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 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL 
 NONSENSE 
 
 . LIBRARY ' 
 
 '^S ANGELES. CALIF. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2007 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcli ive.org/details/cityofbeautifulnOOtliuriala 
 
THE CITY OF 
 BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 BYs 
 
 K. TEMPLE THURSTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 **Th0 AppU of Edm," "Mirage," ate. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD. MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 1911 
 
 60036 
 
Copyright, 1900. by 
 DODD. MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 PubUth4d, September, 190© 
 
T4 
 
 1 
 
 Dedicated to 
 ROSESTA FlLIPPI, 
 
 lO tvkom I am indebted Jhr the gift of 
 
 laughter which I hope has crept its xuajf 
 
 into the pages qf this book, 
 
 London, 18, 3, '09. 
 

 J, 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Book I 
 THE ROAD TO THE CITY 
 
 CHAFTEB PAOB 
 
 I. A Pbelude on the Eve of St. 
 
 Joseph's Day 1 
 
 n. The Last Candle 6 
 
 HI. The Geeengrocer's — Fetter Lane . 13 
 
 IV. What to Call a Hero .... 18 
 
 V. The Ballad-Monger — ^Fetter Lane 23 
 
 [VI. Of Kensington Gardens ... '31 
 
 VII. The Voyage of the Good Ship 
 
 Albatross 39 
 
 VIII. The Fateful Ticket-Puncher . . 47 
 
 IX. The Art of Hieroglyphics ... 59 
 
 X. The Need for Intuition .... 71 
 
 XI. A Side-light Upon Appearances . 74$ 
 
 XII. The Chapel of Unredemption . . 78 
 
 XIII. The Inventory 9£ 
 
 XIV. The Way to Find Out 98 
 
 XV. What is Hidden by a Camisole . . 107 
 
 XVI. Easter Sunday 117 
 
 XVII. The Fly in the Amber .... 129 
 
 XVIII. The Nonsense-Maker . . . . 141 
 
 XIX. The Mr. Chesterton . . . . 157 
 
 XX. Why Jill Prayed to St. Joseph . 167 
 
 XXI. The City of Beautiful Nonsense . 177 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 Book II 
 
 
 
 THE TUNNEL 
 
 
 CHAPTEB 
 
 
 PAOK 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Heart Op the Shadow 
 
 .. 189 
 
 xxin. 
 
 Ambee 
 
 . 197 
 
 Book III 
 THE CITY 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The Paij\.zzo Capeixo 
 
 207 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Lettee — ^Venice 
 
 213 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Return — ^Venice . 
 
 224 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 The True Mother . . . 
 
 229 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 The Treasure Shop 
 
 237 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The Candle for St. Anthony . 
 
 250 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The Qualities of Ignatia . 
 
 257 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Sacrifice . . . . . 
 
 266 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 The Departure — Venice ,. . 
 
 274 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 The 16th of February — ^Lon- 
 
 
 
 don 
 
 285 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The Dissoluble Bondage . 
 
 •300 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The Wonder of Belief . 
 
 306 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The Passing ...... 
 
 312 
 
 XXXVH. 
 
 The Circular Tour ... 
 
 819 
 
 xxxvin. 
 
 A Process of Honesty . 
 
 384 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Tff. End of the Loom . > . 
 
 838 
 
BOOK I 
 THE ROAD TO THE CITY 
 
The City of Beautiful Nonsense 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A PRELUDE ON THE EVE OF ST. JOSEPH'S DAY 
 
 Of course, the eighteenth of March — but it is out 
 of the question to say upon which day of the week 
 it fell. 
 
 It was half-past seven in the evening. At half- 
 past seven it is dark, the lamps are lighted, the 
 houses huddle together in groups. They have se- 
 crets to tell as soon as it is dark. Ah! If you 
 knew the secrets that houses are telling when the 
 shadows draw them so close together! But you 
 never will know. They close their eyes and they 
 whisper. 
 
 Around the fields of Lincoln's Inn it was as still 
 as the grave. The footsteps of a lawyer's clerk 
 hurrying late away from chambers vibrated through 
 the intense quiet. You heard each step to the 
 very last. So long as you could see him, you heard 
 them' plainly ; then he vanished behind the curtain 
 of shadows, the sounds became muffled, and at last 
 the silence crept back into the Fields — crept all 
 round you, half eager, half reluctant, like sleepy 
 children drawn from their beds to hear the end of 
 a fairy story. 
 
g THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 There was a fairy story to be told, too. 
 
 It began that night of the eighteenth of March 
 — the Eve of St. Joseph's day. 
 
 I don't know what it is about St. Joseph, but of 
 all those saints who crowd their hallowed names 
 upon the calendar — and, good heavens! there are 
 so many — he seems most worthy of cannonisation. 
 In the fervent fanaticism of faith, the virtue of a 
 martyr's death is almost its own reward; but to 
 live on in the belief of that miracle which offers to 
 crush marital happiness, scattering family honour 
 like dust before the four winds of heaven — that 
 surely was the noblest martyrdom of all. 
 
 There is probably enough faith left in some to- 
 day to give up their hves for their religion ; but I 
 know of no man who would allow his faith to in- 
 tercede for the honour of his wife's good name when 
 once the hand of circumstance had played so con- 
 juring a trick upon him. 
 
 And so, amongst Roman Catholics, who, when it 
 comes to matters of faith, are like children at a 
 fair, even the spirit of condolence seems to have 
 crept its way into their attitude towards this 
 simple-minded man. 
 
 " Poor St. Joseph," they say — " I always get 
 what I want from him. I've never known him to 
 fail." 
 
 Or — " Poor St. Joseph — ^he's not a bit of good 
 to me. I always pray to the Blessed Virgin for 
 everything I want." 
 
 Could anything be more childlike, more ingenu-. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 3 
 
 ous, more like a game in a nursery — the only place 
 in the world where things are really believed. 
 
 Every saint possesses his own separate quality, 
 efficacious in its own separate way. St. Rock holds 
 the magic philtre of health; you pray to St. An- 
 thony to recover all those things that were lost — 
 and how palpably stand out the times when, rising 
 from your knees, your search was successful, how 
 readily those times drop into oblivion when you 
 failed. It is impossible to enumerate all the saints 
 and their quahties crowding the pages of those 
 many volumes of Butler's Lives. For safety at sea, 
 for instance, St. Gerald is unsurpassed; but St. 
 Joseph — poor St. Joseph! — from him flow all those 
 good things which money can buy — the children's 
 toys, the woman's pin money and the luxuries which 
 are the necessities of the man. 
 
 Think, if you can — if you can conjure before your 
 mind's eye — of all the things that must happen on 
 that eve of the feast day of St. Joseph. How many 
 thousands of knees are bent, how many thousand 
 jaded bodies and hungry souls whisper the name of 
 poor St. Joseph? The prayers for that glitter of 
 gold, that shine of silver and that jangling of 
 copper are surely too numerous to count. What a 
 busy day it must be where those prayers are heard! 
 What hopes must be bom that night and what re- 
 sponsibilities lightened! Try and count the candles 
 that are lighted before the shrine of St. Joseph! 
 It is impossible. 
 
 It all resolves itself into a simple mathematical 
 
4 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 calculation. Tell me how many poor there are — • 
 and I will tell you how many candles are burnt, how 
 many prayers are prayed, and how many hopes are 
 bom on the eve of St. Joseph's day. 
 
 And how many poor are there in the world? 
 
 The bell was toning for eight o'clock Benediction 
 at the Sardinia St. Chapel on that evening of the 
 eighteenth of March — Sardinia St. Chapel, which 
 stands so tremulously in the shadows of Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields — tremulously, because any day the de- 
 cision of the council of a few men may rase it 
 ruthlessly to the ground. 
 
 Amongst all the figures kneeling there in the dim 
 candle-light, their shoulders hunched, their heads 
 sinking deeply in their hands, there was not one but 
 on whose lips the name of poor St. Joseph lingered 
 in earnest or piteous appeal. 
 
 These were the poor of the earth, and who and 
 what were they.? 
 
 There was a stock-broker who paid a rent of some 
 three hundred pounds a year for his offices in the 
 City, a rent of one hundred and fifty for his cham- 
 bers in Temple Gardens, and whose house in the 
 country was kept in all the splendour of wealth. 
 
 Behind him — he sat in a pew by himself — was a 
 lady wearing a heavy fur coat. She was young. 
 Twenty-three at the utmost. There was nothing to 
 tell from her, but her bent head, that the need of 
 money could ever enter into her consideration. She 
 also was in a pew alone. Behind her sat three 
 servant girls. On the other side of the aisle, paral- 
 lel with the lady in the fur coat, there was a young 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 5 
 
 man — a writer — a journalist — a driver of the pen, 
 whose greatest source of poverty was his ambition. 
 
 Kneeling behind him at various distances, there 
 were a clerk, a bank manager, a charwoman; and 
 behind all these, at the end of the chapel, devout, 
 intent, and as earnest as the rest, were four Italian 
 organ-grinders . 
 
 These are the poor of the earth. They are not 
 a class. They are every class. Poverty is not a con- 
 dition of some ; it is a condition of all. Those things 
 we desire are so far removed from those which we 
 obtain, that all of us are paupers. And so, that 
 simple arithmetical problem must remain un- 
 solved; for it is impossible to tell the poor of this 
 world and, therefore, just so impossible it is to count 
 the candles that are burnt, the prayers that are 
 prayed or the hopes that are bom on the eve of 
 St. Joseph's day. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE LAST CANDLE 
 
 When the Benediction was over and the priest had 
 passed in procession with the acolytes into the mys- 
 terious shadows behind the altar, the little congre- 
 gation rose slowly to its feet. 
 
 One by one they approached the altar of St. 
 Joseph. One by one their pennies rattled into the 
 brown wooden box as they took out their candles, 
 and soon the sconce before the painted image of 
 that simple-minded saint was ablaze with little 
 points of light. 
 
 There is nature in everything; as much in light- 
 ing candles for poor St. Joseph as you will find in 
 the most momentous decision of a life-time. 
 
 The wealthy stock-broker, counting with care 
 two pennies from amongst a handful of silver, was 
 servant to the impulses of his nature. It crossed 
 his mind that they must be only farthing candles 
 — a penny, therefore, was a very profitable return 
 — the Church was too grasping. He would buy 
 no more than two. Why should the Church profit 
 seventy-five per cent, upon his faith? He gave 
 generously to the collection. It may be questioned, 
 too, why St. Joseph should give him what he had 
 asked, a transaction which brought no apparent 
 profit to St. Joseph at all? He did not appreciate 
 
 6 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 7 
 
 that side of it. He had prayed that a speculation 
 involving some thousands of pounds should prove 
 successful. If his prayer were granted, he would be 
 the richer by twenty per cent, upon his investment — 
 but not seventy-five, oh, no — not seventy-five! And 
 so those two pennies assumed the proportions of 
 an exactment which he grudgingly bestowed. They 
 rattled in his ear as they fell. 
 
 After him followed the charwoman. Crossing her- 
 self, she bobbed before the image. Her money was 
 already in her hand. All through the service, she 
 had gripped it in a perspiring palm, fearing that 
 it might be lost. Three-penny-bits are mischievous 
 little coins. She gave out a gentle sigh of relief 
 when at last she heard it tinkle in the box. It was 
 Aafe there. That was its destination. The three 
 farthing candles became hers. She lit them lov- 
 ingly. Three children there were, waiting in some 
 tenement buildings for her return. As she put each 
 candle in its socket, she whispered each separate 
 name — John — Mary — Michael. There was not one 
 for herself. 
 
 Then came the clerk. He lit four. They rep- 
 resented the sum of coppers that he had. It might 
 have bought a packet of cigarettes. He looked 
 pensively at the four candles he had lighted in the 
 sconce, then turned, fatalistically, on his heel. After 
 all, what good could four farthing candles do to poor 
 St. Joseph.? Perhaps he had been a fool — per- 
 haps it was a waste of money. 
 
 Following him was the bank manager. Six can- 
 dles he took out of the brown wooden box. Every 
 
8 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 year he lit six. He had never lit more ; he had 
 never lit less. He lit them hurriedly, self-con- 
 sciously, as though he were ashamed of so many 
 and, turning quickly away, did not notice that the 
 wick of one of them had burnt down and gone out. 
 
 The first servant girl who came after him, lifted 
 it out of the socket and lit it at another flame. 
 
 " I'm going to let that do for me," she whis- 
 pered to the servant girl behind her. " I lit it — it 'ud 
 a' been like that to-morrow if I 'adn't a' lit it." 
 
 Seeing her companion's expression of contempt, 
 she giggled nervously. She must have been glad to 
 get away down into the shadows of the church. 
 There, she slipped into an empty pew and sank on 
 to her knees. 
 
 " Please Gawd, forgive me," she whispered. " I 
 know it was mean of me," and she tried to sum- 
 mon the courage to go back and light a new candle. 
 But the courage was not there. It requires more 
 courage than you would think. 
 
 At last all had gone but the lady In the heavy 
 fur coat and the writer — the journalist — the driver 
 of the pen. There was a flood of light from all 
 the candles at the little altar, the church was empty, 
 everything was still; but there these two remained, 
 kneeling silently in their separate pews. 
 
 What need was there in the heart of her that 
 kept her so patiently upon her knees? Some press- 
 ing desire, you may be sure — some want that women 
 have and only women understand. And what was 
 the need in him? Not money! Nothing that St. 
 Joseph could give. He had no money. One penny 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 9 
 
 was lying contentedly at the bottom of his pocket. 
 That, at the moment, was all he had in the world. 
 It is mostly when you have many possessions that 
 you need the possession of more. To own one penny, 
 knowing that there is no immediate possibility of 
 owning another, that is as near contentment as one 
 can well-nigh reach. 
 
 Then whj"^ did he wait on upon his knees? What 
 was the need in the heart of him.? Nature again — 
 human nature, too — simply the need to know the 
 need in her. That was all. 
 
 Ten minutes passed. He watched her through 
 the interstices of his fingers. But she did not move. 
 At last, despairing of any further discovery than 
 that you may wear a fur coat costing thirty guineas 
 and still be poor, still pray to St. Joseph, he rose 
 slowly to his feet. 
 
 Almost immediately afterwards, she followed him. 
 
 He walked directly to the altar and his penny 
 had jangled in the box before he became aware that 
 there was only one candle left. 
 
 He looked back. The lady was waiting. The 
 impulse came in a moment. He stood aside and 
 left the candle where it was. Then he slowly turned 
 away. 
 
 There are moments in life when playful Circum- 
 stance links hands with a light-hearted Fate, and 
 the two combined execute as dainty an impromptu 
 dance of events as would take the wit of a man some 
 months of thought to rehearse. 
 
 Here you have a man, a woman, and a candle 
 destined for the altar of St. Joseph, all flung to- 
 
10 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 gether in an empty church by the playful hand of 
 Circumstance and out of so strange a medley comes 
 a fairy story — the story of the City of Beautiful 
 Nonsense — a dream or a reality — they are one and 
 the same thing — a little piece of colour in the 
 great patchwork which views the souls still sleep- 
 ing. 
 
 He knew, as he slowly turned away, that the mat- 
 ter did not end there. You must not only be a stu- 
 dent of human nature in order to drive a pen. Cir- 
 cumstance must be anticipated as well. There may 
 be nature in everything, but it is the playful hand 
 of Circumstance which brings it to your eyes. So, 
 he slowly turned away — oh, but very slowly — with 
 just so much show of action as was necessary to 
 convey that he had no intention to remain. 
 
 But every sense in him was ready for the moment 
 when her voice arrested him. 
 
 " You have not," said she, " taken the candle that 
 you paid for." Her voice was low to a whisper. 
 
 He came round on his heel at once. 
 
 *' No — it's the last. I didn't notice that when I 
 dropped my penny in." 
 
 " But you ought to take it." 
 
 " I left it for you." 
 
 "But why should you.''" 
 
 " It seemed possible that you might want to light 
 it more than I did." 
 
 What did he mean by that.'* That she was poor, 
 poorer than he? That the generosity of St. Jo- 
 seph was of greater account to her? It was. It 
 must be surely. No one could need more sorely the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 11 
 
 assistance of the powers of heaven than she did 
 then. 
 
 But why should he know? Why should he think 
 that? Had it been that poor charwoman — oh, yes. 
 But — she looked at his serviceable blue serge suit, 
 compared it instinctively with the luxury of her 
 heavy fur coat — why should he think that of her? 
 
 ** I don't see why I should accept your gener- 
 osity," she whispered. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " I offer it to St. Joseph," said he. 
 
 She took up the candle. 
 
 " I shouldn't be surprised if he found your offer- 
 ing the more acceptable of the two." 
 
 He watched her light it; he watched her place it 
 in an empty socket. He noticed her hands — deli- 
 cate — white — fingers that tapered to the dainty fin- 
 ger nails. What could it have been that she had been 
 praying for? 
 
 " Well — I don't suppose St. Joseph is very par- 
 ticular," he said with a humorous twist of the lip. 
 
 "Don't you? Poor St. Joseph!" 
 
 She crossed herself and turned away from the 
 altar. 
 
 " Now — ^I owe you a penny," she added. 
 
 She held out the coin, but he made no motion to 
 take it. 
 
 " I'd rather not be robbed," said he, " of a frac- 
 tion of my offer to St. Joseph. Would you mind 
 very much if you continued to owe ? " 
 
 " As you wish." She withdrew her hand. " Then, 
 thank you very much. Good-night." 
 
12 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 He walked slowly after her down the church. It 
 had been a delicate stringing of moments on a 
 slender thread of incident — that was all. It had 
 yielded nothing. She left hira just as ignorant as 
 before. He knew no better why she had been pray- 
 ing so earnestly to poor St. Joseph. 
 
 But then, when you know what a woman prays 
 for, you know the deepest secret of her heart. And 
 it is impossible to learn the deepest secret of a 
 woman's heart in ten minutes ; though you may 
 more likely arrive at it then, than in a life-time. 
 
CHAPTER ni 
 
 THE GREENGROCER'S— FETTER LANE 
 
 Two or three years ago, there was a certain green- 
 grocer's shop in Fetter Lane. The front window 
 had been removed, the better to expose the display 
 of fruits and vegetables which were arranged on 
 gradually ascending tiers, completely obstructing 
 your vision into the shop itself. Oranges, bananas, 
 potatoes, apples, dates — all pressed together in the 
 condition in which they had arrived at the London 
 docks, ballast for the good ship that brought them 
 — carrots and cauliflowers, all in separate little com- 
 partments, were huddled together on the ascend- 
 ing rows of shelves like colours that a painter leaves 
 negligently upon his palette. 
 
 At night, a double gas jet blew in the wind just 
 outside, deepening the contrasts, the oranges with 
 the dull earth brown of the potatoes, the bright yel- 
 low bananas with the sheen of blue on the green 
 cabbages! Oh, that sheen of blue on the green 
 cabbages ! It was all the more beautiful for being 
 an effect rather than a real colour. How an artist 
 would have loved it! 
 
 These greengrocers' shops and stalls are really 
 most picturesque, so much more savoury, too, than 
 any other shop — except a chemist's. Of course, 
 there is nothing to equal that wholesome smell of 
 
 13 
 
14 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 brown Windsor soap which pervades even the most 
 cash of all cash chemist's! An up-to-date fruiter- 
 er's in Piccadilly may have as fine an odour, perhaps ; 
 but then an up-to-date fruiterer is not a greengrocer. 
 He does not dream of calling himself such. They 
 art greengrocers in Fetter Lane — greengrocers in 
 the Edgware Road — greengrocers in old Drury, but 
 fruiterers in Piccadilly. 
 
 Compared, then, with the ham and beef shop, the 
 fish-monger's, and the inevitable oil shop, where, in 
 such neighbourhoods as these, you buy everything, 
 this greengrocer's was a welcome oasis in a desert 
 of unsavoury smells and gloomy surroundings. The 
 colours it displayed, the brilliant flame of that pyra- 
 mid of oranges, those rosy cheeks of the apples, that 
 glaring yellow cluster of bananas hanging from a 
 hook in the ceilin'g, and the soft green background 
 of cabbages, cauliflowers and every other green vege- 
 table which chanced to be in season, with one last 
 touch of all, some beetroot, cut and bleeding, col- 
 our that an emperor might wear, combined to make 
 that little greengrocer's shop in Fetter Lane the 
 one saving clause in an otherwise dreary scheme. 
 It cheered you as you passed it by. You felt 
 thankful for it. Those oranges looked clean and 
 wholesome. They shone in the light of that double 
 gas jet. They had every reason to shine. Mrs. 
 Meakin rubbed them with her apron every morning 
 when she built up that perilous pyramid. She 
 rubbed the apples, too, until their faces glowed, 
 glowed like children ready to start for school. 
 When you looked at them you thought of the coun- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 15 
 
 try, the orchards where they had been gathered, and 
 Fetter Lane, with all its hawkers' cries and scream- 
 ing children, vanished from your senses. You do 
 not get that sort of an impression when you look 
 in the window of a ham and beef shop. A plate of 
 sliced ham, on which two or three flies crawl lazily, 
 a pan of sausages, sizzling in their own fat, bear 
 no relation to anything higher than the unfastid- 
 ious appetite of a hungry man. 
 
 That sort of shop, you pass by quickly ; but, even 
 if you had not wished to buy anything, you might 
 have hesitated, then stopped before Mrs. Meakin's 
 little greengrocer's stall in Fetter Lane. 
 
 Mrs. INIeakin was very fat. She had a face like 
 an apple — not an apple just picked, but one that 
 has been lying on the straw in a loft through the 
 winter, well-preserved, losing none of its flavour, 
 but the skin of which is wrinkled and shrivelled with 
 age. On a wooden chair without any back to it, 
 she sat in the shop all day long, inhaling that 
 healthy, cleanly smell of good mother earth which 
 clung about the sacks of potatoes. Here it was 
 she waited for the advent of customers. Whenever 
 they appeared at the door, she paused for a mo- 
 ment, judging from their attitude the likelihood of 
 their custom, then, slapping both hands on her 
 knees, she would rise slowly to her feet. 
 
 She was a good woman of business, was Mrs. 
 Meakin, with a capable way of explaining how poor 
 the season was for whatever fruit or vegetable her 
 customers wished to purchase. Tt must not be suj»- 
 posed that under this pretence she demanded higww. 
 
16 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 prices than were being asked elsewhere. Oh — not at 
 all! Honesty was written in her face. It was only 
 that she succeeded in persuading her customers that 
 under the circumstances they got their vegetables 
 at a reasonable price and, going away quite con- 
 tented, they were willing to return again. 
 
 But what in the name, even of everything that is 
 unreasonable have the greengrocery business and 
 the premises of Mrs. Meakin to do with the City of 
 Beautiful Nonsense? Is it part of the Nonsense to 
 jump from a trade in candles before the altar of St. 
 Joseph to a trade in oranges in Fetter Lane? Yet 
 there is no nonsense In it. In this fairy story, the 
 two are intimately related. 
 
 This is how it happens. The house, in which 
 Mrs. Meakin's shop was on the ground floor, was 
 three stories high and, on the first floor above the 
 shop itself, lived John Grey, the journalist, the 
 writer, the driver of the pen, the at-present unex- 
 plained figure in this story who offered his gift of 
 generosity to St. Joseph, in order that the other 
 as-yet-unexplained figure of the lady in the heavy 
 fur coat should gratify her desire to light the last 
 candle and place it in the sconce — a seal upon the 
 deed of her supplication. 
 
 So then it is we have dealings with Mrs. Meakin 
 and her greengrocery business in Fetter Lane. This 
 little shop, with such generous show of brilliant col- 
 ours in the midst of its drab grey surroundings, is, 
 part of the atmosphere, all part of this fairy-tale 
 romance which began on the eighteenth of March 
 — oh, how many years ago? Before Kingsway w»« 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 17 
 
 built, before Holywell Street bit the dust in which it 
 had grovelled for so long. 
 
 And so, I venture, that it is well you should see 
 this small shop of Mrs. Meakin's, with its splashes 
 of orange and red, its daubs of crimson and yellow 
 ■ — see it in your mind's eye — see it when the shad- 
 ows of the houses fall on it in the morning, when 
 the sun touches it at mid-day — when the double gas 
 jet illuminates it at night, for you will never see 
 it in real life now. Mrs. Meakin gave up the busi- 
 ness a year or so ago. She went to live in the coun- 
 try, and there she has a kitchen garden of her own ; 
 there she grows her own cabbages, her own pota- 
 toes and her own beetroot. And her face is still 
 like an apple — an older apple to be sure — an apple 
 that has lain in the straw in a large roomy loft, 
 lain there all through the winter and — been forgot- 
 ten, left behind. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHAT TO CALL A HERO 
 
 John Geey is scarcely the name for a hero; not 
 the sort of name you would choose of your own free 
 will if the telling of a fairy story was placed un- 
 reservedly in your hands. If every latitude were 
 offered you, quite possibly you would select the 
 name of Raoul or Rudolfe — some name, at least, that 
 had a ring in it as it left the tongue. They say, 
 however, that by any other name a rose would smell 
 as sweet. Oh — but I cannot believe that is true — 
 good heavens ! think of the pleasure you would lose 
 if you had to call it a turnip! 
 
 And yet I lose no pleasure, no sense of mine is 
 jarred when I call my hero — John Grey. But if 
 I do lose no pleasure, it is with a very good reason. 
 It is because I have no other alternative. John 
 Grey was a real person. He lived. He lived, too, 
 over that identical little greengrocer's shop of Mrs. 
 Meakin's in Fetter Lane and, though there was a 
 private side entrance from the street, he often 
 passed through the shop in order to smell the whole- 
 some smell of good mother earth, to look at the 
 rosy cheeks of the apples, to wish he was in the 
 country, and to say just a few words to the good 
 lady of the shop. 
 
 To the rest of the inhabitants of the house, even 
 to Mrs. Meakin herself, he was a mystery. They 
 
 18 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 19 
 
 never quite understood why he lived there. The 
 woman who looked after his rooms, waking him at 
 nine o'clock in the morning, making his cup of 
 coffee, lingering with a duster in his sitting-room 
 until he was dressed, then lingering over the making 
 of his bed in the bedroom until it was eleven o'clock 
 — the time of her departure — even she was reticent 
 about him. 
 
 There is a reticence amongst the lower classes 
 which is a combination of ignorance of facts and a 
 supreme lack of imagination. This was the reti- 
 cence of Mrs. Rowse. She knew nothing; she could 
 invent nothing; so she said nothing. They plied 
 her with questions in vain. He received a lot of 
 letters, she said, some with crests on the envelopes. 
 She used to look at these in wonder before she 
 brought them into his bedroom. They might have 
 been coronets for the awe in which she held them; 
 but in themselves they explained nothing, merely 
 added, in fact, to the mystery which surrounded him. 
 Who was he.'' What was he.'' He dressed well — 
 not always, but the clothes were there had he liked 
 to wear them. Three times a week, sometimes more, 
 sometimes less, he donned evening dress, stuck an 
 opera hat on his head and Mrs. Meakin would see 
 him pass down the Lane in front of her shop. If 
 she went to the door to watch him, which quite fre- 
 quently she did, it was ten chances to one that he 
 would stop a passing hansom, get into it, and drive 
 away. The good lady would watch it with her eyes 
 as it wheeled round into Holbom, and then, return- 
 ing to her backless chair, exclaim: 
 
20 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Well — my word — he's a puzzle, he is — there's 
 
 no tellin' what he mightn't be In disguise " by 
 
 which she conveyed to herself and anyone who was 
 there to listen, so wrapt, so entangled a sense of 
 mystery as would need the entire skill of Scotland 
 Yard to unravel. 
 
 Then, finally, the rooms themselves, which he oc- 
 cupied — their furnishing, their decoration — the last 
 incomprehensible touch was added with them. Mrs. 
 Meakin, Mrs. Brown, the wife of the theatre 
 cleaner on the second floor, Mrs. Morrell, the wife 
 of the plumber on the third floor, they had all seen 
 them, all marvelled at the rows of brass candle- 
 sticks, the crucifixes and the brass Incense burners, 
 the real pictures on the walls — pictures, mind you, 
 that were painted, not copied — the rows upon rows 
 of books, the collection of old glass on the mantle- 
 piece, the collection of old china on the piano, the 
 carpet — real velvet pile — and the furniture all solid 
 oak, with old brass fittings which, so Mrs. Rows<? 
 told them, he insisted upon having kept as bright 
 as the brass candlesticks themselves. They had seen 
 all this, and they had wondered, wondered why a 
 gentleman who could furnish rooms in such a man- 
 ner, who could put on evening dress at least three 
 times a week — evening dress, if you please, that 
 was not hired, but his own — ^who could as often 
 drive away in a hansom, presumably up West, why 
 he should choose to live In such a place as Fetter 
 Lane, over a greengrocer's shop, in rooms the rent 
 of which could not possibly be more than thirty 
 pounds a year. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 21 
 
 To them, it remained a mystery; but surely to 
 you who read this it is no mystery at all. 
 
 John Grey was a writer, a journalist, a driver of 
 the pen, a business which brings with it more re- 
 sponsibilities than its remuneration can reasonably 
 afford. There is no real living to be made by Kter- 
 ature alone, if you have any ambitions and any 
 respect for them. Most people certainly have am- 
 bitions, but their respect for them is so inconsider- 
 able when compared with their desire of reward, that 
 they only keep them alive by talking of them. These 
 are the people who know thoroughly the meaning 
 of that word Art, and can discuss it letter for let- 
 ter, beginning with the capital first. 
 
 But to have ambitions and to live up to them is 
 only possible to the extreme idealist — a man Avho, 
 seeing God in everything, the world has not yet 
 learnt or perhaps forgotten to cater for. 
 
 So far everything is utilitarian — supplying the 
 needs of the body which can only see God in con- 
 secrated wine, and so it is that wise men build 
 churches for fools to pray in — the wise man in this 
 world being he who grows rich. 
 
 This, then, Is the solution to the mystery of John 
 Grey. He was an idealist — the very type of person 
 to live in a City of Beautiful Nonsense, where the 
 rarest things in the world cost nothing and the 
 most sordid necessities are dear. For example, the 
 rent of number thirty-nine was a gross exactment 
 upon his purse. He could ill afford that thirty 
 pounds a year. He could ill afford the meals which 
 sometimes hunger compelled him to pay for. But 
 
22 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 when he bought a piece of brass — the little brass 
 man, for example, an old seal, that was of no use to 
 anybody in the world, and only stood passively 
 inert upon his mantel-piece — the price of it was as 
 nothing when compared with the cheap and vulgar 
 necessities of existence. 
 
 But it must not be supposed that Fetter Lane 
 and its environs constitute the spires, the roofs and 
 domes of that City of Beautiful Nonsense. It is 
 not so. Far away East, on the breast of the Adri- 
 atic, that wonderful City lies. And we shall come to 
 it — we shall come to it all too soon. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE BALLAD-MONGER— FETTER LANE 
 
 In Kensington Gardens, you will find romance. 
 Many a real, many a legendary, person has found 
 it there. It will always be found there so long 
 as this great City of London remains a hive for the 
 millions of human bees that pass in and out of its 
 doors, swarming or working, idling or pursuing 
 in silent and unconscious obedience to a law 
 which not one of them will ever live to under- 
 stand. 
 
 Why it should be Kensington Gardens, more than 
 any other place of the kind, is not quite possible of 
 explanation. Why not Regent's Park, or St. 
 James's Park? Why not those little gardens on 
 the Embankment where the band plays in the late 
 mornings of summer and romances certainly do find 
 a setting? Why not any of these? But no — Ken- 
 sington Gardens rule par excellence, and there is no 
 spot in this vast acreage of humanity to touch 
 them. 
 
 You will see there the romances that begin from 
 both ends of a perambulator and, from that on- 
 wards, Romance in all its countless periods, infinitely 
 more numerous than the seven ages of man ; for 
 Romance is more wonderful than just life. It has a 
 
 23 
 
24 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 thousand more variations, it plays a thousand mora 
 tricks with the understanding. Life is real, they tell 
 us — ^Life is earnest; but Romance is all that is un- 
 real besides ; it is everything that is and is not, 
 everything that has been and will be, and you will 
 find some of the strangest examples of it under the 
 boughs of those huge elms, on those uncomfortable 
 little penny scats in Kensington Gardens. 
 
 When those rooms of his in Fetter Lane became 
 unbearable, John Grey would betake himself to the 
 Gardens, sitting by the round Pond where the great 
 ships make their perilous voyages, or he would find 
 a seat under the trees near that little one-storyed 
 house which always shows so brave a blaze of colour 
 in the flower beds that circle it round. 
 
 Who lives in that little house .^^ Of course, every- 
 body knows — well, everybody.'' I confess, I do not. 
 But the rest of the world does, and so what is the 
 good of letting one's imagination run a-riot when 
 the first policeman would cheerfully give one the in- 
 formation. But if your imagination did run riot, 
 think of the tales you could tell yourself about the 
 owner of that little house in Kensington Gardens ! 
 I have never asked a policeman, so I am at liberty 
 to do what I like. It is really the best way in this 
 world; so much more interesting than knowledge. 
 Knowledge, after all, is only knowing things, facts, 
 which next year may not be facts at all. Facts die. 
 But when you imagine, you create something which 
 can live forever. The whole secret of the matter 
 being that its life depends on you, not on Circum- 
 stance. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 25 
 
 One Friday, three weeks or more after the slender 
 incident of the last candle in the Sardinia St. 
 chapel, those rooms in number '39 Fetter Lane 
 became unbearable. When they did that, they 
 got very small; the walls closed in together and 
 there was no room to move. Even the sounds in 
 the street had no meaning. They became so loud 
 and jarring that they lost meaning altogether. 
 
 Moreover, on Friday, the clarionet player came. 
 It was his day ; nothing could alter that. If the 
 calendar had not been moved on for weeks together 
 — and some calendars do suffer in that way — John 
 at least knew the Friday of the week. It is an 
 ill wind, you know — even when it is that which is 
 blown through the reed of a clarionet. 
 
 But on this particular morning, the clarionet 
 player was insufferable. 
 
 There is a day in nearly every week on which the 
 things which one has grown accustomed to, the 
 sounds that one listens to without hearing, the 
 sights that one looks at without seeing, become bla- 
 tant and jarring. It is then that we hear these 
 sounds twice as loudly as we should, that we see 
 those things twice as vividly as they are. It is then 
 that the word " unbearable " comes charged with the 
 fullest of its meaning. And just such a day was 
 this Friday in the middle of April — it does not mat- 
 ter how many years ago. 
 
 John had been working. He was writing a short 
 story — a very tricksy thing to try and do. It was 
 nearly finished, the room was getting smaller and 
 smaller ; the sounds in the street were becoming more 
 
26 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 and more insistent. A barrel organ had just moved 
 away, leaving a rent of silence in all the noise of 
 traffic, a rent of silence which was almost as un- 
 bearable as the confused clattering of sounds ; and 
 then the clarionet player struck up his tune. 
 
 "Oh, Charlie, he's my darling, my darling, my darling — 
 Oh, Charlie, he's my darling, my young Chevalier." 
 
 This was one of the only four tunes he knew. 
 You may readily guess the rest. He always played 
 them through, one after the other, in never-varying 
 order. Charlie, he's my darling — the Arethusa — 
 Sally in our Alley and Come Lasses and Lads. He 
 was a ballad-monger. He looked a ballad-monger — 
 only he was a ballad-monger on the clarionet. John 
 Leech has drawn him over and over again in the 
 long ago pages of Punch; drawn him with his 
 baggy trousers that crease where they were never 
 intended to, with his faded black frock coat that 
 was never cut for the shoulders it adorned, with 
 every article of clothing, which the picture told you 
 he would wear to the end of his days, inherited from 
 a generous charity that had only disposed of its 
 gifts in the last moments of decay. ' 
 
 "Oh, Charlie, he's my darling, my darling, my darling — ^ 
 
 He brought such a minor tone into it all; it 
 might have been a dirge. It was as he sang it. For 
 these ballad-mongers are sad creatures. Theirs is 
 a hard, a miserable life, and it all comes out in their 
 music. 
 
