gave the utmost of her attention, and, 
 when it was over, proved that she had heard it all 
 by saying that she wondered how anyone could re- 
 member so many words. 
 
 "It's just a knack," said Mr. Gossage. "Very 
 difficult when you can't do it, but easy enough when 
 you can." 
 
 It was Emily who truly liked it, begged him to 
 do another, and without much need of prevailing 
 Mr. Gossage gave them a little thing which, when 
 no one afterwards enquired as to its authorship, he 
 reluctantly informed them was his own. 
 
 It was not a question of enjoying any one item of 
 the entertainment. Had Mr. Nibbs executed impos- 
 sible gymnastics, standing upon his head for the 
 benefit of the company, they would all have been 
 pleased. Then at last, when Mrs. Baldwin had 
 yawned for the twentieth time, and Emily's eyelids 
 were dropping and heavy, the party broke up. 
 
 Dicky and Constance stood together at the top 
 of the stairs listening to the last footsteps of Miss 
 Shadbolt and Mr. Gossage as they went away. The 
 door onto the street slammed, the house was quite 
 still. In the darkness on the landing below they 
 could see the gleam of a cat's eyes, the cat that Mrs. 
 Beasly kept to save her bread from the mice. 
 
 "Don't they glitter!" said Constance, who in the 
 awful wonder of that moment dared say no more. 
 
 They turned back into their little room where the 
 320
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 debris of the party scattered the floor. Nervously 
 she stooped to pick up a tumbler that had fallen 
 from the table, and when she stood up found Dicky's 
 arms open to take her.
 
 BOOK III V 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MR. NIBBS had known the worth of 
 woman when he spoke of the help of 
 Constance. From the day of that party 
 at number twelve Dicky strode quickly onwards to 
 the hour of his recognition. For though she knew 
 nothing of his work, could offer no criticism, appre- 
 ciate no subtlety or distinction, there was something, 
 that something of which Madame Marco had known 
 as well, something in the eager vitality of Con- 
 stance's affection that was a spur in the heart of his 
 determination to succeed. 
 
 Every few weeks, had it been your custom to 
 take train from Waterloo, you would have seen a 
 new coloured wood-block by Richard Furlong placed 
 prominently in the forefront of Mr. Nibbs's win- 
 dow, those premises of the Waterloo Picture Fram- 
 ing Company. Various prints of these I have traced 
 to various owners, who procured them in the days 
 when they were one-tenth the value they ultimately 
 became. But some of them unhappily are lost; one, 
 which for subtle combination of breadth and dainti- 
 
 322
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ness I shall always regret, always remember. It 
 was simple enough in construction, simple enough in 
 treatment, yet one of the most decorative things I 
 have ever seen. 
 
 He always had his love for Greenwich, but it was 
 no greater than that love for Covent Garden where, 
 what with the companionship of Constance, his youth 
 and the years of his early struggle, it may well be 
 supposed he spent the happiest days of his life. And 
 this coloured wood engraving, the block of which 
 was destroyed, was a study in the market of Covent 
 Garden. A brilliant day in summer, shadows cut- 
 ting sunlight to a keen edge, an old woman, the fine 
 curves of her ample proportions just defined be- 
 neath the shade of a huge gingham umbrella, seated 
 beside a fruit stall ablaze with colour in the light. 
 Reds and yellows were heaped the one upon the 
 other, all flung against the deep green shadows be- 
 neath that gingham canopy where the old market 
 woman sat with folded hands upon her lap asleep. 
 Here was the subject. 
 
 Mr. Nibbs sold his print of that and never was 
 able to trace it again. It was the only print that 
 was made. By some mischance, one of the blocks 
 fell into the hands of Mrs. Beasly, who, showing it 
 to Mrs. Cooper, said: 
 
 "I suppose that's what 'e does when I 'ears all 
 that 'ammerin' upstairs. I wish they'd 'ave a baby 
 
 323
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 and then she'd soon stop 'im makin' that noise 
 pretty quick she would." 
 
 Mrs. Cooper looked at it, asking Mrs. Beasly 
 what she thought it might be. 
 
 "Looks to me," said Mrs. Beasly, "like one o' 
 them puzzle things what yer cut out for children. 
 P'raps she is goin' to 'ave a baby and that's what 
 Vs doin' it for. Countin' yer chickens, I calls it, 
 not to speak of the waste of time. Anyways, they 
 can't want it, seein' where I found it." 
 
 Whereupon, declaring that it would make a nice 
 little bit of firewood for her, for in Great Queen 
 Street you grow stingy over candle ends and fire- 
 wood, she chopped it up, saying that that was a 
 noise he ought to be used to and flung it on the fire 
 to heat Mr. Beasly's dinner. 
 
 And this was the end of Dicky's coloured wood- 
 block, which, characteristically of all his titles, he 
 had called "July." Heat and summer, shine and 
 shadow, they all were there and, in that plump som- 
 nolent figure beneath the shade of the umbrella, you 
 could feel all the still drought of a summer's day, 
 when the very sight of the pyramids of oranges 
 brought the water to your mouth. 
 
 He was never induced to do that block again; 
 for though it needed but one, with the others still 
 intact, it seems that it is impossible for an artist to 
 repeat himself if his work is from his heart with the 
 head to guide it. Long before his work began to 
 
 3 2 4
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 claim the prices it deserved, the other blocks were 
 destroyed as well, and "July" is only a memory to 
 the few who saw it. 
 
 But there were more than two years of almost 
 unrequited labour, selling a print here, a picture 
 there, doing the hack work of illustration, struggling 
 hard to come to mastery at the school, before Dicky 
 attained to recognition and, all that time, Constance 
 took her engagements on the music halls, flinging 
 her money with an open hand into the domestic ex- 
 chequer, giving him the best years of her life as 
 generously, indeed, as he gave his. 
 
 Life itself was near a fairy tale in those days at 
 number twelve Great Queen Street. When the 
 eagerness to give is on both sides, you turn attics 
 into palaces and every day breaks forth with a ring 
 of promise in the air. 
 
 Whenever the bolt dropped out of the blue, for 
 in a fairy tale there is always that blue from which 
 the bolt may fall, whenever he sold a picture or 
 received an unexpected commission, there followed 
 those glorious and improvident days when they 
 would set off into the country, haphazard journeys, 
 bringing them to woods and valleys, rivers and 
 meadows where Dicky's heart sang back aloud to 
 the days by the Avon when his mother was alive 
 and all the fresh wonders of the world were in his 
 eyes. 
 
 He charmed her then and more than on that day 
 325
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 in the gardens at Kew. Of the birds of the country 
 side she knew nothing, only of those tired, voiceless 
 creatures that mope away their days on smoky win- 
 dow sills in Drury Lane. But he had stories of 
 them all, a name for every one, a stave to whistle of 
 their songs. 
 
 For an hour one day they sat and watched the 
 tireless doings of a nest of ants their soldiers, 
 their sentinels, woodsmen, craftsmen, thieves, and 
 all. She had never seen an ants' nest before, and 
 listened to the history of these makers of cities, 
 with her lips apart, her eyes fastened in wonder on 
 his face. 
 
 "Don't let's go back to-morrow," she whispered 
 when he stopped. "Let's come back here again; I 
 want to hear more. You make it all sound so won- 
 derful. I never knew you was like this. I never 
 knew any man could be like it. You're wonderful, 
 Dicky. What should I have done if I'd never met 
 you? I should 'ave missed all this." 
 
 "Will it always be wonderful?" said he. 
 
 "Always, always," she replied. 
 
 To please her fancy, he told her tales of all the 
 birds made a world for them to live in; telling 
 her the wagtail was a washerman the blackbird, 
 a doctor, busy on his rounds the thrush a singer, 
 hired by rich and poor. He pointed to one sitting 
 on the corner of a thorn bush, singing its loudest to 
 the dropping sun. 
 
 326
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "He's engaged by the doctor," said Dicky; "the 
 eggs hatch to-morrow and he wants to distract his 
 wife's mind from worrying too much." 
 
 She came at last to prompting him for more. 
 
 "What's that bird?" she would ask, pointing to 
 some small hopping thing that fluttered in the 
 hedgerow. 
 
 "A whitethroat" 
 
 "What's he do?" 
 
 "He helps the wagtail starches collars three 
 berries a dozen." 
 
 Such consummate folly as this ! Such divine folly 
 to her ! And, besides their folly, there was work as 
 well. He always returned to Great Queen Street 
 with something accomplished. She sat beside him, 
 reading, while he sketched or she lay stretched out 
 in the sun, smoking innumerable cigarettes, until 
 it was time for them to be setting back to their 
 roadside inn, the Fox or the Crooked Billet, wher- 
 ever they might be. 
 
 And all this time, for those first two years, she 
 kept an ambitious eye upon his work, learning by 
 degrees those little catchwords of criticism which 
 encouraged him to come to her for such counsel as 
 she knew she was wholly unfitted to give. But it 
 kept alight an interest in him only too ready to 
 burn, and no fear of what the future might bring 
 ever deterred her from urging him to his best 
 endeavour. 
 
 327
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 It was one day, nearly a year after they had 
 settled in number twelve, when Dicky was out se- 
 curing document for a new wood-block and Con- 
 stance was cleaning their little collection of old 
 brass, that a knock, an unaccustomed sound to them, 
 fell with a certain timidity on the door. 
 
 She was seated on the floor in the middle of the 
 room, a brass candlestick in her lap, a cigarette 
 between her lips. At the sound of that knock she 
 jumped up, when the brass candlestick clattered to 
 the floor. It was a trick of Dicky's. He had 
 played it before ; to knock for her opening and then 
 enquire whether the only woman in the world lived 
 there. She flung open the door, her eyes lit up, her 
 arms ready. It was a stranger in cutaway coat of 
 country make, with buckskin gaiters on his legs and 
 a low felt top hat set firmly on his head. The light 
 dropped out of her eyes. Her arms fell to her 
 sides; but he had seen, may even have understood. 
 
 "Does Mr. Furlong live here?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Furlong?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He took off his hat and held out his hand. 
 
 "I'm Dicky's father," said he. 
 
 She held her breath and felt the trembling in 
 her knees as she took the hand he offered. What 
 had he come for? Had he come to find out? There 
 was no fear in reason that he should, yet she was 
 
 328
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 overwhelmed with the apprehension of it. It would 
 be impossible to define the awe in which she stood 
 of him, and Dicky was not there to help her out. 
 He would find out how common she was. He would 
 be quickest of all to detect the folly that his son 
 had made; yet it would be still worse if he should 
 learn the truth. There was no love in him, as there 
 was with Dicky, to blind his eyes to her imperfec- 
 tions. Indeed, there was no love at all; for sud- 
 denly her blood grew hot at the thought of it. This 
 was the man who had turned away her Dicky from 
 his home ! She stood there holding the door, mak- 
 ing no offer to invite him within. 
 
 Then in her attitude, half of defiance, half of 
 fear, the unhappy man saw with the sensitive eyes 
 of pride that Dicky had kept nothing from her. 
 And here was he where no pride or authority could 
 avail. 
 
 "Isn't Dicky here?" he said at last. 
 
 "No." 
 
 The reply was definite, uncompromising. Yet he 
 was conscious of feeling that, if she understood all, 
 she would be sorry for him as well. 
 
 "When do you expect him back?" he asked. 
 
 "In about half an hour or so." 
 
 "Didn't you expect it was he when you came to 
 the door?" 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 329
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Then mightn't I come in and wait for a little 
 while? I'm going back to the country to-morrow. 
 I shouldn't like to miss him." 
 
 She opened the door wider and let him enter. 
 
 "Thank-ye," he said as he passed her. 
 
 It was said with a show of ease, in a tone of 
 good-natured familiarity, as though no trace of an- 
 tagonism was there between them, nor cause for it 
 at all. He sought to smooth things over by ignor- 
 ing them, little knowing that with her, as indeed 
 with most, the fire is better for a rouse when the 
 smoke is smarting in the eyes. 
 