 The unhappy individual with a musical instru- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 27 
 
 ment who stands on the curbstone in the pouring 
 rain can find some depressing note to dwell on in the 
 liveliest of tunes. Art is most times only the cry 
 of the individual. 
 
 When the clarionet player began, John shut up 
 his book, rose from his chair, and went to the win- 
 dow. The windows wanted cleaning. It only costs 
 a sliilling for four windows — the difficulty is some- 
 times to find the man to do it — more often the dif- 
 ficulty is to find the shilling. There is generally a 
 man at the first street corner, but never a coin of 
 the realm. 
 
 Someone threw a penny into the street from an 
 upper window. The music stopped with a jerk. 
 The ballad-monger chased the rolling coin to the 
 very edge of a drain, then stood erect with a red 
 and grateful face. 
 
 He licked his lips, put the penny in his pocket 
 and began again. That penny had insured another 
 five minutes at least. The sun was burning down 
 into the street. John got his hat, picked up his 
 book and went downstairs. Kensington Gardens 
 was the only place left in the world. 
 
 Outside, he passed the ballad-monger as he was 
 shaking the moisture out of his reed. No wonder it 
 is a thirsty business, this playing on the clarionet. 
 John was not in the mood to appreciate that very 
 necessary clearing of the instrument. At that mo- 
 ment all ballad-mongers were unnecessary, and their 
 habits loathsome. He stopped. 
 
 " Do you know no other tunes," he asked, " than 
 those four you play here every Friday.? " 
 
28 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " No, sir." His voice was very deferential and 
 as sad as his music. 
 
 " Well — don't you Imagine we must all be very 
 tired of them ? " 
 
 " I often think that, sir. I often think that. But 
 you only hear them every Friday." 
 
 "You mean you hear them every day of the 
 week? " 
 
 "That Is what I mean, sir." 
 
 There Is always the other person's point of view. 
 You learn that as you go along, and. In the street, 
 you will learn It as quickly as anywhere. Xhe man 
 who runs into you on the pavement Is going in his 
 direction as well as you in yours, and it Is always 
 a nice point to decide whether you ran into him or 
 he into you. In any case, you may be certain that 
 he has his opinion on it. 
 
 John smiled. 
 
 ** And you're sick of them too, eh ? " 
 
 The ballad-monger fitted his mouthpiece? care- 
 fully on to the instrument that played the golden 
 tunes. 
 
 " Well, I've what you might call passed that 
 stage, sir. They're In the blood, as you might say, 
 by this time. They're always going on. When I'm 
 asleep, I hear bands playing them in the street. If 
 it Isn't * Arethusa,' it's * Come Lasses and Lads,' 
 or * Sally in Our Alley.' They keep going on. 
 — and sometimes It's shocking to hear the way they 
 play them. You almost might say that's how I 
 earned the money that people give me, sir — not by 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 29 
 
 playing them on this instrument here — I don't mind 
 that so much. It's the playing them in my head — 
 that's the job I ought to get paid for." 
 
 John looked at him. The man had a point of 
 view. He could see the nicer side of a matter. 
 There are not so very many people who can. The 
 predominant idea when he came into the street, of 
 telhng the man he was a nuisance, vanished from 
 John's mind. He felt in his pockets. There lay 
 one sixpence. He jSngered it for a moment, then 
 brought it out. 
 
 " Buy yourself a penny score of another tune," 
 he said, " and let's hear it next Friday. It may 
 drive the others out." 
 
 The man took it, looked at him, but said no word 
 of thanks. No words are so obsequious. No words 
 can so spoil a gift. John walked away with a sense 
 of respect. 
 
 At the top of the Lane he remembered that he 
 had no penny to pay for his chair in Kensington 
 Gardens. What was to be done.? He walked back 
 again. The ballad-monger was at the last bars 
 of the " Arethusa." 
 
 He looked round when he had finished. 
 
 John stammered. It occurred to him that he was 
 begging for the first time in his life and realised 
 what an onerous profession it must be. 
 
 *' Would you mind sparing me a penny out of 
 that sixpence ? " he asked ; and to make it sound a 
 little bit better, he added : " I've run rather short." 
 
 The man produced the sixpence immediately. 
 
80 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " You'd better take it all, sir," he said quickly. 
 ** You'll want it more than I shall." 
 
 jJohn shook his head. 
 
 " Give me the penny," said he, " that you caught 
 at the edge of the drain." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 OF KENSINGTON GARDENS 
 
 So strange a matter is this journey to the City of 
 [Beautiful Nonsense, that one cannot be blamed if, at 
 times, one takes the wrong turning, finds oneself in 
 the cul de sac of a digression and is compelled to 
 retrace one's steps. It was intended with the best 
 of good faith that the last chapter should be of 
 Kensington Gardens. Quite honestly it began with 
 that purpose. In Kensington Gardens, you will find 
 Romance. What could be more open and above- 
 board than that.'' Then up starts a ballad-monger 
 out of nowhere and he has to be reckoned with be- 
 fore another step of the way can be taken. 
 
 But now we can proceed with our journey to that 
 far city that lies so slumberously on the breast of 
 the Adriatic. 
 
 If you live in Fetter Lane, these are your instruc- 
 tions. Walk straight up the Lane into Holborn; 
 take your first turning on the left and continue di- 
 rectly through Oxford Street and Bayswater, until 
 you reach Victoria Gate in the Park railings. This 
 you enter. This is the very portal of the way. 
 
 'Twas precisely this direction taken by John 
 Grey on that Friday morning in April, in such a 
 year as history seems reticent to afford. 
 
 There is a means of travelling in London, you 
 31 
 
32 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 know, which is not exactly in accordance with the 
 strict principles of honesty, since it is worked on 
 the basis of false pretences ; and if a hero of a mod- 
 ern day romance should stoop to employ it as a 
 means of helping him on his journey to the City of 
 Beautiful Nonsense, he must, on two grounds, be ex- 
 cused. The first ground is, that he has but a penny 
 in his pocket, which is needed for the chair in Ken- 
 sington Gardens ; the second, that most human of 
 all excuses which allows that, when Circumstance 
 drives, a man may live by his wits, so long as he 
 takes the risk of the whipping. 
 
 This, then, is the method, invented by John Grey 
 in an inspired moment of poverty. There may be 
 hundreds of others catching inspiration from the 
 little street arabs, who have invented it too. Most 
 probably there are, and they may be the very first 
 to exclaim against the flippant treatment of so dis- 
 honest a practice. However that may be, out of 
 his own wits John Grey conceived this felonious 
 means of inexpensive travelling — absolutely the most 
 inexpensive I ever knew. 
 
 You are going from Holbom to Victoria Gate in 
 the Park railings — very well. You must mount the 
 first 'bus which you see going in the direction you 
 require; grasp the railings — and mount slowly to 
 the top, having first ascertained that the conductor 
 himself is on the roof. By the time you have reached 
 the seat upstairs, if you have done it In a masterly 
 and approved-of fashion, the 'bus has travelled at 
 least twenty yards or so. Then, seeing the con- 
 ductor, you ask him politely if his 'bus goes in a 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 33 
 
 direction, which you are confident it does not. This, 
 for example, is the conversation that will take place. 
 
 "Do you go to Paddington Station?" 
 
 " No, sir, we don't ; we go straight to Shepherd's 
 Bush." 
 
 " But I thought these green 'busses went to Pad- 
 dington ? " 
 
 " There are green 'busses as does, but we don't." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think I know now, haven't they a 
 yellow stripe — you have a red one." 
 
 "That's right." 
 
 You rise slowly, regretfully. 
 
 " Oh, then I'm sorry," and you begin slowly to 
 descend the stairs. 
 
 " But we go by the Edgware Road, and you can 
 get a 'bus to Paddington there," says the conductor. 
 
 For a moment or two longer you stand on the 
 steps and try ineffectually — or effectually, it does 
 not matter which, so long as you take your time 
 over it — to point out to him why you prefer the 
 'bus which goes direct to its destination, rather than 
 the one which does not ; then you descend with 
 something like a hundred yards or so of your jour- 
 ney accomplished. Repeat this ad lib till the jour- 
 ney is fully complete and you will find that you 
 still possess your penny for the chair in Kensing- 
 ton Gardens. The honesty which is amongst thieves 
 compels you — for the sake of the poor horses who 
 have not done you nearly so much harm as that 
 conductor may have done — to mount and descend 
 the vehicle while in motion. This is the unwritten 
 etiquette of the practice. It also possesses that 
 
34 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 advantage of prohibiting all fat people from its 
 enjoyment, whose weight on the 'bus would percep- 
 tibly increase the labour of the willing animals. 
 
 Beyond this, there is nothing to be said. The 
 method must be left to your own conscience, with 
 this subtle criticism upon your choice, that if you 
 refuse to have anything to do with it, it will be be- 
 cause you appreciate the delight of condemning 
 those who have. So you stand to gain anyhow by 
 the possession of the secret. For myself, since John 
 Grey told me of it, I do both — strain a sheer de- 
 light in a condemnation of those who use it, and use 
 it myself on all those occasions when I have but a 
 penny in my pocket for the chair in Kensington 
 Gardens. Of course, you must pay for the chair. 
 
 By this method of progress, then, John Grey 
 reached Kensington Gardens on that Friday morn- 
 ing — that Friday morning in April which was to 
 prove so eventful in the making of this history. 
 
 The opening of the month had been too cold to 
 admit of their beginning the trade in tea under the 
 fat mushroom umbrellas — that afternoon tea which 
 you and oh, I don't know how many sparrows and 
 pigeons, all eat to your heart's content for the mod- 
 est sum of one shilling. But they might have plied 
 their trade that day with some success. There was 
 a warm breath of the Spring in every little pufF 
 of wind that danced down the garden paths. The 
 scarlet tulips nodded their heads to it, the daffodils 
 courteseyed, bowed and swayed, catching the infec- 
 tion of the dancer's step. When Spring comes glad- 
 somely to this country of ours, there is no place 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 35 
 
 in the world quite like it. Even Browning, in the 
 heart of the City of Beautiful Nonsense, must write: 
 
 ** Oh to be in England, 
 Now that April's there." 
 
 From Fetter Lane to the flower-walk in Kensing- 
 ton Gardens, it is a far cry. Ah, you do not know 
 what continents might lie between that wonderful 
 flower-walk and Fetter Lane. Why, there are people 
 in the darksome little alleys which lie off that neigh- 
 bourhood of Fleet Street, who have never been fur- 
 ther west than the Tottenham Court Road! Fetter 
 Lane, the Tottenham Court Road, and the flower- 
 walk in Kensington Gardens ! It may be only three 
 miles or so, but just as there is no such thing as 
 time in the ratio of Eternity, so there is no such 
 thing as distance in the ratio of Space. There is 
 only contrast — and suffering. They measure every- 
 thing. 
 
 John made his way first to the flower-walk, just 
 for the sight and the scent of those wonderful grow- 
 ing things that bring their treasures of inimitable 
 colour up out of the secret breast of the dull brown 
 earth. Where, in that clod of earth, which does but 
 soil the hands of him who touches it, does the tulip 
 get its red.? Has the Persian Poet guessed the 
 secret? Is it the blood of a buried Caesar? En- 
 hance it by calling it a mystery — all the great things 
 of the world are that. Wherever tihe tulip does get 
 its red, it is a brave thing to look at after the dull, 
 smoky bricks of the houses in Fetter Lane. 
 
S6 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 John stood at the top of the walk and filled his 
 eyes with the varied colours. There were tulips red, 
 tulips yellow, tulips purple and scarlet and mauve. 
 The little hunchback was already there painting 
 them, hugging up close to his easel, taking much 
 more into the heart of him than he probably ever 
 puts down upon his canvas. 
 
 He comes every season of every year, that little 
 hunchback, and Spring and Summer, and Autumn 
 and Winter, he paints in Kensington Gardens ; and 
 Spring and Summer, and Autumn and Winter, I 
 have no doubt he will continue to paint the Gardens 
 that he loves. And then one day, the Gardens will 
 miss him. He will come no more. The dull brown 
 earth will have taken him as it takes the bulb of a 
 tulip, and perhaps out of his eyes — those eyes which 
 have been drinking in the colours of the flowers for 
 so long, some tulip will one day get its red. 
 
 Surely there cannot be libel in such a statement 
 as this? We must all die. The little hunchback, if 
 he reads this, will not approach me for damages, 
 unless he were of the order of Christian Scientists 
 or some such sect, who defy the ravages of Time. 
 And how could he be that? He must have seen the 
 tulips wither. 
 
 From the flower-walk, John made his way to the 
 round pond. The ships were sailing. Sturdy 
 mariners with long, thin, bamboo poles were launch- 
 ing their craft in the teeth of the freshening breeze. 
 [A.h, those brave ships, and those sturdy men with 
 their young blue eyes, searching across that vast 
 expanse of water for the return of the Daisy or the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 37 
 
 Kittizvake or some such vessel with some such fan- 
 ciful name ! 
 
 John took a chair to watch them. A couple of 
 hoary sailors — men who had vast dealings with ships 
 and traffic on deep waters — passed by him with 
 their vessels tucked up under their arms. 
 
 " I sail for 'Frisco in five minutes," said one — 
 " for 'Frisco with a cargo of iron." 
 
 " What do you use for iron ? " asked the other, 
 with the solemnity that such cargo deserved. 
 
 " My sister gave me some of her hairpins," was 
 the stern reply. 
 
 This, if you like it, is romance ! Bound for 'Frisco 
 with a cargo of iron ! Think of it ! The risk, the 
 peril, the enormous fortune at stake ! His sister's 
 hairpins ! What a world, what a City of Beautiful 
 Nonsense, if one could only believe like this ! 
 
 John spread out his short story on his knee, 
 looked at the first lines of it, then closed it with dis- 
 gust. What was the good of writing stories, when 
 such adventures as these were afoot? Perhaps the 
 little hunchback felt that too. What was the good 
 of painting with red paint on a smooth canvas when 
 God had painted those tulips on the rough brown 
 earth .-^ Why had not he got a sister who would 
 hazard her hairpins in his keeping, so that he might 
 join in the stern business of life and carry cargoes 
 of iron to far-ofF parts.? 
 
 He sat idly watching the good ship start for 
 'Frisco. One push of the thin bamboo pole and it 
 was off — out upon the tossing of the waves. A 
 breath of Spring air blew into its sails, filled them 
 
 60036 
 
38 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 — with the scent of the tulips, perhaps — and bore 
 it off upon its voyage, while the anxious master, 
 with hands shading his eyes, watched it as it dipped 
 over the horizon of all possible interference. 
 
 Where was it going to come to shore? The voy- 
 age lasted fully five minutes and, at the last mo- 
 ment, a trade wind seizing it — surely it must be a 
 trade wind which seizes a vessel with a cargo such 
 as this — it was bom direct for the shore near where 
 John was sitting. 
 
 The captain came hurrying along the beach to re- 
 ceive it and, from a seat under the elm trees, a girl 
 came toward him. 
 
 "Do you think it's brought them safely.?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He looked up with a touch of manly pride. 
 
 ** The Albatross has never heaved her cargo over- 
 board yet," he said with a ringing voice. 
 
 So this was the sister. From that wonderful head 
 of hair of hers had come the cargo of the good 
 ship Albatross. She turned that head away to hide 
 a smile of amusement. She looked in John's direc- 
 tion. Their eyes met. 
 
 It was the lady of the heavy fur coat who had 
 prayed to St. Joseph in the Sardinia Street chapel. 
 
CHAPTER Vn 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP ALBATROSS 
 
 This is where Destiny and the long arm of Coinci- 
 dence play a part in the making of all Romance. 
 One quality surely there must be in such matters, 
 far more essential than that happiness ever after 
 which the sentimentalist so clamours for. That 
 quality, it is, of Destiny, which makes one know 
 that, whatever renunciation and despair may follow, 
 such things were meant to be. Coincidence com- 
 bines to make them so, and, you may be sure, for a 
 very good reason. And is it so long a stretch of 
 the arm from Sardinia Street Chapel to Kensington 
 Gardens? Hardly! In fiction, and along the high- 
 road, perhaps it might be; but then this is not fic- 
 tion. This is true. 
 
 Romance then — let us get an entirely new defini- 
 tion for it — is a chain of Circumstances which out 
 of the infinite chaos links two living things together 
 for a definite end — that end which is a pendant upon 
 the chain itself and may be a heart with a lock of 
 hair inside, or it may be a cross, or a dagger, or a 
 crown — you never know till the last link is forged. 
 
 When he looked into the eyes of the lady of St. 
 Joseph — so he had, since that incident, called her 
 in his mind — John knew that Destiny had a hand in 
 the matter. 
 
 He told me afterwards 
 
 " You only meet the people in this world whomi 
 
 39 
 
40 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 you are meant to meet. Whether you want to meet 
 them or not is another matter, and has no power 
 to bribe the hand of Circumstance." 
 
 He was generalising certainly, but that is the 
 cloak under which a man speaks of himself. 
 
 However that may be, and whether the law holds 
 good or not, they met. He saw the look of recog- 
 nition that passed across her eyes; then he rose to 
 his feet. 
 
 The knowledge that you are in the hands of Des- 
 tiny gives you boldness. John marched directly 
 across to her and lifted his hat. 
 
 " My name is Grey," he said — " John Grey. I'm 
 taking it for granted that St. Joseph has already 
 introduced us and forgotten to tell you who I was. 
 If I take too much for granted, say so, I shall 
 perfectly understand. 
 
 Well, what could she say.? You may tell a man 
 that he's presumptuous; but hardly when he pre- 
 sumes like this. Besides, there was Destiny at the 
 back of him, putting the words into his mouth. 
 
 She smiled. It was impossible to do otherwise. 
 
 " Do you think St. Joseph would be recognised 
 in our society.? " she asked. 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," said he. " St. Joseph 
 was a very proper man." 
 
 They turned to a cry of the master mariner as 
 the good ship Albatross touched the beach. Imme- 
 diately she was unloaded and her cargo brought 
 triumphantly to the owner. 
 
 " This," said John, " is the cargo of iron. Then 
 I presume we're in 'Frisco. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 41 
 
 *' How did you know ? " she asked. 
 
 *' I heard the sailing orders given in the Docks at 
 London ten minutes ago." 
 
 She looked down, concealing a smile, at her 
 brother, then at John, lastly at the good ship 
 Albatross — beached until further orders. He 
 watched her. She was making up her mind. 
 
 " Ronald," said she, when the wandering of her 
 eyes had found decision, " this is a friend of mine, 
 Mr. Grey." 
 
 Ronald held out a homy hand. 
 
 " How do you do, sir." 
 
 Surely that settled matters.?' St. Joseph was 
 approved of. She had said — this is a friend of 
 mine. 
 
 They shook hands then with a heavy grip. It is 
 the recognised way with those who go down to the 
 sea in ships. 
 
 " When do you take your next voyage ? " asked 
 jJohn. 
 
 " As soon as we can ship a cargo of gravel." 
 
 " And where are you bound for.? " 
 
 " Port of Lagos — ^West Africa." 
 
 *' Dangerous country, isn't it.? Fever.? White 
 man's grave, and all that sort of thing.? " 
 
 " Those are the orders," said Ronald staunchly, 
 looking up to his sister for approval. 
 
 " I suppose you couldn't execute a secret com- 
 mission for me," said John. He laid a gentle stress 
 on the word secret. " You couldn't carry private 
 papers and run a blockade ? " 
 
 Private papers! Secret commission! Run a 
 
42 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 blockade! Why the good ship Albatross was just 
 built for such nefarious trade as that. 
 
 John took the short story out of his pocket. 
 
 " Well, I want you to take this to the port of 
 Venice," said he. " The port of Venice on the Adri- 
 atic, and deliver it yourself into the hands of one — 
 Thomas Grey. There is a fortune to be made if you 
 keep secret and talk to no one of your business. 
 Are you willing to undertake it and share profits.'' " 
 
 " We'll do our best, sir," said Ronald. 
 
 Then the secret papers were taken aboard — off 
 started the good ship Albatross. 
 
 The other mariner came up just as she had set 
 sail. 
 
 " What cargo have you got this time ? " he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 Ronald walked away. 
 
 " Mustn't tell," he replied sternly, and by such 
 ready confession of mystery laid himself open to all 
 the perils of attack. That other mariner must know 
 he was bound on secret service, and perhaps by 
 playing the part of Thomas Grey on the other side 
 of the round pond, would probably be admitted into 
 confidence. There is no knowing. You can never 
 be sure of what may happen in a world of romantic 
 adventure. 
 
 John watched their departure lest his eagerness 
 to talk to her alone should seem too apparent. Then 
 he turned, suggested a seat under the elm trees and, 
 in silence, they walked across the grass to the two 
 little penny chairs that stood expectantly together. 
 
 There they sat, still in silence, watching the peo- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 4,3. 
 
 pie who were promenading on the path that circles 
 the round pond. Nurses and babies and perambu- 
 lators, there were countless of these, for in the gar- 
 dens of Kensington the babies grow like the tulips 
 — rows upon rows of them, in endless numbers. Like 
 the tuhps, too, the sun brings them out and their 
 gardeners take them and plant them under the trees. 
 Every second passer-by that sunny morning in April 
 was a gardener with her tulip or tulips, as the case 
 might be; some red, some white, some just in bud, 
 some fully blown. Oh, it is a wonderful place for 
 things to grow in, is Kensington Gardens. 
 
 But there were other pedestrians than these. 
 There were Darbys and Joans, Edwards and An- 
 gelinas. 
 
 Then there passed by two solemn nuns in white, 
 who had crosses hanging from their waists and wore 
 high-heeled shoes. 
 
 The lady of St. Joseph looked at John. John 
 looked at her. 
 
 She lifted her eyebrows to a question. 
 
 "Protestant?" she said. 
 
 John nodded with a smile. 
 
 That broke the silence. Then they talked. They 
 talked first of St. Joseph. 
 
 *' You always pray to St. Joseph? " said he. 
 
 ** No — not always — only for certain things. I'm 
 awfully fond of him, but St. Cecilia's my saint. I 
 don't like the look of St. Joseph, somehow or other. 
 Of course, I know he's awfully good, but I don't 
 like his beard. They always give him a brown 
 beard, and I hate a man with a brown beard." 
 
44 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " I saw St. Joseph once with a grey beard,'* said 
 John. 
 
 " Grey.? But he wasn't old." 
 
 " No, but this one I saw was grey. It was in 
 Ardmore, a wee fishing village in the county of 
 Waterford, in Ireland. Ah, you should see Ard- 
 more. Heaven comes nearer to the sea there than 
 any place I know." 
 
 « But what about St. Joseph? " 
 
 " Oh, St. Joseph ! Well, there was a lady there 
 intent upon the cause of temperance. She built lit- 
 tle temperance cafes all about the country, and had 
 the pictures of Cruikshank's story of the Bottle, 
 framed and put on all the walls. To propitiate 
 the Fates for the cafe in Ardmore, she decided also 
 to set up the statue of St. Daeclan, their patron 
 saint in those parts. So she sent up to Mulcahy's, 
 in Cork, for a statue of St. Daeclan. Now St. 
 Daeclan, you know, is scarcely in popular demand." 
 
 " I've never heard of him," said the lady of St. 
 Joseph. 
 
 " Neither had I till I went to Ardmore. Well, 
 anyhow, Mulcahy had not got a statue. Should he 
 send away and see if he could order one.? Certainly 
 he should send away. A week later came the reply 
 There is not a statue of St. Daeclan to be procured 
 anywhere. Will an image of St. Joseph do as 
 well.? It would have to do. Very well, it came — 
 St. Joseph with his brown beard. 
 
 " * If only we could have got St. Daeclan,' they 
 said as they stood in front of it. * But he's too 
 young for St. Daeclan. St. Daeclan was an old 
 man.' 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 45 
 
 " I suppose It did not occur to them that St. Dae- 
 clan may not have been bom old; but they con- 
 ceived of a notion just as wise. They got a pot 
 of paint from Foley's, the provision store, and, with 
 judicious applications, they made grey the brown 
 beard of St. Joseph, then, washing out the gold let- 
 ters of his name, they painted in place of them the 
 name of St. Daeclan." 
 
 The lady of St. Joseph smiled. 
 
 " Are you making this up ? " asked she. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Well, then, the cafe was opened, and a little choir 
 of birds from the chapel began to sing, and all the 
 people round about who had no intention to be tem- 
 perate, but loved a ceremony, came to see the open- 
 ing. They trouped into the little hall and stood 
 with gaping mouths looking at that false image 
 which bore the superscription of St. Daeclan, and the 
 old women held up their hands and they said: 
 
 " Oh, shure, glory be to God ! 'tis just loike the 
 pore man — it is indeed. Faith, I never want to sec 
 a better loikeness of himself than that." 
 
 John turned and looked at her. 
 
 ** And there he stands to this day," he added — 
 " as fine an example of good faith and bad painting 
 as I have ever seen in my life." 
 
 " What a delightful little story," she said, and 
 she looked at him with that expression in the eyes 
 when admiration mingles so charmingly with bewild- 
 erment that one is compelled to take them both as a 
 compliment. 
 
 " Do you know you surprise me," she added. 
 
 " So I see," said he. 
 
46 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 "You see?" 
 
 "In your eyes." 
 
 "You saw that?" 
 
 " Yes, you were wondering how I came to be 
 praying — probably for money — to St. Joseph — 
 praying in an old blue serge suit that looked as if 
 a little money could easily be spent on it, and yet 
 can afford to sit out here in the morning in Ken- 
 sington Gardens and tell you what you are so good 
 as to call a delightful little story? " 
 
 " That's quite true. I was wondering that." 
 
 " And I," said John, " have been wondering just 
 the same about you." 
 
 What might not such a conversation as this have 
 led to? They were just beginning to tread upon 
 that virgin soil from which any fruit may be born. 
 It is a wonderful moment that, the moment when 
 two personalities just touch. You can feel the con- 
 tact tingling to the tips of your fingers. 
 
 What might they not have talked of then? She 
 might even have told him why she was praying to 
 St. Joseph, but then the master mariner returned, 
 bearing papers in his hand. 
 
 " Are you one Thomas Grey? " said he. 
 
 " I am that man," replied John. 
 
 " These are secret papers which I am to deliver 
 into your hands. There is a fortune to be made if 
 you keep secret.'* 
 
 John took the short story. 
 
 " Secrecy shall be observed," said he. 
 
CHAPTER Vin 
 
 THE FATEFUL TICKET-PUNCHER 
 
 The master of the good ship Albatross departed, 
 chartered for another voyage to the Port of Lagos 
 with his cargo of gravel, gathered with the sweat 
 of the brow and the tearing of the finger nails from 
 the paths in Kensington Gardens. 
 
 John hid the short story away and lit a ciga- 
 rette. She watched him take it loose from his waist- 
 coat pocket. Had he no cigarette case? She 
 watched him take a match — loose also — from the 
 ticket pocket of his coat. Had he no match-box.? 
 She watched him strike it upon the sole of his boot, 
 believing all the time that he was unaware of the 
 direction of her eyes. 
 
 But he knew. He knew well enough, and took as 
 long over the business as it was possible to be. 
 When the apprehension of discovery made her turn 
 her head, he threw the match away. Well, it was a 
 waste of time then. 
 
 " I thought," said she presently, " you had told 
 me your name was -John.? " 
 
 « So it is." 
 
 " Then why did you tell Ronald to deliver the 
 papers to Thomas Grey? " 
 
 " That is my father." 
 
 " And does he live in Venice ? " 
 
 What a wonderful thing is curiosity in other peo- 
 47 
 
48 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 pie, when you yourself are only too ready to di- 
 vulge ! Loth only to tell her it all too quickly, John 
 readily answered all she asked. 
 
 " Yes, he lives in Venice," he replied. 
 
 "Always?" 
 
 " Always now." 
 
 She gazed into a distance of her own — that dis- 
 tance in which nearly every woman lives. 
 
 " What a wonderful place it must be to live in," 
 said she. 
 
 He turned his head to look at her. 
 
 "You've never been there?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Ah ! there's a day in your life yet then.'* 
 
 Her forehead wrinkled. Ah, it may not sound 
 pretty, but it was. The daintiest things in life 
 are not to be written in a sentence. You get them 
 sometimes in a single word; but oh, that word is so 
 hard to find. 
 
 "How do you mean?" she asked. 
 
 ** The day you go to Venice — if ever you do go 
 — will be one day quite by itself in your life. You 
 will be alive that day." 
 
 "You love it?" 
 
 She knew he did. That was the attraction in 
 asking the question — to hear him say so. There 
 is that in the voice of one confessing to the emotion 
 — for whatever object it may happen to be — which 
 can thrill the ear of a sensitive listener. A sense 
 of envy comes tingling with it. It is the note in 
 the voice, perhaps. You may hear it sometimes in 
 the throat of a singer — that note which means the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 49 
 
 passion, the love of something, and something within 
 you thrills in answer to it. 
 
 " You love it ? " she repeated. 
 
 " I know it," replied John — " that's more than 
 loving." 
 
 " What does your father do there ? " 
 
 *' He's an artist — but he does very little work 
 now. He's too old. His heart is weak, also." 
 
 " Then does he live there by himself? " 
 
 " Oh, no — my mother lives with him. They have 
 (Wonderful old rooms in the Palazzo Capello in the 
 Rio Marin. She is old, too. Well — she's over sixty. 
 They didn't marry until she was forty. And he's 
 about ten years older than she is." 
 
 " Are you the only child ? " 
 
 " The 'only child— yes." 
 
 " How is it that they didn't marry until your 
 mother was forty ? " 
 
 She pattered on with her questions. Having ac- 
 cepted him as a friend, the next thing to do was to 
 get to know all about him. It is just as well, in 
 case people should ask ; but in this huddle of houses 
 where one knows more of the life of one's next-door 
 neighbour than one ever does of one's friends, it 
 really scarcely matters. She thought she wanted to 
 know because she ought to know. But that was not 
 it at all. She had to know. She was meant to know. 
 There is a difference. 
 
 "Perhaps I'm being too inquisitive?" she sug- 
 gested gently. This is only another way of getting 
 one's question answered. You might call it the ques- 
 tion circumspect and, by borrowing from another's 
 
50 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 wit, mark the distinction between it and the question 
 direct. But it is not so much the name that mat- 
 ters, as its effectiveness. 
 
 In a moment, John was all apologies for his si- 
 lence. 
 
 " Inquisitive.? No! It's only the new sensation." 
 
 " What new sensation .'' " 
 
 " Somebody wanting to know something about 
 oneself. On the other side of the street where I 
 live, there resides a parrot; and every Sunday they 
 put him outside on the window-sill, and there he 
 keeps calling out — ' Do you want to know who I 
 am? Do you want to know who I am?' And 
 crowds of little boys and little girls, and idle men 
 and lazy women, stand down below his cage in the 
 street and imitate him in order to get him to say it 
 again. *Do you want to know who I am, Polly?' 
 they call out. And oh, my goodness, it's so like life. 
 They never reply — ' Who are you, then ? ' But 
 every single one of them must ask him if he wants 
 to know who they are, just when he's longing to 
 tell them all about himself. It is like life you know." 
 
 ** What nice little stories you tell. I believe you 
 make them up as you go along — but they're quite 
 nice. So that's the new sensation? " 
 
 " Yes — that's it. Someone, at last, has said 
 'Who are you, then?' And I hardly know where 
 to begin." 
 
 " Well, I asked you why your father didn't marry 
 till your mother was forty. You said she was 
 forty." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 51 
 
 *' Yes, I know — yes, that's quite right. You see 
 he was married before to a wealthy woman. They 
 lived here in London. I'm afraid they didn't get on 
 well together. It was his fault. He says so, and 
 I believe it was. I can quite understand the way 
 it all happened. You must love money very much 
 to be able to get on with it when it's not your 
 own. He didn't love it enough. Her money got 
 between them. One never really knows the ins and 
 outs of these things. Nobody can possibly explain 
 them. I say I understand it, but I don't. They 
 happen when people marry. Only, it would appear, 
 when they marry. She never threw it in his face, 
 I'm sure of that. He always speaks of her as a 
 wonderful woman; but it was just there — that's all. 
 Gold's a strange metal, you know — an uncanny 
 metal, I think. They talk of the ill-luck of the opal, 
 it's nothing to the ill-luck of the gold the opal is 
 set in. You must realise the absolute valuelessness 
 of it, that it's no more worth than tin, or iron, or 
 lead, or any other metal that the stray thrust of a 
 spade may dig up ; if you don't think of it like 
 that, if you haven't an utter contempt for it, it's 
 a poison, is gold. It's subtle, deadly poison that 
 finds its heavy way into the most sacred heart of 
 human beings and rots the dearest and the gentlest 
 thoughts they have. They say familiarity breeds 
 contempt. In every case but that of gold, it's true. 
 But in gold it's just the reverse. The only way 
 with gold, to have contempt for it, is to have none 
 and, when it does enter your possession, give it 
 
52 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 away. You keep it, you struggle for it, you give 
 it a moment's place on your altar, and you'll find 
 that your first-born must be the burnt offering you 
 will have to make to assuage its insatiable lust." 
 
 The sense of humour saved him from saying more. 
 Suddenly he turned and looked at her, and laughed. 
 The only way with gold, to have contempt for it, 
 is to have none and, when it does enter your posses- 
 sion, give it away. 
 
 Glorious words to say when you have only a penny 
 in your pocket to pay for your chair in Kensington 
 Gardens — such a fine sense of bravado in them. As 
 for the chance of money falling from the heavens or 
 the elm trees into your lap, it is so remote, that you 
 can afford to voice your preachings without fear 
 of having to put them into immediate practice. 
 
 Seeing all this and, seeing the solemn expression 
 on her face, John laughed. All that fine parade of 
 words of his was very human. He knew it. There 
 is not one amongst us but who does it every day. 
 There never is so fine an army of brave men as you 
 will find in times of peace; never so lavish a man 
 with money as he who has none. These are the real 
 humours, the real comedies in this struggle for ex- 
 istence. And yet, it is the only philosophy for the 
 poor man who has nothing, to say he wants less. 
 So you cheat the little gods of their laughter, and 
 whistle a tune to show how little you care. 
 
 But to see through it all — there are so many 
 who do it unconsciously — that is a quality beyond 
 philosophy. John laughed. 
 
 She looked up quickly. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 53 
 
 "You laugh? Why?" 
 
 " You look so serious." 
 
 *' I was. It's so true — quite true, all you said. 
 But what is one to do when everybody around one 
 sets their standard in gold — when people are only 
 good-spirited when there is money to be had, and 
 cross and inconsiderate when there is none? What 
 is one to do then ? " 
 
 " Must you follow their lead ? " asked John. 
 
 *' What else? The community governs, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " So they say. But even government is a thing 
 that must be taught, and someone must teach it to 
 the community, so that the community may become 
 proficient at its job. When you get into a commu- 
 nity of people like that, all you have to do Is to 
 break away. It doesn't matter how universally 
 good a wrong may be, you can't make it right for 
 the individual." 
 
 "What did your father do?" 
 
 " Oh — he disobeyed the laws of the community. 
 He went away. He deserted her." 
 
 She stole a hurried glance at his face. 
 
 *' Don't you speak rather hardly ? " 
 
 " No — conventionally — that's all. That is the 
 technical term. He deserted her. Went and lived 
 in the slums and worked. He was probably no para- 
 gon, either, until he met my mother. No man is 
 until he meets the woman with the great heart and 
 God's good gift of understanding." 
 
 ** Have you ever met her yet ? " 
 
 ** No — I'm only twenty-six." 
 
54 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Do you think you ever will meet her? '* 
 
 ** Yes — one day." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 ** Oh, the time that Fate allots for these things." 
 
 "When is that?" 
 
 « When it's too late." 
 
 *' Isn't that pessimistic ? " 
 
 ** No — I'm only speaking of Time. Time's noth- 
 ing — Time doesn't count. You may count it — you 
 generally do with a mechanical contrivance called 
 a clock — but it doesn't count itself. As the commu- 
 nity looks at these things it may be too late, but 
 it's not too late to make all the difference in life. 
 The point is meeting her, knowing her. Nothing 
 else really matters. Once you know her, she is as 
 much in your life as ever marriage and all such 
 little conventional ceremonies as that can make her." 
 
 She looked up at him again. 
 
 *' What strange ideas you have." 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 *' They are to me. Then your father didn't meet 
 your mother too late? How soon did he meet her 
 after — after he went away? " 
 
 " Two years or so." 
 
 " Ol^p-he was quite old, then ? " 
 
 ** No — quite young." 
 
 " But I thought you said they didn't marry until 
 she was forty." 
 
 " Yes — that is so. He couldn't marry her till 
 then. They were both Catholics, you see. Eighteen 
 years went by before they married." 
 
 She made patterns on a bare piece of ground with 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 55 
 
 the ferrule of her umbrella, as she listened. When 
 he came to this point of the story, she carved the 
 figure one and eight in the mould. 
 
 " Yes," said John, looking at them — " it was a 
 long time to wait — wasn't it.'* " 
 
 She nodded her head and slowly scratched the 
 figures out. 
 
 " So the secret papers were sent to your father? " 
 she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She communed with herself for a few moments. 
 She was very curious to know the secret of those 
 papers; just as curious as that other mariner had 
 been. But when you get beyond a certain age, they 
 tell you it is rude to be curious — more's the pity! 
 It takes away half the pleasure from life. She 
 wanted so much to know. The mystery that sur- 
 rounded John Grey in Fetter Lane was clinging 
 to him here in Kensington Gardens. She felt just 
 as curious about him as did Mrs. Meakin, and Mrs. 
 Rowse; and Mrs. Morrell, and, like them, she was 
 afraid to show it to him. 
 
 Presently she left off scratching her patterns in 
 the mould and raised her head, looking out wistfully 
 across the pond. 
 
 " Ronald was delighted to be carrying secret pa- 
 pers," she said pensively. 
 
 "Was he?" 
 
 *' Yes — he's been reading Stevenson, and Henty, 
 and all those books — the idea of secret papers was 
 just what he loved." 
 
 John's eyes twinkled. 
 
56 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Do you think he told that other boy ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 *' Oh — no — I'm sure he wouldn't." 
 
 " Not if he got the other boy to play the part 
 of Thomas Grey — and satisfied his conscience like 
 that.?" 
 
 *' No — ^because he delivered them to you. I'm 
 sure he never looked at them. You're the only one 
 who knows the secret." 
 
 John's eyes twinkled again. She was so curious 
 to know. 
 
 " It's a terrible thing to be the only posssessor 
 of a secret like that," he said solemnly. 
 
 She glanced quickly at his face. 
 
 "It is, if it's something you mustn't tell," said 
 she. And you could hear the question in that ; just 
 the faint lingering note of it; but it was there. Of 
 course, if he could not tell, the sooner she knew it 
 the better. You can waste upon a person even so 
 poor a sentiment as curiosity, and when a woman 
 gets proud, she will give you none of it. 
 
 If he had kept his secret another moment longer, 
 she would undoubtedly have got proud; but just 
 then, there came into view the insignificant little 
 figure of a man in faded, dirty livery, a peaked cap, 
 a sleuth-like, watchful air and, hidden in the grasp- 
 ing of his hand, there was a fateful ticket puncher. 
 Two seats, and John had only a penny! What can 
 one do under such circumstances as these.'' He 
 looked helplessly through his mind for a way out 
 of the dilemma. He even looked on the ground to 
 •ee whether some former charitable person had 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 57 
 
 thrown away their tickets when they left — he al- 
 ways did as much for the cause of unknown human- 
 ity himself. You never know how many people there 
 are in London with only a penny in their pockets. 
 But he looked in vain. There were only the figures 
 that she had carved and scratched out in the mould. 
 
 He thought of saying that he had bought a ticket 
 and lost it. One of those little gusts of wind that 
 were dancing under the elm trees would readily 
 vouch for the truth of his story in such a predica- 
 ment as this. But then this might be the only 
 ticket puncher in the gardens at that time of the 
 year, and he would know. He thought of going 
 through all his pockets and simulating the despair 
 of a man who has lost his last piece of gold. And 
 the slouching figure of the chair man drew nearer 
 and nearer. And oh, he came so cunningly, as if he 
 had nothing whatever to do with this crushing tax 
 upon the impoverished resources of those who seek 
 Romance. 
 
 Yes, John rather liked that last idea. Anyone 
 might lose their last piece of gold. It is not even 
 a paradox to say it would be the first they would 
 lose. But it would be acting the lie to her as 
 well as to the chairman. Was that fair? The chair- 
 man would only look imperturbably at him with a 
 stony eye — it was more than likely he would have 
 heard that story before, and a chair man will not 
 be baulked of his prey. Then she would have to 
 pay. No — that would not be fair. Then 
 
 " I'm going to pay for my seat," said the Ladj 
 of St. Joseph. 
 
58 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said John vehemently — " Why should 
 you?" 
 
 Couldn't he get up and say he was only sitting 
 there by accident; had never meant to sit down at 
 all? 
 
 " Yes — I*m going to pay," she said — " I owe you 
 a penny for the candle to St. Joseph." 
 
 Ah! That was the way out of it! You see, if 
 you only pray earnestly enough, St. Joseph is 
 bound to answer your prayer. This was his return 
 for John's offer of generosity. There is not a doubt 
 of it in my mind. There was not a doubt of it in 
 his. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE ART OF HIEROGLYPHICS 
 
 The bell of the ticket-puncher rang, the tiny slips 
 of paper were torn off the roll and exchanged hands. 
 For that day, at least — so long as they chose to 
 sit there — the little penny chairs belonged to them; 
 indisputably to them. 
 
 You feel you have bought something when you 
 pay for it with your last penny. John leant back 
 with a breath of relief as the chair man walked 
 away. It had been a terrible moment. In this life, 
 you never lose that sense that it is only the one 
 friend in the world who does not judge you by the 
 contents of your pocket ; and when an acquaintance 
 is but of a few moment's standing — even if it be a 
 Lady of St. Joseph — it is hazarding everything to 
 have to admit to the possession of only one penny. 
 
 Do you wonder his breath was of relief.? Would 
 you wonder if, wrapped up in that breath, there had 
 been a prayer of thanks to St. Joseph.'* Only a 
 little prayer, not even spoken in the breath, hardly 
 expressed in the thought that accompanied it — but 
 still a prayer — as much a prayer in his heart, as 
 you might say there was a butterfly in the heart of 
 a cocoon. We know that there is only a chrysalis 
 — sluggish, inert, incapable of the light and dainty 
 flight of a butterfly's wings — but still it will be a 
 
 69 
 
60 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 butterfly one day. That was just about the relation 
 of John's breath to a prayer. 
 
 Under his eyes, he stole a look at her. She was 
 not thinking of pennies ! Not she ! Once you make 
 a woman curious — pennies won't buy back her peace 
 of mind. She was beginning her tricks again with 
 the ferrule of her umbrella. Why is it that a woman 
 can so much better express herself with the toe of 
 an elegant shoe or the point of a fifteen and six- 
 penny umbrella? Nothing less dainty than this will 
 serve her. Give her speech and she ties herself into 
 a knot with it like a ball of worsted and then com- 
 plains that she is not understood. But with the toe 
 of an elegant shoe — mind you, if it is not elegant, 
 you must give her something else — she will explain 
 a whole world of emotion. 
 
 She had begun scratching up the mould again. 
 John watched the unconscious expression of her mind 
 with the point of that umbrella. One figure after 
 another she scratched and then crossed out. First 
 it was a ship, rigged as no ship has ever been 
 rigged before or since. The Albatross, of course. 
 Then a dome, the dome of a building. He could 
 not follow that. He would have had to know that 
 she had once had a picture book in which was a 
 picture of Santa Maria della Salute — otherwise the 
 meaning of that dome was impossible to follow. He 
 thought it was a beehive. Really, of course, you 
 understood this from the first yourself, it meant 
 Venice. Then she began carving letters. The first 
 was G. The second was R. She thought she felt 
 him looking, glanced up quickly, but he was gazing 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 61 
 
 far away across the round pond. It is always as 
 well not to look. Women are very shy when they 
 are expressing their emotions. It is always as well 
 not to look; but you will be thought a dullard if 
 you do not see. John was gazing across the pond. 
 But nevertheless, she scratched those first two let- 
 ters out. When he saw that, he took pity. 
 
 " Shall I tell you what the secret papers are.? " 
 said he, with a smile. 
 
 Ah, the gratitude in her eyes. 
 
 *' Do ! " she replied. 
 
 *' It's a short story." 
 
 "A short story! You write.? Why didn't you 
 tell me that before ? " 
 
 " But it's only a short story," said John, " that 
 no one'U ever read." 
 
 " Won't it be published? '* 
 
 " No — never." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because people won't like It." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 ** I'm sure of it. I know what they like." 
 
 "Read it to me and I'll tell you if I like it." 
 
 Read it to her! Sit in Kensington Gardens and 
 have his work listened to by the Lady of St. Joseph ! 
 He took it out of his pocket without another word 
 and read it then and there. 
 
 This is it. 
 
 AN IDYLL OF SCIENCB 
 
 The world has grown some few of its grey hairs 
 in search of the secret of perpetual motion. How 
 
62 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 many, with their ingeniously contrived keys, have 
 not worn old and feeble in their efforts to open this 
 Bluebeard's chamber: until their curiosity sank ex- 
 hausted within them? You count them, from the 
 dilettante Marquis of Worcester, playing with his 
 mechanical toy before a king and his court, Jack- 
 son, OrfFyreus, Bishop Wilkins, Addeley, with the 
 rest of them, and, beyond arriving at the decision 
 of the French Academy — " that the only perpetual 
 motion possible . . . would be useless for the 
 purpose of the devisers,'* you are drawn to the con- 
 clusion that mankind shares curiosity with the beasts 
 below him and calls it science lest the world should 
 laugh. 
 
 You have now in this idyll here offered you, the 
 story of one who found the secret, and showed it to 
 me alone. Have patience to let your imagination 
 wander through Irish country lanes, strolling hither 
 and thither, drtiwn to no definite end, led by no ul- 
 timate hope, and the history of the blind beggar, 
 who discovered the secret of perpetual motion, shall 
 be disclosed for you; all the curiosity that ever 
 thrilled you shall be appeased, feasted, satiated. 
 
 There was not one In the country-side who knew 
 his name. Name a man in Ireland and you locate 
 him ; Murphy, and he comes from Cork — Power, and 
 he comes from Waterford. Why enumerate them 
 all? But this blind beggar had no name. There 
 was no place that claimed him. With that tall silk 
 hat of his which some parish priest had yielded him, 
 with his long black coat which exposure to the sor- 
 rowful rains of a sad country had stained a faded 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 63 
 
 green ; with his long, crooked stick that tapped its 
 wearisome, monotonous dirge and his colourless, red 
 'kerchief knotted round his neck, he was a figure well- 
 known in three or four counties. 
 
 No village owned him. At Clonmel, they denied 
 him, at Dungarvan, they disowned him ; yet the 
 whole country-side, at certain seasons of the year, 
 had heard that well-known tapping of the crooked 
 stick, had seen those sightless eyes blinking under 
 the twisted rim of the old silk hat. For a day or 
 60 in the place, he was a well-known figure; for a 
 day or so they slipped odd pennies into his sensitively 
 opened palm, but the next morning would find him 
 missing. Where had he gone.? Who had seen him 
 go.? Not a soul! The rounded cobbles and the un- 
 even pavements that had resounded to the old 
 crooked stick would be silent of that tapping noise 
 for another year, at least. 
 
 But had chance taken you out into the surround- 
 ing country, and had it taken you in the right di- 
 rection, you would have found him toiling along by 
 the hedges — oh, but so infinitely slowly! — his shoul- 
 ders bent, and his hand nodding like some mechanical 
 toy that had escaped the clutches of its inventor 
 and was wandering aimlessly wherever its mechanism 
 directed. 
 
 How it came to be known that he sought the se- 
 cret of perpetual motion, is beyond me. It was one 
 of those facts about him which seem as inseparable 
 from a man as the clothes that belie his trade. You 
 saw him coming up the road towards you and the 
 words " perpetual motion " rushed, whispering, to 
 
64 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 your mind. About the matter himself, he was sen- 
 sitively reticent; yet he must have told someone — 
 someone must have told me. Who was it.'' Some 
 inhabitant of the village of Rathmore must have 
 spread the story. Whom could it have been? 
 Foley, the carpenter.? Burke, the fisherman.'' Fitz- 
 gerald, the publican — Troy, the farmer? I can 
 trace it to none of these. I cannot remember who 
 told me: and yet, when each year he came round 
 for the ceremonies of the Pattern day, when they 
 honoured the patron saint, I said as I saw him: 
 " Here is the blind beggar who tried to invent per- 
 petual motion." The idea became inseparable from 
 the man. 
 
 With each succeeding year his movements became 
 more feeble, his head hung lower as he walked. You 
 could see Death stalking behind him in his footsteps, 
 gaining on him, inch by inch, until the shadow of it 
 fell before him as he walked. 
 
 There were times when I had struggled to draw; 
 him into conversation ; moments when I had thought 
 that I had won his confidence; but at the critical 
 juncture, those sightless eyes would search me 
 through and through and he would pass me by. 
 There must have been a time when the world had 
 treated him ill. I fancy, in fact, that I have heard 
 such account of him; for he trusted no one. Year 
 after year he came to Rathmore for the festival 
 of the Pattern and, year after year, I remained in 
 ignorance of his secret. 
 
 At last, when I saw the hand of Death stretched 
 out almost to touch his shoulder, I spoke — straight 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 65 
 
 to the pith of the matter, lest another year should 
 bring him there no more. 
 
 He was walking down from the Holy Well where 
 for the last hour, upon his tremulous knees, he had 
 been making his devotions to a saint whose shrine 
 his unseeing eyes had never beheld. This was the 
 opportunity I seized. For a length of many mo- 
 ments, when first I had seen his bent and ill-fed 
 figure, rocking to and fro with the steps he took, 
 I had made up my mind to it. 
 
 As he reached my side, I slipp^ a shilling into 
 his half-concealed palm. So do we assess our fellow- 
 kind! The instinct is bestial, but ingrained. Hon- 
 our, virtue and the like — we only call them price- 
 less to ourselves ; yet it takes a great deal to convince 
 us that they are not priceless to others. I priced 
 my blind beggar at a shilling! I watched his with- 
 ered fingers close over it, rubbing against the 
 minted edge that he might know its worth! 
 
 '* That has won him," I thought. 
 
 Ah! What a brutal conception of God's handi- 
 craft! A shilling to buy the secret of perpetual 
 motion ! Surely I could not have thought that Na- 
 ture would have sold her mysteries for that! I did. 
 There is the naked truth of it. 
 
 ** Who gives me this ? " he asked, still fingering 
 it as though it yet might bum his hand. 
 
 « A friend," said I. 
 
 *' God's blessing on ye," he answered and his 
 fingers finally held it tight. There he kept it, 
 clutched within his hand. No pocket was safe in 
 the clothes he wore to store .such fortune as that. 
 
66 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " You're leaving Rathmore after the Pattern, I 
 suppose? " I began. 
 
 His head nodded as he tapped his stick. 
 
 " There's something I want to ask you before you 
 go," I continued. 
 
 He stopped, I with him, watching the suspicions 
 pass across his face. 
 
 " Someone has told me " I sought desperately, 
 
 clumsily, for my satisfaction now. " Someone has 
 told me that you have found the secret of perpetual 
 motion. Is that true ? " 
 
 The milk-white, sightless eyes rushed querulously 
 to mine. All the expression of yearning to see seemed 
 to lie hidden behind them. A flame that was not 
 a flame — the ghost of a flame burnt there, intense 
 with questioning. He could not see ; I knew he could 
 not see; yet those vacant globes of matter were 
 charged with unerring perception. In that moment, 
 his soul was looking into mine, searching it for in- 
 tegrity, scouring the very corners of it for the true 
 reason of my question. 
 
 I met his gaze. It seemed then to me, that if I 
 failed and my eyes fell before his, he would have 
 weighed and found me wanting. It is one of the 
 few things in this world which I count to my credit, 
 that those empty sockets found me worthy of the 
 trust. 
 
 " Who told ye that? " he asked. 
 
 I answered him truthfully that I did not know. 
 
 "But is it the case? " I added. 
 
 He shifted his position. I could see that he was 
 listening. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 67 
 
 *' There is no one on the road," I said — " We are 
 quite alone." 
 
 He coughed nervously. 
 
 *' 'Tis a matter of fifteen years since I first thought 
 the thing out at all. Shure, I dunno what made it 
 come into me head ; but 'twas the way I used to be 
 working in a forge before I lost the sight of my 
 eyes. I thought of it there, I suppose." 
 
 He stopped and I prompted him. 
 
 " What principle did you go on ? " I asked — *^ Was 
 it magnetism.'* How did you set to work to avoid 
 friction .'' " 
 
 This time, as he looked at me, his eyes were ex- 
 pressionless. I felt that he was blind. He had not 
 understood a word I had said. 
 
 "Are ye trying to get the secret out av me?" 
 he asked at length. " Shure, there's many have 
 done that. They all try and get it out av me. The 
 blacksmith — him that was working at the forge 
 where I was myself before I lost the sight in me 
 eyes — he wanted to make the machine for me. But 
 I'd known him before I was bhnd and I hadn't lost 
 the knowledge with me eyesight." 
 
 *' Are you making it yourself, then? " 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 " As well as I can," he continued — " but, shure, 
 what can these fingers do with feeling alone — I must 
 see what I'm doing. Faith, I've all the pieces here 
 now in me pocket, only for the putting of 'em to- 
 gether, and glory be to God, I've tried and tried, 
 but they won't go. Ye can't do it with feelin" 
 alone." 
 
68 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 Some lump threatened to rise in my throat. 
 
 " Good God ! " I thought—" this is tragedy " 
 
 And I looked in vain for sight in his eyes. 
 
 ** Would ye like to see the pieces ? " he asked. 
 
 I assured him that the secret would be safe in 
 my keeping were he so generous. 
 
 " No one about.? " he asked. 
 
 "Not a soul!" 
 
 Then, from his pocket — one by one — he took them 
 out and laid them down on a grass bank by our 
 Bide. I watched each piece as he produced it and, 
 with the placing of them on the bank of grass, I 
 watched his face. These were the parts in the con- 
 struction of his intricate mechanism that he showed 
 to me — a foot of rod iron, a small tin pot that once 
 perhaps had held its pound of coffee, a strip of 
 hoop iron and an injured lock. 
 
 " There," he said proudly — " but if I were to give 
 these to that blacksmith, he'd steal the secret before 
 my face. I wouldn't trust him with 'em and I 
 working these fifteen years." 
 
 I thanked God he could not see my face then. 
 The foot of rod iron ! The small tin pot ! The in- 
 jured lock! They stared at me in derision. Only 
 they and I knew the secret — only they and I could 
 tell it, as they themselves had told it me. His wits 
 were gone. Perpetual motion! The wretphed man 
 was mad. 
 
 Perpetual motion out of these rusty old things — 
 rusting for fifteen years in the corners of his pockets ! 
 Perpetual motion ! 
 
 But here the reality of it all broke upon me — 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 69 
 
 burst out with its thundering sense of truth. Mad 
 the blind beggar might be; yet there, before my 
 very eyes, in those motionless objects, was the secret 
 of perpetual motion. Rust, decay, change — the ob- 
 stinate metal of the iron rod, the flimsy substance 
 of the tin pot, always under the condition of change ; 
 rusting in his pocket where they had lain for fif- 
 teen years — never quiescent, never still, always mov- 
 ing — moving — moving — in obedience to the invio- 
 lable law of change, as we all, in servile obedience 
 to that law as well, are moving continually, from 
 childhood into youth, youth to middle-age — middle- 
 age to senility — then death, the last change of all. 
 All this giant structure of manhood, the very essence 
 of complicated intricacy compared to that piece of 
 rod iron, passing into the dust from which the thou- 
 sands of years had contrived to make it. What 
 more could one want of perpetual motion than that? 
 
 I looked up into his face again. 
 
 ** You've taught me a wonderful lesson," I said 
 quietly. 
 
 " Ah," he replied — *'^ it's all there — all there — the 
 whole secret of it; if only I had the eyes to put it 
 together." 
 
 If he only had the eyes ? Have any of us the eyes? 
 Have any of us the eyes? 
 
 When he had finished, he folded it slowly and put 
 it back in his pocket. 
 
 " Well ? " he said. 
 
 His heart was beating with anticipation, with ap- 
 prehension, with exaltation. With one beat he knew 
 
70 THE CITY^OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 she must think it was good. It was his best. He 
 had just done it and, when you have just done it, 
 you are apt to think that. But with another beat, 
 he felt she was going to say the conventional thing 
 — to call it charming — to say — " But how nice." It 
 would be far better if she said it was all wrong, that 
 it struck a wrong note, that its composition was ill. 
 One can believe that about one's work — but that it 
 is charming, that it is nice — never! 
 
 For that moment Destiny swung in a balance, 
 poised upon the agate of chance. What was she 
 going to say.? It all depended upon that. But she 
 was so silent. She sat so still. Mice are still when 
 you startle them; then, when they collect their wits, 
 they scamper away. 
 
 Suddenly she rose to her feet. 
 
 " Will you be here in the Gardens to-morrow morn- 
 ing at this time," she said — " Then I'll tell you how 
 very much I liked it." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE NEED FOR INTUITION 
 
 In such a world as this, anything which is wholly 
 sane is entirely uninteresting. But — thank heaven 
 for it ! — madness is everywhere, in every corner, at 
 every turning. You will not even find compete san- 
 ity in a Unitarian ; in fact, some of the maddest 
 people I have ever met have been Unitarians. Yet 
 theirs is an aggravating madness. You can have 
 no sympathy with a man who believes himself sane. 
 
 But anything more utterly irresponsible than this 
 sudden, impulsive departure of the Lady of St. Jo- 
 seph can scarcely be imagined. John did not even 
 know her name and, what is more, did not even 
 realise the fact until she and Ronald had crossed the 
 stretch of grass and reached the Broad Walk. Then 
 he ran after them. 
 
 Ronald turned first as he heard the hurrying foot- 
 steps. Anything running will arrest the attention of 
 a boy, while a woman hears, just as quickly, but 
 keeps her head rigid. Evidently, Ronald had told 
 her. She turned as well. John suddenly found 
 himself face to face with her. Then the impossible 
 delicacy of the situation and his question came home 
 to him. 
 
 How, before Ronald, to whom he had just been 
 introduced as a friend, could he ask her name? Sim- 
 plicity of mind is proverbial in those who trafiic in 
 
 71 
 
72 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 deep waters ; but could the master of the good ship 
 Albatross ever be so simple as not to find the sug- 
 gestion of something peculiar in such a question as 
 this? 
 
 And so when he reached her side, he stood there 
 despairingly dumb. 
 
 " You wanted to say something? " said she. 
 
 He looked helplessly at Ronald. Ronald looked 
 helplessly at him. Then, when he looked at her, he 
 saw the helplessness in her eyes as well. 
 
 " What is it you want ? " said her eyes — " I can't 
 get rid of him. He's as cunning as he can be." 
 
 And his eyes replied — " I want to know your name 
 — ^I want to know who you are." Which is a foolish 
 thing to say with one's eyes, because no one could 
 possibly understand it. It might mean anything. 
 
 Then he launched a question at a venture. If 
 she had any intuition, she could guide it safe to 
 port. 
 
 " I just wanted to ask," said John — " if you were 
 
 any relation to the — the " At that moment the 
 
 only name that entered his head was Wrigglesworth, 
 who kept a little eating-house in Fetter Lane — " the 
 — oh — what is their name! — the Merediths of 
 Wrotham? " 
 
 He had just been reading " The Amazing Mar- 
 riage." But where on earth was Wrotham? Well, 
 it must do. 
 
 She looked at him in amazement. She had not 
 understood. Who could blame her? 
 
 "The Merediths?" she repeated— " But why 
 should you think " 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 73 
 
 " Oh, yes — I know," — he interposed quickly — 
 " It's not the same name — but — they — they have re- 
 lations of your name — they told me so — cousins or 
 something like that, and I just wondered if — well, 
 it doesn't matter — you're not. Good-bye." 
 
 He lifted his hat and departed. For a moment 
 there was a quite unreasonable sense of disappoint- 
 ment in his mind. She was wanting in intuition. 
 She ought to have understood. Of course, in her be- 
 wilderment at his question she had looked charming 
 and that made up for a great deal. How intensely 
 charming she had looked! Her forehead when she 
 frowned — the eyes alight with questions. Anyhow, 
 she had understood that what he had really wanted 
 to say could not be said before Ronald and, into her 
 confidence she had taken him — closing the door quite 
 softly behind them. Without question, without un- 
 derstanding, she had done that. Perhaps it made up 
 for everything. 
 
 Presently, he heard the hurrying of feet, and 
 turned at once. How wonderfully she ran — like a 
 boy of twelve, with a clean stride and a sure foot. 
 
 " I'm so sorry," she said in little breaths. *' I 
 didn't understand. The Merediths and the Wrotham 
 put me all out. It's Dealtry — Julie Dealtry — 
 they call me Jill. We live in Prince of Wales' Ter- 
 race.'* She said the number. " Do they call you 
 Jack? Good-bye — to-morrow." And she was oflp. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A SIDE-LIGHT UPON APPEARANCES 
 
 He watched the last sway of her skirt, the last 
 toss of her head, as she ran down the hill of the 
 Broad Walk, then, repeating mechanically to him- 
 self: 
 
 Jack and Jill went up the hill 
 
 To fetch a pail of water, 
 
 Jack, fell down and broke his crown 
 
 And Jill cwme tumbling afher, 
 
 and, wondering what it all meant, wondering if, after 
 all, those nursery rhymes were really charged with 
 subtle meaning, he made his way to Victoria Gate 
 in the Park Railings. 
 
 In the high road, he saw a man he knew, a mem- 
 ber of his club, top-hatted and befrocked. The silk 
 hat gleamed in the sunlight. It looked just like a 
 silk hat you would draw, catching the light in two 
 brilliant lines from crown to brim. The frock coat 
 was caught with one button at the waist. Immacu- 
 late is the word. John hesitated. They were 
 friends, casual friends, but he hesitated. There 
 might be two opinions about the soft felt hat he 
 was wearing. He found it comfortable; but one 
 gets biased in one's opinions about one's hats. Even 
 the fact that the evening before he had driven with 
 this friend in a hansom for which he had paid as 
 
 74 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 75 
 
 the friend had no money on him at the time — even 
 this did not give him courage. He decided to keep 
 to his, the Park side of the Bayswater Road. 
 
 But presently the friend saw him, lifted his stick, 
 and shook it amicably in greeting. He even crossed 
 the road. Well, after all, he could scarcely do 
 anything else. John had paid for his hansom only 
 the evening before. He remembered vividly how, on 
 the suggestion that th»y should drive, his friend had 
 dived his hand into his pocket, shaken his bunch of 
 keys and said, with obvious embarrassment, that he 
 had run rather short of change. It always is change 
 that one runs short of. Capital is never wanting. 
 There is always a balance at the poor man's bank, 
 and the greater his pride the bigger the balance. 
 But at that moment, John had been rich in change — 
 that is to say, he had half a crown. 
 
 *' Oh — I've got heaps," he had said. It is permis- 
 sible to talk of heaps when you have enough. And 
 he had paid for the whole journey. It was not to 
 be wondered at then, that his friend came amicably 
 across the road. 
 
 John greeted him lightly. 
 
 *' Going up to town ? " 
 
 " Yes — are you ? " 
 
 John nodded. " Are you lunching at the Club ? " 
 
 ** No — I've got to meet some people at the Carl- 
 ton — How's the time — my watch is being mended." 
 
 *' I don't know," said John — " my watch is all 
 smashed up. It's just on one I should think." 
 
 " As much as that ? 1 must be moving on. Shall 
 we get on a 'bus ? " 
 
76 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 The very thing. John acquiesced readily. He had 
 nothing; a careful calculation of what he had spent 
 that morning will account for that. But his friend 
 could pay. It was his turn. 
 
 They mounted the stairs and took a front seat be- 
 hind the driver. 
 
 " You'll have to pay for me to-day," said John. 
 " My pockets are empty till I get a cheque changed." 
 
 The blood mounted to the face of his friend. For 
 a moment he looked as though his beautiful hat 
 were too tight for his head. He felt in liis pocket. 
 Then he produced a little stamp case, with gold 
 mounted corners and one penny stamp inside. 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry," said he — ^" I — I've only got 
 a penny stamp." He rose quickly to his feet. 
 
 John laughed — laughed loudly. 
 
 *' What are you going to do.?" said he. 
 
 " Well— get off," said his friend. 
 
 " Sit down," said John — " there's no hurry." 
 
 " Have you got twopence, then ? " 
 
 " No — not a farthing. But we're getting into 
 Town, aren't we? We've got nothing to grumble at." 
 
 When the 'bus had travelled another hundred 
 yards or so, John stood up. 
 
 " Now, you come downstairs," said he. The friend 
 followed obediently. The conductor was inside 
 punching tickets. John looked in. 
 
 " Does this 'bus go to Paddington Station ? " he 
 asked inquiringly. 
 
 " No — Piccadilly Circus, Haymarket, and Strand." 
 
 " What a nuisance," said John — " Come on — ^we'd 
 better get off." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 77 
 
 They descended on to the road, and the friend, 
 immaculate, top-hatted and befrocked, took his arm. 
 
 ** I see," he said, and he looked back to measure 
 the distance with his eye. 
 
 There are more people in London with only a 
 penny in their pockets than you would imagine. 
 
CHAPTER Xn 
 
 THE CHAPEL OF UNREDEMPTION 
 
 The next morning was one of promise. For half 
 an hour before the time appointed for his meeting, 
 John was waiting, seated upon a penny chair, think- 
 ing innumerable thoughts, smoking innumerable 
 cigarettes. Sometimes he felt the money that was in 
 his pocket, running his finger nail over the minted 
 edge of the half crowns and florins to distinguish 
 them from the pennies. No woman, whatever fran- 
 chise she may win, will ever understand the delight 
 of this. You must have a pocket in your trousers 
 and keep your money there — even gold when you 
 possess it — to appreciate the innocent joy of such 
 an occupation as this. Men have really a deal to 
 be grateful for. 
 
 That mornning, John had money. He even had 
 gold. He had pawned his gold watch-chain, in- 
 tending, if the opportunity arose, to ask Jill to 
 lunch. 
 
 The watch, as you know, was smashed up. That 
 is a technical term in use amongst all gentlemen and 
 sensitive people, having this great advantage that 
 it may be taken literally or not, at will. No one 
 who uses the term has ever been so much in want 
 of shame as to define it. 
 
 You may wonder why it is that the watch and 
 78 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 79 
 
 not the chain should get smashed up first. It Is 
 the watch that tells the time. But then, it is the 
 chain that tells you have got the watch that tells 
 the time, and in this life one has always to be con- 
 sidering that there would be no maiden all forlorn 
 if it were not for the house that Jack built. The 
 chain will always be the last to go, so long as 
 those three brass balls continue to hang over that 
 suspicious-looking shop in the dingy side street. 
 
 John's watch had been smashed up for some weeks ; 
 but little boys and little girls in the street still flat- 
 tered him by asking to be told the time. 
 
 With one eye searching for a distant clock while 
 your hand pulls out the latch key which depends upon 
 the chain, giving it the weight of a reason to stay in 
 the pocket, you can easily deceive the eyes of these 
 unsuspecting little people in the street. If you dis- 
 cover the distant clock, all well and good. If not, 
 then a hundred devices are left open to you. You 
 can guess — you can tell it by the sun, but, and if 
 you are conscientious, you can apologise and say 
 your watch has stopped. And last of all, if it Is a 
 nice little person with eyes in which a laugh is al- 
 ways a-tip-toe, you may dangle the key in front 
 of their face, and with their merriment experience 
 the clean pleasure of honesty. 
 
 A quality about John that was interesting, was 
 his ability to anticipate possibilities. Perhaps a 
 man's mind runs instinctively to the future, and it 
 is the woman who lives in the past. 
 
 When Mrs. Rowse awakened him in the morning, 
 he sat up in bed with the glowing consciousness 
 
-»0 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 that something was to happen that day. Something 
 had been arranged; some appointment was to be 
 kept; some new interest had entered his life which 
 was to take definite shape that very day. 
 
 He asked Mrs. Rowse the time — not as one who 
 really wishes to know it, but as it were a duty, which 
 must sooner or later be accomplished. Directly she 
 said a quarter to nine, he remembered. Jill! The 
 Lady of St. Joseph! That morning she was going 
 to tell him how much she liked his story. 
 
 He sat up at once in bed. 
 
 " Mrs. Rowse ! I shall want my coffee in half 
 an hour. Less ! Twenty minutes ! " 
 
 In twenty minutes, he was dressed. Allowance 
 must be made if he chose a sock that matched a tie 
 or spent a moment of thought upon the selection 
 of a shirt to go with them. Vanity, it is, only to 
 do these things for your own approval ; but when all 
 consciously, you stand upon the very threshold of 
 romance, it may be excused you if you consider 
 yourself in the reflexion of the door. It is the man 
 who, wandering aimlessly through the streets in 
 life, looks in at every mirror that he passes, who is 
 abominable. That is the vanity of which the 
 prophet spoke. The prophet, himself, would have 
 been the first to set straight the tie, or rearrange 
 the 'kerchief of the lover who goes to meet his 
 mistress. 
 
 Even John smiled at himself. The socks matched 
 the tie so absolutely ; it was ludicrous how well they 
 matched. There was no rough, blue serge suit that 
 day. Out of the depths of the wardrobe came a coat 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 81 
 
 well brushed and kept. Then he went in to break- 
 fast. 
 
 During the meal, Mrs. Rowse lingered about in 
 the sitting-room, dusting things that might easily 
 have escaped notice. John, reading his paper, at 
 last became aware of it with a rush of blood to his 
 cheeks. She had paid the day before for the wash- 
 ing — three and elevenpence. 
 
 If you go to a laundry in the environment of Fet- 
 ter Lane, it is like putting your clothes in pawn. 
 You can't get them back again until the bill Is paid, 
 and there are times when that is Inconvenient. 
 
 That was why Mrs. Rowse was lingering. She 
 had paid for the washing. Whenever money was 
 due to her, she lingered. It is a subtle method of 
 reproach, a gentle process of reminder which at first 
 scarcely explains Itself. 
 
 On the first occasion when she had adopted it, 
 John had thought she was losing her memory, that 
 her wits were gathering. Out of the comer of his 
 eye, he had nervously watched her going aimlessly 
 about the room, dusting the same object perhaps six 
 separate times. When a woman is paid seven 
 shillings a week for keeping one's rooms tidy, such 
 industry as this might well be a sign of mad- 
 ness. 
 
 At length, unable to bear it any longer, John 
 had said that he thought she had done enough. 
 Despairingly then, she had folded up the duster, 
 put it away, taken an unconscionable time in the 
 pinning on of that black, shabby hat, and finally, 
 but only when at the door itself, &he had said: 
 
82 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Do you think you could spare my wages to- 
 day, sir? " 
 
 Now she was lingering again. But he had come 
 to know the signs and meanings of the process. This 
 time, John knew it was the washing. He watched 
 her covertly from behind his paper, hoping against 
 hope that she might tire; for he had not got three 
 and elevenpence, nor three halfpence in the world. 
 But a master in the art of lingering does not know 
 what it means to tire. Just when he thought she 
 must have finished, when she had done all the glass 
 on the mantel-piece for the second time, she went out 
 of the room to the cupboard on the landing where 
 John kept his two-hundredweight of coal and re- 
 turned with all the rags and pots of paste necessary 
 for the cleaning of the brass. 
 