 It was tea-time. In silence she set about the 
 making of the meal, bringing forth the old china cups 
 which they had bought for this house of improvi- 
 dence. For a few moments he watched her, silent 
 as well, thinking, this is the girl Dicky had married, 
 knowing there was a woman who had more claim 
 upon his son than had he. 
 
 "How's Dicky getting on?" he asked presently. 
 
 She turned and faced him. 
 
 "Wonderflly," said she. "He's goin' to be a 
 great artist I expec' you don't guess how great 
 he's goin' to be." 
 
 She spoke slowly and sounded every aitch, yet 
 knew his eyes were on her; knew he was listening, 
 as she was listening too, to every word she ut- 
 tered. If only Dicky were there! She believed 
 
 330
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 her conversation sounded less common when his 
 voice was joining in with hers. 
 
 "How do you know he's going to be great?" 
 asked Mr. Furlong, with a smile. His voice was 
 not unkind; his smile was not unkind, yet the blood 
 came hot to her cheeks as she heard his question. 
 There was a genial suggestion of doubt in it, doubt 
 of her belief, the belief upon which she had ordered 
 her life, upon which she had made her sacrifice. 
 It was her one article of faith and he was ques- 
 tioning it. 
 
 " 'Ow do I know?" she exclaimed, and, in that 
 moment of enthusiasm, knew an aitch had fallen 
 too late to be replaced. "Well, I'll show yer, if 
 yer want ter know," and from a spacious cupboard 
 where he kept his work she drew forth one after 
 another of his coloured wood-blocks, standing them 
 one by one in that corner where she had learnt the 
 light was best; one by one, the finest at the last. 
 Such little tricks as these she had been quick to 
 learn. 
 
 "And look at this," said she, bringing him out 
 the "Scavenger," just finished then, the first pull 
 from the school press, radiant in the best frame he 
 had in his possession. 
 
 'The Scavenger,' he calls that. A dredger, yer 
 know, takin' mud out of the Thames." 
 
 She, who had never heard of a dredger in her 
 life before! 
 
 22 331
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Mr. Nibbs, the dealer, has seen this one and he 
 says it'll live. That's why he'll be a great artist, 
 because this picture'll be sellin' when you and I are 
 turnin' up our heels in a graveyard. They're col- 
 oured wood-blocks, yer know. Don't yer know 
 what coloured wood-blocks are?" 
 
 He shook his head. She was triumphing. He 
 knew he could not hold his own. This was a world 
 other than his mill. He tried to find his feet, to 
 meet her on her own ground. 
 
 "Well, he cuts 'em out of wood first one block 
 and then another, and prints 'em on paper with 
 different coloured inks. You'd never think that 
 was printed, would yer? And he's got no press of 
 'is own; 'as to go up to the schools every time 'e 
 wants to take a pull. You used to think 'e couldn't 
 work, didn't yer? Work! There are days when 'e 
 gets the 'ump hump but when that's cleared off, 
 if it was only 'is fingers 'e was workin' with, they'd 
 touch the bone." 
 
 Mr. Furlong sat looking at the "Scavenger," 
 knowing within his deeper consciousness that it was 
 beyond his criticism, yet calling forth all his slender 
 knowledge of art to find some little fault to hide the 
 ignorance he felt, just like any critic in a day when 
 criticism is dead. 
 
 "Of course," said he, "I don't think he ought to 
 have made the dredger so dark against the rest 
 of the picture." 
 
 332
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 She was up in arms at once, but weaponless ex- 
 cept for love. 
 
 "You go and see the dredger down at Green- 
 wich," she declared, "where 'e did it. I betcher 
 whatcher like, it'll get up and 'it yer, like that one 
 does there." That was one of her catchwords. 
 She had heard that often. When a thing got up 
 and hit you, it was good. "There was a man came 
 and bought a picture of Dicky's from Mr. Nibbs; 
 he was the same man as bought the first that Dicky 
 ever sold. The other day he came in and bought 
 another. And d'yer know what 'e said?" 
 
 Mr. Furlong shook his head. 
 
 " 'E said, 'This boy,' said 'e, 'sees truer than 
 many o' the artists we're boastin' about in this 
 country.' In this country, mind yer, not just in 
 London. 'When 'e gets technique,' 'e said, * Vll 
 do somethin'.' And one of the dealers, the real 
 dealers in Bond Street, wants 'is work now. Wants 
 to bind 'im up for three years; but Mr. Nibbs 'as 
 begged 'im not to. 'Sell 'em a picture or two,' 'e 
 says, 'but for God's sake don't tie yerself!' And 
 Vs not goin' to, though they're offerin' 'im a 'un- 
 dred and fifty a year for three years to work for 
 
 'em." 
 
 "What do they give him for the separate pic- 
 tures?" 
 
 "They won't buy 'em not unless 'e binds 'imself. 
 But they'll buy 'em yet. Mr. Nibbs says so. 'E 
 
 333
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 knows 'em twenty-five percenters! Now aren't 
 yer proud of 'im?" 
 
 She threw her head back, and, aitches or no 
 aitches, she asked the question to his eyes. If she 
 was common, she was Dicky's choice. Any who 
 dared might accuse him of folly. 
 
 "Aren't yer proud of 'im?" she repeated, and, 
 as he heard steps hastening up the stairs, admis- 
 sions to women being always easier than they are 
 to men, he bent his head. 
 
 "Yes, I I am," said he, shutting his lips against 
 the thought to plead she should not tell him so.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 UNDOUBTEDLY the moment was the most 
 distressing to Mr. Furlong when the door 
 opened and Dicky stood there, silent in 
 his astonishment. All the disadvantage was on Mr. 
 Furlong's side. He was not under his own roof; 
 here, no matter what relationship, he was not 
 master, and, beside him, ready to do battle at the 
 faintest provocation, was one of that sex which he 
 had often pretended to but had never even dimly 
 understood. 
 
 Yet, when it is considered the odds that were 
 against him, he faced the situation with courage. 
 In the unhappy smile that lurked beneath his mous- 
 tache, his own father, had he been alive to see him 
 then, would have remembered the boy of ten, nerves 
 strained to take his thrashing. Even to Dicky, it 
 was a strange expression which a lightning instinct 
 read to him as fear. There was almost apprehen- 
 sion in his father's voice, but he carried it all off 
 with a certain jauntiness, a certain spirit of com- 
 radeship, the first retreat from those outposts of 
 his attack, the first admission that this son of his 
 had become a man. This was all because of Con- 
 
 335
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 stance; for it is women who give us the dignity of 
 manhood and it is women who take it away. 
 
 In full apprehension of the result and well remem- 
 bering that scene which had taken place between 
 them at the Mill, Mr. Furlong stepped forward, 
 holding out his hand. The instinct prompting him 
 to refuse it was gone from Dicky in a moment. He 
 put out his own. 
 
 "How are you, my dear boy?" said Mr. Furlong, 
 and the look of fear gave way to a broad smile. 
 His hand gripped Dicky's warmly. He was filled 
 with relief now that the tension of that moment had 
 passed. 
 
 They all sat down to tea together, Constance 
 waiting on them, knowing the things of which she 
 was most capable, refusing to be helped. For a 
 while they talked of the Mill, of Eckington, of all 
 the people thereabout; the changes that had come, 
 few enough in that corner of the world, since last 
 Dicky had been there. Only the name of Dorothy 
 was left unmentioned. Ann was shortly to be mar- 
 ried. Mr. Hollom had got a master's appointment 
 at a small school in Pershore. They would live 
 only a few miles from Trafford Mill. 
 
 And all this time, until tea was finished, Constance 
 said nothing. The moment of her antagonism was 
 passed into a mild acceptance. She was left won- 
 dering how common he had found her to be. 
 What had she said? How had she said it? Some 
 
 336
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 aitches she knew had fallen in her speech. Had 
 he noticed them? In excitement, in enthusiasm, did 
 not the best of people drop their aitches, make little 
 slips of speech which in numberless cases would 
 pass unnoticed? 
 
 But it was more than that. Beyond every de- 
 fence which she could make for herself lay the in- 
 sistent knowledge that she was common by birth; 
 that between herself and Dicky was fixed a gulf, 
 indefinable to her except in the meaning of that 
 word class, which only the bridge of his affection 
 could span. 
 
 Depressed at last at the thought of what must be 
 inevitable in Mr. Furlong's mind, she rose to clear 
 the tea things away, and, when they were collected 
 on the tray, took them silently from the room. 
 
 As soon as the door had closed, Mr. Furlong 
 leant forward in his chair. 
 
 "I congratulate you, my dear boy," said he. 
 "You've found a champion there." 
 
 How little he had realised of the commonness 
 which she fearecj it might have surprised Constance 
 to learn! True, he had noticed the fallen aitches, 
 the cockney twang, here the little want of ease, there 
 the awkwardness of speech, yet the impression left 
 with him was of a noble woman which no distinction 
 of class could overrule. 
 
 "You've found a champion there," he repeated, 
 and, to Dicky's pleased smile, in which he saw some 
 
 337
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 want of comprehension, he related how she had 
 spoken in his defence, showing his pictures and 
 pointing out their qualities with the fierce enthusiasm 
 of her sex. Only of the confession which she had 
 forced from him did he say nothing. His coming 
 there to see Dicky was as great an admission of 
 defeat as he was capable of. It was enough to have 
 given up the scabbard of his authority. It was not 
 in the character of the man to give up his sword, 
 even in honourable defeat. 
 
 "But she knows a great deal about pictures, my 
 dear boy," said he. "I suppose you've taught her." 
 
 Dicky smiled. The great deal that Constance 
 knew! He realised then how fervidly she must 
 have spoken. 
 
 "She knew a lot without my teaching," said he, 
 and set her up above his father's ignorance with 
 the brave intent, knowing her battles, to fight them 
 for her too. 
 
 "Does a little at it herself, I suppose?" he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 Dicky shook his head. 
 
 "No? Well, p'raps that's all the better. A 
 woman's sphere is in the home. That's what I 
 think myself." 
 
 Dicky nodded gravely, as though he entirely 
 agreed, yet was wondering what his father would 
 think if he knew that partly through Constance's 
 
 338
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 work on the music halls that improvident little 
 home of theirs was kept in its improvident way. 
 
 "Where did you meet her?" Mr. Furlong asked 
 presently. "You didn't tell Anne when you wrote 
 and said you were getting married. She's a Lon- 
 doner, I can see that." 
 
 "Yes, I met her in London." 
 
 "Her people live here, then?" 
 
 "Her mother does. Her father's dead." 
 
 "I like that look in her eyes," Mr. Furlong con- 
 tinued. "It's a good look, that look in her eyes. 
 They're set wide apart. It's a funny thing, but I've 
 always been able to tell a woman by the look in 
 her eyes." 
 
 Dicky looked questioningly at his father, wonder- 
 ing if he had always talked nonsense like that all 
 his life, or was it because he was getting old, or 
 Dicky himself growing wiser. Whatever it might be, 
 he realised the folly it was to talk of knowing any 
 woman by the look in her eyes. 
 
 "I'm sure she's a dear, good girl," Mr. Furlong 
 concluded; and that showed what nonsense it was, 
 for he would have said just the reverse had he 
 known. A few remarks like these and Dicky found 
 himself being sorry for his father; found himself 
 wondering what Christina, his mother, had ever seen 
 in him. Yet at the back of all these criticisms was a 
 sense of respect because the man was his father, 
 
 339
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 for whom, though all fear of him had gone, the 
 spirit of obedience still remained. 
 
 But he would tell him no more of Constance, 
 well knowing the want of understanding in his 
 father, and when Mr. Furlong found that no fur- 
 ther eulogy of his could bring from Dicky the satis- 
 faction to the paternal curiosity he felt, he turned 
 to the discussion of his son's work, asked him how 
 he was getting on, said he had heard talk from 
 Constance of Bond Street dealers, and supposed, 
 with a laugh, because he meant it as a joke, that 
 one of these days they would be seeing a picture of 
 his in the Academy. 
 
 "I still come up to London and go to the Academy 
 every year," he added. "You know we've got some 
 fine artists in this country. I even prefer them to 
 the French myself." 
 