 Here he gave in ; the siege was over. Under cover 
 of the newspaper, he detached the latch key from 
 his watch-chain, slipped it into his pocket and rose, 
 concealing the chain within his hand. 
 
 " I'm just going out," he said — " for a few mo- 
 ments. Can you wait till I get back.? " 
 
 She looked as though she could not, as if it were 
 rather encroaching upon the limit of her time to ask 
 her to stay longer, but 
 
 " I expect I can find one or two little things to 
 do for a few moments," she said. 
 
 John left her doing them. They mainly consisted 
 of putting the brass polish and the rags back again 
 in the cupboard from which she had taken them. 
 
 It is here that you will see this quality interesting 
 in John^ this ability to anticipate possibilities. It 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 8S 
 
 was not really the victory of Mrs. Rowse that had 
 impelled him to the sacrifice of his watch-chain. It 
 is not consistent with human nature for any man to 
 pawn an article of value — far less one which implies 
 the possession of another — in order to pay his wash- 
 ing bill. Washing, like the income tax, is one of 
 those indemnities in life which appear to have no 
 justice in their existence. It would always seem 
 that your integrity were still preserved, that you 
 were still a man of honour if you could avoid pay- 
 ing them. 
 
 I know a man, who has eluded the income tax 
 authorities for seven years, and he is held in the 
 highest esteem as a man of acumen, ability, and the 
 soul of honour. I admit that this opinion is only 
 held of him by those who are endeavouring to do the 
 same as he. A man, for instance, who belongs to the 
 same club and pays his income tax to the last shil- 
 ling, thinks him to be a hopelessly immoral citizen 
 and would believe him capable of anything. But this 
 is not fair. It would be far more just to say 
 that the man who pays his income tax to the 
 uttermost farthing is capable of nothing — inverte- 
 brate. 
 
 It was not, then, alone to pay his washing bill 
 that John decided to part with the gold watch- 
 chain. He had, in a moment of inspiration, con- 
 jured before him the possibility of asking Jill to 
 lunch, and these two motives, uniting from opposite 
 quarters of the compass of suggestion to one and the 
 same end, he sacrificed the last pretentions he 
 might have claimed to the opulence conveyed by a 
 
84f THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 gold watch-chain and repaired to Payne and Wel- 
 come's. 
 
 With a bold and unconscious step, he strode into 
 the little side entrance, which is a feature of all 
 these jeweller's shops displaying the mystical sign 
 of the three brass balls. Without the slightest sense 
 of shame, he pushed open one of the small doors 
 that give admittance to the little boxes — those little 
 boxes where the confession of one's poverty is made. 
 And to no sympathetic ear of a gentle priest are 
 those terrible confessions to be whispered — the most 
 terrible confession you can make in this world. The 
 man to whom you tell your story of shame is greedy 
 and willing to listen, eager and inexorable to make 
 your penance as heavy as he may. A bailiff is, per- 
 haps, more stony of heart than a pawnbroker; yet 
 both are brothers in trade. The dearest things in 
 the life of anyone are their possessions, and both 
 these tradesmen deal in their heartless confiscation. 
 The woman out at elbow, hollow-eyed, who comes to 
 pawn her wedding ring, the man — shabby — genteel 
 — wearing, until the nap is gone and the sleeves are 
 frayed, the garment of his self-respect, who comes to 
 put away his best and Sunday coat; they are all 
 one to the pawnbroker. He beats them down to the 
 last farthing, well knowing that, having once de- 
 termined to part with their possessions, they will 
 not willingly go away again without that for which 
 they came. He has them utterly at his mercy. They 
 are all one to him. The story in their faces is noth- 
 ing to his eyes. He signs a hundred death warrants 
 in the tickets that he writes every day — death war- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 85 
 
 rants to possessions well-nigh as dear as life; but it 
 means nothing to him. 
 
 The awful thought about it all, is to consider the 
 ease with which one loses the sense of shame which, 
 upon a first transaction of the kind, is a hot wind 
 blowing on the face, burning the cheeks to scarlet. 
 
 On the first occasion that John was driven to such 
 dealing, he passed that guilty side entrance many 
 times before he finally summoned courage to enter. 
 Every time that he essayed the fatal step, the 
 street became full of people whom he knew. There 
 was that editor who was considering his last short 
 story! He turned swiftly, his heel a sudden pivot, 
 and scrutinised the objects in the jeweller's window, 
 then hurried away up the street, as though he were 
 ashamed of wasting his time. A glance over the 
 shoulder, satisfied him that the editor was out of 
 sight and back he slowly came. This time he had 
 got within a foot of the door — a foot of it. One 
 step more and he would have been in the sheltering 
 seclusion of that narrow little passage! There was 
 the girl who sold him stamps in the post-office — 
 the girl who smiled at him and said she had read a 
 beautiful story of his in one of the magazines ! He 
 had looked up quickly as though he had mistaken 
 the number on the door, then marched into the next 
 shop on the left, as if that were the one he had 
 been looking for. When he had got in, he realised 
 that it was a butcher's. 
 
 The butcher, in a blithe voice, had said: 
 
 "And what this morning, sir?" 
 
 ** I want — can you tell me the time? " said John. 
 
86 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 In about half an hour there came a moment when 
 the street was empty. John had seized it and van- 
 ished up the little passage. But the ordeal was not 
 over then. He had had to face the high priest of 
 poverty — to tell to him the unforgivable, the mor- 
 tal crime of penury. And there had been someone 
 in the next confessional — someone hardened in sin — 
 who could hear every single word that he said, and 
 even so far over-stepped the bounds of decency as 
 to look round the corner of their partition. 
 
 " How much will you give me for this ? " said John, 
 laying his watch upon the counter. It was the watch 
 his mother had given him, the watch for which she 
 had lovingly stinted herself of ten pounds in 
 order to mark, with degree, his twenty-first birth- 
 day. 
 
 The high priest had picked it up superciUously. 
 
 "D'you want to sell it.? " 
 
 " No — oh, no ! Only — pawn it." 
 
 " Well, how much d'you want .'' " 
 
 *' I'd rather you said," replied John meekly. 
 
 The high priest shrugged his shoulders. It was 
 a wasting of his time, he said, to go on with non- 
 sense like that. 
 
 " How much do you want.? " he repeated. 
 
 " Five pounds," said John, and suddenly, without 
 knowing how, found the watch back again in his 
 possession. The high priest had turned to the hard- 
 ened sinner in the next confessional, and he was left 
 there looking at it blankly in the palm of his open 
 hand. He scarcely knew how he had come by it 
 again. In the midst of the other transaction, the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 8T, 
 
 pawnbroker presently addressed him over his shoul- 
 der — loudly, so that all in the shop could hear: 
 
 " I'll give you two pounds," he had said — " And 
 that's about as much as I could sell it for myself." 
 
 Two pounds ! It was an insult to that dear, little, 
 old, white-haired lady who had scraped and saved to 
 buy him the best she knew. 
 
 " It cost ten pounds ! " John said boldly. 
 
 ** Ten pounds ! " The laugh he gave was like the 
 breaking of glass. " The person who gave ten 
 pounds for that must have wanted to get rid of 
 money in a hurry." 
 
 Wanted to get rid of money in a hurry! If he 
 could have seen the number of dainty shawls the thin 
 white fingers had knitted and the trembling hands 
 had sold in order to amass the fortune of that ten 
 pounds, he would not have talked of hurry. 
 
 " I'll give you two pounds five," he had added. 
 *' Not a farthing more and if you take it away 
 somewhere else and then bring it back here again, 
 I'll only give you two pounds, what I said at 
 first." 
 
 When the blood is mounting to your forehead, 
 when it seems you are crushed about by those watch- 
 ing your discomfort till the warmth of their press- 
 ing, phantom bodies brings the perspiration out in 
 beads upon your face, you will take anything to get 
 away. 
 
 The pawnbroker had made out the ticket as John 
 mumbled his name and address. 
 
 " Got a penny — a penny for the ticket.? " said the 
 man. 
 
88 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 To be compelled to make this confession — the most 
 unabsolvable of all — that he had nothing in his 
 pocket, was the crisis to his suffering. The high 
 priest sniffed, smiled and counted out two pounds 
 four and elevenpence. Then John had turned and 
 fled. 
 
 Out in the street again, he had breathed once 
 more. The air was purer there. The passers-by, 
 hearing the money jingle in his pocket, held him in 
 higher esteem than did those devotees in the chapel 
 of unredemption. He could even stop and look in 
 the windows of the jeweller's shop — that open, smil- 
 ing face of a shop window which, beneath its smug 
 and shiny respectability, concealed all the secret, 
 sordid crimes of poverty — the polished pledges un- 
 redeemed, that lay deceptively upon the glass shelves 
 as though they had come just new from the maker's 
 hands. 
 
 It was then, gazing in the window, on that mem- 
 orable day when he had made his first confession, 
 that John had seen the little brass man. He stood 
 there on a glass shelf along with dozens of other 
 unredeemed trinkets, his low-crowned top-hat, his 
 long-tailed, slim-waisted, Georgian coat and many- 
 buttoned vest, giving him an air of distinction which 
 none of the other objects around him possessed. 
 His attitude, his pose, was that of a Chevalier d'hon- 
 neur — a chivalrous, courteous, proud old gentleman. 
 The one hand resting on the hip, was full of dignity. 
 The other stretched out as though to reach some- 
 thing, John came later, on acquaintance, to learn 
 the fuller significance of that. But though all the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 89 
 
 features of his face were worn away by hands that had 
 held him, gripping him as they pressed him down, 
 a seal upon the molten wax, it had no power to lessen 
 his undeniable dignity. For all his shapelessness of 
 eyes and nose and mouth, there was not an 
 inch thereby detracted from his stature. From the 
 first moment that he had seen him, the little brass 
 man had taken his stand in John's mind as the 
 figure of all nobility, all honour, and all cleanliness 
 and generosity of heart. 
 
 To see that little figure in brass was to covet him. 
 John walked back without hesitation into the shop; 
 but this time it was through the jeweller's entrance 
 — this time it was with the confidence of one who 
 comes to buy, not to sell, with the self-righteous- 
 ness of the virtue of two pounds four and eleven- 
 pence, not with the shame of the sin of poverty. 
 
 Ah, they treat you differently on this side of 
 the counter. If you were ordering a High Mass to 
 be sung, the priest of poverty could treat you with 
 no greater deference. They may have thought he 
 was mad — most probably they did. It is not char- 
 acteristic of the man who comes without a penny to 
 pay for the ticket as he pawns his watch, to im- 
 mediately purchase, haphazard, a little trinket that 
 is of no use to anyone. The high priest of poverty, 
 himself, will tell you that the sin must weigh heavy 
 with need upon the mind before the tongue can bring 
 itself to confess. 
 
 They had looked at him in no little surprise as he 
 re-entered; but when he had asked to be shown the 
 little brass man, they cast glances from one to an- 
 
00 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 other, as people do when they think they are in the 
 presence of a wandering mind. 
 
 " How much do you want for it ? " John had 
 asked. 
 
 " Seven and six. It's very good — an old seal, 
 you know, quite an antique." 
 
 John considered the one pound fifteen which he 
 owed out of that two pounds four and elevenpence. 
 
 *' I'm afraid that's too much," said he. 
 
 **Ah — it's worth it. Why, that's over a hundred 
 years old — quite unique." 
 
 ** I'm afraid it's too much," John repeated. 
 
 "Well— look here— I'll tell you what we'll do. 
 You can have it for seven shillings, and we'll give 
 you six on it any day you like to bring it back." 
 
 They could have offered no greater proof than 
 that of the value in which they held it. If a pawn- 
 broker will buy back an article at almost the same 
 price that he sells it, he must indeed be letting you 
 have it cheap. This offering to take back the little 
 brass man at only a shilling less than he was ask- 
 ing for it, was the highest expression of honesty 
 with which he could defend his demands. 
 
 John accepted the conditions — paid out his seven 
 shillings and bore the little Chevalier d'honneur in 
 brass away. 
 
 It was three months later, he had only had break- 
 fast for two days — ^breakfast, which consisted of 
 toast made from a loaf that was ten days old, 
 bloater paste which keeps for ever, and cof- 
 fee which can — if you know where to get it — be ob- 
 tained on credit. It was winter-time and the cold 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 91 
 
 had made him hungry. Coals had run out. The last 
 few scrapings of dust had been gathered out of that 
 cupboard on the landing. Then depression set in. 
 Depression is a heartless jade. She always pays you 
 a visit when both stomach and pocket are empty. 
 Putting his face in his hands, John had leant on 
 the mantel-piece. There was nothing to pawn just 
 then. Everything had gone! Suddenly, he became 
 aware that he was gazing at the little brass man, 
 and that the little brass man had got one hand 
 aristocratically upon his hip, whilst the other was 
 holding out something as though secretly to bestow 
 it as a gift. John looked, and looked again. Then 
 he saw what it was. The little brass man was of- 
 fering him six shillings and a spasm of hunger 
 creaking through him — he had taken it. 
 
CHAPTER Xni 
 
 THE INVENTORY 
 
 All this had happened more than a year ago, and 
 the sense of shame, accompanying that first confes- 
 sion, had been worn to the dull surface, incapable of 
 reflecting the finer feelings of the mind. Under 
 the very nose of that editor who was considering his 
 last short story, John would have stepped boldly 
 into the suspicious-looking little passage ; returning 
 the smile of the girl who sold him stamps in the post- 
 office, he would have entered shamelessly the chapel 
 of unredemption. Such is the reward of the per- 
 petual sin of poverty. It brings with it the soothing 
 narcotic of callousness, of indifference — and that 
 perhaps is the saddest sin of all. 
 
 The watch-chain went that morning with the ease 
 of a transaction constantly performed. There was 
 no need to haggle over the price this time. The 
 same price had been paid many times before. It 
 came last but one on the list of things to be pawned. 
 Last of all was the little brass man — the last to be 
 pledged, the first to be redeemed. There is always 
 an order in these things and it never varies. When 
 pledging, you go from top to bottom of the list; 
 when redeeming, it is just the reverse. And the 
 order itself depends entirely upon that degree of 
 sentiment with which each object is regnrded. 
 
 99 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 93 
 
 The following was the list, in its correct order, 
 of those things which from time to time left the 
 world of John's possession, and were hidden in the 
 seclusion of pledged retreat: — 
 
 Fuft Coat. 
 
 Cuff Links. 
 
 Cigarette Case. 
 
 Tie Pin. 
 
 Match Box. 
 
 Watch. 
 
 Chain. 
 
 Little Brass Man. 
 
 Reverse the order of this and you arrive at the se- 
 quence in which they returned. And here follows a 
 detailed account of the history of each object — de- 
 tailed, where details are possible and of interest. 
 Fur Coat. This pretentious-looking article was 
 bought by John as a bargain. One day, when pay- 
 ing his rent to the landlord — a man who smelted 
 and refined the gold that has an acquaintance with 
 false teeth — he was asked if he would like to buy 
 something very cheap. Well — ^you know what a 
 temptation that is. So great a temptation is it, 
 that you ask first " How much? " and only when you 
 have heard the price, do you inquire the nature of 
 the article. Four pounds ten, he was told. Then 
 what was it? A fur-lined overcoat with astrachan 
 collar and cuffs ! There must be a presumption on 
 the part of the seller that you know nothing of 
 fur coats, or he will not talk to you like this. 
 
94 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 Certainly it was cheap, but even then, it would not 
 have been bought had John not overheard the former 
 possessor offering to buy it back at four pounds 
 five. Such a circumstance as this doubles the tempta- 
 tion. So seldom is it that one comes across a bar- 
 gain when one has any money in one's pocket, that 
 it is impossible, when one does, to let it go to an- 
 other man. John bought it. It would be a useful 
 thing to visit editors in when he had no money. 
 
 But you would scarcely credit the treachery of a 
 fur-lined coat with astrachan collar and cuffs. John 
 had no idea of it. It played fiendish tricks upon 
 him. Just as he determined to mount upon a 
 'bus, it whispered in his ear — " You can't do this 
 — you really can't. If you want to drive, you'd bet- 
 ter get a hansom. If not, then you'd better walk." 
 
 It was of no avail that he complained of not be- 
 ing able to afford a hansom and of being in too 
 great a hurry to walk. That heavy astrachan 
 collar whispered again: 
 
 " You can't ride on a 'bus anyway — look at that 
 man laughing at you already " 
 
 And with a fiendish joy, it gave him sudden and 
 magical insight into the jeering minds of all those 
 people in the 'bus. He relinquished the 'bus then. 
 He called a hansom ; he was in a hurry and he drove 
 away, while the astrachan collar preens itself with 
 pride and delight as it looks in the little oblong 
 mirror. 
 
 And this is not the only treachery which the fur 
 coat played upon him. As he descended from the 
 cab, a man rushed out of nowhere to protect that 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 95 
 
 coat from the wheels, and overcome with pleasure, 
 the fur coat whispered in his ear once more — " Give 
 him twopence — you can't ignore him." 
 
 ** I could have kept my coat off the wheel quite 
 easily myself," John replied — " He was really only 
 in the way." 
 
 *' Never mind," exclaimed the astrachan collar — 
 ■"If you're going to be seen about with me, you'll 
 have to give him twopence." 
 
 Reluctantly John took the twopence out. 
 
 And then, all the while that he was fumbling in 
 his pocket for the shilling which should have been 
 more than his legal fare, seeing the distance he had 
 come, only that it cannot be less, the astrachan col- 
 lar was still at him. 
 
 *' Can't you hear," it says suggestively — " can't 
 you hear what the cabman is going to say when you 
 only give him a shilling ! " 
 
 Then it imitated his voice, just in the very way 
 John knew he would say it, and he felt the blood 
 tingling to the roots of his hair. Of course, he 
 gave him one and six, for by this time he was the 
 slave of that fur-lined coat. It dominated his life. 
 It ran up bills in his name and he had to pay 
 them. For myself, I would sooner live with an ex- 
 travagant wife than with a fur-lined coat. 
 
 And so was it with John. That bargain he had 
 purchased with the astrachan collar and cuffs treated 
 him shamefully. It was insatiable in its demands, 
 and all under false pretences ; for there came one ter- 
 rible day when John, who knew nothing about these 
 things, learnt that it was only imitation astrachan. 
 
96 TH^ CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 Then he asserted himself. He refused to take it 
 out, and one freezing day in the month of February 
 pawned it for two pounds five. Some three months 
 later, on a blazing day in May, he received a no- 
 tice from the pawnbroker, who said that he must 
 redeem it immediately, for he could not hold him- 
 self responsible for the fur. Now, even an extrava- 
 gant wife would have more consideration for you, 
 more idea of the true fitness of things than that. 
 Eventually that fur coat was pawned in order to 
 save a lady from the last, the most extreme sentence 
 that the law can pass upon the sin of poverty. 
 There comes a time when the sin of poverty can be 
 dealt no longer with by the high priest in the chapel 
 of unredemption. Then it comes into the hands of 
 the law. To save her from this, was a debt of 
 honour and perhaps the most generous action 
 that that fur coat ever did in its life, was to pay 
 that debt: for the three months went by, and on 
 one of the coldest days in winter, it passed silently 
 and unwept into the possession of the high priest. 
 
 Cuff Links. No history is attached to these. 
 They realised ten shillings many times, till the ticket 
 was lost, and then, since, under these circumstances, 
 an affidavit must be made, and cuff links not being 
 worth the swearing about, they were lost sight of. 
 
 The Watch. For this is the next article on the 
 inventory, of which any substance can be written, 
 and its history is practically known already. John's 
 mother had given it to him. It represented the 
 many times those two bright eyes were tired with 
 counting the stitches of the white lace shawls. It 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 97 
 
 represented the thousands of times that those slender, 
 sensitive fingers had rested in weariness from their 
 ceaseless passing to and fro. It represented almost 
 the last lace-work she had done, before those fingers 
 had at length been held motionless in the cold 
 grip of paralysis. But, above all, it stood for the 
 love of that gentle heart that beat with so much 
 pride and so much pleasure, to see the little boy, 
 whose head her breast had fondled, come to the 
 stern and mighty age of twenty-one. And two 
 pounds five was the value they put upon it all. 
 
 The Little Brass Man, — the Chevalier d'honneur. 
 His story has already been told — ^his life, so far as 
 it concerns this history. But of what he had lived 
 through in the hundred years that had gone before 
 — nobody knows. One can only assume, without fear 
 of inaccuracy, that it was the life of a gentleman. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE WAY TO FIND OUT 
 
 These were the thoughts passing and re-passing 
 idly through John's mind as he sat, waiting, upon 
 the stiff little iron chair in Kensington Gardens, and 
 felt the minted edge of the half-crowns and the 
 florins that lay so comfortably at the bottom of his 
 pocket. 
 
 And then came Jill. She came alone. 
 
 He saw her in the distance, coming up that sud- 
 den rise of the Broad Walk down which hoops roll 
 so splendidly — become so realistically restive, and 
 prance and rear beneath the blow of the stick in the 
 circus-master's hand. And — she was walking alone. 
 
 Then, in a moment, the Gardens became empty. 
 S^ohn was not conscious of their becoming so. They 
 were — just empty. Down a long road, tapering to 
 the infinite point of distance, on which her figure 
 moved alone, she might have been coming — slowly, 
 gradually, to their ultimate meeting. 
 
 He felt no wonder, realised no surprise at their 
 sudden solitude. When in the midst of Romance, 
 you are not conscious of the miracles it performs. 
 You do not marvel at the wonders of its magic car- 
 pets which, in the whisk of a lamb's tail, transport 
 you thousands of miles away ; you are not amazed at 
 the wizardry of its coats of invisibility which can 
 
 98 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 99 
 
 hide you two from the whole world, or hide the 
 whole world from you. All these you take for 
 granted; for Romance, when It does come to you, 
 comes, just plainly and without ceremony, in the 
 everyday garments of life and you never know the 
 magician you have been entertaining until he is gone. 
 
 Even John himself, whose business in life it was 
 to see the romance in the life of others, could not 
 recognise it now in his own. There were women he 
 had met, there were women he had loved; but this 
 was romance and he never knew it. 
 
 With pulses that beat warmly in a strange, quick 
 way, he rose from his chair, thinking to go and 
 meet her. But she might resent that. She might 
 have changed her mind. She might not be coming to 
 meet him at all. Perhaps, as she lay awake that 
 morning — it was a presumption to think she had lain 
 awake at all — perhaps she had altered her opinion 
 about the propriety of an introduction afforded by 
 St. Joseph. It were better, he thought, to see her 
 hand held out, before he took it. 
 
 So he sat back again in his chair and watched 
 her as she stepped over the railings — those little 
 railings scarcely a foot high, over which, if you 
 know what it is to be six, you know the grand de- 
 light of leaping ; you know the thrill of pleasure when 
 you look back, surveying the height you have cleared. 
 
 She was coming in his direction. Her skirt was 
 brushing the short grass stems. Her head was down. 
 She raised it and — she had seen him ! 
 
 Those were the most poignant, the most conscious 
 moments of all when, after their eyes had met, there 
 
100 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 were still some forty yards or so to be covered before 
 they met. She smiled and looked up at the elm 
 trees ; he smiled and looked down at the grass. They 
 could not call out to each other, saying — " How-do- 
 you-do.'* Inexorably, without pity, Circumstance 
 decreed that they must cross those forty yards of 
 silence before they could speak. She felt the blood 
 rising in a tide to her cheeks. He became conscious 
 that he had hands and feet; that his head was set 
 upon his shoulders and could not, without the ac- 
 companiment of his body, face round the other way. 
 The correct term for these excruciating tortures of 
 the mind — so I am assured — is platt. When there 
 is such a distance between yourself and the person 
 whom you are approaching to meet, you are known, 
 if you have any sensitiveness at all, to have a 
 platt. 
 
 Now, if ever people had a platt, it was these two. 
 That distance was measured in their mind, yard by 
 yard. 
 
 At last he held her hand. 
 
 " I was," she began at once, " going to write. 
 But I didn't know your address." 
 
 "You were going to write .'' " 
 
 He pulled forward a chair for her, near to his. 
 
 " Yes — I was going to write and tell you — I'm 
 
 terribly sorry, but I can't come this morning " 
 
 and she sat down. 
 
 A look of deepest disappointment was so plainly 
 written in his face as he seated himself beside her. 
 He made no effort to render it illegible to those 
 eyes of hers. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 101 
 
 " Why not? " said he, despondently. " Why can't 
 you come? " 
 
 " Oh — you wouldn't understand if I told you." 
 
 This was the moment for the ferrule of an um- 
 brella, or the point of an elegant shoe. But she had 
 not brought the umbrella, and her shoes, well — she 
 was unable to come that morning, so it had scarcely 
 mattered what she had put on. The toe of the 
 shoe did peep out for a moment from under the 
 skirt, but not being approved of for elegance, it 
 withdrew. She was forced to fall back upon words ; 
 so she just repeated herself to emphasise them. 
 
 *' You wouldn't understand if I told you," she 
 said again. 
 
 " Is it fair to say that," said John, " before 
 you've found me wanting in understanding? " 
 
 " No, but I know you wouldn't understand. Be- 
 sides — it's about you." 
 
 " The reason why you can't come ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " I'll tell you another time, perhaps." 
 
 Ah, but that would never do. You can't tell 
 people another time. They don't want to hear it 
 then. 
 
 " You can tell me now," persisted John. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " There's only one time to tell things," he said. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Now." 
 
 She just began. Her lips parted. She took the 
 breath for speech. The words came into her eyes. 
 
102 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " No — I can't tell you — don't ask me." 
 
 But he asked. He kept on asking. Whenever 
 there was a pause, he gently asked again. He began 
 putting the words into her mouth, and when he'd 
 half said it for her, he asked once more. 
 
 " Why do you keep on asking? " she said with a 
 smile. 
 
 *' Because I know," said John. 
 
 "You know?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then why " 
 
 " Because I want you to tell me, and because I 
 only know a little. I don't know it all. I don't 
 know why your mother objects to me, except that 
 she doesn't approve of the introduction of St. Jo- 
 seph. I don't know whether she's said you're not 
 to see me again." 
 
 That look of amazement in her eyes was a just 
 and fair reward for his simple hazard. Girls of 
 twenty-one have mothers — more's the pity. He had 
 only guessed it. And a mother who has a daughter 
 of twenty-one has just reached that age when life 
 lies in a groove and she would drag all within it 
 if she could. She is forty-eight, perhaps, and know- 
 ing her husband as an obedient child knows its col- 
 lect on a Sunday, she judges all men by him. Now, 
 all men, fortunately for them, fortunately for every- 
 body, are not husbands. Husbands are a type, a 
 class by themselves ; no other man is quite like them. 
 They have irritating ways, and no wife should judge 
 other men by their standards. When she would 
 quarrel, theirs is the patience of Job. When she 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 103 
 
 would be amiable, there is nothing to please them. 
 They are seldom honest ; they are scarcely ever truth- 
 ful. For marriage will often bring out of a man the 
 worst qualities that he has, as the washing-tub will 
 sometimes only intensify the strain upon the linen. 
 
 In the back of his mind, John felt the unseen 
 judgment of some woman upon him, and from this 
 very standpoint. When he saw the look of amaze- 
 ment in Jill's eyes, he knew he was right. 
 
 "Why do you look so surprised.''" he said, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Because — well — why did you ask if you knew? " 
 
 "Do you think I should ask if I didn't know?" 
 
 "Wouldn't you?" 
 
 " Oh, no. It's no good asking a woman questions 
 when you don't know, when you haven't the faintest 
 idea of what her answer is going to be. She knows 
 very well just how ignorant you are and, by a subtle 
 process of the mind, she superimposes that ignorance 
 upon herself. And if you go on asking her direct 
 questions, there comes a moment when she really 
 doesn't know either. Then she makes it up or tells 
 you she has forgotten. Isn't that true? " 
 
 She watched him all the time he spoke. He might 
 have been talking nonsense. He probably was ; but 
 there seemed to be some echo of the truth of it far 
 away in the hidden recesses of her mind. She seemed 
 to remember many times when just such a process 
 had taken place within her. But how had he known 
 that, when she had never realised it before? 
 
 " What do you do, then, when you don't know, 
 if you don't ask questions ? " 
 
104 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 He took a loose cigarette from his pocket and 
 slowly lit it. 
 
 " Ah — then you have recourse to that wonderful 
 method of finding out. It's so difficult, so almost 
 impossible, and that's why it's so wonderful. To 
 begin with, you pretend you don't want to know. 
 That must be the first step. All others — and there 
 are hundreds — follow after that ; but you must pre- 
 tend you don't want to know, or she'll never tell 
 you. But I am sure your mother's been saying some- 
 thing to you about me, and I really want to know 
 what it is. How did she come to hear about me.'* '* 
 
 He knew it would be easy for her to begin with 
 that. No woman will tell unless it is easy. 
 
 ** Did you tell her.'*" he suggested gently, know- 
 ing that she did not. 
 
 " Oh, no— I didn't. It was Ronald." 
 
 ** Ah — he said something ? " 
 
 *' Yes — at lunch — something about the papers." 
 
 ** And you had to explain ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Was she vexed.?" 
 
 " Yes — rather. Well — ^I suppose it did sound 
 rather funny, you know." 
 
 " You told her about St. Joseph? " 
 
 *' I said where I'd met you, in the Sardinia St. 
 Chapel." She smiled up at him incredulously. " You 
 didn't think I'd tell her that St. Joseph had intro- 
 duced us, did you? " 
 
 *' Why not ? St. Joseph's a very proper man." 
 
 "Yes — on his altar, but not in Kensington." 
 
 "Well— what did she say? " 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 105 
 
 " She asked where you lived.* 
 « Oh " 
 
 It is impossible to make comparison between Fet- 
 ter Lane and Prince of Wales' Terrace without a 
 face longer than is your wont — especially if it is 
 you who live in Fetter Lane." 
 
 " And you told her you didn't know." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 She said it so expectantly, so hopefully that he 
 would divulge the terrible secret which meant so much 
 to the continuation of their acquaintance. 
 
 " And what did she say to that ? " 
 
 *' She said, of course, that it was impossible for 
 me to know you until you had come properly as a 
 visitor to the house, and that she couldn't ask you 
 until she knew where you lived. And I suppose 
 that's quite right." 
 
 " I suppose it is," said John. " At any rate you 
 agree with her.? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 It meant she didn't. One never does the thing 
 one supposes to be right ; there's no satisfaction in it. 
 
 " Well — the Martyrs' Club will always find me." 
 /This was John's club; that club, to become a 
 member of which, he had been despoiled of the 
 amount of a whole year's rent. He was still stag- 
 gering financially under the blow. 
 
 " Do you live there ? " she asked. 
 
 " No — no one lives there. Members go to sleep 
 there, but they never go to bed. There are no 
 beds." 
 
 " Then where do you live.? " 
 
106 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 He turned and looked full in her eyes. If she 
 were to have sympathy, if she were to have con- 
 fidence and understanding, it must be now. 
 
 "I can't tell you where I live," said John. 
 
 The clock of St. Mary Abbot's chimed the hour 
 of midday. He watched her face to see if she 
 heard. One — two — three — four — five — six — ^seven — 
 eight nine — ten — eleven — twelve! She had not 
 heard a single stroke of it, and they had been sit- 
 ting there for an hour. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 WHAT IS HIDDEN BY A CAMISOLE 
 
 Add but the flavour of secrecy to the making of 
 Romance; allow that every meeting be clandestine 
 and every letter written sealed, and matters will so 
 thrive apace that, before you can, with the children 
 in the nursery, say Jack Robinson, the fire will be 
 kindled and the flames of it leaping through your 
 every pulse. 
 
 When, with tacit consent, Jill asked no further 
 questions as to where John lived, and yet continued 
 clandestinely to meet him, listening to the work he 
 read aloud to her, offering her opinion, giving her 
 approval, she was unconsciously, unwillingly, too, 
 perhaps, had she known, hastening towards the ul- 
 timate and the inevitable end. 
 
 It must not be supposed that after this second 
 interview in Kensington Gardens, when John had 
 plainly said that he could not tell her where he 
 lived, she had wilfully disobeyed the unyielding com- 
 mands of her mother not to see him again. The 
 fulfilment of destiny does not ask for disobedience. 
 With the shuttles of circumstance and coincidence to 
 its fingers. Destiny can weave a pattern in defiance of 
 every law but that of Nature. 
 
 Jill had said that morning: 
 
 ** Then we mustn't meet again." 
 
 " You mean that? " said John. 
 107 
 
108 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " I can't help it," she replied distressfully. " After 
 all, I'm living with my people ; I must respect their 
 wishes to a certain degree. If you would only 
 tell me " 
 
 " But I can't," John had interposed. " It's no 
 good. It's much better that I leave you in igno- 
 rance. Why won't the Martyrs' Club satisfy you? 
 There are men at the Martyrs' Club who live on 
 Carlton House Terrace. That is a part of their 
 martyrdom. Is it beyond the stretch of your im- 
 agination for you to suppose that I might have an 
 abode in — in — Bedford Park or Shepherd's Bush ? " 
 
 She laughed, and then, as that stiff social figure 
 of her mother rose before her eyes and she recalled 
 to her mind remarks about a dressmaker who hap- 
 pened to live in Shepherd's Bush — " Poor thing — she 
 lives at Shepherd's Bush — Life treats some people 
 
 in a shameful way " an expression of charity 
 
 that went no further, for the dressmaker's work was 
 not considered good enough or cheap enough, and 
 she was given nothing more to do — ^when she re- 
 membered that, the laugh vanished from her eyes. 
 
 " Isn't it as good as Shepherd's Bush.'* " she had 
 asked quite simply. 
 
 Well, when, in your more opulent moments, you 
 have thought of such a thing as a better address 
 at Shepherd's Bush, and have a question such as 
 this put to you, you have little desire left to reveal 
 the locality of the abode you do occupy. It takes 
 the pride out of you. It silenced John. He recalled 
 to his mind a remark of Mrs. Meakin's when, having 
 invited him to take a rosy-cheeked apple from that 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE. 109 
 
 little partition where the rosy-cheelced apples lay, 
 she had thought by this subtle bribe to draw him into 
 conversation about himself. 
 
 " Don't you find it very dull livin' 'ere all alone 
 by yourself? " she had asked. 
 
 " Wherever you live," said John evasively, " you're 
 by yourself. You're as much alone in a crowd as in 
 an empty church." 
 
 She had nodded her head, picked up a large Span- 
 ish onion, and peeled off the outer skin to make it 
 look more fresh. 
 
 " But I should have thought," she had added pen- 
 sively — " I should have thought as 'ow you'd have 
 found this such a very low-cality." 
 
 And so, perhaps it was — very low. And if Mrs. 
 Meakin had thought so, and Jill herself could talk 
 thus deprecatingly of Shepherd's Bush, where he 
 had hoped to better his address, then it were as 
 well to leave Fetter Lane alone. 
 
 " So you have made up your mind," he had said 
 quietly. " You've made up your mind not to see 
 me again ? " 
 
 " It's not I who have made it up," she answered. 
 
 *' But you're going to obey? " 
 
 " I must." 
 
 " You won't be here to-morrow morning, at this 
 hour? " 
 
 " No— I can't— I mustn't." 
 
 " Not to tell me how you liked my short story? '* 
 
 " You know I liked it — awfully." 
 
 " And you won't come and hear another that's 
 better than that? " 
 
110 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 "How can I? You don't understand. If you 
 came and lived at Prince of Wales' Terrace, you'd 
 understand then." 
 
 "Then it's no good ray coming to-morrow?** 
 
 *' Not if you want to see me." 
 
 « Then good-bye." 
 
 John stood up and held out his hand. 
 
 If you know the full value of coercion in renuncia- 
 tion; if you realise the full power of persuasion in 
 the saying of good-bye, you have command of that 
 weapon wliicli is the surest and the most subtle in 
 all the armament of Destiny. It is only when they 
 have said good-bye that two jpeople really come to- 
 gether. 
 