 "What French artists do you like?" asked Dicky 
 solemnly. 
 
 "Oh well I know the man's name well enough, 
 but I can't remember it for the moment. He's very 
 fine, I know does beautiful nude figures, and I 
 can't help liking the nude myself." He smiled, even 
 as one man smiles to another. "I shouldn't have 
 said that to you a few years ago," said he. "But I 
 suppose you have to do more or less that sort of 
 thing yourself, learning the anatomy of the figure 
 and so on. Mr. Leggatt, at Eckington, doesn't ap- 
 prove of it at all, not that drawing from the nude. 
 
 340
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 But I wouldn't object myself. If a man has to learn 
 his work, he must learn every branch of it. At 
 least that's what I say, and I'm sure you agree with 
 
 me." 
 
 Dicky did agree. 
 
 "Yes, of course," he said, but his brain was whirl- 
 ing at the nonsense he was listening to. To call it 
 nonsense was disrespectful, yet, seeing that it was 
 his own work they were discussing, nonsense was 
 the only word for it. He scarcely knew how to 
 reply without showing his father what he thought 
 and hoped fervently that Constance would return 
 to ease the tension of their conversation. A knock 
 on the door brought him quickly to his feet, but, 
 hearing the door of their bedroom open onto the 
 landing, he stopped, knowing that Constance had 
 gone to see who it was. 
 
 "I don't suppose any work of mine will ever get 
 into the Academy," Dicky said at a venture. 
 
 Mr. Furlong nodded his head. 
 
 "Well, there's no harm in trying," said he. 
 
 "I didn't mean that," replied Dicky in despair. 
 "I shall send it up, of course, because that's the way 
 to make money and get yourself known, and, so far 
 as that goes, I wouldn't mind getting in. Of course, 
 it's cant, nothing but cant with a lot of 'em, who 
 say the Academy's no good." 
 
 Mr. Furlong sat straighter in his chair. 
 
 "No good!" said he. 
 
 341
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Yes, no good, and it isn't, either. Their stand- 
 ards are rotten. Why, if you take their selection 
 committee alone, you'd know why that was. No 
 artist is a real critic of another man's work, even 
 when he's successful. Some of the critics are fail- 
 ures, too, and do you think there's any man big 
 enough, writing for the papers or judging for any 
 society, to admit that a man can do what he can't 
 do himself? Why, the people who criticise the 
 Academy are usually the people who can't get in." 
 
 "I'm rather surprised to hear you say this," said 
 Mr. Furlong. "I always thought the Academy was 
 the high-water mark." 
 
 "It's much better that you should," replied Dicky. 
 "It's a stale wheeze to say it isn't. It is the high- 
 water mark, of course the high-water mark of suc- 
 cess, and success, I suppose, is a very good thing." 
 
 "What you hope for, Dicky, I'm sure," said Mr. 
 Furlong with a laugh. 
 
 Dicky promptly denied that. 
 
 "If I ever get that sort of success," said he, "I 
 shall know I'm on the very verge of going under." 
 
 "These young men get strange ideas," thought 
 Mr. Furlong. He was not sure that he liked the 
 spirit it exhibited. With his limited ideas upon art, 
 it were as scandalous a thing to decry the Royal 
 Academy as to his sense of worship it would be 
 sacrilegious to criticise the Church of England. He 
 was not exactly in the position to say so, but he 
 
 342
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 looked at Dicky with a steady eye, saying to him- 
 self, "He'll know what I'm thinking about." Dicky 
 returned that look, wondering if his father realised 
 what nonsense he had been talking. 
 
 But outside that room, on the landing, more vital 
 things were happening than any discussions upon 
 Royal Academies or the lost art of criticism, which, 
 when you come to think of it, matters so little with 
 people who can choose for themselves. 
 
 Without knowing it, Constance was facing one 
 of those problems in life upon which no one can 
 pass impartial judgment. At the sound of that 
 knock, she had opened the door of her bedroom, 
 and there stood Mrs. Baldwin Mrs. Baldwin, none 
 too tidy, escaped from her duties at the oil-shop for 
 five minutes to have a cup of tea with her pair o' 
 kids, as she called them her mother, just present- 
 able, and that was all. 
 
 But it was not a matter of presentability alone. 
 Fresh from depression at the thought of what ef- 
 fect she had made upon Dicky's father, Constance 
 knew well how her mother would be a seal upon her 
 class. There was no stopping to pick up an aitch in 
 Mrs. Baldwin. Where it fell, it lay, and it was 
 not long before another dropped beside it. As Con- 
 stance had once said herself, there was no getting 
 the paraffin off of 'er. And she had chosen this 
 moment of all others to make her appearance. 
 
 343
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 The first feelings in the mind of Constance were 
 of bitterness and despair. 
 
 "Well, what do yer want, mother?" she asked 
 in a voice which Mrs. Baldwin, from experience, 
 knew demanded careful treatment. 
 
 "Got a touch of indigestion, dear?" asked she, and 
 walked into the bedroom, through such narrow 
 space as her daughter had given her for entrance. 
 Constance came in, closing the door. She knew 
 her mother had come for company; knew she found 
 her days dreary in the oil shop now that she was 
 alone; knew that she would come twice as often as 
 she did, only for her sensitive fear of being in the 
 way. At any other moment she would have wel- 
 comed her, for there was a soft corner in the heart 
 of Constance for her mother, with all her follies. 
 Now, at least for the moment, she felt nothing but 
 bitter annoyance that Fate should thus oppose her. 
 
 "Why should I 'ave indigestion?" Constance 
 asked sharply. "P'raps I 'ave. We've just 'ad 
 tea." 
 
 She watched her mother's face as she made this 
 announcement. 
 
 "Is it too late for me to 'ave a cup, then? I 
 just come over for a minute thought you might 
 give me a cup. The smell of that oil shop gets on 
 my nerves sometimes, does really. Then I think 
 of you 'avin' a nice 'ot cup o' tea down 'ere, and I 
 
 344
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 gets fidgetty. No good my servin' anyone then, I'm 
 only rude to 'em. Is 'e workin'?" 
 
 She nodded her head in the direction of the sit- 
 ting room, well knowing that if work were being 
 done in there it was no place for her. 
 
 Constance looked with a straight eye into her 
 mother's face. That desire of the poor woman for 
 company, the old remembrances of how the smell 
 of that shop could get on the nerves, the frequent 
 wonder, now that she knew of the country herself, 
 how her mother could bear it for five minutes, and, 
 with it all, those grey hairs she had once known to 
 be brown, those cheeks, seared with wrinkles, she 
 had once known to be smooth, they all combined to 
 melt her bitterness to compassion. She still hoped 
 that her mother would go away, but was too proud 
 to tell a lie and say that Dicky was working. 
 
 "He's inside," she said. "His father's there with 
 him." 
 
 " 'Is father? The old gentleman?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " 'E doesn't know, do 'e?" 
 
 "Know what?" 
 
 "That you ain't married." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What's 'e like? Quite nice, I expect. Proud 
 of you, I'll be bound." 
 
 "I shouldn't think so," Constance replied. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 345
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Well, we ain't their class, are we?" 
 
 "Oh, like that, is it? If 'e showed it, Vs not 
 much class 'imself." 
 
 " 'E never showed it," said Constance quickly. 
 "That's only what I suppose." 
 
 " 'E was nice to yer, then?" 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "Of course 'e was, why shouldn't 'e? I'm curi- 
 ous to see 'im, yer know that's only natural, ain't 
 it? because 'e might 'ave been your father-in-law 
 if you'd liked. Anyway, meetin' Dicky's family 
 does make it seem a bit more proper don't it?" 
 
 "Do you really want to see 'im?" asked Con- 
 stance gently. 
 
 "Course I do is there any reason why I 
 shouldn't?" 
 
 There were a thousand reasons. There was one 
 paramount beyond them all. She looked at her 
 mother, at the untidy bonnet, the cape she had 
 slipped on just to run down and have tea with her 
 kids, and she questioned, not whether it were fair 
 to herself, but whether it were fair to Dicky. Fair 
 to herself it might not be, but her mind had passed 
 that moment when such thoughts mattered. She 
 even forgave the little touch of snobbery in her 
 mother's desire to meet Dicky's father, for it was 
 snobbery, human enough, certainly English enough. 
 The pathos of the woman, lonely in her oil shop, 
 with nerves on edge, coming down to them for com- 
 
 346
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 pany and only when the inclination had become too 
 strong for her to resist, this had reached the large 
 heart of Constance. She was her mother, too, and 
 any shame of Mrs. Baldwin was shame of herself. 
 She was too proud to admit that. Yet for Dicky's 
 
 sake It was well indeed that they had never 
 
 married! 
 
 And there was Mrs. Baldwin still waiting for her 
 answer. With a sudden impulse Constance gave it. 
 Without a word she set about the tidying of the 
 good woman, retying the bow of her bonnet strings, 
 splaying out the ends, patting them down, smooth- 
 ing out those wrinkles in the cape, thrusting in be- 
 neath the bonnet the loose and straggling wisps of 
 hair. And to it all, with a pleased smile of grati- 
 fication on her face, Mrs. Baldwin stood as good 
 as a baby in a bathtub. She knew she needed a 
 tidying hand; she did not know that she was re- 
 quired to be a lady. 
 
 The moment it was finished the door of the 
 sitting room opened. Dicky came in. 
 
 "Hullo," said he, and closed the door behind 
 him. Constance waited, with heart beating, to 
 know what he would do. At all costs, she was pre- 
 pared to take her cue from him. Neither of them 
 saw how closely she watched his face, and when it 
 broke into a broad grin she slowly smiled as well. 
 
 "Has Constance told you?" he said below his 
 breath. "My pater's in there. It's as funny as a 
 23 347
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Punch and Judy show. Come on, somebody must 
 help me out. He's talking about pictures pic- 
 tures! My God! Come on!" 
 
 He took Mrs. Baldwin's arm, dragging her to 
 the door. She stopped him there and whispered in 
 his ear. There was no hearing what it was she said, 
 but Dicky's answer came home to Constance like a 
 gift from heaven. 
 
 "What rot!" said he. "Do you know what my 
 pater was before he married?" 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin shook her head. 
 
 "He was a butler, in service, handing round the 
 wine. What rot!" 
 
 Then they had gone, and in the bedroom, alone, 
 Constance held her hands together, her cheeks 
 burning to think that for one moment she had 
 been ashamed; her heart still beating, wondering if 
 there were anyone as big as Dicky in the world.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FOR a long time that summer and well into 
 the autumn, life was precarious enough for 
 these two in their home under the slates. 
 To begin with, there was no engagement for Con- 
 stance at that time at the Middlesex. An oppor- 
 tunity of work offered in the provinces, but she re- 
 fused it, declaring that seven pounds a week would 
 not take her away from Dicky. He was well 
 pleased to let her stay, and, when a Regent Street 
 dealer made him a tentative offer of five pounds 
 for one of his wood-cuts, was so convinced that 
 fortune was at his feet, that at a moment's notice 
 they set out for their oft-frequented inn, the Fox, 
 in Hampshire on the road to Eversly. 
 
 The precariousness of existence for the next few 
 months all arose out of this. With enough money 
 for a return ticket, eager as children, they took the 
 train to the nearest station, chartered the musty fly, 
 and drove with all the suggestion of opulence to 
 the inn. When the driver was paid, ten shillings 
 jingled in Dicky's pocket. But he had left his ad- 
 dress with the picture dealer. In two days the five 
 pounds was to be sent to him. 
 
 349
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "This is what I call life," said Dicky, as they 
 sat down to a meal of bacon and eggs in their little 
 parlour to the sound of the clicking of bagatelle 
 balls in the bar parlour beyond. 
 
 It was what anyone would call life. 
 
 On the second day there was no letter from the 
 dealer. 
 
 "It'll come to-morrow," said Dicky, and went out 
 onto the village green playing cricket with the vil- 
 lage boys until the sun began its dropping down 
 the sky. Then they set off to walk across the wide 
 warm flats of heather where the larks were rising 
 for the last hour of the day and the red sun was 
 turning the yellow gorse to flame. 
 