 ** But why must you go now? " Jill had said re- 
 gretfully. 
 
 John smiled. 
 
 *' Well — first, because you said you couldn't come 
 this morning, and we've been here for an hour and a 
 half; and secondly, because if, as you say, we are 
 to see no more of each other, then hadn't I better 
 go now? I think it's better. Good-bye." 
 
 He held out his hand again. She took it reluc- 
 tantly, and he was gone. 
 
 The next morning, Jill had wakened an hour 
 earlier — an hour earlier than was her wont — an 
 hour earlier, with the weight of a sense of loss 
 pressing on her mind. It is that hour in bed before 
 rising that a woman thinks all the truest things in 
 her day ; is most honest with herself, and least subtle 
 in the expression of her thoughts. Then she gets 
 up — bathes — does her hair and, by the time a dainty 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 111 
 
 camisole is concealing those garments that prove 
 her to be a true woman — all honesty is gone; she 
 assumes the mystery of her sex. 
 
 In that hour earlier before her rising, Jill hon- 
 estly admitted her disgust with life. Romance is 
 well-nigh everything to a woman — for Romance is 
 the Prelude, full of the most sonorous of chords, 
 breathing with the most wonderful of cadences — a 
 Prelude to the great Duty which she must inevi- 
 tably perform. And this had been Romance. She 
 had just touched it, just set in motion the unseen 
 fingers that play with such divine inspiration upon 
 the whole gamut of the strings, and now, it had 
 been put away. 
 
 Mind you, she knew nothing of the evolution of 
 the Prelude; she knew little of the history of the 
 Duty to perform. It was not the conscious loss 
 of these that brought the disgust of life into the 
 complaining heart of her; for Romance, when first 
 it comes to a woman, is like the peak of a mountain 
 whose head is lifted above the clouds. It has noth- 
 ing of this earth; means no such mundane phrase 
 as — falling in love. To the girl of twenty-one, Ro- 
 mance is the spirit of things beautiful, and, there- 
 fore, the spirit of all things good. And Jill had 
 lost it. They were not to meet again. She was 
 never to hear another of his stories. He was not 
 coming to Kensington Gardens any more. 
 
 But suppose he did come! Suppose there were 
 the sense of regret in the heart of him, as it was 
 with her, and suppose he came to see the place 
 where they had sat together! If she could only 
 
112 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 know that he cared enough to do that! It would 
 make the renunciation more bearable if she could 
 only know that. How could she find out? Send 
 Ronald to the Gardens at about that hour? He 
 would say if he had seen him. But if Ronald went 
 to the Gardens, he would be voyaging on the good 
 ship Albatross, far away out at sea, out of sight 
 of land, in the dim distance of make-belief. But if 
 she went herself — just casually — ^just for a walk — 
 just to see, only to see. And, if be were there, she 
 could easily escape; she could easily creep away un- 
 noticed. Well — not quite unnoticed, perhaps. He 
 might see her in the distance, just before she passed 
 out of sight. 
 
 She got up quickly from her bed. She bathed; 
 she did her hair ; she dressed ; she put on that dainty 
 camisole with its pale blue ribbon twined through 
 intricate meshes and concealed those little garments 
 which proved her to be a true woman — concealed 
 them with the camisole and the mystery of her sex. 
 
 At breakfast, she talked of having her hair 
 washed that morning. There was no gloss in it, 
 she said. Ronald cast a glance at it, sniffed and 
 then went on with his hasty mouthfuls of porridge. 
 What fools were girls ! As if it mattered ! As if 
 anyone noticed whether there were gloss or not! 
 The good ship Albatross wanted a new spinnaker, 
 and from whose under-linen that was to be stolen 
 without detection was a far more delicate mat- 
 ter. He had petitioned for white linen shirts for 
 himself for the last six months — white linen shirts 
 are always valuable to a sailor — but he had not got 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 113 
 
 them as yet. This deprivation naturally led to 
 nefarious dealings with the tails of his father's 
 old white shirts. It was impossible to use his own. 
 You cannot have flannel sails to your ship, if 
 she sails on the Round Pond. On the other waters 
 — the Atlantic, for example — it doesn't matter so 
 much. There were one or two things he had begun 
 to fancy he would never be able to get. 
 
 Quite simply, quite pensively, he had said one day 
 at dinner: 
 
 " I wonder if I shall ever eat the wing of a 
 chicken." 
 
 They permitted him to wonder — ^he and his drum- 
 stick. One cannot be surprised, then, that he snig- 
 gered when Jill talked about the gloss of her hair. 
 
 *' Well, don't go to this place in the High 
 Street," said her mother. " They're terribly exor- 
 bitant." 
 
 " I shall go up to town," said Jill. And, up to 
 town she started. 
 
 There are various ways of going up to town. 
 She chose to cross the Broad Walk with the inten- 
 tion of going by Bayswater. She even made a de- 
 tour of the Round Pond. It was nicer to walk on 
 the grass — more comfortable under foot. It was 
 not even an uncomfortable sensation to feel her heart 
 beating as a lark's wings beat the air when it soars. 
 
 Then the rushing of the wings subsided. He was 
 not there. From that mighty altitude to which it 
 had risen, her heart began to descend — slowly, 
 slowly, slowly to earth. He was not there! 
 
 But oh ! you would never know, until you yourself 
 
114 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 had played there, the games of hide-and-seek that 
 the big elms afford in Kensington Gardens. On the 
 far side of a huge tree-trunk, she came suddenly 
 upon him, and the slowly fluttering wings of her 
 heart were struck to stillness. There he was, seated 
 upon his chair with a smile upon his lips, in his eyes 
 — spreading and spreading till it soon must be a 
 laugh. 
 
 And—" Oh ! " said she. 
 
 Then it was that the smile became a laugh. 
 
 " What are you doing here at this time in the 
 morning? " he asked. 
 
 " I — I was just going up to town. I — I wanted 
 to go to Bayswater first." 
 
 How much had he guessed.'* How long had he 
 seen her looking here and there, and all about her.'' 
 
 " What are you doing.? " She had as much a 
 right to ask him. 
 
 " I've been waiting to see you go by," said he. 
 
 " But " 
 
 *' I knew you were coming." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 ** We've been thinking just exactly the same 
 things ever since I said good-bye yesterday. I 
 woke up early this morning wondering what had 
 happened." 
 
 " So did I," she whispered in an awed voice. 
 
 " Then — before I'd got my coat on, I came to the 
 conclusion that I had to live somewhere, and that 
 the only thing that mattered was whether I did it 
 honestly — not where I did it. Then, I sort of felt 
 you might come to the Gardens^ this morning." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 115 
 
 She set her lips. Once that camisole is on, every 
 woman has her dignity. It is a thing to play with, 
 much as a child plays with its box of bricks. She 
 makes wonderful patterns with it — noble ladies — im- 
 perious dames, who put dignity before humanity as 
 you put the cart before the horse. 
 
 " Why should you think I would come to the 
 Gardens ? " she asked. 
 
 John steadied his eyes. 
 
 " Well, I presume you go up to town sometimes,'* 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes — ^but one can get up to town by Knights- 
 bridge." 
 
 " Of — course. I forgot that. But when you 
 might be wanting to go to Bayswater first." 
 
 She looked very steadily into his eyes. How long 
 had he seen her before she had seen him.? 
 
 " Perhaps you're under the impression that I 
 came to see you," she said, and she began walking 
 towards the Bayswater Road. 
 
 He followed quietly by her side. This needed 
 careful treatment. She was incensed. He ought 
 not to have thought that, of course. 
 
 " I never said so," he replied quietly. 
 
 Then they fought — all the way over to the Bays- 
 water side. Each little stroke was like velvet, but 
 beneath it all was the passion of the claw. 
 
 " I expect it's as well we're not going to see each 
 other any more," she said one moment and, when he 
 agreed, repented it bitterly the next. He cursed 
 himself for agreeing. But you must agree. Dig" 
 nity, you know. Dignity before humanity. 
 
116 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 And then he called her a hansom — helped her 
 within. 
 
 " Are you going back to the Gardens ? " she asked 
 from inside, not shutting the doors. 
 
 " No — I'm going up to town." 
 
 " Well " She pushed the bricks away. " Can't 
 
 — can't I drive you up ? " 
 
 He stepped inside, and the cab rolled off. 
 
 "Were you going to have walked.'"' she asked 
 presently, after a long, long silence. 
 
 " No," said John. " I was going to drive — with 
 you." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 EASTER SUNDAY 
 
 One Easter Sunday, soon after his first clandestine 
 meeting with Jill, John was seated alone In his room 
 in Fetter Lane. The family of Morrell and the 
 family of Brown — the plumber and the theatre 
 cleaner — had united in a party and gone off to the 
 country — what was the country to them. He had 
 heard them discussing It as they descended the 
 flights of uncarpeted wooden stairs and passed out- 
 side Ills door. 
 
 " As long as we get back to the Bull and Bush 
 by five," Mr. Morrell had said emphatically, and 
 Mr. Brown had said, " Make it half-past four." 
 Then Mrs. Morrell had caught up the snatch of a 
 song: 
 
 "I've a tickly feelin' in the bottom of me 'eart 
 For you — for you," 
 
 and Mrs. Brown has echoed it with her uncertain 
 notes. Finally the door into the street had opened 
 — had banged — their voices had faded away into the 
 distance, and John had been left alone listening to 
 the amorous frolics on the stairs of the sandy cat 
 which belonged to Mrs. Morrell, and the tortoise- 
 shell, the property of Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Unless it be that you are an ardent churchman, 
 117 
 
118 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 and of that persuasion whicli calls you to the kirk 
 three times within the twenty-four hours, Easter Sun- 
 day, for all its traditions, is a gladless day in Lon- 
 don. There is positively nothing to do. Even Mass, 
 if you attend it, is over at a quarter to one, and 
 then the rest of the hours stretch monotonously be- 
 fore you. The oppressive knowledge that the Bank 
 Holiday follows so closely on its heels, overburdens 
 you with the sense of desolation. There will be no 
 cheerful shops open on the morrow, no busy hurry- 
 ing to and fro. The streets of the great city will 
 be the streets of a city of the dead and, as you 
 contemplate all this, the bells of your neighbourhood 
 peal out in strains that are meant to be cheerful, 
 yet really are inexpressibly doleful and sad. You 
 know very well, when you come to think about it, 
 why they are so importunate and so loud. They are 
 only ringing so persistently, tumbling sounds one 
 upon another, in order to draw people to the fulfil- 
 ment of a duty that many would shirk if they dared. 
 
 The bells of a city church have need to be loud, 
 they have to rise above the greater distractions of 
 life. Listen to the bells of St, ]\Iartin's-in-the- 
 Fields. The bell-ringers there know only too well 
 the sounds they have to drown before they can in- 
 duce a wandering pedestrian within. It was just 
 the same in Fetter Lane. John listened to them 
 clanging and jangling — each bell so intent and 
 eager in its effort to make itself heard. 
 
 He thought of the country to which the families 
 upstairs had departed; bul in the country it is dif- 
 ferent. In the country, you would go to church 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 119 
 
 were there no bell at all, and that gentle, sonorous 
 note that does ring across the fields and down the 
 river becomes one of the most soothing sounds in 
 the world. You have only to hear it to see the old 
 lych-gate swinging to and fro as the folk make their 
 way up the gravel path to the church door. You 
 have only to listen to it stealing through the 
 meadows where the browsing cattle are steeping 
 their noses in the dew, to see with the eye of your 
 mind that pale, faint flicker of candle-light that 
 creeps through the stained glass windows out into 
 the heavy-laden air of a summer evening. A church 
 bell is very different in the country. There is an 
 unsophisticated note about it, a sound so far re- 
 moved from the egotistical hawker crying the virtue 
 of his wares as to make the one incomparable with 
 the other. John envied Mrs. Brown and Mr. Mor- 
 rell from the bottom of his heart — envied them at 
 least till half-past four. 
 
 For an hour, after breakfast was finished, he sat 
 staring into the fire he had lighted, too lonely even 
 to work. That heartless jade, depression, one can 
 not call her company. 
 
 Then came Mrs. Rowse to clear away the break- 
 fast things and make his bed. He looked up with 
 a smile as she entered. 
 
 " What sort of a day is it outside.? " he asked. 
 
 " Cold, sir ; and looks as if we was going to have 
 rain." 
 
 She caught up the breakfast things, the china 
 clattered in her fingers. He turned round a little 
 in his chair and watched her clear away. This is 
 
120 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 loneliness — to find a sense of companionship in the 
 woman who comes to look after one's rooms. 
 
 " Whenever a man is lonely," wrote Lamartine, 
 " God sends him a dog." But that is not always 
 so. Some men are not so fortunate as others. It 
 happens sometimes that a dog is not available and 
 then, God sends a Mrs. Rowse to clear away the 
 breakfast things. 
 
 But Mrs. Rowse was in a hurry that morning. 
 There was no money due to her. You would not 
 have found the faintest suspicion of lingering in 
 anything that she did then. Even the topic that 
 interested her most — her daughters — had no power 
 to distract her attention. 
 
 She was going to take them out to the country 
 • — they were going down to Denham to see her sis- 
 ter, as soon as her work was done — Lizzie, who 
 stuck labels on the jam-jars in Crosse and Black- 
 well's, and Maud, who packed cigarettes in Lam- 
 bert and Butler's. 
 
 There were those living in Peabody Buildings, 
 who said that Lizzie would have a beautiful voice, 
 if she'd only practise. She could sing, " Love Me 
 and the World Is Mine." She could sing that 
 lovely. And Maud — well, Mrs. Rowse had even got 
 a piano in their little tenement rooms for ]\Iaud to 
 learn on, but Maud would never practise neither. 
 True, she could pick up just anything she heard, 
 pick it up quite easy with the right hand, though 
 she could only vamp, foolish-like, with the left. 
 
 Yet upon these portentous matters, Mrs. Rowse 
 would say nothing that morning. They were going 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 121 
 
 to catch a mid-day train from Marylebone down to 
 Denham, and she had no time to waste. 
 
 ** Would you mind me coming with you, Mrs. 
 iRowse.'' " said John suddenly. As suddenly he 
 regretted it, but only because of its impossi- 
 bility. 
 
 There is some sort of unwritten law which says 
 that when you accompany ladies on a journey by 
 train, you must pay for their tickets, and all women 
 are ladies if they do not swear or spit on the ground. 
 You should take off your hat to everyone of them 
 you know when in the street. It may be that they 
 are charwomen, that they stick labels upon jam- 
 jars in their spare hours, that they pack up little 
 boxes of cigarettes when there is nothing else to 
 do, but in the street, they are women — and all 
 women, with the restrictions here mentioned, are 
 ladies. 
 
 Now John could not possibly pay for their tickets. 
 He could ill-afford to pay for his own. It would 
 mean no meal the next day if he did. And here let 
 it be said — lest any should think that his poverty is 
 harped upon — John was always poor, except for 
 five minutes after an excursion to the pawn-shop, 
 and perhaps five days after the receipt of the royal- 
 ties upon his work. You may be sure at least of 
 this, that John will jingle the money in his pocket 
 and run his finger-nail over the minted edge of the 
 silver when he has any. If he has gold, you will see 
 him take it out under the light of a lamp-post 
 when it is dark, in order to make sure that the sov- 
 ereign is not a shilling. On all other occasions than 
 
122 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 these, assume that he is poor, — nay, more than as- 
 sume, take it for granted. 
 
 Accordingly, directly he had made this offer to 
 accompany Mrs. Rowse and her daughters to Den- 
 ham, he had to withdraw it. 
 
 " No," said he, " I wish I could come — but I'm 
 afraid it's impossible. I've got work to do." 
 
 Quite soon after that Mrs. Rowse departed. 
 
 " Hope you'll enjoy yourselves," said he. 
 
 ** We always do in the country," replied she as 
 she put on her hat outside the door. And then — 
 ** Good-moming, sir," — and she too had gone ; the 
 door into the street had banged again, and the 
 whole house, from floor to roof, was empty but for 
 the sandy cat, the tortoiseshell cat and John. 
 
 He sat on there in the stillness. Even the cats 
 grew tired of play and were still. Then came the 
 rain, rain that turned to sleet, that drove against 
 the roofs outside and tried, by hiding in the cor- 
 ners of the chimneys, to look like snow. John 
 thought of the tulips in Kensington Gardens. 
 Spring can come gladsomely to England — it can 
 come bitterly, too. Those poor people in the coun- 
 try! But would the country ever permit such 
 weather as this? Even supposing it did, they would 
 not be lonely as he was. Mr. Morrell had Mrs. 
 Brown to talk to, and Mr. Brown had the company 
 of Mrs. Morrell. There were Lizzie and Maud for 
 Mrs. Rowse. Perhaps going down in the train, they 
 would get a carriage to themselves and Lizzie would 
 sing, " Love Me and the World Is Mine," and Maud 
 would count cigarettes in her mind, and pack them 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 123 
 
 up in her mind, or more probably forget that there 
 ever were such things as cigarettes in the fresh de- 
 light of seeing the country with bread and cheese 
 on all the hedges. Those young green buds on the 
 hawthorn hedges are the pedestrian's bread and 
 cheese. But you know that, every bit as well as I. 
 
 Well, it seemed that everyone had company but 
 John. He took out of his pocket the last letter his 
 mother had written him from Venice — took it out 
 and spread it before him. If only she were there! 
 If only her bright brown eyes were looking at him, 
 what thousands of things there would be to say! 
 What short stories and beginnings of new books 
 would there not be to read her! And how sympa- 
 thetically would she not listen. How frequently 
 would she not place those dear paralysed hands of 
 hers in his, as he read, at some new passage that 
 she liked ! 
 
 " My darling boy '* 
 
 He could hear that gentle voice of hers — like the 
 sound you may hear in the ring of an old china 
 tea-cup — he could hear it, as she had dictated it to 
 his father to write 
 
 " This is where I begin counting the days to your 
 visit. I dare not begin sooner — too many figures 
 always bewildered me. It is now just about three 
 months. Your father is much better than he was, 
 and is doing a little work these days.'* 
 
 And here was added in a quaint little parenthesis 
 of his father's : " She calls it work, my dear boy, 
 just to please me — but when old men play, they 
 like to hear it called work. You've got to do my 
 
124 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 work. And she is so quick — she has seen I have 
 been "writing more than she has said. I shall per- 
 suade her to let this stay in nevertheless." 
 
 Then, uninterrupted for a space the letter con- 
 tinued. 
 
 ** Vm so pleased that your work is going on so 
 well. I thought your last story was too sad, 
 though. Must stories end unhappily? Yours al- 
 ways seem to. But I think I guess. They won't 
 always end like that. But your father says I am 
 not to worry you on that point; that you can't 
 paint in a tone of gold what you see in a tone of 
 grey, and that what you see now in a tone of grey, 
 you will as likely as not see one day in a tone of 
 gold." 
 
 Then, here, another parenthesis. 
 
 " You will understand what I mean, my dear hoy. 
 I've read the story, and I don't think it ought to 
 end sadly, and you will no doubt say, ' Oh, he's 
 quite old-fashioned; he does not know that a sad 
 ending is an artistic ending.' But that is not he- 
 cause I am old-fashioned. It is simply because I 
 am old. When you are young, you see unhappy 
 endings because you are young enough to hear the 
 pain of them. It is only when you get older that 
 you see otherwise. When you have had your sorrow, 
 which, you know, only as an artist I wish for you, 
 then you will write in another strain. Go on with 
 your unhappy endings. Don't take any notice of 
 us. All your work will be happy one day, and re- 
 member, you are not writing for hut because of us. 
 By the way, I think you spelt paregoric wrong.** 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 125 
 
 Now again the dictation. 
 
 ** Well, anyhow, though I "know nothing about It, 
 1 feel you write as though you loved. You would 
 tell me, would you not, if you did? I am sure it 
 must he the way to write, the way, in fact, to do 
 everything. Your father says the pictures he paints 
 now lack strength and vigour; hut I find them just 
 as heautiful; they are so gentle." 
 
 Parenthesis. 
 
 *' One can't always love as one did at twenty-six 
 — T. G. That sounds like reverential gratitude for 
 the fact, hut you understand it is only my initials.** 
 
 " He has written something again, John — and he 
 won*t tell me what it is. If he has said he is get- 
 ting too old to love, don't helieve him. He has 
 just leant forward and kissed me on my forehead. 
 I have insisted upon his writing this down. Your 
 story about the girl in the chapel and the last can- 
 dle amused us very much. It interested me espe- 
 cially. If it had been me, I should have fallen in 
 love with you then and there for being so consid- 
 erate. What was she like? Have you ever seen her 
 since? I can't feel that you were meant to meet 
 her for nothing. I have tried to think, too, what 
 she could have been praying to St. Joseph for, but 
 it is beyond me. It is not like a woman to pray for 
 money for herself. Perhaps some of her relations 
 have money troubles. That is all I can imagine, 
 though I have thought over it every day since 1\ 
 got your letter. God bless you, my darling. We 
 are waiting eagerly for the reviews of your new 
 book. When will it be out — the exact date? li 
 
126 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 want to say a novena for it, so let me know in good 
 time. And if you meet the Lady of St. Joseph — 
 as you call her — again, you must promise to tell 
 me all about it. Your father wants the rest of the 
 sheet of note-paper on which to say something to 
 you — so, God bless you always." 
 
 " Don't read the reviews when they come out, 
 John. Send them along to me, and I'll sort out the 
 best ones and send them back to you to read. As 
 far as I can see, there are so many critics who get 
 the personal note into their criticisms, and to read 
 these, whether praising or blaming, won't do you 
 any good; so send them all along to me before you 
 look at them. The first moment you can send me a 
 copy, of course, you will. Your loving father." 
 
 Here the letter ended. Long as it was, it might 
 well have been longer. They were good company, 
 those two old people, talking to him through those 
 thin sheets of foreign paper, one breaking in upon 
 the other with all due courtesy, just as they might 
 with a " Finish what you have to say, my dear," in 
 ordinary conversation. 
 
 And now they had gone to the country, too — 
 they had left him alone. When he had folded up 
 the letter, it was almost as if he could hear the 
 door bang again for the third time. 
 
 He leant back in his chair with an involuntary 
 sigh. What a few people, after all, there were in 
 the world whom he really knew ! What a few people 
 who would seek out his company on such a day as 
 this ! He stood up and stretched out his arms above 
 his head — it was 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 127 
 
 He stopped. A sound had struck to his heart 
 and set it beating, as when the bulPs-eye of a target 
 is hit. 
 
 The bell had rung! His electric bell! The elec- 
 tric bell which had raised him immeasureably in sta- 
 tion above Mrs. Morrell and Mrs, Brown, who had 
 only a knocker common to the whole house — one, in 
 fact, of the landlord's fixtures ! It had rung, and 
 his heart was beating to the echoes of it. 
 
 In another second, he had opened his door; in 
 another moment, he wa3 flying down the uncarpeted 
 wooden stairs, five at a time. At the door itself, he 
 paused, playing with the sensation of uncertainty. 
 Who could it be? If the honest truth be known, it 
 scarcely mattered. Someone! Someone had come 
 out of nowhere to keep him company. A few per- 
 sonalities rushed to his mind. It might be the man 
 who sometimes illustrated his stories, an untidy in- 
 dividual who had a single phrase that he always 
 introduced into every conversation — it was, " Lend 
 me half-a-crown till to-morrow, will you.? " It would 
 be splendid if it were him. They could lunch to- 
 gether on the half-crown. It might be the traveller 
 from the wholesale tailor's — a man whom he had 
 found begging in the street, and told to come round 
 to Number 39 whenever he was at his wit's end for 
 a meal. That would be better still; he was a man 
 full of experiences, full of stories from the various 
 sleeping-houses where he spent his nights. 
 
 Supposing it were Jill! A foolish, a hopeless 
 thought to enter the mind. She did not know where 
 he lived. She might, though, by some freak of 
 
Ub THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 chance, have found out. But if she had, would she 
 ever come to see him? No, that was too great a 
 hope — much too great — much too great. 
 
 Then he opened the door. 
 
 There was no one. The street was empty. He 
 looked up and down. Only a widow, carrying a 
 bundle under her arm, was to be seen, walking slowly 
 in the direction of Holborn. 
 
 Oh, the irony of it! Irony even in the thought 
 that had he not paused to dally with that sensation, 
 he might perhaps have caught the little hell-fiend of 
 a runaway before he got out of sight. But no likely 
 imp was to be seen. If there had been, he would 
 have had to suffer, justly or unjustly; for there is a 
 consoling saying in Holy Writ that the rain falls 
 equally upon the just and upon the unjust, and 
 from this, in such a circumstance, an exasperated 
 man can borrow what consolation he may. 
 
 Up the stairs, he toiled slowly again, trying to 
 strain satisfaction from philosophy, telling himself 
 that had there been no runaway bell, there would 
 have been no sensation worth recording that day, 
 and then, losing patience with it all and the clock 
 striking one, he put on his hat, went down into the 
 street, and set out for lunch to the Martyrs' Club. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE FLY IN THE AMBER 
 
 The sleet had driven honestly into snow by the time 
 John had finished his lunch and, there being but 
 two old original members in the Martyrs' Club, who 
 were congratulating each other upon having put on 
 their fur coats, stayed in town and not gone to the 
 country, he left as soon as his meal was over. 
 
 The hall-porter stood reluctantly to his feet as 
 he passed out, — so reluctantly that John felt as 
 though he should apologise for the etiquette of the 
 club. In the street, he turned up the collar of his 
 coat and set off with determination, intended to 
 show the hall-porter that he had a definite destina- 
 tion and but little time in which to reach it. 
 
 Round the comer and out of sight, he began 
 counting to himself the people he might go and see. 
 Each name, as he reviewed it in his mind, presented 
 some difficulty either of approval or of place. At 
 last, he found himself wandering in the direction of 
 Holborn. In a side street of that neighbourhood 
 lived his little typewriter, who had promised to fin- 
 ish two short stories over Easter. She would be as 
 glad of company as he. She would willingly cease 
 from pounding the symphony of the one monotonous 
 note on those lifeless keys. They would talk to- 
 gether of wonderful works yet to be typed. He 
 would strum on her hired piano. The minutes would 
 
 X39 
 
ISO THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 slip by and she would get tea, would boil the kettle 
 on that miniature gas-stove, situated in her bed- 
 room, where he had often imagined her saying her 
 prayers in the morning while a piece of bacon was 
 frying in the pan by her side — prayers, the Amen of 
 which would be hastened and emphasised by the boil- 
 ing over of the milk. Those are the prayers that 
 reach Heaven. They are so human. And a burnt 
 sacrifice of burnt milk accompanying them, they 
 are consistent with all the ritual of the Old Testa- 
 ment. 
 
 To the little typewriter's, then, he decided to go. 
 It did not matter so very much if his stories were 
 not finished over Easter. They could wait. 
 
 He rang the bell, wondering if her heart was 
 leaping as his had done but an hour or so before. 
 His ears were alert for the scurrying of feet on her 
 uncarpeted, wooden stairs. He bent his head side- 
 ways to the door. There was no sound. He rang 
 again. Then he heard the creaking of the stairs. 
 She was coming — oli, but so slowly! Annoyed, per- 
 haps, by the disturbance, just as she was getting 
 into work. 
 
 The door was opened. His heart dropped. He 
 saw an old woman with red-rimmed eyes which 
 peered at him suspiciously from the half-opened 
 space. 
 
 " Is Miss Gerrard in ? " he asked. 
 
 *' Gone to the country — won't be back till Tues- 
 day," was the reply. 
 
 Gone to the country ! And his work would never 
 be finished over Easter! Oh, it was not quite fair! 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 131 
 
 *' Any message?" said the old housekeeper. 
 
 " No," said John ; " nothing," and he walked 
 away. 
 
 Circumstance was conspiring that he should 
 Work — circumstance was driving him back to Fetter 
 Lane. Yet the loneliness of it all was intolerable. 
 It was, moreover, a loneliness that he could not ex- 
 plain. There had been other Easter Sundays ; there 
 had been other days of snow and sleet and rain, but 
 he had never felt this description of loneliness be- 
 fore. It was not depression. Depression sat there, 
 certainly, as it were upon the doorstep, ready to en- 
 ter at the faintest sound of invitation. But as yet, 
 she was on the doorstep only, and this — this leaden 
 weight at the heart, this chain upon all the energies 
 — was loneliness that he was entertaining, a condi- 
 tion of loneliness that he had never known before. 
 
 Why had he gone to see the little typewriter? 
 Why had he not chosen the man who illustrated his 
 stories, or many of the other men whom he knew 
 would be in town that day and any day — men who 
 never went into the country from one year's end to 
 the other? 
 
 It had been the company of a woman he had 
 wanted. Why was that? Why that, suddenly, 
 rather than the company he knew he could find? 
 What was there in the companionship of a woman 
 that he had so unexpectedly discovered the need of 
 it? Why had he envied Mr. Brown who had Mrs. 
 Morrell to talk to, or Mr. Morrell who could un- 
 burden himself to Mrs. Brown? Why had he been 
 glad when Mrs. Rowse came and unutterably lonely 
 
132 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 when she left? Why had he suggested going to the 
 country with her, pleased at the thought that Liz- 
 zie would sing, " Love Me and the World Is Mine," 
 and that Maud would be counting and packing 
 cigarettes in her mind? 
 
 The questions poured into his thoughts, rushing 
 by, not waiting for an answer, until they all cul- 
 minated in one overwhelming realisation. It was 
 Jill. 
 
 Morning after morning, for a whole week, they 
 had met in secret, not In Kensington Gardens alone, 
 but in the most extraordinary of places — once even 
 at Wriggles worth's, the obscure eating-house in Fet- 
 ter Lane, she little knowing how near they were to 
 where he lived. He had read her his stories ; he had 
 given her copies of the two books that bore his 
 name upon their covers. They had discussed them 
 together. She had said she was sure he was going 
 to be a great man, and that is always so consoling, 
 because its utter impossibility prevents you from 
 questioning it for a moment. 
 
 Then it was Jill. And all the disappointment, all 
 the loneliness of this Easter Sunday had been lead- 
 ing up to this. 
 
 Common sense — except In that mad moment when 
 he had hoped the bell had been rung by her — had 
 debarred him from thinking of seeking her out. But 
 away in the deep corners of his mind, it was her 
 company he was looking for — her company he had 
 sought to find, first in Mrs. Rowse and then in the 
 little typewriter. 
 
 Shutting the door of his room, he went across 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 133 
 
 to the chair by the fire. What did it mean? What 
 did it mean? Here and there he had fallen in love; 
 but this was not the same sort of thing. This was 
 not falling in love. Falling in love was quick, sud- 
 den, a flash that burnt up all desire to work, flared 
 out in a moment, obliterating everything else. But 
 this was slow, stealthy, a growing thing that asked, 
 not for sudden satisfaction, but for wonderful, un- 
 tellable things. 
 
 All the attributes common to love, as he had un- 
 derstood it, had no place in this sensation. As he 
 had thought of it, love found its expression in the 
 gratification of the need with which it had begun, 
 or it ended, like his stories — unhappily. Then this 
 could not be love. There was no ending of gratifi- 
 cation and no ending of unhappiness to this. It 
 was unending. Was that what his mother had 
 meant he would learn? 
 
 Then, as he sat before the fire, wondering what 
 new thing he had found, the bell rang again. It 
 found no echo on this occasion. He slowly turned 
 his head. They were not going to deceive him a 
 second time. He rose quietly from his chair, crossed 
 to the window, silently raised it and, as silently, 
 looked out. There, below him, he saw a woman's 
 hat — a hat with fur in it, cunningly twined through 
 grey velvet, — a hat that he knew, a hat that he had 
 often seen before. 
 
 He closed the window quietly and slowly made his 
 way downstairs. Before he reached the end of the 
 passage, the bell rang again. Then he opened the 
 door. 
 
134. THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 It was the lady on whose behalf the fur coat 
 had discharged the debt of honour. 
 
 She stepped right in with a little laugh of pleas- 
 ure at finding him there ; turned and waited while he 
 closed the door behind them, then linked her arm in 
 his as they mounted the stairs. 
 
 " I came," said she, " on chance. Aren't you 
 glad to see me ? " 
 
 There was just that fraction's pause before he re- 
 plied — that pause into which a woman's mind leaps 
 for answer. And how accurately she makes that 
 leap, how surely she reaches the mental ground upon 
 which you take your place, you will never be able 
 truly to anticipate. 
 
 " Yes," said John, " I'm very glad." 
 
 " Then what is it? " she said quickly. " Are you 
 writing. -^ " 
 
 " No, I'm not. I've tried to, but I can't." 
 
 " Then are you expecting someone.? " 
 
 He looked up at her, smiled, opened the door of 
 his room, and bid her pass through. 
 
 " And is all this," said he, " because I paused a 
 moment when you asked me if I was glad to see 
 you.?" 
 
 She seated herself easily in the chair to which 
 she was accustomed. She began drawing the pins 
 out of her hat, as a woman does when she feels at 
 home. When the hat was free of her heaps of 
 brown-red hair, she threw it carelessly upon the 
 table, shook her head and lifted the hair from her 
 forehead with her fingers. And John stood by with 
 a smile, thinking how the faintest shadow of a 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 1S5 
 
 word of question would make that hat fly "back 
 on to the head of brown-red hair, the hat-pins pierce 
 the crown with hasty pride, and the little purse that 
 lay upon the table alongside of them be clutched in 
 an eager, scornful hand, as she would rise, full of 
 dignity, to depart. 
 
 He let the smile fade away, and repeated his ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " I thought when you didn't 
 answer at once that you weren't very keen to see 
 me." 
 
 " And if I said I wasn't very keen, would you 
 go at once.? " 
 
 Her eyebrows lifted high. She made a movement 
 in her chair. One hand was already beginning to 
 stretch out for the grey velvet hat. 
 
 " Like a shot ! " she answered. 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 " That's what I thought," said John. 
 
 She rose quickly to her feet. 
 
 " If you want me to go, why don't you say so.^* " 
 
 He put his hands on her shoulders and seated her 
 gently back again in the chair. 
 
 " But I don't want you to go," he replied. " I've 
 got a lot of things I want to say to you." 
 
 " If you're going to talk evolution " she 
 
 began. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " It's something very like it," said he. 
 
 She gave a sigh of resignation, took out a packet 
 of cigarettes, extracted one, lit it and inhaled the 
 first breath deep — deep into her lungs. 
 
136 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 "'Well, go on," she said. 
 
 " Have you got plenty of cigarettes? " 
 
 " Yes, plenty to-day." 
 
 " Hadn't you yesterday ? " 
 
 " No, Mother and I raked up all the cigarette 
 ends out of the fireplaces, and I just had a penny 
 for a packet of cigarette papers." She laughed. 
 
 This is the honesty of poverty. She would take 
 no money from any man. For just as the virtue of 
 wealth will bring out the evil of avarice, so will the 
 evil of poverty bring out the virtue of self-respect. 
 In this world, there is as much good that comes out 
 of evil as ever stands by itself alone. This, in fact, 
 is the need of evil, that out of it may lift the good. 
 
 " Well, what have you got to say .'' " she continued. 
 " Get it over as quick as you can. I shan't under- 
 stand half of it." 
 
 " You'll understand it all," said John. " You 
 may not admit it. You don't admit your own hon- 
 esty — you probably won't admit mine." 
 
 She screwed up her eyes at him. He said the most 
 incomprehensible things. Of course, he was a crank. 
 She knew that — took it for granted — but what did 
 he mean by her honesty? 
 
 " I don't steal," she said. " But I owe fifteen 
 pounds to my dressmaker, and thirteen to Derry & 
 Toms, and six somewhere else, and I don't suppose 
 they'll ever get paid. Do you call that honest?" 
 
 " I don't mean that sort of honesty. That's the 
 sort of honesty that a dishonest man shields be- 
 hind. You'd pay them if I gave you the money to 
 pay them, or if anybody else gave you the money, 
 or if you made the money. You meant to pay them, 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 137 
 
 you probably thought you could pay them when you 
 ordered the things." 
 
 She looked up at him and laughed. 
 
 ** You poor old dear ! I don't suppose you've got 
 twopence in your pocket. You couldn't give it to 
 me." 
 
 *' I've got one and nine," said John. " But the 
 point is, if I could give it you, you wouldn't take it. 
 That's the honesty I'm talking about. From the 
 standard at which you rate life, that's honesty, and 
 you never depart from it. And, in a way, my stand- 
 ard has been much about the same — till now." 
 
 "Till now?" She echoed it in a little note of 
 apprehension. 
 
 ** Yes — till now. I thought these things were hon- 
 est — now I've changed my standard, and I find them 
 different, too." 
 
 *' What do you mean ? " 
 
 Her eyes looked far into his, and he stood there 
 looking far back into hers. 
 
 ** You don't love me, do you.'"' he said presently. 
 
 A pause preceded her answer. 
 
 ** No," she said. 
 
 "And I've never told you I loved you?" 
 
 ** No — never." 
 
 "And yet, does it strike you that there may be 
 such a thing? " 
 
 ** Oh, I suppose there is. Some people pretend 
 they know all about it. I think you're the kindest 
 and the best person I've ever met — that's enough 
 for me." 
 
 " Would you marry me? " said John. 
 
 " No — never." 
 
138 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 *' Because directly people marry — directly they 
 find themselves bound, they look at each other in a 
 different light. The question of whether it can last 
 begins to creep in. With us, it doesn't matter. I 
 come and see you whenever you want me to. If It 
 doesn't last, then nobody's hurt by it — if it docs, 
 let it last as long as it can. I don't want it to end 
 to-day — I might to-morrow. I might see someone 
 I liked better." 
 
 *' And then you'd go .'' " 
 
 " Most certainly." 
 
 *'Well — suppose you came across someone with 
 whom you knew it must last; from whom you ex- 
 pected to find those things which go on past time 
 and all measuring of clocks, would you marry them ? '* 
 
 She came up close to him and laid her hands upon 
 his shoulders. 
 
 " You can tell me straight out," she said gently. 
 *' One of us was bound to find it one of these days. 
 I only hoped it would be me. You can tell me who 
 she is. Go on." 
 
 John told her. This was what he had wanted the 
 woman for — ^first his mother, then Mrs. Rowse, then 
 the little typewriter, then even Jill herself. For 
 it is a woman to whom a man must tell these things 
 — nobody else will do; nobody else will understand. 
 
 And when she had heard it all, she looked up 
 with the suspicion of tears in her eyes and smiled. 
 
 " Then I guess I'm the fly in the amber," she 
 said. " It won't be a clear bit of stone till I'm 
 gone. Isn't that what you mean?" 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 139 
 
 And, taking his face in her hands, she kissed his 
 forehead. " You're a funny little boy," she said 
 with a wry smile. 
 
 This was the box of bricks, the playing at her 
 dignity. Every woman has them, and while some 
 throw them at your head, the best make patterns 
 ■ — patterns of fine ladies and noble dames. It was 
 a fine lady who would call him a funny little boy. 
 It was a noble dame who would show him that she 
 was not hurt. He had wanted her in his way, in 
 their way — the way she wanted him as well. All 
 men want some woman like that, and there are as 
 good women to supply the need as there are bad 
 ones who would shrink from it. And now, he wanted 
 her no longer. She knew she had to bow her head 
 to something that she could not understand, some- 
 thing that she could not supply. He loved. And 
 they had so easily avoided it. 
 
 " Are you going to be married.'' " she enquired. 
 She longed to ask what the other one was like. 
 
 John shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You don't know.?" 
 
 " No, I don't know." 
 
 " Does she love you? " 
 
 " I couldn't tell you." 
 
 *' You haven't asked her? " 
 
 *' No — we haven't said a word about It." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " Then why do you send me away ? " 
 
 " Because — I know, myself. There comes a time 
 — I didn't know it — when you know — a time when 
 you don't excuse yourself with the plea of humanit}' 
 
140 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 — when you wish to offer no excuse — when there is 
 only one way, the way I'm choosing. I'm a crank, 
 of course. I know you've called me that before. To 
 you I'm a crank, — to heaps of other people as well. 
 But in the back of this muddled head of mine, I've 
 got an ideal — so has everyone else — so have you. 
 But now I've found a means of expressing it. You 
 say I'm in love — that's what you call it. I prefer 
 just to say, I love — which is another matter alto- 
 gether. People fall in and out of love like an india- 
 rubber ball dancing on a spray of water. But this 
 sort of thing must be always, and it may be only 
 once or twice in your life that you find a means of 
 expressing it. But it's there all the time. And one 
 time it's a woman with dark hair and another it's a 
 woman with gold — but the emotion — the heart of it 
 is just the same. It's the same love — the love of the 
 good — the love of the beautiful — the love of the 
 thing which is clean through and through and 
 through. And when you meet it, you'll sacrifice 
 everything for it. And if you don't meet it, you'll 
 go on hunting for it your life through — unless you 
 lose heart, or lose character, or lose strength — then 
 this wonderful ideal vanishes. You come to look for 
 it less and less and less till at last you only seek for 
 the other thing — what you call — falling in love." 
 
 " Do you think we all have this ideal? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, every one of us." 
 
 "Then have I lost it?" 
 
 " No, I don't believe so. I saw tears in your 
 eyes just now." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE NONSENSE-MAKER 
 
 John took a box at the opera. There is some sense 
 in taking a box at the opera when you owe two 
 quarters of your rent of thirty pounds a year. To 
 have a box all the year round with your visiting- 
 card pinned to the door, that is needless, unforgive- 
 able extravagance, for it does not then belong to 
 you, but to your friends. 
 
 When John ' took the stage-box on the third 
 tier, it was bread and butter, dinners and teas, 
 that he laid down in payment for the little slip of 
 paper. They did not know that. The clerk at 
 the office thought it was three guineas. He brushed 
 off the money carelessly into the palm of his hand 
 without thinking that it could be anything but 
 coin of the realm. Who ever would go to the box- 
 office of Covent Garden, and, tendering ingenuously 
 bread and butter, expect to get a ticket for the 
 stage-box on the third tier in return? But they 
 are not observant, these box-office clerks, for heaps 
 of people do it. 
 
 There was an old lady just behind John, who 
 handed in all her warm spring under-clothing and 
 a nice httle embroidered lace cap that would have 
 looked delightful on her white head in the evenings 
 of the summer that was to come. 
 
 " I want a stall," said she, " for Tuesday night." 
 141 
 
142 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 And in just the same inconsequent and unobserv- 
 ant way, the clerk, without the slightest embarrass- 
 ment, swept all the warm spring under-clothing and 
 the little lace cap into his hand and gave it her 
 without a word, but heavens ! how insulted he would 
 have been if you had told him that he was simply a 
 dealer in second-hand under-linen ! It would not 
 have appeased him a bit, to tell him that the under- 
 linen had never been worn, that, in fact, it had 
 never even been bought. 
 
 Just in this way, he took John's bread and but- 
 ter, and gave him the stage-box on the third tier. 
 It was for the night of La Boheme. 
 
 On that same night, Jill was going to a dance, 
 chaperoned by an older school-friend of hers — one 
 who had married — a Mrs. Crossthwaite. And Mrs. 
 Crossthwaite knew everything; not because she had 
 been told it. That is not the way amongst women. 
 They tell each other what they are pretending to 
 believe, and both of them know all about it all the 
 time. 
 
 There was the invitation to the dance — one known 
 as a subscription. Mrs. Dealtry could not go. She 
 had a dinner party. Jill nominated Mrs. Cross- 
 thwaite as her chaperon, and went to tea with her 
 that day, having seen John in the morning. 
 
 First, she spoke of the dance. Mrs. Crossthwaite 
 was delighted. She had been stepping it in the 
 heart of her ever since she was married; but only 
 in the heart of her, and the heart of a woman is an 
 impossible floor to dance upon. It makes the heart, 
 not the feet, tired. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 143 
 
 Having won her consent — an easy matter, not 
 lasting more than five minutes — Jill began gently, 
 unobtrusively, to speak of the work of an author 
 called John Grey. Mrs. Crossthwaite had read one 
 of the books, thought it distinctly above the aver- 
 age, but very sad. She did not like sad books. 
 There was quite enough sadness in real life, and so 
 on. All of which is very, very true, if people would 
 only realise it, as well as say it. 
 
 From there, with that adroitness which only 
 women have the fine fingers for, Jill led on the con- 
 versation to her acquaintance with John. Oh, it 
 was all very difficult to do, for a school-friend, once 
 she has married, may have become a very different 
 sort of person from the girl who was ready to swarm 
 down the drain-pipe to meet the boy with the fair 
 hair and the cap far on the back of his head, who 
 passed her a note concealed between the pages of 
 the Burial Service in the Prayer-book. Marriage is 
 apt to rob your school-friend of this courage; for, 
 though she never did climb down the drain-pipe, she 
 made you think she was going to. She had one leg 
 on the window-sill and would soon have been outside, 
 only that she heard the voice of the mistress in the 
 corridor just in time. And she sometimes loses this 
 courage when she marries, Jill, therefore, had to 
 proceed with caution. 
 
 They merely talked about his work. He was very 
 interesting. His ideas were strange. Of course, it 
 was a terrible pity that he would not say where he 
 lived, but Mrs. Crossthwaite did not seem to con- 
 sider that. For a moment, she had expressed sur- 
 
144 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 prise and approval of Mrs. Dealtry's action ; but he 
 was a member of the Martyrs' Club, and Mr. Cross- 
 thwaite's greatest friend was a member there as well, 
 and Mr. Crossthwaite's greatest friend was natu- 
 rally nearly as wonderful a person as Mr. Cross- 
 thwaite himself. So what did it really matter where 
 he lived .P The position of man was his club. She 
 even had no curiosity about his residence. 
 
 Again, Jill had never seen Boheme. Her people 
 were not musical. They hated it. She loved it. 
 This was the opportunity of her life. He would 
 bring her back to the dance, of course, and no one 
 need ever know that she had not been there all the 
 time. And in the intervals of the opera they would 
 talk about his work. That was all they ever did 
 talk about. She knew all his ambitions, all his 
 hopes. Once or twice he had accepted her sugges- 
 tions, when really she knew nothing about it. It 
 was only what she felt; but he had felt it too, and 
 the alteration had been made. He said she helped 
 him, and that was all that was between them. The 
 main fact of importance was that she had never 
 seen La Boheme, and might never see it, if she re- 
 fused this opportunity. 
 
 All these specious arguments she put forward in a 
 gentle, enticing, winning way — full of simplicity — 
 full of honesty; but the principal reason that Mrs. 
 Crossthwaite consented to become a party to this 
 collusion was that she did not believe a single word 
 of it. 
 
 Romance! It Is a word In Itself, a thing In Itself 
 • — a piece of fine-worked lace that must catch the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 14,5 
 
 eye of every woman, and which every woman 
 would stitch to the Garment of maternity if she 
 could. 
 
 So it was arranged. In the vestibule of the rooms 
 where the dance was held, John was formally intro- 
 duced to the chaperon before he bore her charge 
 away. Then they stepped into a hansom. 
 
 *' The Opera," said John, through the trap-door, 
 carelessly, as though he went there most evenings of 
 his life ; for when you give your bread and butter to 
 get a box at Covent Garden, hunger makes you talk 
 like that. This is all part of the delight which you 
 miss in having a box all the year round. 
 
 And when they had got far away into the traffic 
 — that passing to and fro of people, which is all a 
 thumb-nail illustration of the stream of life — and 
 when her heart had begun to beat a little less like 
 a lark's wings in a six-inch cage, Jill broke the 
 silence. 
 
 *' What did Mrs. Crossthwaite say to you while 
 I went to get my cloak? " she asked. 
 
 " She was good enough to hope that I would call 
 on her." 
 
 " Oh ! I'm so glad she's asked you. Did she say 
 anything else? " 
 
 " She asked me if I lived in London all the year 
 round. I said I did — except for a month in the 
 year, when I T^ent to Venice. Then she asked me 
 what part of London I lived in." 
 
 " She asked you that? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 Jill was silent for a few moments. It is always 
 
146 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 an interesting moment in a woman's life when she 
 learns something about her sex. 
 
 " And what did you say? " she asked. 
 
 John laughed. He thought he had said it rather 
 neatly. 
 
 " Oh, I've got rooms," he had said, " just be- 
 tween St. Paul's and the Strand." Which might 
 be the Inner Temple, if you had a nice mind with 
 which to look at it. He told Jill this answer. She 
 smiled. 
 
 " And is it between St. Paul's and the Strand.? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Roughly speaking — yes — ^but very roughly 
 speaking." 
 
 Again she was silent. Could it be that he was 
 poor — at least, not well enough off to live at a 
 good-sounding address.? Could that have been why 
 he was praying to St. Joseph on the eighteenth of 
 March.? Yet he was a member of the Martyrs' 
 Club, and here he was taking her to a box at Covent 
 Garden. She looked up quickly into his face. This 
 was more mystery than her desire for knowledge 
 could afford. 
 
 " Do you remember what you said to me once," 
 she began, " about the woman with the gift of un- 
 derstanding? " 
 
 " Yes — the first day that we met in Kensington 
 Gardens." 
 
 " Well — do you think I am absolutely ungifted 
 that way? " 
 
 John closely searched her eyes. Did she remem- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 147 
 
 ber all he had said about the woman with God's 
 good gift of understanding? Did she realise the 
 confession it would entail if he admitted — as he be- 
 lieved — that she was? She was young, perhaps — a 
 girl, a child, a baby — just twenty-one. But the un- 
 derstanding which is the gift of God, comes inde- 
 pendently of experience. Like genius, it is a gift 
 and of just such a nature. Absolute simplicity is 
 the source of it, and with it, it brings the reward of 
 youth, keeping the heart young no matter the years. 
 Experience will show you that the world is full of 
 evil — evil motives and evil deeds ; it will teach you 
 that evil is said of everyone, even the best. But 
 with God's good gift of understanding, you have 
 the heart of a child, knowing nothing yet finding the 
 good in everything. 
 
 To such a one, no secrets are possible, no deeds 
 can lie hid; for no man does evil because he would, 
 but because it rises stronger against the innermost 
 will of him. And so few are there with the gift 
 to understand this, that confession is seldom 
 made. 
 
 And for John to tell her that she had this gift, 
 was to make admission of all he had learnt that 
 Easter Sunday. Could it be that she asked for that 
 reason? Did she wish to know? In his own way, 
 he had meant to tell her; but not like this. And so 
 he searched her eyes ; but searched in vain. 
 
 *' Why do you ask? " he said at length. 
 
 " Because — if you think I have any understand- 
 ing at all, don't you think I should understand, even 
 
148 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 if you told me you lived at " She could not 
 
 think of a poor enough neighbourhood where people 
 might live. She scarcely knew any. 
 
 " Shepherd's Bush ? " he suggested. 
 
 " Well— yes— Shepherd's Bush." 
 
 " And so you want to know where I do live.? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She looked up at him quite honestly. 
 
 " Well — pride, I suppose. We're good friends. I 
 hope we are. I've never had a friend before. I 
 think I should tell you everything, and I expect 
 I feel hurt because you don't tell me. I'm sure you 
 have a good reason for not letting my people know, 
 but that hasn't prevented me from keeping you as 
 my friend against all their wishes. They don't un- 
 derstand, I admit. But I believe I should. I'm 
 sure I should. 
 
 Her hand in its white glove was resting on the 
 door of the hansom in front of her. For a moment 
 he looked at it, and then, with heart beating, in 
 fear, joy, apprehension — a thousand emotions all 
 flowing into one — he took it in his and pressed it 
 reverently, then let it go. 
 
 " I know you would," he replied in his breath. 
 And then he told her. 
 
 Did she remember Wrigglesworth's ? Would she 
 ever forget it? Those high-backed seats, the saw- 
 dust on the floor, the poll-parrot in its cage in the 
 middle of the room! And, then, who could forget 
 the name of Wrigglesworih ? 
 
 Did she remember the little greengrocer's shop he 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 149 
 
 had pointed out to her, and how she had said she 
 would love one of the rosy-cheeked apples that were 
 piled up in their little partitions — and his reply, 
 rather reluctant, evidently none too eager that one 
 of the rosy-cheeked apples should be hers? Yes, 
 she remembered. She remembered, too, that nothing 
 more had been said about the apples, and that he 
 had not reminded her of them again when they came 
 away from lunch. 
 
 Exactly — ^because over that very little green- 
 grocer's shop in Fetter Lane — the two windows 
 above the shop itself — was where he lived. 
 
 For a moment she gazed at him in astonishment; 
 then she stared out into the traffic before her. Back 
 through her mind raced the sensations she had ex- 
 perienced that day when she had lunched with him. 
 The secrecy, the novelty, the stuffy little eating- 
 house, it had all seemed very romantic then. The 
 tablecloth was not as clean as it might be, but the 
 high-backed seats had been there for nearly two hun- 
 dred years. One thing weighed with another. The 
 waiter was familiar; but, as John had explained to 
 her, the waiters knew everybody, and you might feel 
 as much annoyed at their familiarity as you had 
 reason to at the age of the poll-parrot and the re- 
 marks that he made about the cooking. They all 
 combined to make Wrigglesworth's — Wriggles- 
 worth's ; and she had taken it for granted in the 
 halo of romance. But to live there! To sleep at 
 night within sight and sound of all the things which 
 her unaccustomed eyes and ears had seen and heard ! 
 She suddenly remembered the type of people she 
 
150 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 had seen coming In and out of the doorways ; then 
 she looked back at John. 
 
 " Then you're very poor? " she said gently. 
 
 *' If you mean I haven't a lot of money," he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then poor is the word." 
 
 He sat and watched her in silence. She was 
 thinking very fast. He could see the thoughts, 
 as you see cloud shadows creeping across water — 
 passing through her eyes. Even now, he knew that 
 she would understand in the face of all upbringing, 
 all hereditary ideas. But he waited for her to speak 
 again. The moment was hers. He trusted her to 
 make the best of it. 
 
 "Why didn't you ask me to come and see your 
 rooms after we'd had lunch at Wrigglesworth's ? " 
 she said presently and, expecting simplicity, count- 
 ing upon understanding, even he was surprised. 
 
 " Ask you there.'' To those rooms .'^ Over the lit- 
 tle greengrocer's shop? Up those uncarpeted 
 wooden stairs ? " 
 
 And then they found themselves under the portico 
 of the Opera House ; in another moment in the crush 
 of people in the vestibule; then making their way 
 round the cheaply-papered boxes along the ugly lit- 
 tle passages to the stage-box on the third tier. 
 
 The attendant threw open the door. Like chil- 
 dren, who have been allowed down to the drawing- 
 room after dinner, they walked in. And it was all 
 very wonderful, the sky of brilliant lights and the 
 sea of human beings belcr them. It was real ro- 
 mance to be perched away up in a little box in the 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 151 
 
 great wall — a little box which shut them in so safely 
 and so far away from all those people to whom 
 they were so near. Her heart was beating with the 
 Bense of anticipation and fear for the fruit which 
 their hands had stolen. For the first ten minutes, 
 she would scarcely have been surprised had the door 
 of the box opened behind them and her mother ap- 
 peared in a vision of wrath and justice. Some 
 things seem too good to be true, too wonderful to 
 last, too much to have hoped for. And Romance is 
 just that quality of real life which happens to be 
 full of them. 
 
 From the moment that the curtain rose upon the 
 life of these four happy-go-lucky Bohemians, to the 
 moment when it fell as Rudolfo and Mimi set off to 
 the cafe, these two sat in their third-tier box like 
 mice in a cage, never moving a finger, never stirring 
 an eye. Only John's nostrils quivered and once or 
 twice there passed a ripple down Jill's throat. 
 
 At last fell the curtain, one moment of stillness to 
 follow and, shattering that stillness then into a 
 thousand little pieces, the storm of the clapping of 
 hands. 
 
 Music is a drug, a subtle potion of sound made 
 liquid, which one drinks without knowing what 
 strange effect it may or may not have 'upon the 
 blood. To some it is harmless, ineffectual, passing 
 as quietly through the veins as a draught of cool 
 spring water; to others it is wine, nocuous and 
 sweet, bringing visions to the senses and pulses to 
 the heart, burning the lips of men to love and the 
 eyes of women to submission. To others again, it 
 
152 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 is a narcotic, a draught bringing the sleep that is 
 drugged with the wildest and most Impossible of 
 dreams. But some there are, who by this philtre 
 are imbued with all the knowledge of the good, are 
 stirred to the desire to reach forward just that 
 hand's stretch which in such a moment but separates 
 the divine in the human from the things which are 
 infinite. 
 
 This was the power that music had upon John. 
 
 While the applause was still vibrating through 
 the house, while the curtain was still rising and 
 falling to the repeated appearances of the players, 
 he slipped his hand into his pocket, took something 
 quickly out, and when she turned after the final 
 curtain fall, Jill beheld, standing upon the velvet 
 railing of the box, a little man all in brass, with 
 one hand resting aristocratically upon his hip and 
 the other stretched out as though to take her 
 own. 
 
 Surprise and question filled her eyes. She 
 looked up at John. She looked back at the little 
 brass man, and the little brass man looked back at 
 her. It may not have been that he raised his hat; 
 but he had all the appearance of having just done so. 
 
 *' Did you put that there?" she asked. 
 
 John nodded. She picked him up, and once her 
 fingers had touched him, the spell of his dignity was 
 cast. 
 
 "What is he? Where did you get him? What 
 does he mean ? " One question fell fast upon an- 
 other. 
 
 " He's my little brass man," said John. " He's 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 153 
 
 an old seal, over a hundred years old " And 
 
 he told her the whole story. 
 
 When he had finished, the curtain rose once more 
 — outside the Cafe Momus with the babel of chil- 
 dren and the hum and laughter of a crowd that 
 only a city southeast of the Thames can know or 
 understand. Through all the act, Jill sat with the 
 little brass man standing boldly beside her. When 
 it was over, she turned to him again. 
 
 " Aren't you very miserable when you have to — 
 to part with him? " she asked. 
 
 ** Very. — He comes back as soon as possible. But 
 I've made a resolve." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 *' I'm going to put him out of reach of the 
 indignity. He's never going to the chapel of unre- 
 demption any more." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 " Give him to you. You are the only person I 
 know of, who has the gift of understanding pov- 
 erty." 
 
 " To me ? " Instinctively her fingers tightened 
 round him. " To me? " she repeated. 
 
 He smiled and bent his head. " He seals our 
 friendship," said he. 
 
 This was his way of telling her that he knew 
 she understood. The perfect nonsense of the gift 
 ' — a figure in brass that cost seven' shillings and 
 had been pledged and redeemed for six, times out 
 of number — this had little or nothing to do with 
 it. Everything in this world is nonsense ; the whole 
 of life is a plethora of ludicrous absurdities, one 
 
154 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 more fanciful than another. The setting upon the 
 head of a man a fantastic piece of metal and call- 
 ing in a loud voice that he is king — the holding 
 aloft of another piece of metal, crossed in shape, 
 studded with precious stones, and exhorting those 
 who behold it to fall upon their knees — the placing 
 on the finger of a little circular band — of metal 
 too — and thereby binding irrevocably the lives and 
 freedom of two living beings in an indissoluble 
 bondage, all these things are nonsense, childish, in- 
 consequent nonsense, but for their symbolism and 
 the inner meaning that they hold. 
 
 The crown is nothing, the cross is nothing, the 
 ring is nothing, too. A goldsmith, a silversmith, a 
 worker in brass, these men can turn them out un- 
 der the hammer or upon the lathe; they can scat- 
 ter the earth with them and have done so. From 
 the crown in finest gold and rarest jewels to the 
 crown in paper gilt, the difference can only be in 
 value, not in truth. From the great cross in West- 
 minster Cathedral to the little nickel toy that hangs 
 from the cheapest of rosary beads, the difference is 
 only the same. From the massive ring that the Pope 
 must wear to the tinsel thing that the cracker hides 
 in its gaudy wrappings at Christmas-time, the dif- 
 ference is just the same. Each would serve the 
 other's purpose. Each would mean nothing but 
 nonsense and empty foolishness except to the eyes 
 which behold the symbolism that they bear. 
 
 Yet they, because of their meanings, dominate 
 the world. Little pieces of metal of the earth's re- 
 luctant yield — for the highest symbolism always 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 155 
 
 takes form in metal — they govern and command 
 with a despotism that is all part of the chaos of 
 nonsense in which we live. 
 
 Only one form of metal there is, which is a mean- 
 ing in itself; before which, without nonsense and 
 without symbolism, a man must bow his head — the 
 sword. The only thing in this world of ours in 
 which nonsense plays no part ; the only thing in this 
 world of ours which needs no symbolism to give it 
 power. Yet in times of peace, it lies idly in the 
 scabbard and there are few to bring it reverence. 
 
 For the present, nonsense must content us then. 
 The greatest intellects must admit that it is still 
 in the nature of them to sprawl upon the floor of 
 the nursery, making belief with crowns, with crosses 
 and with rings — making belief that in these fanciful 
 toys lies all the vast business of life. 
 
 Until we learn the whole riddle of it all, the high- 
 est profession will be that of the nonsense-maker. 
 The man who can beat out of metal some symbolical 
 form, earns the thankfulness of a complete world 
 of children. For with baubles such as these, it is 
 in the everlasting nature of us to play, until the 
 hours slip by and the summons comes for sleep. 
 
 So played the two — children in a world of chil- 
 dren — in their stage-box on the third tier. She 
 knew well what the gift of the little brass man must 
 mean — the Chevalier d'honneur. John might have 
 sworn a thousand times that he knew the great 
 power of her understanding; yet such is the nature 
 of the child, that in this little symbol of brass — 
 as much a nonsense thing as any symbol of its kind 
 
156 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 — she understood far clearer the inner meaning of 
 that word friendship. 
 
 *' Will you accept him ? " said John gently. 
 
 She looked back in his eyes. 
 
 *' On one condition." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 *' That if ever we cease to be friends, he must b* 
 returned to you." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE MR. CHESTERTON 
 
 It was always a strain when July came round, for 
 John to amass those seventeen odd pounds for the 
 journey to Venice. But it was a greater strain 
 when, having amassed it, he had some days before 
 him in which to walk about the streets before he 
 departed — it was a greater strain, then, not to 
 spend it. For money, to those who have none, is 
 merely water and it percolates through the tough- 
 est pigskin purse, finds it way somehow or other 
 into the pocket and, once there, is in a sieve with as 
 broad a mesh as you could need to find. 
 
 It was always in these few days before his yearly 
 exodus, that John ran across the things that one 
 most desires to buy. Shop-keepers had a bad habit 
 of placing their most alluring bargains in the very 
 fore-front of the window. Everything, in fact, 
 seemed cheaper in July, and seventeen pounds was a 
 sum which had all the appearance of being so im- 
 mense, that the detraction of thirty shillings from 
 the hoard would make but little material difference 
 to the bulk of it. 
 
 But John had learnt by experience that if you 
 take thirty shillings from seventeen pounds, It leaves 
 fifteen pounds ten, an odd amount, demanding that 
 those ten shillings be spent also to equalise matters. 
 
 15T 
 
158 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 Then the fifteen pounds which is left is still immense 
 and the process beginning all over again, there is 
 finally left but a quota of what had been at first. 
 With fifteen pounds in bank notes in his letter-case 
 and two pounds in gold in his pocket, he found 
 himself looking in the window of Payne and Wel- 
 come's, where a little Nankin milk jug of some un- 
 impeachable dynasty was standing in all expecta- 
 tion, just waiting to catch the eye of such a person 
 as himself who might chance to pass by. 
 
 That afternoon, Jill was coming to tea — ^her 
 first visit to Fetter Lane, made, as he thought, sim- 
 ply in honour of his departure. And that little milk 
 jug was begging to come, too. 
 
 He stood for a while and stared at it. It would 
 not be more than fifteen shillings — expensive, too, at 
 that. Fifteen shillings would make no impression 
 upon so vast a sum as seventeen pounds. A voice 
 whispered it in his ear, from behind his back, — just 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 " You want a milk jug," said the voice, " and it's 
 a beautiful blue. It will go wonderfully with the 
 teapot and the little blue and white cups and saucers. 
 Get it, man ! Get it ! " and it reminded him in a 
 joking way, with a subtle, cunning laugh, of his 
 philosophy when he was a boy. " What are sweets 
 for, but to eat ? " " What is money for, but to 
 spend? " 
 
 With sudden decision, he walked in; but it was 
 not through the entrance of the jeweller's shop. He 
 marched into the confessional box in the chapel of 
 unredemption. There, pulling out his three five- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 159 
 
 pound notes and his two sovereigns, he planked them 
 down upon the counter. 
 
 *' I want ten shillings on those," said he. 
 
 They were used to John's eccentricities there, but 
 they never thought him so mad as this. 
 
 *' Why, it's seventeen pounds," said the man. 
 
 ** That's quite right," said John. " I counted it 
 myself. And I want ten shillings on it." 
 
 Ten shillings would feed him for a week. He 
 strode out of the shop again with the ten shillings 
 in his pocket and the seventeen pounds safe in the 
 keeping of the high priest. There was a man who 
 owed him fourteen shillings, and who, when the time 
 came to go to Venice, might possibly be induced to 
 part with that necessary ten, if he were asked for it 
 as a loan. A man will willingly lend you ten shil- 
 lings if he owes you fourteen ; it is the paying you 
 back that he does not like. 
 
 As he passed out into the street, John kept his 
 face rigidly averted from the little Nankin milk jug. 
 He had played that milk jug a sly, and a nasty 
 trick. It was really nothing to be proud about. 
 
 When he returned to Number 39, there was a man 
 waiting outside his door, a man dressed in a light- 
 brown tweed, the colour of ripening corn. He had 
 on a shiny-red silk tie, adorned with a pin — a horse- 
 shoe set with pearls. His face was round, fat and 
 solemn — the solemnity that made you laugh. He 
 put John in good spirits from the loss of the Nankin 
 milk jug, the moment he saw him. Someone had 
 left the door into the street open and so he had come 
 upstairs. 
 
160 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Who are you ? " asked John. 
 
 *' Well — my name's Chesterton, sir, Arthur Ches- 
 terton." 
 
 John opened his door with the innocence of a babe, 
 and the man followed him into the room, closely at 
 his heels. 
 
 "And what do you want.?"' asked John. 
 
 Mr. Chesterton handed him a paper. John looked 
 it through. 
 
 " Yes — of course — my two quarter's rent. They 
 shall be paid," he said easily. " There's money due 
 to me next month." 
 
 Mr. Chesterton coughed behind his hand. 
 
 ** It must be now," he said quietly. " That is to 
 say — ^I must wait here till I get it." 
 
 A bailiff! And Jill was coming to tea! In an- 
 other half hour she would be there ! She knew he was 
 poor; she thought Fetter Lane a terrible neighbour- 
 hood ; but with all her imagination, she had not con- 
 ceived anything as terrible as this. 
 
 There was only one way; to explain everything. 
 He had a lady coming to tea with him that after- 
 noon — a lady — did he understand? Anyhow, he 
 nodded his head. Well — it was quite impossible for 
 her to find him there — a bailiff! It was not his 
 fault, of course, that he was a bailiff, but he must 
 see how impossible the position was. The little man 
 nodded his head again. Well, would he go away; 
 just for a short time, till they had had tea. He 
 could return then, John promised he would let him 
 in. He knew that once a bailiff was out of posses- 
 sion, he was powerless ; but this was a matter of 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE l6l 
 
 honour. On his honour he would let him in 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Chesterton blinked his ejes. 
 
 " Sometimes," he replied quietly — " Sometimes 
 they tell me it's their father as is comin' — then 
 again, if it's a woman, she says her husband'll be 
 back in a minute and her husband's always a man 
 with an 'orrible bad temper what's liable to do dan- 
 gerous things. And sometimes, they say it's a girl 
 they're sweet on — same as you." 
 
 " But I'll swear it's true ! " cried John wildly. 
 
 Mr. Chesterton smiled. 
 
 *' Wouldn't payin' the money be better than 
 swearin'.'' " said he. " It's only fifteen pounds. 
 Sometimes they gets rid of me that way — and it's 
 the only successful way of doin' it. You see I'm 
 inside now. I'm the nine points of the law now. 
 If I was outside, I'd be only one — you'd be the 
 nine, then — see. You'd be able to lock your door 
 and make a long nose at me out of the window. 
 Lord! the times I've said that to people — and they 
 don't seem to see the truth of it — not they." 
 
 John had every sympathy with their obtuseness. 
 If he saw the point of it himself, it was only because 
 he knew it would not be so in his instance. 
 
 " Then you won't go ? " he said. 
 
 Mr. Chesterton shook his head, quite patiently. 
 
 *' Do you ever get kicked out of a place into the 
 street ? " asked John. The man was so small that 
 the question would rise naturally to the minds of 
 quite a lot of people. 
 
 He smiled amiably. 
 
162 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Yes — they do that sometimes. But two months, 
 without the option, for assault ain't pleasant, you 
 know. I shouldn't care for it myself. I'd sooner 
 *ave the assault, it's over quicker." 
 
 There are some tragedies in life in which, if you 
 do not find place for laughter, you become melo- 
 dramatic — a sin which is unforgivable. 
 
 John just saved the position in time. He sat 
 down in a chair and laughed aloud. 
 
 " And till I've paid this money," he said. " I've 
 got to put you up. Where are you going to sleep? 
 I've only got a bedroom besides this and a cupboard 
 that holds two hundredweight of coal on the land- 
 ing." 
 
 Mr. Chesterton looked about him. 
 
 " That settle looks comfortable enough," said he. 
 *' I've slep' worse than that." He crossed the room 
 and felt the springs of it with his fist. " But it's 
 a small place. I'm afraid I shall be a bit in the 
 way." 
 
 " My Lord! " John jumped up again. *' You will 
 this afternoon." He was to have told Jill many 
 things that afternoon. Now this ruined everything. 
 They would have to go out to tea, because there 
 was no paying of the money. He could not re- 
 deem his seventeen pounds and settle it with that. 
 There would be nothing left with which to go to 
 Venice and the calculations of that little old white- 
 haired lady who was waiting for him to put his arms 
 about her neck had become so small, so infinitely 
 small, that he had not the heart to add to them by 
 so much as a figure of seven. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 163 
 
 *' And you don't believe that a lady's coming to 
 tea with me? " he said excitedly. 
 
 Mr. Chesterton spread out a pair of dirty hands. 
 
 " I know that lady so well," he said. " She's 
 always every inch a lady who wouldn't understand 
 the likes of me. But I'm quite easy to understand. 
 Tell her I'm a friend of yours. I won't give the 
 game away." 
 
 Oh ! It was ludicrous ! The laugh came again 
 quickly to John's lips, but as soon it died away. 
 So much was at stake. He had pictured it all so 
 plainly. She would be disappointed when she heard 
 he was going. He would ask her why that look had 
 passed across her eyes. Her answer would be evasive, 
 and then, word by word, look by look, he would 
 lead her to the very door of his heart until the cry 
 — " I love you" — the most wonderful words to say 
 — the most terribly wonderful words to mean, would 
 be wrung from his lips into her ears. 
 
 And now this imperturbable fiend of a bailiff, 
 with his very natural incredulity and his simple way 
 of expressing it, had come to wreck the greatest 
 moment of his life. 
 
 John looked him up and down. 
 
 *' What sort of a friend do you think I could 
 introduce you as ? " he asked. " Do you think you 
 look like a friend of mine.? " 
 
 The little man glanced down at his boots, at the 
 light-brown tweed trousers, upturned and showing a 
 pair of woollen socks not far removed in colour from 
 that of his tie. 
 