 "My God! Look at it all!" he muttered, and 
 she listened most when he was talking to himself. 
 "It took Turner to set the world alight with a sun- 
 set." She asked no more who Turner might be. 
 She had learnt all about Turner from Dicky. It 
 was not really interesting to her at the Tate Gal- 
 lery, but she had spent many a happy hour there 
 with him. "That's what he did, you know," said 
 Dicky, and he looked round, alight himself, into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Courage, that's what it wants," he went on. 
 "Half tones are no good half colours, half meas- 
 ures! That's the sort of thing that takes your 
 breath away, that knocks you out." He flung his 
 hand with a gesture at the sunset, the broad sea of 
 
 350
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 burning heather, the flaming islands of gorse. "Half 
 the men paint in their studios, and what the devil 
 can you see in a studio ! I'd like to live out in a 
 hut in a place like this and let them take my stuff 
 or not, as they wanted it. Fancy having a show 
 Sunday ! Fancy having a lot of gaping idiots com- 
 ing in to tea and talking art when they've never felt 
 beauty for one minute in their lives." 
 
 "Shall we come and live in the country then, 
 Dicky? I'd live anywhere you like, anyhow. We 
 could get on all right in a little hut. I wouldn't 
 mind. I expect it 'ud be bigger than our two rooms 
 in Great Queen Street." 
 
 There was a note even of eagerness. In a little 
 hut on the open flats of heather she saw Dicky hers 
 for all time. But it was that note of eagerness in 
 her which brought him back to earth. He had to 
 get on; had to win his way, and believed, as they all 
 believe, that you cannot afford a hut until you can 
 buy a house. For that is the poison of it. Until 
 the house is bought, each nerve is strained and the 
 very best is done. Not one of them calculates upon 
 the discomforts of the hut when once the house is 
 built; not one of them thinks how, through all the 
 ages before the judgment in Eden, man was a 
 creature of ease, and needs but the faintest per- 
 suasion from the Delilah of luxury to return to ease 
 again. 
 
 "No, it must be London for some time yet," said 
 351
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 he. "London till I see my way, and then this, you 
 and I and this." 
 
 She came from that moment to dread her Lon- 
 don, yearning for the country. He indeed had 
 made it alight for her. It was those people with 
 their show Sundays, their social gatherings in draw- 
 ing-room studios, whom she feared. Yet his was 
 the way and he must choose it. Her belief in him 
 was great enough to hope that he at least would 
 never become one of them. Perhaps would they 
 reach the country before then? She shut her eyes, 
 and still could feel the flaming sunset through their 
 lids. 
 
 The next day there was still no letter from the 
 dealer. In some apprehension they walked into 
 Yateley, sending a telegram from the little post 
 office on the green. The following morning came 
 the reply that the customer who had contemplated 
 buying the wood-block had decided that it was too 
 broad in treatment. It had been returned to Great 
 Queen Street with many thanks for the opportunity 
 of purchase. 
 
 Dicky laid the letter down on the table, and Con- 
 stance, who had been reading it over his shoulder, 
 snatched it up again in disgust. 
 
 "Oh, they are beasts!" she exclaimed. "I'd like 
 to tell that dealer what I thought of 'im. Mean 
 beast! 'Asn't got the sense to buy it 'imself." 
 
 "Takes more than sense," said Dicky. "You 
 352
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 want courage as well to buy a good thing." And 
 that bravado was the utmost satisfaction he could 
 get out of it. Yet even then he looked up with a 
 comical grin on his lips. "But how are we going 
 to get out of this?" said he, and he laid five shillings 
 and threepence down on the table. 
 
 There was one way out of it. It was her sug- 
 gestion. Constance had a voice; she could sing. 
 There were people to listen to her in London, why 
 not in the streets of Camberley and Wokingham? 
 She insisted that she would go alone rather than 
 not at all. They walked even so far as Reading 
 one day and returned with nine shillings, thrown in 
 coppers and sixpenny pieces into Dicky's cap. Both 
 made a joke of it, counting the gains as they walked 
 back to the Fox at night; with difficulty keeping 
 from laughter at the sight of the passers-by who 
 stopped to listen, attracted by Constance, wonder- 
 ing at him. 
 
 These were good days, with the warm breath of 
 adventure in them; but, coming back to London, 
 they found arrears to be met and nothing with 
 which to meet them. For the rest of that summer, 
 ordering life upon one first principle that they would 
 take no help from Mrs. Baldwin, they lived in the 
 fear of what Dicky chose to call his bankruptcy. 
 Rent was always overdue; bills unpaid. Unable 
 even to afford herself a new pair of stockings, Con- 
 stance, calling herself an inventor, blackened with 
 
 353
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ink the white skin that showed through an offensive 
 ladder on her ankle, and was sure the whole world 
 saw the trick. 
 
 Yet there was the goodness in these days, too. 
 Dicky was doing better work than ever. He cared 
 for nothing so long as she found contentment. But 
 that contentment which showed in her was greatly 
 for his benefit alone. Secretly in her heart she 
 nursed that destiny of women which pursues them 
 in joy or sorrow with inevitable wonder or distress. 
 
 When the cherry trees through all the country- 
 side where they wandered were bursting white in 
 bloom, when birds were pairing and the wryneck 
 was a-whistling in the cuckoo's call, she came to 
 know that she was to be a mother. 
 
 As soon as they had returned to London she had 
 gone to see her mother. Notwithstanding all the 
 affection she felt for her, Mrs. Baldwin had never 
 been the recipient of her daughter's confidences. It 
 was no easy matter to begin them then, but Con- 
 stance came straight to her story, prepared for the 
 accusation of folly which she would not admit to 
 herself she deserved. 
 
 Much to her surprise, no accusation followed. If 
 ever women are practical, it is in moments such as 
 these. Mrs. Baldwin listened in silence until she 
 was sure what was coming, and then, the moment 
 she guessed, began tidying up the room while she 
 waited for the complete confession. 
 
 354
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "What's Dicky say?" she asked when Constance 
 had finished. 
 
 " 'Aven't told 'im," she replied. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 ' 'Cos Vs workin' 'ard just now, and, besides 
 that, Vs makin' a printin' press for 'imself out on 
 a mangle 'e bought. The one at the school ain't 
 large enough for the wood-blocks 'e wants to do. I 
 ain't goin' to worry 'im just now. 'E's worried 
 enough as it is." 
 
 " 'Ow about yerself, though?" 
 
 "What about myself?" 
 
 "Well, what's 'is old wood-block, or 'is mangle 
 printin' press, 'pared to a baby? You've lost yer 
 'ead over 'im, that's what you've done, Constance. 
 'E may be clever an' all that, an' Vs a nice boy 
 I've always said 'e was but what's all 'is cleverness 
 to a baby, that's what I want to know. With all 'is 
 dodgin' about with paints and stuff, riggin' up print- 
 in' presses out of old mangles and messin' away on 
 little bits of paper, 'e can't make nothin' that's goin' 
 to be anythin' like a baby, can 'e?" 
 
 "I wonder," said Constance, and listened, as one 
 listens to the first song birds of the year, to those 
 stirrings of motherhood in her heart. It was a 
 child of Dicky's that was to be born; but was it 
 really that that mattered so much as that it was a 
 child at all. It was a child of his; but hers was 
 the possession of it then. Were she to die, it would 
 
 355
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 die with her. Irrevocably it would be hers to call 
 her own. 
 
 "I wonder," she said again. 
 
 "Don't know what yer wonderin' about," replied 
 Mrs. Baldwin. "You wait till the little thing's 
 born, you won't think so much about paintin' and 
 fiddlin' about then, so long as 'e gets you enough to 
 look after it with. I can't make you out, Con- 
 stance straight, I can't. You never used to give 
 way to me like this, I know that." 
 
 She looked squarely at her mother with the eyes 
 that Dicky knew. 
 
 "You 'aven't 'card 'im talk like I 'ave," said she. 
 "You 'aven't 'card the things 'e says about 'is work. 
 I always used to think men painted pictures and 
 did the writin' of books just to make money. And 
 p'raps they do, for all I know. I only know Dicky 
 doesn't. There's somethin' that makes 'im work 
 and work 'ard, too that we don't know anythin' 
 about. I can't explain it. It's a riddle to me. 
 But I know what I mean. P'raps you're right about 
 when the baby's born. I may think different 
 then. But 'e won't; not in the bottom of 'is 'eart 
 'e won't. Why, I found 'im the other day, some- 
 thin' 'ad gone wrong with the printin' press, 'e 
 couldn't get it to come anythin' like right. Well, 
 Dicky ain't no baby, but 'e was cryin' 'is eyes out. 
 That's what I mean. A man don't cry if 'e can't 
 make money; 'e just lumps it. And I know Dicky 
 
 356
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 better'n you do. If I tell 'im I'm goin' to 'ave a 
 baby, I know what 'e is; Vll worry over it as if 
 'e's goin' to 'ave it 'imself. 'Specially as we're not 
 married." 
 
 All the conventionality, all sense of the fitness of 
 things rose to the surface in Mrs. Baldwin at the 
 sound of that. 
 
 "Well, yer know what you've got to do, don- 
 cher?" said she. 
 
 "Do what?" said Constance. 
 
 "Well, you've got to get married, of course." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, yer don't get no pity from me if you 'ave 
 a child not born in wedlock, whatever they calls it." 
 
 "What's the difference?" Constance enquired. 
 "You didn't make no fuss about our livin' together. 
 I'm not goin' to force 'im to marry me if that's 
 what you think. If things come out as Mr. Nibbs 
 thinks they will, and I know they will, 'e can get 
 on better without me. I shall 'ave the child, and 
 that'll be more than somethin', won't it?" She was 
 thinking of it as Dicky's child then, the all of him 
 that would be left to her. 
 
 "Well, you don't get no pity from me," repeated 
 Mrs. Baldwin, and pulled down the window to a 
 resounding noise to convince herself that she 
 meant it. 
 
 But the moment Constance had gone, and she 
 was not one to waste time when it came to the 
 
 357
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 slamming of windows, Mrs. Baldwin melted into 
 the tears that were her customary solace in mo- 
 ments of adversity. 
 
 "Yer can't 'elp likin' 'er," she sobbed. "I know 
 I can't. She's lost 'er 'ead over that boy, that's 
 what it is; she's lost 'er 'ead over 'im. And 'e's a 
 nice boy I will say that about 'im 'e's a nice 
 boy."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MR. NIBBS was of the opinion that no 
 printing press properly so called, he 
 added could ever be made out of an 
 old mangle. Emily, justly associating the machine 
 with the weekly washing, had a poorer opinion of 
 art than ever. But Dicky struggled on. 
 
 "I'm not going to limit myself to a block ten 
 inches by six," he declared. "How could I possibly 
 do what I wanted to, cramped up like that? The 
 school press is all right for students to play about 
 on. I'm not playing." 
 
 Mr. Nibbs admired his determination, but de- 
 spaired of the result. For all their bulk, printing 
 presses, he knew, were delicate machines, and where 
 was any delicacy to be found in a mangle? 
 
 "But 'e's a plucky young fellow," he said to 
 Emily; "'e's got the right grit in 'im. It's a ten 
 to one chance against 'is ever making anything out 
 of that mangle. 'E knows it, too, but 'e's workin' 
 at it every night. What I'm afraid is 'e'll be ter- 
 ribly dis'eartened with the result. And I know 
 what it means to 'im, to be cramped with a block ten 
 by six. It don't allow 'im to develop 'imself." 
 
 359
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Suddenly he looked up from a gold mount he was 
 cutting on the counter. 
 
 "Emily," said he, "it's an awful thing to think 
 of that boy 'ampered and 'eld up just for want of a 
 printin' press. It may be puttin' 'im back years, a 
 little thing like that." 
 
 Emily raised her eyes from her novelette, quick- 
 ly fixing her glance upon the little man. She knew 
 what he was leading to. Long experience had 
 taught her what happened when a spirit of philan- 
 thropy got the better of her husband. 
 
 "That's quite enough," said she, "quite enough. 
 We ain't an institution. We're just 'usband and 
 wife and what you gets over and above and it ain't 
 much I gets to the good. What do them printin' 
 presses cost?" she added, half relenting when she 
 saw the pained expression of disappointment in his 
 face ; but when she heard it was a matter of twelve 
 pounds or so, she shut up her book without even 
 turning down the page, and said such things to Mr. 
 Nibbs on the subject of that charity which begins at 
 home as only women who are greatly dependent on 
 it can possibly think of saying. What is more, every 
 single word of it was true, and, being susceptible at 
 all times to the truth, Mr. Nibbs held out no longer. 
 
 But fate conjures and conspires with the destinies 
 of men. Some weeks later the electric bell at num- 
 ber twelve Great Queen Street that electric bell 
 which raised their quality above that of Mrs. 
 
 360
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Cooper, whose summons was the common wire-rope 
 contrivance likely to be pulled out of joint, which 
 raised them higher still above Mrs. Beasly, who 
 had no bell at all but must answer the knocker on 
 the front door their electric bell rang loudly one 
 morning, rang persistently, and brought Constance 
 hurrying from the bedroom to look out of the front 
 windows in order to see who was down in the street 
 below. Cutting out a fine line on his new wood 
 block, the first that was to be tried on the mangle 
 press, Dicky did not even look round. Breath must 
 be held over these delicate operations. The flare 
 of trumpets on the day of judgment would not have 
 raised his head just then. 
 
 She glanced back at him, clasping her hands to- 
 gether, her breath coming quickly, wondering how 
 she would break it to him. And then the line was 
 finished. He turned and caught her look. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said he. 
 
 "There's a cart," she replied. 
 
 "What sort of a cart?" 
 
 It had entered into his mind now, flashing in a 
 thought from hers. Rent was overdue. Frequent 
 applications had been made, suggestions of distraint 
 and all those horrors of compulsion of which you 
 realise nothing until the wolf is at your very door. 
 He ran quickly to the window and looked out. 
 
 "They shan't take the press," said he. She had 
 thought of that too, and the bed in the other room, 
 
 361
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 where, when Dicky was away these days, she often 
 lay in sickness nursing the secret in her heart. 
 
 He looked out of the window again. 
 
 "Somebody's opened the door for them," said he. 
 "Silly fools!" 
 
 They stood there together then, waiting, as the 
 sound of footsteps mounted the stairs. 
 
 "There are two or three of them," he muttered, 
 and, as the knock fell heavily on the door, her hand 
 stretched out and touched his. She went to the 
 door, and, turning, she looked about her. There 
 were the things they had called their own. She had 
 thought often of their child being born in that little 
 room inside. Another day or so and Dicky might 
 have found the money. Perhaps they would listen 
 to that; but it was not like the law as they knew it 
 in Drury Lane. 
 
 "Good morning," said Dicky. 
 
 "Good morning." 
 
 He was handed an envelope, and hung back, hav- 
 ing heard of summonses. The man jerked out his 
 hand, when, conscious of the inevitable, Dicky took 
 it from him, read the contents on a little card inside, 
 then looked at Constance. She came at once, taking 
 his arm. 
 
 "From your friend in the train." 
 
 That was all she read, all there was to read. 
 
 "What what is it?" he asked. 
 
 "A printin' press, sir. Where do yer want it?" 
 362
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 He stood aside, and there behind him were two men, 
 resting from their exertion of carrying upstairs the 
 parts of a large machine. Dicky trembled and his 
 voice was shaking when he told them to bring it 
 inside. Piece after piece they carried it into the 
 room. In an hour it was fixed up, complete, a great 
 big press with levers and wheels and frames, a very 
 toy from the gods with which the mightiest of men 
 might play at life. When all was finished they 
 stood there panting, out of breath, enquiring 
 whether everything was to his satisfaction. To his 
 satisfaction! The poorest intelligence must have 
 taken their meaning. Dicky's hands went to his 
 pockets, knowing what was there. In all distress 
 he turned to Constance. She shook her head. 
 
 "I'm very, very sorry," said he, "but do you 
 know I haven't got a penny in the place." 
 
 Slowly, one after another, their breath regained, 
 they trooped out of the room with murmurs and 
 mutterings, all expressing how difficult they found 
 it to believe. 
 
 24
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MR. NIBBS had the solution of the mystery. 
 When, at the first moment that offered, 
 he went down to the Waterloo Bridge 
 Road, Dicky found it all made clear. The man 
 who had bought his first picture had bought some 
 of his wood engravings, had spoken to Mr. Nibbs, 
 revealing his interest, had learnt from Mr. Nibbs 
 how Dicky was struggling to convert a mangle into 
 a printing press, was none other than his friend in 
 the train who had come up with him from Evesham 
 to London that morning when he ran away from 
 the Mill. 
 
 Chance had brought him to see that first picture 
 of Dicky's in Mr. Nibbs' window, and since then 
 he had followed his development, visiting the little 
 print-seller's shop two or three times a year, to 
 learn what progress he was making. When, for 
 the sake of the story, impelled by no ulterior mo- 
 tive, Mr. Nibbs had told him of Dick's struggling 
 to make a mangle into a printing press to develop 
 the study of his wood engravings, the stranger had 
 nodded his head and remarked: 
 
 "If he ever succeeds in getting it to print, it'll be 
 a washed-out business at the best." 
 
 364
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 And that had pleased Mr. Nibbs so much that 
 he had chuckled over it again and again. It was 
 what he expected of the experiment himself, only 
 he had never put it as neatly as that. He had even 
 suspected nothing at the time, when the stranger 
 casually enquired the cost of printing presses and 
 where such machines were to be bought. Now, with 
 Dicky's information, he understood it all and re- 
 membered many things besides that had been said. 
 
 But who was the man? Long before this Dicky 
 had lost the visiting card which he had given him 
 at the station when they had arrived in London. 
 He did not even remember his name. 
 
 "Well, the first print I do off that machine," said 
 he, "I leave here, and when he comes again you're 
 to give it to him." 
 
 In six weeks' time the first print was ready. In 
 triumph Dicky brought it to Mr. Nibbs. There was 
 good excuse for his pride. Inspiration and the im- 
 petus which the possession of that frowning mass 
 of machinery had brought him had led to the most 
 arresting piece of work he had yet done. He was 
 his own block-maker and his own printer now. The 
 finest etcher in England, the greatest wood-engraver 
 in the world was no more than that. The room on 
 the top floor of number twelve was no longer called 
 the sitting room, but the printing room. Insisting 
 against all his well-meaning but only gentle protests, 
 Constance gave up the whole of the space to him, 
 
 365
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 to his slabs for inking, the lines upon which he hung 
 his prints to dry. 
 
 "I don't think the room looks really bad," he 
 had said when every stick of furniture had been 
 cleared out and sold to pay the rent and purchase 
 inks for him. "I mean, it looks workmanlike, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 It was a place like heaven to him, but, catching 
 an expression in her eyes as she looked at it too, a 
 moment of remorse smote him, tingled hot in his 
 cheeks. The next moment his arms were round 
 her and he was swearing he would hire a room that 
 she should have her home just as she liked it best, 
 calling himself a selfish beast and her the most 
 generous soul in all the world. 
 
 "No," said she gently, "we won't change it. I 
 like it really it's like you say, it looks like work, 
 and that's everything to you, Dicky, ain't it?" 
 
 It hung in his mind that he had heard that ques- 
 tion before, and, in his pause to answer, she had 
 read the deeper truth. Yet his arms were still 
 about her neck, his voice still murmuring that she 
 was more to him than anything beside, and that 
 was sweet enough, however much she knew it was 
 untrue. 
 
 "Let's look at the print again, Dicky," said she, 
 and together they stood in front of the first engrav- 
 ing the press had given him. 
 
 It was the interior of Sardinia Street Chapel, the 
 366
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 old chapel as it stood then, the red lamp hanging 
 before the altar, the unlighted candles, pale spikes 
 pointing into the darkness, and that dim bloom of 
 mystery which is the atmosphere of every church of 
 Rome. Almost the odour of incense, long burnt, 
 reached you as you looked at it, for no man has 
 there been to touch that power of his, that quality 
 of catching mystery in suspense and arresting it 
 before your eyes. 
 
 She knew no more why it made her think of her 
 child than he could have supposed the thought. Yet 
 a lump pressed in her throat as she wondered 
 whether it would suffer in life from the disadvan- 
 tages of its birth. 
 
 "How do you like it?" said Dicky. 
 
 "I think it's wonderful," said she, but had really 
 meant her child. 
 
 It was when he returned that evening, elated with 
 the praise of Mr. Nibbs, that Constance knew the 
 moment had arrived when concealment of her secret 
 was no longer possible. Many times at their meal 
 in the little restaurant of Soho she tried to begin. 
 But, if it had been difficult with Mrs. Baldwin, it 
 was almost impossible with him. 
 
 That he would be kind she knew; she knew he 
 would be tender. He might even be glad. But was 
 the temptation to marry him to be thrown before 
 her again? And, if it were, how, for the child's 
 sake, could she resist it? 
 
 367
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 At last she found courage; arrived at that mo- 
 ment of impulse when the first words are said and 
 no subterfuge or evasion can recall them. It was 
 not at their meal in the restaurant. Courage had 
 been wanting there and the lights were bright. 
 People were there to see their faces. It was not 
 even afterwards, when they returned home. He 
 began at once preparing his coloured inks for a 
 fresh print of the chapel engraving. But late that 
 night, when they had gone to bed, when the candle 
 had been extinguished and she lay there, still with 
 her thoughts in the darkness, the words slipped sud- 
 denly from her lips before almost she was aware 
 that her mind had been made up to say them. 
 
 "Dicky," she whispered, "what should we do if 
 we had a baby?" 
 
 He lay as still as she before he answered. In a 
 sudden the inevitability of life had made itself clear 
 to him. Never had he considered it before. It 
 was as when, waking in the middle of the night, 
 when life is at its lowest ebb, your thoughts turn 
 of a sudden to the idea of death and you know that 
 your day must come, defy it as you will. With the 
 daylight the thought is gone. Only at times does it 
 come back to you. And now, defy it as he might, 
 Dicky knew that he was against that law of life 
 which is as irrevocable as the certainty of death. 
 There was no need for her to say any more than 
 that. In the tone of her voice, in the stillness of 
 
 368
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 her body close to his, he knew all that she had 
 to say. 
 
 "How long have you known?" he whispered back. 
 
 "Nearly three months," said she. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me before?" 
 
 "You were working I didn't want to worry you. 
 We owed a lot of money then and you were trying 
 to make the printing press." 
 
 He lay still with his thoughts again, then slowly 
 took her in his arms. 
 
 "Do you never think of yourself at all?" he 
 asked. "Are you always thinking of me and my 
 work first?" 
 
 "It means such a lot to you, Dicky," she replied. 
 "I know how much it means." 
 
 "Yes, but not compared with this." 
 
 Though no accusation had been meant by her, 
 his conscience troubled him. He had come to that 
 moment when every man must feel his own inferi- 
 ority, the helplessness of his creative power to un- 
 create what once he has created. 
 
 "You wonderful thing," he said at last, finding 
 the greater power in her and gazing with his own 
 amazed at it. "You wonderful thing," he repeated, 
 kissing her forehead and her cheeks while she lay 
 there in his arms, warm in the happy pride of her- 
 self, that pride which so many men have made a 
 woman feel were shame. 
 
 They lay together thus through long moments of 
 
 369
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 silence, thinking he his man's thoughts, she her 
 woman's, so far divided by their separate natures, 
 so much alike in their souls. 
 
 "If it's a boy," he said at last. "You dear thing, 
 if it's a boy." 
 
 "Another Dicky," she whispered, "another you." 
 
 "He can be better than me," said Dicky. 
 
 "Never in all the world," she told him, and freed 
 the arm on which she was lying, to wind it round 
 his neck. 
 
 Then they began the building of those castles in 
 the air of which life's children are such cunning 
 architects. Palace upon palace they had made, 
 towering into a sky that was always blue, in which 
 the sun was ever brilliant. 
 