 *' Well — you never know," said he, looking up 
 
164 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 again. "I'm stayin' here, aren't I? They said you 
 was a writer — that you wrote books. Well, have you 
 never seen a person who wrote books, like me? Why 
 there was a woman I 'ad to get the rent from once 
 — a journalist, she called herself. She'd got a bit 
 of a beard and a fair tidy moustache — and by gum, 
 she dressed queerer than anything my old woman 
 would ever put on. I felt quite ashamed to be 
 stoppin' with her." 
 
 John laughed again ; laughed uproariously. Mr. 
 Chesterton was so amused at the remembrance of it, 
 that he laughed as well. Suddenly their laughter 
 snapped, as you break a slate pencil. There came 
 a gentle, a timid knock on the door. 
 
 " This is she," whispered John. " The door below 
 was open. She's come upstairs. What the devil 
 am I going to do ? " 
 
 At last the little man believed him. He really 
 was going to see the lady this time, the lady who 
 would never understand the likes of him, and he 
 began to feel quite nervous. He began to feel 
 ashamed of being a bailiff. 
 
 " Introduce me as a friend," he whispered — " It'll 
 be all right — introduce me as a friend." 
 
 *' Sit down there, then — on that settle." 
 
 Then John opened the door and Jill stepped hesi- 
 tatingly into the room. Mr. Chesterton rose awk- 
 wardly to his feet. 
 
 This was the lady, materialised at last. From 
 long habit of summing up in a glance the people 
 with whom he had to deal, he made his estimation 
 of Jill in a moment. The quietness of her voice as 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE l65 
 
 she said — " I was rather afraid to knock, for fear 
 I had made a mistake " — that gentleness in the depth 
 of the eyes which admits of no sudden understand- 
 ing, yet as gently asks for it — the firm repose of 
 the lips already moulded for the strength which 
 comes with maturity, and all set in a face whose 
 whole expression was that innocence of a mind which 
 knows and has put aside until such moment when 
 life shall demand contemplation. This — there was 
 no doubt of it — was the lady who would not under- 
 stand the likes of him. 
 
 John shook hands with her. Mr. Chesterton took 
 it all in with his httle solemn eyes. He was in the 
 way. Never had he been so much in the way before. 
 As their hands touched, he felt that John was tell- 
 ing her just how much in the way he was. 
 
 " May I introduce you," said John, turning, when 
 that touching of the hands was done with. " This 
 
 is my friend — Mr. Chesterton. Miss " he paused. 
 
 It seemed sacrilege to give her name to a bailiff, 
 and the little man felt sensitively, in his boots every 
 moment of that pause. His red socks were burning 
 him. He could see the colour of his tie in every 
 reflection. It was even creeping up into his cheeks. 
 
 "Miss Dealtry." 
 
 He was going to come forward and shake hands, 
 but she bowed. Then, when she saw his confusion, 
 out, generously, came her hand. 
 
 " Are you a writer, too ? " she asked. 
 
 John was about to interpose; but the little man 
 wanted to stand well witli her. He felt that his 
 socks and his tie and his corn-coloured suit ought all 
 
166 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 to be explained, and what more lucid or more 
 natural explanation than this. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm a writer," he said quickly. " Books, 
 you know — and a little journalism — just to — to keep 
 me goin' — to amuse myself like. Journalism's a 
 change, you know — what you might call a rest, 
 when your always writin' books " Then he re- 
 membered a quotation, but where from, he could not 
 say, " Of the writin' of books, you know — at least, so 
 they say — there's no end." And he smiled with 
 pleasure to think how colloquially he had delivered 
 the phrase. 
 
 " Why, of course, I know your work," said Jill 
 •A" Aren't you the Mr. Chesterton ? " 
 / The little man's face beamed. That was just 
 what they all called him — the Mr. Chesterton. 
 
 " That's right," said he dehghtedly, " the one and 
 only." And under the mantle of genius and celebrity 
 his quaintnesses became witticisms, his merest phr^^se 
 a paradox. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHY JILL PRAYED TO ST. JOSEPH 
 
 Little as you might have Imagined it, there was a 
 heart beneath that corn-coloured waistcoat of Mr. 
 Chesterton's. His old woman, as he called her, 
 would have vouched for that. 
 
 ** He may have to do some dirty tricks in his 
 job," she had said of him. " But Vs got a 'eart, 
 'as my young man, if you know where to touch it." 
 
 And seemingly, Jill had known ; tho' the knowl- 
 edge was unconscious. It was just that she had 
 believed — that was all. She had believed he was 
 the Mr. Chesterton, presumbably a great writer, a 
 man to command respect. He had never commanded 
 respect before in his life. Abuse! Plenty of that! 
 So much of it that his skin had become hardened 
 and tough. But respect — never. 
 
 Ah! She was a lady, certainly — a delightful, 
 a charming young lady. He could quite believe 
 that she would not understand the likes of him. 
 He would even dare to swear, and did, when even- 
 tually he went home to his old woman, that she 
 had never heard of a bailiff in her life. 
 
 And while John laid out the tea things, she 
 talked to him all the time as if he were a great 
 man — bless her little heart! He was a fine fellow, 
 whoever this Chesterton was, and he seemed to have 
 said some mighty smart things. Anyhow, if writing 
 
 167 
 
168 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 books was not a paying game, as, judging by this 
 young Mr. Grey, it would not seem to be, it cer- 
 tainly brought one a deal of credit. The little bailiff 
 basked in the light of it, feeling like a beggar who 
 has awakened in the King's bed-chamber, ensconced 
 in the King's bed. Only when, occasionally he caught 
 sight of the expression on John's face, did he realise 
 how abominably he must be in the way. 
 
 At last, when tea was ready, the kettle spitting 
 on the little spirit stove in the grate, Mr. Chester- 
 ton rose to his feet. A look had passed between 
 those two, a look unmistakable to his eyes — a look 
 of mute appeal from her, an answering look of de- 
 spair from John. Had it been John alone, he would 
 have taken no notice. John had been making gri- 
 maces to himself for the last quarter of an hour ; be- 
 sides, he had brought it on himself. Young men 
 should pay their rent up to time. He had little 
 or no sympathy for John. But when he saw that 
 look in Jill's eyes, realising that it was only her gen- 
 tle politeness which made her talk to him so nicely 
 — only her gentle politeness and the kudos which he 
 had stolen from the name of Chesterton — then, he 
 felt he could stay there no longer. He had always 
 had a tender heart for women, so long as they were 
 not unsexed by journalism, by a bit of a beard and 
 a fair tidy moustache. He had no sympathy for 
 them then if their rents were overdue. But now, this 
 was a different matter. That look in Jill's eyes had 
 cut him to the quick. 
 
 " I've got to be goin' now, Mr. Grey," he said. 
 
 John's mouth opened in amazement. He had just 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 169 
 
 decided in his mind that Kensington Gardens was 
 the only place left to them from this abominable 
 interloper. 
 
 ** Going? " he echoed. It might almost have 
 seemed as if he were intensely sorry, his surprise 
 was so great. 
 
 " Yes — goin'," said Mr. Chesterton with a look 
 that meant the absolute certainty of his return. 
 *' Good-bye, Miss Dealtry — you'll excuse me runnin' 
 away, won't you-f* Time and tide — they won't wait, 
 you know — they're just like a pair o' children goin' 
 to a circus. They don't want to miss nuthin'." 
 
 Now that was his own, his very own ! He had been 
 determined all through their conversation to work in 
 something of his own. The great Mr. Chesterton 
 had never said that ! This credit of being another 
 man, and gleaning all the approbation that did not 
 belong to him, had brought with it its moments of 
 remorse, and he longed to win her approval for some- 
 thing that was truly, really his. 
 
 He looked proudly at John as he said it. He 
 laughed loudly at the thought of the two children 
 dragging at their mother's hands all the way to the 
 circus. It was a real picture to him. He could see 
 it plainly. He had been one of those children him- 
 self once. Time and tide — like a pair o' children 
 goin' to a circus ! He thought it excellent — good, 
 and he laughed and laughed, till suddenly he realised 
 that John was not even smiling. Then wasn't it 
 funny after all.? Wasn't it clever.? Yet the things 
 which this Mr. Chesterton was reputed to have writ- 
 ten, were quite unintelligible to him. 
 
170 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " The apple which Eve ate in the Garden of Eden 
 was an orange and the peel has been lying about 
 ever since." 
 
 Where was the sense in that? How could an apple 
 be an orange. But Time and Tide, like a pair o' 
 children going to a circus ! Oh — he thought it ex- 
 cellent. 
 
 Then, with a pitiable sensation of failure, he turned 
 in almost an attitude of appeal to Jill. But she was 
 smiling. She was amused. Then there was some- 
 thing in it after all ! It had amused her. He held 
 out his hand, feeling a wild inclination to grip it 
 fiercely and bless her for that smile. 
 
 " Good-bye," said he in his best and most elaborate 
 of manners. " I'm very pleased to have made your 
 acquaintance," and he marched, with head erect, to 
 the door. 
 
 John followed him. 
 
 " I'll just come down with you," he said. 
 
 As soon as they were outside and the door was 
 closed, he caught the little man's hand warmly in 
 his. 
 
 " You're a brick," said he. " You're a brick. I'll 
 let you in whenever you come back — ^you needn't 
 be afraid." 
 
 Mr. Chesterton stopped on the stairs as they de- 
 scended. 
 
 " I wouldn't have done it," he said emphatically 
 — " if it wasn't that she was a lady as wouldn't 
 understand the likes of me. I tell you, she's a sort 
 of lady as I shall never come across again, — not 
 even in my line of business, — bless her heart." He 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 171 
 
 descended another step or so, then stopped once 
 more. *' See the way she smiled at that what I said. 
 I tell you, she's got a nicer sense of understandin* 
 than what you have." 
 
 John smiled. 
 
 ** I know she has," said he. 
 
 *' I suppose you didn't think that clever, what I 
 said.?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do — I do. I don't even think the 
 Mr. Chesterton would have thought of that." 
 
 *' Don'tcher really, now ? Don'tcher really ? " 
 
 John had not smiled; but this — well, of course, 
 this made up for everything. The Mr. Chesterton 
 would not have thought of Time and Tide being 
 like a pair of children goin' to a circus ! Now, if 
 he were to write that and a few other things hke it, 
 which he dared say he could think of easily enough, 
 he, too, might be a great man whose name would 
 be on the lips of such women as that perfect little 
 lady upstairs. Then she would understand the hkes 
 of him. 
 
 " Then you think I suited the part .? " he said 
 cheerfully at the door. 
 
 " I think, under the circumstances and everything 
 being considered, you did it wonderfully," said John. 
 " And as for your being good enough to trust me 
 — well — it's finer than all the epigrams in the world." 
 
 He wrung his hand once more and the little man 
 departed happily down the Lane, thinking of all the 
 clever things that he would say to his old woman 
 when eventually he got home. But — Time and Tide, 
 like a pair of children — he knew he'd never beat that. 
 
172 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 She had smiled at it. She had thought it clever. 
 The other things that came laboriously into his mind 
 as he walked down the Lane, were not a patch on it. 
 
 The moment John had closed the door, he flew 
 upstairs. 
 
 " Well — what do you think of the great Mr. Ches- 
 terton ? " he asked with a laugh. 
 
 " I do not think his conversation is nearly as 
 good as his writing," said Jill. 
 
 " But you smiled at that last thing he said." 
 
 *' Yes, I know." She explained it first with her 
 eyes and then, " He was going," she added — ^** and 
 I think it must have been relief." 
 
 John's heart thumped. A light of daring blazed 
 in his eyes. It was relief ! She was glad to be alone 
 with him! This meant more than the look of dis- 
 appointment. He had crossed the room, found him- 
 self beside her, found her hand gripped fiercely in 
 his before he realised that he had obeyed the volition 
 to do so. 
 
 " You wanted us to be alone? " he whispered. 
 
 " Yes — I've got a lot I want to say," 
 
 Had the moment not been such as this, he would 
 have caught the note of pain that vibrated in her 
 voice; but he was in the whirlwind of his love. It 
 was deafening in his ears, it was blinding in his 
 eyes ; because then he knew she loved him also. He 
 heard nothing. He saw nothing. Her hand was to 
 his lips and he was kissing every finger. 
 
 Presently he held her hand to him and looked up. 
 
 "You knew this," he said — "didn't you? You 
 knew this was bound to be? " 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 173 
 
 She bent her head. 
 
 *' I don't know what it means," he went on pas- 
 sionately. " I haven't the faintest idea what it 
 means. I love you — that's all. You mean every- 
 thing to me. But I can't ask you to marry me. 
 It wouldn't be fair." A thought of Mr. Chester- 
 ton rushed across his mind, " I — I can barely keep 
 myself in rooms like these. I couldn't keep you. 
 So I suppose I haven't a moment's right to say 
 one of these things to you. But I had to say them. 
 You knew I was going to say them — didn't you — Jill 
 — my Jill — you knew — didn't you?" 
 
 She let him take both her hands in his ; she let 
 Aim drag them to his shoulders and press them there. 
 But she bent her head forward. She hid her face 
 from his. There was that which she had to tell 
 him, things which she had to say, that must be 
 told before he could blame himself any more for the 
 love he had offered. She had known it was coming. 
 He was quite right ; she had known all he was going 
 to say, realised it ever since that day when they had 
 quarrelled in Kensington Gardens. All the moments 
 between until this, had been a wonderful anticipa- 
 tion. A thousand times her breath had caught; 
 a thousand times her heart had thumped, thinking 
 he was about to speak; and through it all, just 
 these few weeks or so, the anxious longing, the tire- 
 less praying that what she had now to say need 
 never be said. 
 
 For a little while she let him hold her so. It 
 would be the last time. God had been talking, or 
 He had been sleeping, and St. Joseph — perhaps he 
 
174 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 had taken John's gift of generosity rather than that 
 last candle of her's, for the petition she had made on 
 that 18th of March in the Sardinia St. Chapel had 
 not been answered. 
 
 Presently she looked up into his eyes. 
 
 " You mustn't blame yourself, John," she said 
 gently. " It is I who deserve all the blame." 
 
 " Why.? " he said—" why? " 
 
 " Because — not for the reason you said — ^but for 
 something else, this is all impossible. I know it is 
 the most wonderful thing that will ever be in my 
 life. I know that. I'm sure of it. But something 
 has happened since I saw you last, which makes it 
 impossible for us to see each other again." 
 
 " Your people have found out? They forbid it? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 *' No — no — it's not that. They know nothing. I 
 must go back in order to explain it to you." 
 
 Still holding his hand, she slipped into a chair, 
 motioning him to draw up another beside her, 
 
 " You remember when we first met? " 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Did you ever wonder why I was praying to St. 
 Joseph ? " 
 
 " Wonder? " he echoed. " I've thought of a thou- 
 sand different things." 
 
 " I don't suppose you've thought of the right 
 one," said Jill. "My father's not rich, you know; 
 not so rich as you might expect from his position 
 and the house where we live. At one time we were 
 better off, but they still try to live on at Prince of 
 Wales' Terrace, though they can't really afford it. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 175 
 
 Father lost money in speculation, and, before that, 
 he had put down Ronald's name for Eton. Then the 
 chances of his ever going there seemed to dwindle 
 to nothing. It was when it almost seemed as if we 
 must leave the house in Kensington, that a friend of 
 father's asked me to marry him. He was over forty 
 — some years older than me and I " 
 
 *' You refused him, of course," said John quickly. 
 At twenty-six, forty years can seem the millennium 
 when they stand in your way. 
 
 " Yes — I — I refused. But he did not take my re- 
 fusal. He asked me to think about it; that he 
 would wait — would even wait a year. Then, I be- 
 lieve, he must have said something to father, besides 
 telling him that I had refused, because father talked 
 for a long while to me afterwards and mother, too. 
 They showed me as plainly as they could, though, 
 from their point of view alone, what an excellent 
 match it would be. Father told me exactly what his 
 financial position was — a thing he had never done 
 before. I had always thought him to be quite 
 rich. Then, at the end, he said he had invested in 
 some speculation which he believed was going to 
 set him quite right again, enable us to stay on in 
 Kensington and make it quite possible for Ronald 
 to go to Eton. But that if this failed, as he did not 
 believe it would, then he hoped that I would recon- 
 sider my refusal to his friend. I say he hoped; but 
 he did not put it in that way. He showed me that 
 it would be my duty — that I should be spoiling 
 Ronald's chances and mother's life and his, if I did 
 not accept." 
 
176 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 She paused. She waited for John to say some- 
 thing; but he sat there beside her with his lips set 
 tight and his eyes unmoving. 
 
 " It was on the 18th of March, he told me that," 
 she continued — " the day that I went to pray to St. 
 Joseph that his speculation might not fail — the day 
 I met you. Then — only the day before yesterday 
 — they told me. The prayer had been no good. I 
 always said poor St. Joseph was no good to me." 
 
 " He's lost his money ? " said John hoarsely. He 
 let her hand fall and moved away. 
 
 " Yes. I — I've got to accept." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE CITY OP BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Then you'll never know my people in Venice," 
 said John presently. He had suddenly remembered 
 that there was nothing to tell the little old white- 
 haired lady now. To all the thousand questions 
 which she would whisper into his ears, only evasive 
 answers could be given her. 
 
 " I told my mother about you," he went on slowly. 
 ** I told her how we met. I told her that you were 
 praying to St. Joseph and she's been wondering 
 ever since — like me " — the emotion rose in his throat 
 — " she's been wondering what you could have had to 
 ask." 
 
 He came back to the arm-chair — the arm-chair 
 in which he did his work — and quietly sat down. 
 Then, as quietly, as naturally as if she had done it 
 a thousand times before, Jill seated herself on the 
 floor at his feet and his arm wound gently round 
 her neck. 
 
 " Did your mother know we met again ? " she asked 
 presently. 
 
 " Yes — I told her about the first time in Kensing- 
 ton Gardens. I haven't told her any more. I dared 
 not." 
 
 " Dared not ? " She looked up quickly. 
 
 " No — ^it's the hope of her life to see me happy 
 1T7 
 
178 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 — to see me married. They think I make more money 
 than I do, because I won't take anything from them. 
 They believe I'm in a position to marry and, in nearly 
 every letter she writes, she makes some quaint sort 
 of allusion to it. I believe already her mind is set 
 on you. She's so awfully cute. She reads every 
 single word between the lines, and sometimes sees 
 more what has been in my mind when I wrote to 
 her, than I even did myself." 
 
 Jill's interest wakened. Suddenly this old lady, 
 far away in Venice, began to live for her. 
 
 " What is she like ? " she asked — " Describe her. 
 You've never told me what she's like." 
 
 Diffidently, John began. At first it seemed wasting 
 their last moments together to be talking of some- 
 one else; but, word by word, he became more inter- 
 ested, more absorbed. It was entering Jill into his 
 life, making her a greater part of it than she would 
 have been had she gone away knowing nothing more 
 of him than these rooms in Fetter Lane. At last 
 the little old white-haired lady, with those pathetic- 
 ally powerless hands of hers, was there, alive, in 
 the room with them. 
 
 Jill looked up at him with such eyes as con- 
 cealed their tears. 
 
 " She means a lot to you," she said gently. 
 
 " Yes — she means a great deal." 
 
 " And yet, do you know, from your description of 
 her, I seemed more to gather how much you meant 
 to her. She lives in you." 
 
 " I know she does." 
 
 "And your father.? Thomas Grey — of the port 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 179 
 
 of Venice ? " She tried to smile at the remembrance 
 which that brought. 
 
 " Yes — he lives in me, too. They both of them 
 do. He, for the work I shall do, carrying on where 
 he left off; she, for the woman I shall love and the 
 children I know she prays I may have before she 
 dies. That is the essence of true fatherhood and 
 true motherhood. They are perfectly content to die 
 when they are once assured that their work and 
 their love is going on living in their child." 
 
 She thought of it all. She tried in one grasp 
 of her mind to hold all that that meant, but could 
 only find herself wondering if the little old white- 
 haired lady would be disappointed in her, would 
 disapprove of the duty she was about to fulfil, if 
 she knew. 
 
 After a long pause, she asked to be told where 
 they lived; to be told all — everything about them; 
 and in a mood of inspiration, John wove her a 
 romance. 
 
 " You've got to see Venice," he began, " you've 
 got to see a city of slender towers and white domes, 
 sleeping in the water like a mass of water lilies. 
 You've got to see dark water-ways, mysterious 
 threads of shadow, binding all these flowers of stone 
 together. You've got to hear the silence in which 
 the whispers of lovers of a thousand years ago, 
 and the cries of men, betrayed, all breathe and echo 
 in every bush. These are the only noises in Venice 
 — these and the pla^h of the gondolier's oar or his 
 call — ' Ohe ! ' as he rounds a sudden corner. You've 
 got to see it all in the night — at night, when the 
 
180 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 great white lily flowers are blackened In shadow, and 
 the darkened water-ways are lost in an impenetrable 
 depth of gloom. You've got to hear the stealthy 
 creeping of a gondola and the lapping of the water 
 against the slimy stones as it hurries by. In every 
 little burning light that flickers in a barred window 
 up above, you must be able to see plotters at work, 
 conspirators planning deeds of evil or a lover in his 
 mistress' arms. You've got to see magic, mystery, 
 tragedy, and romance, all compassed by grey stone 
 and green water, to know the sort of place where 
 my mother and father live, to know the place where 
 I should have taken you, if — if things had been 
 diff^erent." 
 
 " Should we have gone there together.'' " she said 
 in a breath. 
 
 " Y es — I've always sort of dreamed, when I've 
 thought of the woman with God's good gift of un- 
 derstanding, I've always sort of dreamed of what we 
 should do together there." 
 
 She looked up into his face. The picture of it 
 all was there in his eyes. She saw it as well. She 
 saw the vision of all she was losing and, as you play 
 with a memory that hurts, as a mother handles the 
 tiny faded shoe of the baby she has lost, she wanted 
 to see more of it. 
 
 " Should we have gone there together.? " she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 He smiled down at her — ^mock bravery — a smile 
 that helped him bear the pain. 
 
 " Yes, — every year — as long as they lived and 
 every year afterwards, if you wished. Every morn- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 181 
 
 ing, we'd have got up early — you know those early 
 mornings when the sun's white and all the shadows 
 are sort of misty and the water looks cleaner and 
 fresher than at any other time because the dew has 
 purged it. We'd have got up early and come down- 
 stairs and outside in the little Rio, the gondolier 
 would be blowing on his fingers, waiting for us. 
 They can be cold those early mornings in Venice. 
 Then we'd have gone to the Giudecca, where all the 
 ships lie basking in the sun — all the ships that have 
 come from Trieste, from Greece, from the mysterious 
 East, up through the Adriatic, threading their way 
 through the patchwork of islands, past Fort San 
 Nicolo and Lido till they reach the Giudecca Canal. 
 They lie there in the sun in the early mornings like 
 huge, big water-spiders, and up from all the cabins 
 you'll see a httle curl of pale blue smoke where the 
 sailors are cooking their breakfasts." 
 
 " And how early will that be .'' " asked Jill in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Oh — six o'clock, perhaps." 
 
 " Then I shall be awfully sleepy. I never wake up 
 till eight o'clock and even then it's not properly 
 waking up." 
 
 " Well, then, you'll put your head on my shoulder 
 and you'll go to sleep. It's a wonderful place to 
 sleep in, is a gondola. We'll go away down towards 
 Lido and you can go to sleep." 
 
 " But the gondolier.? " 
 
 " Oh " — he laughed gently. " The hood's up — ^he 
 stands behind the hood. He can't see. And if he 
 can, what does that matter.? He understands. A 
 
182 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 gondolier is not a London cabby. He plies that oar 
 of his mechanically. He's probably dreaming, too, 
 miles away from us. There are some places in the 
 world where it is natural for a man to love a woman, 
 where it isn't a spectacle, as it is here, exciting sordid 
 curiosity, and Venice is one of them. Well, then, 
 you'll go to sleep, with your head on my shoulder. 
 And when we're coming back again, I shall wake 
 you up — how shall I wake you? " 
 
 He leant over her. Her eyes were in Venice al- 
 ready. Her head was on his shoulder. She was 
 asleep. How should he wake her.'' He bent still 
 lower, till his face touched hers. 
 
 " I shall kiss you," he whispered — " I shall kiss 
 your eyes, and they'll open." And he kissed her 
 eyes — and they qjosed. 
 
 " We'll go back to breakfast, then," he went on, 
 scarcely noticing how subtly the tense had changed 
 since he had begun. " What do you think you'd 
 like for breakfast? " 
 
 " Oh — anything — it doesn't matter much what one 
 eats, does it? " 
 
 " Then we'll eat anything," he smiled — " whatever 
 they give us. But we shall be hungry, you know. 
 We shall be awfully hungry." 
 
 " Well," said Jill under her breath — " I'm sure 
 they'll give us enough. And what do we do then?" 
 
 "After breakfast?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 "Well — I finish just one moment before y^ou do, 
 and then I get up, pretending that I'm going to the 
 window." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 183 
 
 She looked up surprised. 
 
 " Pretending ? What for ? " 
 
 " Because I want to get behind your chair." 
 
 "But why.?" 
 
 ** Because I want to put my arms round your 
 neck and kiss you again." 
 
 He showed her how. He showed her what he 
 meant. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes 
 once more. 
 
 "When, without complaint, you take whatever is 
 given you, that's the only grace for such a meal as 
 that. Well — when we've said grace — then out we 
 go again." 
 
 "In the garden?" 
 
 "Yes — to the Palazzo Capello in the Rio 
 Marin." 
 
 " That's where your people live.? " 
 
 *' Yes. Well, perhaps, we take them out, or we 
 go and sit in the garden. I expect father will want 
 us to go and sit in the garden and see the things 
 he's planted; and mother of course'll consent, 
 though she'll be longing to go out to the Piazza 
 San Marco and look at the lace in the shops under 
 the Arcade." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll go out with her " said Jill. 
 
 *' If you go, I go," said John. 
 
 She laughed, and forced him to a compromise. 
 He would stay in the garden for half an hour; it 
 need not be more. 
 
 " There might be things we wanted to buy in the 
 shops," she said — " shops where you might not be 
 allowed to come." So he could understand that it 
 
184 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ought to be half an hour. But it must not be 
 more. 
 
 " And then — ^what then ? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, then, directly after lunch, we'd take a 
 gondola once more and set off for Murano." 
 
 " Directly after.? Wouldn't it be cruel to leave 
 them so soon? If we only go for a month every 
 year, wouldn't it be cruel.? " 
 
 This is where a man is selfish. This is where a 
 woman is kind. It was natural enough, but he had 
 not thought so much of them. 
 
 He consented that they should stay till tea-time 
 was over — tea in those little, wee cups without any 
 handles, which the little old white-haired lady could 
 just manage to grasp in her twisted hands, and ac- 
 cordingly, loved so much because they did not jeer 
 at her powerlessness as did the many things which 
 she had once been able to hold. 
 
 " You didn't want not to come out with me — did 
 you ? " he asked when the tea-time picture had passed 
 before his eyes. 
 
 " Not — not want — ^but you'd get tired, perhaps, 
 if you saw too much of me alone." 
 
 "Get tired!" 
 
 Three score years and ten were the utmost that a 
 man might hope for in this life. Get tired ! 
 
 Well, then, tea was over at last. The light of a 
 pearl was creeping into the sky. That was the 
 most wonderful time of all to cross the Lagoon to 
 Murano. 
 
 " Then it was much better we stayed to tea," she 
 whispered. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 185 
 
 Much better, since the shadows were deepening 
 under the arches, and he could take her head in his 
 hands and kiss her — as he kissed her then — ^without 
 being seen. Oh — it was much better that they had 
 stayed to tea. 
 
 Now they had started, past the Chiesa San Gia- 
 cono into the Grand Canal, down the broad water- 
 way, past the Ca' d'Oro, which the Contarini built, 
 to the narrow Rio di Felice ; then out into the Sacca 
 della Miscricordia, and there, before them, the broad 
 stretch of the silent Lagoon — a lake of opal water 
 that never ended, but as silently became the sky, 
 with no line of light or shade to mark the alchemy 
 of change. 
 
 ** And across this," said John, — " with their hour 
 glasses spilling out the sand, come the gondolas with 
 the dead, to the cemetery that lies in the water in the 
 midst of the Lagoon. They churn up the water 
 with the speed they go, and if you ask a gondolier 
 why they go so fast, he will tell you it is because 
 the dead cannot pay for that last journey of theirs. 
 That is their humour in the city they call La citta 
 del riso sangue. But we shall creep through the 
 
 water — we can pay — at least " he thought of 
 
 his two quarters' rent — " I suppose we can. We 
 shall steer through the water like the shadow of a 
 
 little cloud gliding across the sea. Oh ^" he 
 
 pressed his hands to his eyes — " but it would be 
 wonderful there with you! And at night, when 
 the whole city is full of darkness — strange, silent, 
 mysterious darkness — where every lighted taper that 
 burns and every lamp that is lit seems to illuminate 
 
186 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 a deed of mystery, we would go out into the Grand 
 Canal, when we had said good-night to those dear 
 old people of mine and we'd listen to them singing — 
 and, oh, — they sing so badly, but it sounds so won- 
 derful there. At last — one by one, the lights would 
 begin to flicker out. The windows that were alive 
 and awake would close their eyes and hide in the 
 mysterious darkness ; a huge white lamp of a moou 
 would glide up out of the breast of the Adriatic, and 
 then " 
 
 " Then ? " she whispered. 
 
 " Then we should turn back to the little room 
 amongst all those other little rooms in the great 
 darkness — the gondolier would row home, and I 
 should be left alone with my arms tight round you 
 and my head resting on the gentlest place in the 
 world." 
 
 He lifted his hands above his head — he laughed 
 bitterly with the unreality of it all. 
 
 *'What beautiful nonsense all this is," said he. 
 
 She looked up with the tears burning in her 
 eyes. She looked up and her glance fell upon a 
 picture that his father had painted and given him 
 — a picture of the Rialto lifting with its white arches 
 over the green water. She pointed to it. He fol- 
 lowed with his eyes the white line of her finger. 
 
 " Then that," said Jill, and her voice quivered — 
 ** that's the City — the City of Beautiful Nonsense." 
 
BOOK n 
 
 THE TUNNEL 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE HEART OF THE SHADOW 
 
 Ideai^s in the human being are as the flight of a 
 swallow, now high, now sinking to earth, borne up- 
 wards by the bright light of air, pressed downwards 
 by the lowering of a heavy sky. 
 
 When jTohn had said his last good-bye to Jill, 
 when it seemed to both of them that the Romance 
 was finished — ^when the City of Beautiful Nonsense 
 had just been seen upon the horizon, like a land 
 of promise viewed from a height of Pisgah, and then 
 faded into the mist of impossible things, John turned 
 back to those rooms in Fetter Lane, with his ideal 
 hugging close to earth and all the loneliness of life 
 stretching out monotonously before him. 
 
 But not until he had seen the empty tea-cups in 
 their position upon the table just as they had left 
 them, the little piece of bread and butter she had 
 half eaten, upon her plate; not until he had seen 
 the empty chairs standing closely together as though 
 repeating in whispers all the story of the City of 
 Beautiful Nonsense which he had told her, did he 
 come actually to realise that he had lost her — that 
 he was alone. 
 
 The minutes ticked wearily by as he sat there, 
 staring at it all as though it were an empty stage 
 at the end of a play, which the players had de- 
 serted. 
 
 189 
 
190 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 At the sound of footsteps mounting the stairs, 
 he looked up. Then, as a knock fell upon the door, 
 he started to his feet. She had come back! She 
 could bear the parting no more than he ! They were 
 never to be parted! This loneliness was too unen- 
 durable, too awful to bear. In hurried strides, he 
 reached the door and flung it open. 
 
 There stood the little bailiff — the great Mr. Ches- 
 terton — with a smile spreading agreeably over his 
 solemn face. In those two hours of his absence, he 
 had thought of three clever things — three! which, 
 having just invented, he found to be in every way 
 as good as that famous simile of Time and Tide. 
 He was longing to say them. 
 
 But when he saw the look on John's face, he 
 stopped. 
 
 " Yer not expecting another young lady are yer? " 
 he asked. 
 
 John turned back despairingly into the room, 
 making way for him to enter. He offered no reply 
 to the little man's remark. 
 
 Mr. Chesterton closed the door behind him. 
 
 " 'Ave you 'ad a scrap.'' " he asked sympathetic- 
 ally. 
 
 Now, sympathy from a bailiff, may be a very 
 beautiful thing, but when the mind of a man is 
 floundering in the nethermost pit, he has no need 
 of it. John turned on him, his face changed, his 
 whole expression altered. 
 
 " You've come here to do your work, haven't 
 you?" he said thickly — "you've come here to take 
 possession of any confounded thing you like. Well 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 191 
 
 — take it ! Take the whole blessed show ! I don't 
 want to see a single thing in this room again." He 
 strode to the door. The little man stood staring 
 at him amazed. " You can rip ever}' damned thing 
 
 off the walls " he went on wildly. " Make up 
 
 your fifteen pounds whatever you do. Don't stint 
 yourself! For God's sake don't stint yourself! — 
 Take every damned thing ! " 
 
 The door slammed. He was gone. 
 
 It was half-past six. Payne and Welcome were 
 •just beginning to put up their shutters. John hur- 
 ried into the side entrance and threw his ticket down 
 on the counter. 
 
 " I want that seventeen pounds," he said, and the 
 ten-shilling-piece twisted a giddy dance on the 
 counter by the side of the ticket, then sank down 
 with a gentle ringing sound. 
 
 The pawnbroker looked at him in amazement, 
 then went to a little pigeon-hole and produced the 
 packet of money. John snatched it up and went. 
 
 They stared after him; then stared at one an- 
 other. 
 
 " He ain't so far off it this time," said one. 
 
 " Next thing 'e'U do," said the high priest—" 'e'll 
 cut 'is throat in a barber's shop." 
 
 But supremely unconscious of all these gentle re- 
 marks, John was hurrying on through the streets, 
 scarcely conscious of where he was going, or why 
 he had redeemed the money that was now gripped 
 fiercely in his hand. 
 
 For what did anything matter now? There must 
 be some colour of reality about the ideal, some red 
 
192 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 lamp burning before an altar to light up that utter 
 darkness into which the mind inevitably falls, blindly 
 and stumblingly, without such actual guiding flame 
 as this. Where would be the wonderful reality of 
 the Host in the Tabernacle, if it was not for the 
 dim red lamp that burnt silently by day and night 
 before the altar? Who could pray, who could be- 
 lieve in utter darkness? 
 
 And in utter darkness Jill had surely left him now. 
 It might have been that they could not have married 
 for some years ; it might have been that they could 
 never have married at all ; but to see her no more — 
 never to feel again the touch of understanding in her 
 hands, the look of understanding in her eyes — that 
 was the gale of the wind which had obliterated the 
 red light of the lamp that burnt before his altar. 
 And now — he was in darkness. Neither could he 
 pray, nor believe. 
 
 For an hour, he wandered through the streets, 
 then, as a clock struck the half-hour after seven, he 
 turned into a fashionable restaurant and took a table 
 in a comer alone. 
 
 A waiter came with the menu of the dinners — 
 five shillings, seven and six, ten shillings. He chose 
 the last as it was handed to him. The mere action 
 of spending money needlessly seemed a part of the 
 expression of that bitterness which was tainting all 
 his thoughts. 
 
 The waiter handed hira the wine list with a bow. 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 " Water," he said. 
 
 This was not his way of seeking oblivion. In 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 19a 
 
 even the blackest moments of his mind, he must have 
 his senses wide-eyed and awake. The man who drinks 
 to forget, forgets Remorse as well. Remorse is a 
 thing to be learnt of, not to drown. 
 
 This, if John had known it, was what his father 
 meant by wishing for the sorrow in his life. By such 
 moments as these, he was to come to learn the value 
 of optimism ; by such moments as these, he was to 
 come to know, not that there is too much sadness in 
 life already, but that there is too little of the con- 
 trast of real happiness to appreciate it. 
 