 "But you realise one thing, don't you?" said he 
 at last. 
 
 She held her breath. 
 
 "We're going to be married at once." 
 
 Insensibly he felt the relaxation of her arm about 
 his neck. 
 
 Even for the sake of their child, that was a thing 
 she had sworn that she would never do. 
 
 "We're going to be married," he repeated, and 
 in that quietness of his voice she knew there was no 
 escape.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Baldwin heard of it, her state- 
 ment that Dicky was just the gentleman 
 she expected he would be was full of a 
 joyous hilarity. Her very attitude, hands on the 
 hips and head nodding, was the clear emphasis of 
 victory. 
 
 "I ain't what you call squeamish about them 
 things," she said. "I don't see no difference between 
 weddin' lines and no weddin' lines myself; it don't 
 keep people together if they don't want to be kep'." 
 And all this was the cry of the urchin, king of his 
 mud castle, whom none could dislodge. As if con- 
 scious of the boast of it, she added that she pre- 
 ferred the wedding lines of the two. "It do give 
 a sort of air about it," she said. "Nobody can't 
 say nothin' to yer, and when the clergyman comes 
 around you feel you're as good as what 'e is." 
 
 "It's no question of whether 'e's a gentleman or 
 not," replied Constance. " 'Twas I said we wouldn't 
 be married, and we wouldn't be married now, 
 neither, only 'e 'as the right to make me. It's 'is 
 child as well as mine." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin declared that she did not believe 
 such stuff. 
 
 371
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I never saw nothin' against your marryin' 'im 
 from the first." 
 
 "You never would, mother," said Constance; 
 "you never will, not even when Vs a great man, 
 and I'm makin' a blitherin' idiot of meself at 'is 
 dinner table when Vs got a lord this and lady that 
 to dine with 'im." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin pooh-poohed such possibilities. 
 
 " 'E's only an artist," said she. " 'E only paints." 
 
 "Yes, you're thinkin' of the men 'oo come in for 
 six-penn'orth o' white lead and a 'alf-pint of oil. 
 You don't know what an artist is. You wait till 
 Vs finished the portrait Vs doin' of me, then you'll 
 see." 
 
 They were married in secret in the little registry 
 office in Henrietta Street, setting off from their 
 rooms in Great Queen Street, where, like a pair 
 of children, they had slept together the night before. 
 
 "There," said Dicky when they came out, "no- 
 body can take you from me now," and into her hand, 
 ready to take his, he slipped a little parcel, some- 
 thing he had hurried out to buy that morning. She 
 could not wait till she got back to open it. In a 
 quiet corner of Covent Garden market she pulled 
 the paper wrapping from off the box, opened the 
 lid, and disclosed a bracelet, rolled gold, something 
 that cost him ten and six and was worth a thousand 
 pounds to her. 
 
 "Dicky!" she whispered. 
 372
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Mrs. Furlong," said he, at which her cheeks lit 
 up to sudden crimson. 
 
 They had a honeymoon that day, dinner in Soho 
 and a box presented to them at the Middlesex music 
 hall. She applauded everyone who came onto the 
 stage. 
 
 "Oh, the difference it makes," said she, revealing 
 all her generosity. "To get up there be'ind those 
 bloomin' lights oughtn't I to say bloomin', Dicky?" 
 
 "Doesn't matter, my dear," said he. 
 
 "Well, you don't know what it's like to 'ear just 
 a 'and or two and all the rest talkin' while you sing 
 the 'eart out of yourself, and when you come off to 
 see the next turn ready to go on, just as 'opeful as 
 what you've been yerself. When they don't take 
 any notice of yer in the 'ouse, it's like bein' 'it on 
 the face with somethin' that only 'urts your pride." 
 
 "Yes, but I'd make 'em take notice," said Dicky. 
 
 "Ah, you would," she replied, "but then you're 
 different. You've got brains. Most of these 'ave 
 only got 'ands and feet. Wonder when I shall be 
 doin' it again." 
 
 He took her hand gently, as though she had all 
 the fragility of a child. 
 
 "Not till afterwards," he whispered; "p'r'aps not 
 even then. You'll have to take terrible care of 
 yourself." 
 
 Indeed, he took the greatest care of her himself. 
 Every word of it was true when she had said that 
 
 373
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 he would worry over it as much as if he were going 
 to have the child himself. Time and again she 
 found his eyes watching her, when she was conscious 
 of those moments through which a woman sits 
 caught in the dream of contemplation. 
 
 "Would you be too tired to sit like that for a 
 bit?" he said suddenly one day, arresting her mood, 
 seeing, with the full comprehension of his imagina- 
 tion, that it was a moment in the lives of all women; 
 believing, with that undaunted ambition of his, that 
 he could carry it to his canvas and make the world 
 see all women as he saw her then. 
 
 She shook her head. She knew that note in his 
 voice, when a sudden vitality overstrung it like a 
 fiddle string. 
 
 "Coin' on with the portrait?" she asked. 
 
 He went for canvas, charcoal and easel, shaking 
 his head. 
 
 "Not going to do the portrait now," said he; 
 "going to do this instead. There's more than a 
 portrait in this." 
 
 She guessed how much more there was and smiled 
 at him and smiled at the thought of her child. 
 
 "Try and forget you're sitting for anything," 
 said he. "Just go on, dream away, think of what 
 you were thinking then. Forget all about me." 
 
 But in half an hour she was tired. Then, out of 
 the corner of her eyes, she snatched a glance at him. 
 The fire of it was still blazing in his face. He was 
 
 374
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 running backwards and forwards to his canvas; at 
 last had thrown his charcoal away on the floor and 
 was mixing paints on his knees by the side of his 
 palette, mixing them as though a moment lost were 
 a lifetime. She could not bring herself to disturb 
 him then and still sat on till an hour had struck. 
 
 Then suddenly he saw the pinched look in her 
 cheeks and threw his brushes down, cursing himself 
 for a thoughtless fool; running downstairs to fetch 
 her brandy, tending to her with all the gentleness 
 of a woman. 
 
 It was not until the colour had come back into 
 her cheeks and she had asked herself how he had 
 done that he thought of speaking of his work. Then 
 he flew off into a torrent of enthusiasms; turned the 
 canvas for her to see and showed her all that he 
 was going to do. 
 
 "The contemplation of maternity," he said he 
 was going to call it. Indeed, in the rough ground 
 work which he had done in that first hour, she could 
 feel her own thoughts in the simple pose of the 
 figure before her. From the canvas she looked up 
 at him in admiring bewilderment. 
 
 " 'Ow did yer know that was what I was thinkin', 
 Dicky?" she asked. 
 
 He shook his head. His thoughts were too 
 nearly with his work to answer such a question as 
 that. But she went on, not waiting for his reply. 
 
 "I think you're very wonderful, Dicky," she said 
 375
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 simply. "Yer seem to know such a lot about the 
 insides of people know what they think, I mean. 
 Fancy paintin' thoughts, fancy paintin' thoughts 
 like them. D'yer think everybody'll see what it 
 means?" 
 
 "They've got to," said he. "I'll make 'em." 
 
 The next sitting she gave him he could do nothing. 
 All the time he was fearing her fatigue. The fear 
 got into his hands. His brushes would not work for 
 him. At last he put his palette down. 
 
 "It's not a bit of good, my dear; won't come. 
 Something's wrong, I suppose." But he would not 
 tell her what it was, and went out, walking up and 
 down the street outside, telling himself that no work 
 of his was as great as the moments through which 
 she was about to pass, forcing himself to the belief 
 that all he said was true. 
 
 And she, half-divining what had been his hin- 
 drance, suggested herself the next day that he should 
 work again. This gave him confidence. "She 
 doesn't feel so tired to-day," he told himself, and 
 mixed his paints with the old energy, setting to 
 work without a thought of her. 
 
 Then expression carne upon the canvas as if by 
 magic. Brush stroke after brush stroke fell, in- 
 spired with the vigour of his imagination. The 
 pinched look came into her cheeks and he saw none 
 of it. Glance after glance she shot at him in hope 
 to catch his eye. And then the room grew misty. 
 
 376
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 She saw him, still in all his energy, working away, 
 but so far, so far off. At last, with a little sigh, 
 her head fell limply and all the room and all the 
 sight of him was blackened out to nothingness.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WITH that anxiety of expression which 
 Constance had come to know arose out 
 of his tenderness for her, Dicky spoke 
 of West End doctors, the best that could be pro- 
 cured. This was as the days drew on and the "Con- 
 templation of Maternity" had long been finished. 
 
 She laughed at his fears, asking if he thought she 
 were the first woman who had ever brought a child 
 into the world. 
 
 "I shall send you away till it's over," she de- 
 clared, "if you're goin' to worry about it." 
 
 "You're such a kid," said he. 
 
 "All the better for me," said she. "I'm twenty. 
 Girl of fifteen had a baby in Peabody Buildin's the 
 other day. How were you goin' to pay for the 
 West End doctor, Dicky?" 
 
 He shook his head and she laughed at him again. 
 He talked about kids! She looked at him as in a 
 few months she would be looking at her child. 
 
 Doctor O'Shea she would have, with his dispen- 
 sary in Drury Lane the little Irish physician living 
 amongst the slum population of London, amidst the 
 filth and the squalor of it, cheerfully holding to his 
 
 378
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 ideals, to his saints and his Virgin of Immaculate 
 Conception, with sin and shame and horror all 
 round him, yet still believing in beauty as a real 
 thing of life; hard put to it even to deny its fairies. 
 
 He began his casual visiting at number twelve, 
 visits that grew more frequent as time drew on. 
 He had known Constance from a child; was well 
 aware of the lawlessness of her type and would 
 have been neither surprised nor shocked had he 
 heard they were not married. 
 
 He had his ideas about pictures, and, as often as 
 not, it was that wild young fella he came to see when 
 he sat listening for an hour to Dicky's- unorthodox 
 views upon art. Such ideas as he had himself he 
 had gathered together in the town of Cork, where 
 for a time he had been a student at the art schools 
 before he went to Queen's College to take up medi- 
 cine. And to these ideas as to his ideals he clung. 
 Nothing could shake him from them. In those days 
 he was an encouraging influence to Dicky, who 
 learnt much of himself in his heated arguments 
 against the little doctor. 
 
 "Me fine bhoy," said he at the conclusion of all 
 these discussions, "ye can't paint a thing what hasn't 
 got a shape to ut. If ye want to paint holiness, ye 
 must paint the Pope or the Blessed Virgin, and then 
 shure 'twill be his Holiness yeer paintin' and not 
 yeer own idea av ut at all." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you don't see anything 
 25 379
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sacred in the world except the things that are 
 labelled?" 
 
 "I do indeed. I see things sacred in Drury 
 Lane and 'tis no easy job for a man to be doin' 
 that, without he's the worse for drink and there's a 
 halo over his own tumble-down bed in his own 
 tumble-down attic." 
 
 "Well, if you see it" and Dicky was shouting 
 by this "it's there, and if it's there it's got some 
 sort of shape to it." 
 
 "It has indeed, but it 'ud take ye at yeer cutest 
 to put a measure round the thing and tell me the 
 size av ut, and shure if 'tis no size at all 'tis no 
 shape at all. Now, mind ye, yeer a very claver 
 young fella" with which he bestowed a wink upon 
 Constance to make salutary his praise of Dicky 
 "and ye can take a tip from me now, for I'm an old 
 man, though not as old as I look." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "Paint the things ye know something about. Ye 
 won't know anything about holiness till ye become 
 a good Catholic which is a pity for ye because I 
 don't believe ye'll ever be anything at all. But if 
 ye ever do become a good Catholic, then ye can 
 paint a picture of the Blessed Virgin like them old 
 fellas they call masters, and faith, if 'tis a good 
 picture, ye'll have got nearer to holiness than eyer 
 ye did when ye sat down and painted the corner of 
 
 380
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 a wood with a wee bit of trees and stuff and tried 
 to tell me that the idea av ut was holiness." 
 
 "Well, what effect does it produce on you?" de- 
 manded Dicky, as he turned the picture they were 
 discussing to catch the most favourable light. 
 
 The little doctor looked at it steadily for the 
 twentieth time. 
 
 "Well, d'ye want to know what it really makes 
 me think of?" said he. "Not that it's like the place, 
 mind ye 'tis no more like the place than this might 
 be the dining room at Dublin Castle but it makes 
 me think av ut. It makes me think av a place in 
 the woods by Rochestown, outside Cork, where I 
 courted a young girrl not the one I'm married to, 
 mind ye but one of those girrls ye fall in love 
 with when yeer too young to know any more about 
 her than the colour of her eyes and a queer way she 
 had that made ye feel funny at the time, of pro- 
 nouncing her r's as if they was w's perhaps the 
 one girrl ye can never quite forget. There are 
 times still, when I'm feelin' good in meself, when 
 I've said a good confession and I feel as if God was 
 pattin' me on the back for a good bhoy there are 
 times like that I think av her yet. And that picture 
 of yours reminds me of the place in Rochestown 
 woods where I kissed her. Now that's the trooth, 
 and that's all yeer picture makes me think of." 
 
 Dicky's eyes were sparkling with excitement. 
 
 "And it's not a bit like the place?" said he.
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "Divil a bit." 
 
 "Then it suggests something that has no shape 
 or form or even colour. And I bet you what you 
 like that, if you'd told us that story under any other 
 circumstances than this argument, you'd have admit- 
 ted that that was one of the holiest moments of 
 your life." 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders, not admitting 
 defeat, but incapable of defence. 
 
 "I'd like to see ye try yeer hand at a portrait," 
 said he, "something that ye could measure, and if 
 yeer measurement wasn't right, shure 'twould be 
 wrong and there'd be no argument about it at all." 
 
 The reply to this was the "Contemplation of Ma- 
 ternity." Dicky brought it out as you would put the 
 ace on the king of trumps. Not a word was said 
 while the doctor looked at it. Constance glanced at 
 him and at Dicky. Dicky looked only at the pic- 
 ture. There is a characteristic mental attitude of 
 the creator when he knows what he has done is 
 good. The most inspired of histories remarks upon 
 it. And it is the same mental attitude to-day. 
 
 "When did ye do this?" asked O'Shea. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, it looks to me as if it had just been fin- 
 ished, and I don't know that I'd have painted her 
 meself when she was frettin' about the child. Well, 
 I wouldn't like to call it frettin' there's no need to 
 be frettin'. But, mind ye, if I'd never seen the 
 
 382
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 original and that was just a portrait of a woman I 
 didn't know " 
 
 "Yes yes?" said Dicky. 
 
 "Well, I'd say she was thinkin' about somethin' 
 pretty deeply and, being a doctor, I might have seen 
 it was that." 
 
 "Do you know what I've called it?" asked Dicky. 
 
 "Well, I suppose ye've called it Mrs. Richard 
 Furlong ye've got enough cheek on ye for six." 
 
 "I've called it 'The Contemplation of Mater- 
 nity.' " 
 
 The little man reached for his hat and stood up. 
 
 "Ye're a queer lad," said he. "Ye always seem 
 to have done the thing that people think ye have. 
 I suppose ye called ut that the moment after what I 
 said." 
 
 At the foot of the stairs, as he opened the door 
 into the street, the little doctor took his arm. 
 
 "Look after her," said he; "let her take it aisy." 
 
 "Don't you think she's getting on well, then?" 
 Dicky was up with the note of apprehension at 
 once. 
 
 O'Shea lifted his eyes in despair. 
 
 "Can't I give ye the most ordinary piece av ad- 
 vice," said he, "without yeer lepping to childish con- 
 clusions? Upon me soul, there ought to be a law 
 forbiddin' bhoys from marrying. I wouldn't mind 
 about the girrls. If ye were to put one av thim on 
 a desert island tin thousand miles from a doctor, 
 
 383
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 they'd make a fist av ut one way or another, they 
 would so. Will ye just do as I'm tellin' ye and let 
 herself take ut aisy. D'ye think yeer the only man 
 as ever had a child bi his wife ? Ye are not. There'll 
 be four to-morrow mornin' in Drury Lane who've 
 had the sinse to get meself to look after them." 
 
 He shut the door himself with a laugh, and Dicky 
 faced the stairs alone. 
 
 Why had he heard that tone of anticipation in 
 the doctor's voice? Was it his imagination? Was 
 it the anticipation in himself? He wondered what he 
 would do without Constance, where he would turn, 
 whether his work would mean enough to him to 
 make bearable the loss of her. Yet the doctor 
 thought nothing of child-bearing. It was a common 
 occurrence in his daily round. But then was not 
 death almost as common as well, and did he regard 
 that much more seriously than the other? 
 
 In a sudden panic of his thoughts, he hurried up 
 the remaining stairs. Constance was sitting by the 
 window. Her eyes were closed, but she opened 
 them as he entered. He came quickly to her chair 
 and knelt beside her. 
 
 "I should never find another like you, my dear," 
 he whispered. 
 
 "Always think that, my dear," said she; "that's 
 all I want and " 
 
 "And what?" 
 
 "Just the other little Dicky, that's all." 
 384
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IT was a Saturday's child, a Saturday that Dicky 
 long remembered. While Doctor O'Shea was 
 in the top-floor bedroom of number twelve, 
 Dicky was pacing the pavement in the street below, 
 his spirit spurred with imagination, suffering all the 
 pains of childbirth, his body, numbed, wandering 
 wherever his feet led him, conscious of no sensation. 
 
 In desperation he opened the door of the little 
 tailor's shop where, if you need livery for your foot- 
 man, there are the patterns to hand; pictures, too, 
 of gentlemen in frock coats and glittering hats, such 
 as Great Queen Street knows of by repute in the 
 West. 
 
 Mr. Wheedle greeted him with a cheerful coun- 
 tenance. This was the first sign of business he had 
 had for three days. True, he was doing his own 
 cutting out as Dicky entered. He came forward, 
 snipping the large scissors in his hand but that is 
 not really business. Anyone can do that and go on 
 doing it till the rent is overdue. Only then does it 
 become difficult, because cutting out cloth and snip- 
 ping a tailor's scissors do not really suggest a tailor's 
 business unless the rent is paid. Mr. Wheedle was 
 only suggesting. 
 
 385
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "A new suit, sir?" said Mr. Wheedle. "Let me 
 see, I haven't made a suit for you for some time." 
 
 "I didn't want a suit, Mr. Wheedle," said Dicky. 
 
 "No?" said the little tailor, inferring that there 
 were other things besides suits, and if it were in his 
 power to make them he would. He snipped his 
 scissors again, but knew that that was not very 
 lucrative. 
 
 "I just just came in for a chat," said Dicky. 
 
 Mr. Wheedle shut the scissors slowly. It was 
 not as if he had been asked to be paid for the last 
 suit. Quite willingly he would have taken another 
 order and set to work the very next day, chalking 
 and cutting out and feeling as if things were really 
 looking up a bit. Yet he smiled in all amiability 
 and said he was very pleased, he was sure. 
 
 "It's a nice day, sir," he added, which, if it were 
 only a chat that the young gentleman wanted, 
 seemed the proper way to begin it. 
 
 "Yes yes, it is," replied Dicky, and looked out 
 of the window, for the first time conscious of the 
 day it was. 
 
 "Paintin' goin' along all right, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, very well." 
 
 "Smelly job, sir, ain't it?" 
 
 "You don't notice it," said Dicky. 
 
 "No, I suppose not I suppose not. Though they 
 say these painters as do housework they suffer 
 from it, sir, so I've heard. All quite well at home, 
 
 .386
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sir?" His scissors had begun snipping again. No 
 business was doing. He had become reconciled to 
 that. The disappointment was over, and it was as 
 well to do something. 
 
 "My wife's not well," said Dicky sharply. 
 
 "Indeed, sir, I'm sorry to hear that. Influenza? 
 They say there's a lot of it about." 
 
 "No, the doctor's with her now. She's she's 
 having a baby." 
 
 The little tailor laid his scissors down. Had 
 Dicky only said that at first, Mr. Wheedle would 
 have understood long ago. He remembered his 
 own first child and the cut of the coat he had made 
 that day it was born. A chat! Why, of course 
 he didn't want a new suit! He wouldn't know how 
 to choose the material if he did. 
 
 "She's doin' well, I 'ope, sir. Well, of course she 
 is a fine young woman like that. I've 'eard 'er 
 sing at the Middlesex, sir, over and over again, I 
 'ave. Great favourite she is there." 
 
 "Yes, I think she's strong," said Dicky. 
 
 "Strong? Why, she's made for a mother, sir." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "Well, you've only got to look at 'er," said Mr. 
 Wheedle. "But it's a trying time you get used to 
 it, though. It's the first one there's all the fuss 
 about." 
 
 "I suppose it is dangerous, isn't it?" 
 
 Unfortunately, Mr. Wheedle received the impres- 
 387
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 sion that he was being referred to as an authority 
 and, had it been the cut of a coat, he would have 
 taken no less pleasure in being dogmatic about it. 
 To be an authority upon anything makes the day 
 pass as if in the way of business. 
 
 "I wouldn't say dangerous," said he dubiously, at 
 which Dicky shuddered. "My wife was very ill 
 after her first child, very ill she was, but the second 
 and third she was well enough, and the fifth well, 
 it didn't worry her at all. She was up working about 
 in the house a week afterwards." 
 
 Dicky began to wish he had never come in to chat 
 with Mr. Wheedle, much more that he had never 
 told him what was happening at number twelve. 
 What was the good of hearing that Mrs. Wheedle 
 was very well with the birth of her fifth child, if she 
 was very ill with her first? In an effort to change 
 the conversation, he thought of the suit that had 
 never been paid for, and, feeling in his pocket, he 
 brought out ten shillings. 
 
 "There's a suit of mine owing for, isn't there, 
 Mr. Wheedle?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, sir, nothing to worry about, sir." And, 
 without loss of dignity, he tried to infer that, small 
 a matter though it was, every little was a help in 
 those hard times. The inference was successfully 
 produced. Dicky laid the ten shillings down on the 
 table. 
 
 388
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 "I'll pay the rest," said he, "as soon as I can," 
 and went quickly to the door. 
 
 "I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir; I'll send the 
 receipt round this afternoon." 
 
 In the street Dicky found Mrs. Baldwin, looking 
 in every direction where he had promised he 
 would be. 
 
 "It's all over, Dicky," said she breathlessly. 
 
 "My God!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "No, I mean it's all right a boy." 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 "Very well considerin'. Poor thing, she did 
 'ave a time ! She wants to see yer." 
 
 Dicky crept upstairs, crept into the room, feeling 
 it was a new world, since a new person was there 
 whom he had never met before, a person he was 
 shy of meeting now. 
 
 Constance turned on the pillows, and her smile 
 was tired but full of welcome. He knelt down by 
 the bedside and found her hand as Doctor O'Shea 
 stole out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN every career, eventful towards success, there 
 are sudden points of turning. For nearly five 
 years Dicky had been in London, learning at 
 the art schools, working at home, striving for rec- 
 ognition, and earning only that of Mr. Nibbs. 
 
 "I'm not a bit o' good to you, my boy," the little 
 print-seller had frequently said. "I'm only whatcher 
 might call an incident. I can't sell yer pictures for 
 yer. Roll-top desks and second-'and carpets are the 
 things you buy in the Waterloo Bridge Road, not 
 stuff like yours. But you'll remember me, as time 
 goes on. P'raps you'd never 'ave taken to yer wood 
 engravin's if it 'adn't been for me touchin' up Diir- 
 er's prints down at Greenwich. That gentleman, 
 whoever 'e is, what sent yer the printin' press, 'e 
 knows what yer worth. So do I. You'll remember 
 that about me, too. I was the first to know what you 
 was worth. Those wood-blocks yer doin' now 
 d'yer know what they're worth?" 
 
 Dicky shook his head. 
 
 "More than two guineas, I should think," said he. 
 
 "More than two guineas! They're worth five in 
 Bond Street. But they don't understand 'em yet. 
 
 390
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 I shouldn't understand 'em myself, if it 'adn't been 
 for yer working at 'em alongside of me, so to speak; 
 I knowin' just what you was up to. D'yer remem- 
 ber 'ow we laughed at yer the first time yer said 
 yer was goin' to do a coloured wood-block? I 
 thought it was all nonsense, never 'aving seen a col- 
 oured wood-block before. But you go on, yer know, 
 and you'll get things as good as paintin's." 
 
 "I've just invented a new instrument," said Dicky. 
 "I didn't tell you about that. You know the Sar- 
 dinia Street Chapel print?" 
 
 Mr. Nibbs nodded. 
 
 "Well, you know the bit of light through the col- 
 oured window, the way it scintillates looks all as 
 if it was shaking just like particles of dust do in a 
 ray of sunlight that's falling into a room?" 
 
 Mr. Nibbs nodded again. It was all that was 
 required of him. 
 
 "I've invented an instrument for getting that ef- 
 fect," said Dicky. "A little sort of wire toothbrush 
 well, they're different sizes, some are quite big 
 and I scrub the surface with it. It makes it all 
 rough and that does it. I'd thought for a long time 
 that some of my high lights were too flat. In sun- 
 light particularly there's always movement must be 
 all those microscopic whirlings must make move- 
 ment then I thought of this brush business. I can 
 tell you I was excited when I saw the first one come 
 
 391
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 out. I don't know if anyone's ever thought of that 
 before, getting that quiver in sunlight." 
 
 Mr. Nibbs' mouth was open as he looked at 
 Dicky. To think of trying to paint the gyrations of 
 dust in a sunbeam! And to succeed! It sounded 
 like a trick of magic to him. He had noticed the 
 light through those windows in the chapel engraving. 
 Casually he had thought how good it was, and cas- 
 ually had believed it to be a piece of luck in the 
 printing. And then to hear how Dicky had in- 
 vented an instrument solely and consciously to pro- 
 duce that effect! It betrayed a type of mind which 
 he knew his own was too poorly equipped to grasp. 
 
 "They'll get 'old of yer name one of these days," 
 said he. "Richard Furlong it's a good name to 
 'ang 'old of. Then you'll find 'em comin' round." 
 
 Then came the point of turning for which Dicky 
 had waited, the point of turning which came the very 
 day after Constance had brought the other little 
 Dicky into the world. From a Bond Street dealer 
 with whom he had left a print of the chapel for ex- 
 hibition, fee received a letter requesting that he 
 would go and see him at once. 
 
 At any other time such a request would have filled 
 him with anticipation and excitement. Now he read 
 it and put it away in his pocket. Constance was ill. 
 In his ignorance he had thought that, once the child 
 was born, all danger was passed. Yet from that 
 moment she had steadily declined. Every morning 
 
 392
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 Doctor O'Shea came to number twelve, and every 
 morning, as he waited in the printing room, Dicky 
 saw that grave expression which the little Irishman 
 could not keep from his face as he closed the bed- 
 room door. 
 
 Then a second and more determined request came 
 from the picture dealer. Dicky showed it to O'Shea. 
 
 "I wouldn't go just yet," said he. "Don't leave 
 her. 'Tis no good hiding it from ye, she's on the 
 very edge. Don't leave her a minute. She may pull 
 through, mind ye. She's a strong girrl, and there's 
 every wanting in her to live, and that's a good 
 thing. People don't die as a rule if they don't want 
 to." He laid his hand on Dicky's shoulder. "But 
 ye must bear up yeerself," said he. "Don't let her 
 see the long face on ye or she'll think there's no 
 chance for her." 
 
 "Does she know, then?" asked Dicky in a breath. 
 
 "She does not," said he; "but 'tis the way with 
 women that 'tis no good telling 'em a lie. They 
 see through ye, and over a serious matter like this 
 ye don't like tellin' 'em the trooth shure tHfey might 
 believe it. Cheer her up now. Tell her all ye'll 
 be doin' with the baby, the two av ye, whin she's 
 well again. It'll put the heart into her." 
 
 With such good counsel, he left him. Dicky 
 walked to the window and stood looking down into 
 the street below. All the words that Madame Mar- 
 co had once said came back with their full meaning 
 
 393
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 to him then. How could he continue in those rooms 
 alone if Constance left him? A cry from the child 
 in the bedroom made him shudder. He dared not 
 think of it then. It was her he wanted. She ful- 
 filled some function in his life without which his 
 work fell pitiably from its preeminence. 
 
 He wondered was it the fact of loving, the con- 
 dition of mind which it induced, that gave all the 
 energy to his imagination. For why was it that 
 with Constance dead he could think of no future 
 worth the having? Yet it was not her mind that 
 supplied him with ideas or stimulated him to the 
 vigour of his ambition. She had the mind of a child, 
 she had no mind at all, only a heart with which to 
 give, generously and unceasingly. Indeed, he re- 
 turned her little in kind. Yet he had often noticed 
 how, the more she expressed her love, the readier 
 he was to throw himself into his work. 
 
 Was that the bargain? Was that the exchange? 
 Then she would lose but little except her child. And 
 all the people in the street passed casually by while 
 he was thinking how he would lose all. 
 
 It was an unfair transaction, yet it was all she 
 had ever asked. By some strange divination she 
 seemed to know that all the expression of his love 
 for her was given, not to herself, but to the energy 
 in his work. A little look, a pressure of the hand, 
 a gentle word here and there, and she had been 
 completely satisfied. That was the wonderful thing 
 
 394
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 in her. She gave everything and knew all that her 
 giving meant. 
 
 So he stood there, leaning against the window- 
 frame and looking down into the street, seeing noth- 
 ing, calling his conscience into the speculation upon 
 that problem of men and women which no man will 
 ever be capable of solving and no woman would 
 really care to have solved. 
 
 With a shrug of deprecation, he turned from 
 the window at last. It was all of it impossible to 
 understand. Was it giving a stone in a woman's 
 demand for bread, when a man threw all the vital- 
 ity of his life into his work? Were he a woman, 
 he knew what his answer would be; yes, a thousand 
 times. For what really was his work to Constance? 
 Only a pleasure to her when it pleased him. No 
 more than that. As work that was accomplished, 
 as difficulties overcome, how could she care for one 
 of the pictures he painted or one of the wood-blocks 
 he made ? She wanted love from him, and he gave 
 her these. Now he knew he needed love from her, 
 and with both hands, perhaps with her life, she was 
 giving it. Where was the justice in that? He knew 
 there was none. 
 
 But he had learnt a lesson. Her love was a vital 
 thing to him, a stimulant to the force of life that 
 urged him on. This illness of hers had taught him 
 much. When she got well again, he would give her 
 the stimulus of his love as well. The giving should 
 26 395
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 not all be from her, and with this thought lifting him 
 to determination, he knocked gently on the door of 
 their room and went inside. 
 
 She was lying back on the pillows, but her eyes 
 were watching the door. The moment she saw it 
 was Dicky, the lassitude of fatigue left her face. 
 Mrs. Baldwin, who was nursing her, rose from her 
 chair and crept into the other room. 
 
 Constance stretched out her hand and Dicky 
 came to it, binding the fingers about his, pressing 
 them to his lips and kissing them. 
 
 "What did he say?" she asked. 
 
 Dicky brought his lips to a smile. 
 
 "Oh, you'll be well again very soon now," said he. 
 "You mean to get well that's the great thing." 
 
 "Yes, I mean to," said she. "I've got 'im to look 
 after, ain't I?" 
 
 "Yes, you dear thing, but you must think of your- 
 self first of all. He's all right. It's you now, you 
 before everyone, before everything." 
 
 "Not your work, Dicky; you mustn't stop work- 
 ing. 'Ave you begun the new wood-block yet?" 
 
 He shook his head. All the document he had 
 collected for his engraving of St. Paul's across the 
 roof-tops he had laid aside. 
 
 "I can't do anything now," said he. "Well, I 
 won't. I'm going to look after you." 
 
 "I'd sooner you worked, Dicky it means such a 
 lot to you. You know if you miss only a day you'll 
 
 396
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 feel as ashamed of yourself as if you'd done nothing 
 for a month." 
 
 He smiled at her observation of that. It was 
 quite true. Conscience was smiting him even then. 
 
 "Oh, a rest'll do me good!" he exclaimed. "I 
 shall have tons of work to do soon; Directly you 
 get better, I'm going to see a dealer in Bond Street. 
 He's written to me twice." 
 
 "Well, then, don't wait," she begged him. "Go 
 to-day, go this afternoon." 
 
 He shook his head with decision. 
 
 "No, I'll go to-morrow perhaps. We'll wait and 
 see how you are." 
 
 She seemed better the next day. The colour was 
 coming back into her cheeks. The doctor was as 
 critical as ever, but he admitted to Dicky afterwards 
 that he thought she had taken a turn towards re- 
 covery. 
 
 "But don't ye rely on ut yet," said he. "She's 
 been as near the edge as she could go. Maybe in a 
 week she'll be as lively as ever, ye can never tell." 
 
 When he had shown her the two letters from the 
 dealer, Constance implored Dicky to go that after- 
 noon. 
 
 "I know I'm much better, I can feel it," she de- 
 clared; and at last, to the importunity of her per- 
 suasions, he went. 
 
 In an hour he was back again, his face radiant, 
 his eyes brilliant with excitement. She knew the 
 
 397
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 moment he entered the room how good his news 
 must be, and, despite all Mrs. Baldwin's efforts to 
 dissuade her, sat up in bed to hear what it was. 
 
 "Oh, I'm made I" said Dicky in a breath. "I'm 
 made! Nothing'll stop me now but myself. As 
 soon as ever you're well, you dear thing, we'll go 
 and live in the country. That*s what you've got to 
 look forward to now. You and I in the country. 
 There's no need for me to stop in London now. 
 They're going to buy my wood-blocks as I do 'em. 
 Fifty pounds for every edition twenty copies, and 
 then I destroy the block. No binding me to 'em. 
 I can do just as many and just as few as I like, and 
 I'm free to sell any other work I like anywhere I 
 please, but they'll always take my paintings and ex- 
 hibit them in their galleries. Twenty-five per cent 
 they charge, but they'll get me prices I couldn't have 
 got anywhere else twenty and thirty pounds, mind 
 you ! I took them that little oil painting of Covent 
 Garden, and he told me he could easily sell that for 
 fifteen guineas fifteen guineas ! That's fifteen bob 
 as well as the pounds! You can do what you like 
 with the fifteen bob. But of course I don't get all 
 of that." 
 
 He stopped for breath, and her eyes were danc- 
 ing, for she knew there was more to tell. 
 
 "Yes yes," she said. "Go on." 
 
 "You're quite right, that isn't all," said he. 
 "There's been a man over in England, buying wood 
 
 398
 
 RICHARD FURLONG 
 
 engravings, representative English wood engravings 
 for the French Government for their gallery in 
 Paris something or other I forget the name of 
 it. And he saw mine, and he's bought it, paid ten 
 guineas for it ten guineas from the French Gov- 
 ernment I God bless the French I They'll buy 'em 
 here one of these days. But think of it a picture 
 of mine belonging to a whole nation I It's fine, I 
 can tell you, fine ! fine !" 
 
 He seized her hand and kissed it again and again, 
 then at the sound of her voice, a sudden sound that 
 took his head and lifted it in a moment, he looked 
 up to find her eyes were filled with a panic of ques- 
 tions all the questions of her life were there, crying 
 out, frightened to him, for answer. 
 
 "Constance !" he cried. 
 
 " 'Ave I ?" said she, and her voice came out to 
 him from another world. Her head fell suddenly, 
 as suddenly the other world had taken her. He 
 caught her as she dropped into his arms. He knew 
 it was death. Sudden and bewilderingly, unexpect- 
 ed as it was, something told him it was death, and 
 fear and agony and dismay brought out of him a 
 cry to God, then crumpled him up beside her. 
 
 So much as this was the cost of his achievement. 
 
 THE END 0)
 
 A 000122770 1