 All through the meal, sending away one course 
 after another unfinished, he gave way voluntarily to 
 the passion of bitterness, made no eflPort to steady 
 the balance of his mind. 
 
 In a balcony, at the far end of the room, a band 
 of string instruments played the worst of meanings 
 into bad music — the music one hears without lis- 
 tening to. It was not long in finding its way into 
 jJohn's mind, not long in exerting its influence upon 
 his mood. One by one, crowding quickly upon each 
 other, he permitted its suggestions to take a hold 
 upon his thoughts. What did it matter how he 
 thought? What did it matter how low his ideal 
 should fall? He could see nothing beyond the mo- 
 ment, nothing further than that he was alone, de- 
 prived of the greatest, the highest hope with which 
 his whole being had associated itself? What did 
 anything matter now that he had lost that. 
 
 And then, out of a stillness that had fallen since 
 the last playing of the band, the musicians began a 
 selection from La Boheme. He laid his knife and 
 
194 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 fork upon the plate. He sat back in his chair and 
 listened. 
 
 Why did it sound so different ? What had changed 
 in it since that night when he had heard it at the 
 Opera? Now there was sensuality in every note of 
 it. It maddened him. The very passages that he 
 had once found beautiful — found wonderful as he 
 had listened to them with Jill — ^became charged with 
 the vilest imaginations. Thoughts, the impurest, 
 surged into his mind. The wildest and most incom- 
 prehensible desire beat in his brain. Was it the 
 players? Was it their rendering of the music, or 
 was it himself? 
 
 He called the waiter, ordered his bill, paid — think- 
 ing no loss in it — out of the seventeen pounds he 
 had redeemed, and strode out of the place into the 
 street. 
 
 There was nowhere to go, no friend whom he cared 
 at such a moment to see. At last, without con- 
 sciously determining upon it, he found himself mak- 
 ing his way back to Fetter Lane. 
 
 With steps almost like those of an old man, he 
 climbed up the stairs, passing the sandy cat without 
 notice — not so much as a good-evening. 
 
 When he opened the door of his room, there was 
 Mr. Chesterton, comfortably ensconced in his arm- 
 chair and only saving his presumptuousness of its 
 occupation, by reading one of John's books. 
 
 But Mr. Chesterton was a man with a certain 
 amount of humility. He rose to his feet as John 
 entered; because there was no doubt as to its being 
 John's particular arm-chair. It was the only arm- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 195 
 
 chair in the room. The little bailiff had observed 
 that. In fact, for that very reason, he had consid- 
 erately omitted it in the making of his inventory. 
 
 " I — I just been reading one of your books, Mr. 
 Grey," he said, " an' if yer don't mind my sayin' so, 
 I've read many a story what was worse. I 'ave, 
 indeed. I like this story first rate. It's no more 
 like a thing you'd hear of in life than I'm like the 
 photograph my son took of me last week with a 
 five-shilling camera. 'Ow on earth you manage to 
 do it is a marvel to me. Do you get a plot in yer 
 'ead like and just stick it down just as it comes to 
 yer — what my old woman calls when the spirit moves ? 
 * The spirit moves,' she says, and then she goes out 
 and gets a jug of beer. But that's only figurative, 
 of course. What I mean is, do you go on writing 
 what's in your 'ead, or do you get bits of it out of 
 other books.? 'He threw his arms around her neck 
 and held her in a passionate embrace.' I've read that 
 in 'caps of books. I suppose they get it from each 
 other." 
 
 " Did you find it in mine ? " asked John. 
 
 "Well, no — I can't say as I 'ave yet. But then, 
 they've only just been introduced. I expect you'll 
 'ave to come to it sooner or later. They all do." 
 
 " That's quite right," said John — " we all do. 
 There's something inevitable about it. Have you 
 had a meal yet ? " 
 
 " No — ^but I've got a little something here In a 
 basket. I'll eat it on the landing if you like." 
 
 " Oh, no," said John — " eat it here. It makes no 
 difference to me." 
 
196 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 So Mr. Chesterton pulled out the basket with the 
 little something inside. Two cold sausages and 
 some bread and butter were the extent of his meal 
 which he ate with evident relish, and table manners 
 that, perhaps, a fastidious person might have ob- 
 jected to. You could, for example, hear him eating. 
 Sometimes he exclaimed how excellent were sausages 
 when they were cold. He went so far as to say he 
 loved them. He also expanded on the way his old 
 woman cooked tripe ; but when he talked about the 
 brains of certain animals being cheap and at the 
 same time a great delicacy, John found that his 
 hands wanted washing and went into the other room. 
 
 " They've had a tiff," said the little man as he 
 bit into the second sausage — " they've 'ad a tiff. 
 He's that down in the mouth, there's nothin' I can 
 say as'U buck him up. Why, if I talk about sheep's 
 brains to my old woman, she gets as chirpy as a 
 cock-sparrer." 
 
 When John came back, Mr. Chesterton had fin- 
 ished; the basket was put away and he was doing 
 things with his teeth and a bent pin in a far comer 
 of the room. 
 
 " 'Ave yer got a box of draughts, Mr. Grey?" he 
 asked, when he was at liberty. John nodded his 
 head. 
 
 " Then come along," said the little man — " let's 
 have a game ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 AMBER 
 
 But there is no oblivion to be found in a game of 
 draughts. For some days, John bore with the so- 
 ciety of the amiable Mr. Chesterton. He listened to 
 his stories of visits that he had paid in other estab- 
 lishments, where they had prevailed upon him to do 
 odd jobs about the house, even to the cleaning of 
 the knives and boots. The only time when he seemed 
 to have resolutely refused to do anything, was on 
 the occasion he had spent seven days with the lady 
 journalist who had a beard and a fair tidy 
 moustache. 
 
 " I wouldn't even have shaved her if she'd asked 
 me to," he said. 
 
 This sort of thing may be amusing; but it needs 
 the time, it needs the place. In those rooms of 
 his, where only a few days before, Jill had been 
 sitting — at that period of his life when hope was 
 lowest and despair triumphant, John found no 
 amusement in it at all. 
 
 He wanted his oblivion. His whole desire was to 
 forget. The life that had held all promise for him, 
 was gone — irrevocably broken. He sought for that, 
 which would, by contrast, close the memory of it, as 
 you shut a book that is read. It was not to be 
 done by playing draughts with Mr. Chesterton. It 
 
 197 
 
198 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 was not to be done in the ways that the crowd of 
 men will choose. He had attempted that — found it 
 impossible and flung it aside. 
 
 It was then that he thought of Amber. She had 
 had a rightful place once, a place that had ac- 
 corded with his ideas of the cleanliness of existence. 
 Only that he had met Jill — only that he had loved — 
 only that he had found the expression of his ideal 
 in her, Amber would still have been there. And 
 now — now that he had lost everything — why not re- 
 turn? It was the most human thing in the world. 
 Life was not possible of such ideals. 
 
 So he argued, the darkness slowly diminishing — 
 the light of some reason creeping again into his 
 mind. But the bitterness was still there. He still 
 did not care and, as yet, his mind did not even rebel 
 against such callousness. 
 
 One evening, then, he left Mr. Chesterton finishing 
 the reading of his book. He hailed the first hansom 
 he saw and, screwing himself into the comer of the 
 seat, took a deep breath of relief as he drove away. 
 
 Then began the fear as he drove, the fear 
 that he would not find Amber, that since she had 
 gone out of his life, she would have readjusted her 
 mind, found other interests, or even that she might 
 not be there when he arrived. And now, once his 
 destination was made, he dreaded the thought that 
 Circumstance should balk his desire. 
 
 Jumping quickly out of the hansom, he paid his 
 fare, hurried up the steps and rattled the flap of the 
 letter-box. This was the knocker of friends. All 
 those who used the proper means were creditors, not 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 199 
 
 answered until Inspected carefull}'^ from behind lace 
 curtains. 
 
 For a few moments, his heart beat tentatively. 
 There was no sound, no light from within. Then 
 came the quick tapping of high-heels. He took a 
 breath. The door opened. He saw her face of 
 amazement in the darkness. 
 
 " You ! " she exclaimed. The door opened wider 
 to her hand. " Come in." 
 
 He took off his hat and stepped in. His manner 
 was strange. He knew it was strange; he under- 
 stood the look of question In her eyes as she stared 
 at him — it reflected the look In his own mind. 
 
 " Are you alone .'' " he asked. 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 *' My aunt Is staying with me," she explained, 
 ** but she's gone to bed. She's got my bedroom. 
 The mater's gone to bed. I'm sleeping on the floor 
 in the drawing-room. I was sitting there. Come 
 in." 
 
 He followed her into the drawing-room. There 
 was her bed upon the floor — a mattress, sheets and 
 blanket. That was all. 
 
 *' You're sleeping there.'' " he said. 
 
 She said — " hm " with a little jerk of the head, 
 In the most natural way In the world. If he thought 
 he knew what It was to be poor, he flattered himself. 
 He had been without meals, but he had never slept 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Isn't It hard.? " he questioned. " Do jou go to 
 sleep at all.'' " 
 
 She laughed gently under her breath. 
 
200 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Good heavens, yes ! I'm used to it. But what 
 have you come for? " 
 
 She sat down in a heap, like a journeyman tailor, 
 upon her bed, and gazed up at him. At first, he did 
 not know how to say it. Then he blurted it out. 
 
 " I want you to come back again to see me in Fet- 
 ter Lane." 
 
 She smiled with pride. Her mind reached for its 
 box of bricks. He had sent her away from Fetter 
 Lane. That was all over — past — done with. 
 
 " That's rather unexpected — isn't it ? " 
 
 " I can't help that," he exclaimed, with a moment 
 of wildness. 
 
 ** But after all you've said ? " 
 
 ** I can't help what I've said. It holds good no 
 longer. I take it all back. It means nothing." 
 
 She knelt up quickly on her knees. Dignity comes 
 often before humanity with a woman, but pity will 
 always outride the two. Something had happened 
 to him. He was in trouble. The old appeal he had 
 once made to her rose out of the pity that she felt. 
 She stretched up her hands to his shoulders. 
 
 ** What's happened.'' " she asked — " tell me what's 
 happened." 
 
 He dropped on to the mattress on the floor. He 
 told her everything. He told her how far his ideals 
 had fallen in those last few days. He stripped the 
 whole of his mind for her to lash if she chose; he 
 stripped it, like a child undressing for a whipping. 
 
 When he had finished, she sat back again in her 
 former position. She stared into the empty grate. 
 
 ** I wonder," said she — " I wonder does the man 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 201 
 
 exist who can bear disappointment without becoming 
 like that." 
 
 That was the only lash that fell from her. And 
 she did not direct it upon him, but It whipped across 
 the nakedness of his mind with a stinging blow. He 
 winced under It. It made him long to be that man. 
 Yet still, there was his desire ; still there was the fear, 
 that circumstance would balk him of his oblivion. 
 
 " Why do you say that.? " he asked. 
 
 " Because, I thought you would be different," she 
 said. 
 
 *' I'm as human as the rest," said he. " I'm the 
 crank, of course — but I'm a human crank. Will you 
 come back to me again ? " 
 
 She rose to her knees again. She was trembling, 
 but she took his hand In hers and gripped it hard to 
 hide It from him. 
 
 " What will you say afterwards ? " she asked 
 gently. " What will you feel? You'll be full of re- 
 morse. You'll hate me. You'll hate yourself. What 
 about your ideal ? " 
 
 " I have none," he exclaimed blindly. 
 
 " I said that once," she whispered — " and you said 
 I was wrong, that I had an Ideal, that everybody 
 had, only they lost sight of it." 
 
 He remembered all that. He remembered the rea- 
 soning of his mind. He knew it was true. He knew 
 it was true even then. 
 
 *' Now you've lost sight of yours," she continued. 
 ** But you'll see It again, you'll realise It again to- 
 morrow, and then — heavens ! How you'll hate me ! 
 How you'll hate yourself." 
 
202 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 He stared at her. Were women as good, as fine 
 as this? Was he the only vile thing in existence 
 then ? What would Jill think if she could see into the 
 pit of his mind now? So low had he fallen that he 
 thought it impossible to struggle upwards ; so 
 low, that it seemed he must touch the utmost 
 depth before he could get the purchase to re- 
 gain his feet. And if he touched the lowest, he 
 might rise again, but it would not be so high as 
 before. 
 
 Amber watched all the thoughts in his face. She 
 had done her utmost. She could not do more. If he 
 did not fight it out from this, then, what must be, 
 must be. 
 
 Yet one more thing she could do. If she spoke of 
 Venice. But why should she say it? It was his bat- 
 tle, not hers. She had given him every weapon to 
 wage it but this. Why should she say it? The bat- 
 tle was against herself. Yet she answered to the best. 
 There was her ideal as well, however unconscious it 
 may have been. 
 
 " When are you going to Venice ? " she asked 
 hoarsely. 
 
 He told her how he had spent some of the money 
 — more than a pound of it was gone. 
 
 She pulled out her purse, quickly, fiercely, fever- 
 ishly. 
 
 " Then won't you be able to go ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not for a while." 
 
 " Won't your mother be disappointed, — the lit- 
 tle old white-haired lady? " 
 
 He tried to beat back the emotion in his throat, 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 203 
 
 then felt something cold and hard in his hand. He 
 looked down. It was a sovereign. 
 
 " You must take that," she said breathlessly. 
 *' Pay it back some other time and go — go to Venice 
 to-morrow." 
 
 John looked full In her eyes. 
 
 " And you called yourself the fly in the amber," 
 he said. Then he tightened her fingers round the 
 coin — kissed them and walked to the door. 
 
 " I'll go to Venice," he said — " I'll go — somehow 
 or other. I'll be the man who can bear things with- 
 out becoming like that. You shan't be disap- 
 pointed." 
 
 He came back again and seized her hand. Then 
 he hurried out. 
 
 She listened to the door slamming. She heard 
 his footsteps in the quiet street, then she dropped 
 down on the mattress on the drawing-room floor. 
 
 " Oh, you fool ! " she whispered under her breath. 
 «0h, you fool!" 
 
 But wisdom and folly, they are matters of en- 
 vironment. Behind it all, there was the most won- 
 derful satisfaction in the world in saying — " Oh, 
 you fool ! " 
 
BOOK III 
 THE CITY 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE PALAZZO CAPELLO 
 
 They tell you — come to Venice by night ; that then 
 you will drift silently into the marvellous mystery of 
 it all; that then you will feel the weight of the 
 centuries in every shadow that lurks in the deep set 
 doorways ; that then you will realise the tragedies 
 that have been played, the romances woven, and the 
 dark deeds that have been done in the making of its 
 history — all this, if you come to Venice by night. 
 
 They tell you, you will never see Venice as the 
 tourist sees it, if you will but do this ; that the im- 
 pression of mystery will outlast the sight of the 
 Philistines crowding in the Square of St. Mark's,, 
 will obliterate the picture of a fleet of gondolas tear- 
 ing through the Grand Canal, led by a conductor 
 shouting out the names of the Palaces as they pass. 
 Your conception of the city of mystery will last 
 for ever, so they tell you, if you do but come to 
 Venice by night. 
 
 But there is another Venice than this, a Venice 
 you see as you come to it in the early morning — a 
 city of light and of air, a city of glittering water, 
 of domes in gossamer that rise lightly above the 
 surface, finding the sun, as bubbles that melt all the 
 prisms of light into their liquid shells. 
 
 Come to Venice in the early morning and you will 
 207 
 
208 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 see a city bathed in a sea of light ; for it is not only 
 that the sun shines upon it, but that, like the white 
 shoulders of a mermaid, glittering with the water 
 drops as she rises out of the sea, this wonderful city 
 is not illuminated only, but is drenched in light itself. 
 It is no city of shadow and mysteries then. There 
 are no dark water-ways, no deepening gloom beneath 
 the bridges. In the early morning, it lies, as yet un- 
 wakened, blinking, flashing, burning — a rose opal, 
 set clear against the sun. 
 
 Then the deepest shadow Is in a tone of gold, the 
 highest light in a mist of glittering silver. The 
 domes of San Marco and Santa Maria della Salute 
 are caught up in the brilliancy and melt shapelessly 
 into the glow. 
 
 Come to Venice in the early morning and you will 
 see a smelter's furnace into which has been cast the 
 gold and silver from a boundless treasure hoard. 
 You will see all that white and yellow metal run- 
 ning in molten streams of light ; you will see the 
 vibrating waves of air as the flames leap upward, 
 curling and twisting to the very gates of heaven 
 itself. You will see a city of gold and silver, of 
 light and air all made liquid in one sea of bril- 
 liance, if you do but come to Venice in the early 
 morning. 
 
 In the Grand Canal, just at the comer of the 
 Palazzo Baharigo, there appears the entrance to 
 one of those myriad little ways that shoot secretly 
 away from the great, wide water street. Turning 
 into this, the Rio San Polo, following its course un- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 209 
 
 der the bridges and taking the second turning on the 
 left, an obedient gondoher will swing you round 
 with one sweep of his long oar into the Rio Marin. 
 
 Being human, assuming your love of the beautiful, 
 taking time also as his perquisite, he will probably 
 choose more devious ways than this. But, everyone 
 will tell you that, by the Rio San Polo, it is the 
 shortest. 
 
 On each side of the Rio Marin, there runs a nar- 
 row little pathway. Here, the houses do not dip 
 down to the water's edge, the space of light is wider, 
 and the hurrying of the pedestrian on the footway 
 seems to concentrate life for a moment and give it 
 speech, in a place where everything is mute, where 
 everything is still. 
 
 Idlers gather lazily on the bridges to watch the 
 swaying gondolas as they pass beneath. Here, even 
 the mystery you will find by night, is driven away. 
 The sun, the broad stretch of heaven, no longer a 
 ribbon-strip of blue tying together the house-tops, 
 these combine to defy mystery in the Rio Marin. 
 Rose trees and flowering bushes top the grey walls ; 
 lift up their colours against a cloudless sky and smile 
 down to you of gardens concealed on the other 
 side. 
 
 Towards the end of this little water-way, almost 
 opposite the Chiesa Tedeschi, stands the Palazzo 
 Capello, a broad and somewhat unbeautiful house, 
 looking placidly down upon the quiet water. No 
 great history is attached to it. No poet has ever 
 written there, seated at its windows ; no tragedy has 
 been played that the guide books know of, no blood 
 
210 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 has been splashed against its walls. You will not 
 find it mentioned in any of the descriptions of Venice, 
 for it has no history to detain the ear; it bears no 
 show of ornament without to attract the eye. Yet, 
 with that pomp and vanity that breathed in Venice 
 in the middle centuries, it was called — a palace — and 
 only to those who know it from within, can this 
 dignity of name seem justified. 
 
 A great, wide door divides the front of grey stone, 
 up to which lead steps from the pathway — steps, in 
 the crevices of which a patch of green lies here and 
 there in a perfect harmony of contrast to the well- 
 worn slabs. This door is always closed and, with no 
 windows on either side, only the broad stretch of 
 masonry, there is a stem appearance about the place, 
 suggesting a prison or a barracks in its almost for- 
 bidding aspect. But when once that wide, wooden 
 gate is opened, the absence of windows upon the 
 ground floor is partly explained and the mind is 
 caught in a breath of enchantment. It does not give 
 entrance to a hall, but to an archway — an archway 
 tunnelling under the house itself, at the end of which, 
 through the lace-work of wonderful wrought-iron 
 palings, you see the fairy-land of an old Italian gar- 
 den, glittering in the sun. 
 
 The shadows that lie heavily under the archway 
 only serve to intensify the brilliance of the light 
 beyond. Colours are concentrated to the essence of 
 themselves and the burst of sunshine, after the dark- 
 ness, brings a haze, as when you see the air quiver- 
 ing over a furnace. 
 
 But, having gained entrance and passed that door- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 211 
 
 way, you are not yet within the house. On either 
 side of this cool damp tunnel, making way to the 
 right and left on the palace, which is divided into 
 two houses, there are smaller archways cut into the 
 wall. Taking that on your left, and before your 
 eyes have grown accustomed to the confusion of 
 lights and shadows, you might think it was a pas- 
 sage burrowing down into some secret comers of the 
 earth. Your feet stumble, you feel your way, fingers 
 touching the cold walls, suddenly realising that there 
 are steps to mount, not to descend and, groping on- 
 wards, you reach another door confronting you im- 
 passably in the blackness. 
 
 There is a bell here, but it is by chance you find it 
 — a long chain, like that at a postern gate, which 
 depends from somewhere above your head. As you 
 pull it, there is a clanging and a jangling quite close 
 to your ear, shattering in a thousand little pieces 
 the stillness that reigns all round. 
 
 After a moment or so, a small door opens within 
 the bigger door, a curtain is pulled and, stepping 
 through the tiny entrance for which your head must 
 be bent low, you find yourself in a vast, big room — 
 a room stretching from back to front of the whole 
 house — a room that makes the meaning of the word 
 palace seem justified a thousand times. 
 
 At either end are windows, so broad, so high, that 
 the great stretch of this vast chamber, with its lofty 
 ceiling, is flooded by one swift stream of light. Upon 
 the polished floor of wood, the generous sunlight is 
 splashed In daring brightness, throwing all near it 
 into comparative shade, yet reflecting from the shin- 
 
212 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ing surface of the ground a glow that fills the air 
 with a mist of light. 
 
 Along the walls of a dull, cool grey, big pictures 
 are hung. Many there are, yet so spacious is the 
 room, that they do not appear crowded; there is no 
 suggestion of a well-stocked gallery. And on each 
 side of the room two rich, warm-coloured curtains 
 hang, concealing beliind them silent, heavy^^ doors, 
 deep set within the wall. 
 
 One of these, if you open it, will give you admit- 
 tance to a tiny little room — so tiny, so small, that 
 its smallness laughs at you, as for the moment it 
 peers through the open space into the vast chamber 
 beyond. 
 
 Close the door and the smallness seems natural 
 enough then. For there, sitting perhaps over their 
 afternoon tea, or their cups of coffee in the evening, 
 chatting and gossiping as tho' they had just met to 
 keep each other company, are two small figures ; 
 small because they are old — one, that of an old man, 
 whose eyes are somewhat dimmed behind the high 
 cheek bones and the shaggy eyebrows, the other, 
 crumpled and creased like a silk dress that has lain 
 long-folded in a camphor-scented drawer, the figure 
 of a little old white-haired lady. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE LETTER— VENICE 
 
 In the dally affairs of those two old people in the 
 Palazzo Capello, there was one undeviating cere- 
 mony, performed with the regularity and precision 
 of those mechanical figures that strike the great bell 
 on the clock tower in the square of St. Mark's. 
 
 As the bells of the churches rang out the hour of 
 ten at night, Claudina, the old dame who looked 
 after all the wants of this worthy pair, entered the 
 little room, carrying a large box in her hands. 
 
 Whatever their occupation may have been, whether 
 they were playing at cribbage, or merely writing let- 
 ters, up went their white heads together and one or 
 the other would say — in Italian — " You don't mean 
 to say it's ten o'clock, Claudina?" 
 
 And Claudina would bend her head, with a sudden 
 jerk, like a nodding mandarin, her big earrings 
 would swing violently in her ears, and she would 
 plant the box down gently upon the table. 
 
 " Si, signora," she said — always in the same tone 
 of voice, as though she had suddenly realised that 
 her nod of the head was not quite as respectful as it 
 ought to be. 
 
 One cannot describe this as a ceremony ; but it was 
 the prelude to all the serious business that followed. 
 Claudina was the mace bearer. Her entrance with 
 
 213 
 
214. THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 the wooden box was the heralding of the quaint little 
 procession of incidents that followed. 
 
 It was an evening in July, in that self-same year 
 which has so successfully hidden itself in the crevices 
 of our calendar. The jalousies had not long been 
 closed upon a sky of primrose, in which the stars 
 were set like early drops of dew. Claudina had just 
 brought in a letter by the post. It was half-past 
 nine. 
 
 " A letter, signora," Claudina had said and, know- 
 ing quite well who the letter was from, she had not 
 laid it down upon the table as ordinary letters were 
 treated, but had given it directly into her mistress's 
 hand. 
 
 If the old Italian servant knows curiosity, she does 
 not show it. Claudina, once the letter was delivered, 
 discreetly left the room. The moment the door had 
 closed, there followed as pretty a play of courtesy 
 as you might have wished to see. 
 
 The old gentleman laid down his book. 
 
 *' It is from John ? " he said quickly. 
 
 She nodded her head and passed it across to him. 
 Had she rolled the world to his feet, it could not have 
 been more generously done. And had it been the 
 world, he could not have taken it more eagerly. 
 
 His finger was just trembling inside the flap of 
 the envelope, when he read the address. 
 
 " Why — it's written to you, my dear," said he, 
 slowly withdrawing his finger. 
 
 She smiled. She nodded her head again. It was 
 addressed to her ; but in the rightful order of things, 
 it was really his turn. For some unknown reason. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 215 
 
 John had addressed the last two letters to her. He 
 never did do that. He was always most scrupulously 
 fair in this tacit understanding that he should ad- 
 dress his letters alternately, first to his father, then 
 to his mother. This was the only time he had broken 
 the unwritten law. It was really not her letter at 
 all. That was why she had passed it across at once 
 to her husband. He would never have dreamed of 
 asking for the letter out of his turn. His fingers 
 often twitched while her poor hands fumbled with the 
 envelope, but he had never moved an inch to take it, 
 until, of her own accord, she had handed it to him. 
 
 Now — knowing that it was his turn, his hand had 
 stretched out for it naturally the moment Claudina 
 had closed the door, and she had as readily given it. 
 But there was a secret exultation in the heart of her. 
 John had addressed it to her. There was no 
 getting away from that. 
 
 For a moment, the old gentleman sat fingering it 
 in dubious hesitation. Then he passed it back again. 
 
 " It's your letter, my dear," he said. " You open 
 it." And picking up his book, he pretended to go 
 on reading. Of course he did not see a single word 
 on the page before him. Every sense in his body was 
 strained to catch the sound of the tearing paper as 
 she broke open the envelope. But there was no sound 
 at all. Another moment of silence and she was bend- 
 ing over him from behind his chair, her arms round 
 his neck and the letter held before his eyes. 
 
 *' We'll open it together," she said. 
 
 It was her way of letting him do it without know- 
 ing that he had given way. To be sure, it was his 
 
216 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 finger that finally broke the flap of the envelope; 
 but then, he retained all the dignity of the sacrifice. 
 And so, as she leant over his shoulder, they read it 
 together, with little exclamations of delight, little 
 interruptions of pleasure, that need a heart for 
 their purer translation, and cannot be written here 
 because of that great gulf which is fixed behind the 
 mind and the pen — because of that greater gulf 
 which lies between the word and the eye that 
 reads it. 
 
 " My dearest " 
 
 Just those two words beginning; but they were 
 almost the entire letter to her. They set her little 
 brown eyes alight, her heart beating quickly behind 
 the stiff bodice. 
 
 ** / have left writing to you until the last moment 
 for fear I should be unable to come on the day that 
 you were expecting me. But it is all right. I am 
 starting to-morrow morning, and shall be with you 
 the usual time the day following, just about sunset. 
 I can*t tell you how glad I shall be to get away from 
 here. You know what London can be like in July, and 
 1 suppose I want a change as well. I canH work these 
 days at all — but I don't mean to worry you. I ex- 
 pect I am depressed and want different air in my 
 lungs. I shall go up to the bows of the steamer cross- 
 ing to-morrow, stand there with my mouth open, and 
 get it forced down my throat like a dose. 
 
 " God bless you, dearest. Give my love to father, 
 but don't tell him I can't work. I know he under- 
 stands it well enough, but I believe it depresses him 
 as much as it does me." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 217 
 
 He looked up simply into her face as he handed 
 back the paper. 
 
 " You see, I wasn't meant to read it," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 Impulsively, she put her arm round his neck. She 
 knew so Avell how that had hurt. There had been 
 letters sometimes that she was not meant to see. 
 Of course, she had seen them; but that touch of in- 
 timacy which, when you are a lover, or a mother, 
 makes letters such wonderful living things, had been 
 utterly taken from them. They had contained lov- 
 ing messages to her. But the writing itself, that had 
 been meant for another eye to read. 
 
 " But it was only because he was thoughtful about 
 you," she whispered — " not because he didn't want 
 you to see. He'll tell you himself quickly enough 
 that he can't work when he comes. You see if he 
 doesn't. He can't keep those sort of things to him- 
 self. He can do it in a letter, because he thinks he 
 ought to. But he won't be here five minutes before 
 he's telling you that he can't write a line. And 
 think ! He'll be here the day after to-morrow. Oh — 
 he is such a dear boy ! Isn't he ? Isn't he the dear- 
 est boy two old people ever had in the world? " 
 
 So she charmed the smile back into his eyes ; never 
 pausing until she saw that passing look of pain 
 vanish completely out of sight. And so Claudina 
 found them, as she had often found them before, 
 poring once again over the letter as she brought 
 in the big box. 
 
 Up went the two white heads in amazement and 
 concern. 
 
218 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " You don't mean to say it's ten o'clock, Clau- 
 dina?" 
 
 For to old people, you know, the hours pass very 
 quickly; they are scarcely awake, before they are 
 again being put to bed. Time hurries by them with 
 such quiet feet, stepping lightly on the tips of its 
 toes lest it should disturb those peaceful last mo- 
 ments which God gives to the people who are old. 
 
 Claudina laid down the big box upon the table. 
 She nodded her head; her earrings shook. 
 
 " Si, Signora," she replied, as always. 
 
 The little old white-haired lady crumpled the let- 
 ter into her dress ; concealed it behind the stiff black 
 bodice. Then they both stood to their feet, and the 
 procession, of which Claudina was the herald, began. 
 
 First of all the big wooden box was opened, and 
 out of it were taken numbers and numbers of little 
 white linen bags of all shapes and sizes. White? 
 Well, they were white once, but long obedience to the 
 service for which they were required had turned their 
 white to grey. 
 
 Each one of them was numbered, the number 
 stitched in thread upon the outside ; each one of them 
 had been made to fit some separate Httle ornament 
 in the room, to wrap it up, to keep the dust from it 
 through the night — a night-cap for it, in fact. At 
 ten o'clock the ornaments were put to bed; after the 
 ornaments, then these two old people — but first of all 
 their treasures. They stood by, watching Claudina 
 tuck them all up, one by one, and it gave them that 
 delicious sensation which only old people and young 
 children know anything about — the sensation that 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 219 
 
 they are sitting up late that others are going to 
 bed before them. 
 
 Of course they never knew they had that sensa- 
 tion ; they were not aware of it for a moment. But 
 you might have known by the way they turned and 
 smiled at each other when the big Dresden-china 
 shepherdess was popped into her bag, you might 
 have known that in the hearts of them, that was what 
 they felt. 
 
 This evening in particular, their smiles were more 
 radiant than ever. The old lady forgot to make her 
 little exclamations of terror when Claudina could not 
 get the night-cap over the head of the Dresden-china 
 shepherdess, and was in danger of dropping them 
 both together; the old gentleman forgot his quiet — 
 " Be careful, Claudina — be careful." For whenever 
 his wife was very excited, it always made him realise 
 that he was very quiet, very self-possessed. But they 
 felt none of their usual anxiety on this evening in 
 July. In two days — in less — John would be with 
 them. They had waited a whole year for this mo- 
 ment and a whole year, however quickly the sepa- 
 rate moments may pass, is a long, long time to old 
 people. 
 
 " There is one thing," the old gentleman said, 
 presently, as the last ornaments were being ranged 
 upon the table, standing in readiness for their night- 
 caps to go on. *' There is one thing I don't quite 
 know about." 
 
 She slipped her arm into his and asked in a whis- 
 per what it was. There was no need to talk in a 
 whisper, for Claudina did not know a word of Eng- 
 
220 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 Ush ; but she guessed he was going to say something 
 concerning John and about him, she nearly always 
 spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "It's the— the shop," he rephed— " I— I don't 
 like to tell John." 
 
 "Oh — but why not.?" She clung a little closer 
 to him. 
 
 " It isn't that I don't think he would understand 
 — ^but it's just like that sentence in his letter about 
 me. I feel it would hurt him if he thought I couldn't 
 sell my pictures any more. I believe he would blame 
 himself and think he ought to be giving us money, if 
 he knew that I had had to start this curio shop to 
 make things meet more comfortably." 
 
 She nodded her head wisely. She would have been 
 all for telling her son everything. But when he men- 
 tioned the fact of John thinking he ought to support 
 them, and when she considered how John would need 
 every penny that he earned to support the woman 
 whom she longed for him to make his wife — it was 
 a different matter. She quite agreed. It was bet- 
 ter that John should be told nothing. 
 
 " You don't think he'll find out — do you ? " she 
 said, and her eyes looked startled at the thought. 
 
 " No — no — I shouldn't think so. It isn't as if I 
 had to be there every day. Foscari looks after it 
 quite well. Though I'm always afraid he'll sell the 
 very things I can't bear to part with. He sold the 
 old brass Jewish lamp the other day, and I wouldn't 
 have parted with it for worlds. But I dare say if I 
 tell him to be careful — I dare say " 
 
 It was rather sad, this curio shop. It would have 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 221 
 
 been very sad if his wife had not appreciated the need 
 for it; if she had not made it easier by telHng him 
 how brave he was, by sharing with him the sense of 
 shame he felt when it became apparent that his pic- 
 tures were no longer saleable. 
 
 For when he had reached the age of seventy-three, 
 that was what they had told him. If he had not 
 been a landscape painter, it might have been dif- 
 ferent; but at seventy-three, when one's heart is 
 weak, it is not possible, it is not wise, to go far afield, 
 to tramp the mountains as once he had done, in 
 search of subjects new. So, he had been compelled 
 to stay at home, to try and paint from memory the 
 pictures that lay heaped within his mind. Then it 
 was that they began to tell him that they could not 
 sell his work ; then he came to find that there must 
 be other means of support if they were not to appeal 
 to John for aid. And so, having a collection of 
 treasures such as artists find, picked up from all the 
 odd comers of Europe, he bethought him of a curio 
 shop and, finding a little place to let at a quiet cor- 
 ner in the Merceria, he took it, called it — The Treas- 
 ure Shop — and painting the name in a quaint old 
 sign which he hung outside, obliterated his identity 
 from the public eye. 
 
 For weeks beforehand, they had discussed this 
 plan. Some of their own treasures, of course, would 
 have to be sacrificed ; in fact, Claudina carried many 
 little grey night-caps away with her in the wooden 
 box — night-caps that no longer had Dresden heads 
 to fit them. But the money they were going to make 
 out of the Treasure Shop would make up for all 
 
222 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 these heart-rending sacrifices. They would even be 
 able to send John little presents now and then. There 
 was nothing like a curio-shop for minting money, 
 especially if the curios were really genuine, as were 
 theirs. 
 
 But that was the very rub of it. When he came 
 to open the shop, the old gentleman found it was the 
 very genuineness of the things he had to sell that 
 made it impossible for him to part with them. He 
 loved them too well. And even the most ignorant 
 collectors, British sires with check-cloth caps and 
 heavy ulsters, old ladies with guide books in one 
 hand and cornucopias of maze for the pigeons in the 
 other, even they seemed to pitch upon the very things 
 he loved the most. 
 
 He asked exorbitant prices to try and save his 
 treasures from their clutches and mostly this method 
 succeeded; but sometimes they were fools enough to 
 put the money down. For there was one thing he 
 could never do; he could not belittle the thing that 
 he loved. If it was good, if it was genuine, if it 
 really was old, he had to say so despite himself. 
 Enthusiasm would let him do no otherwise. But 
 then, when he had said all he could in its praise, he 
 would ask so immense a sum that the majority of 
 would-be purchasers left the shop as if he had in- 
 sulted them. 
 
 So it was that the Treasure Shop did not fulfil 
 all the expectations they had had of it. It made 
 just enough money for their wants ; but that was all. 
 
 And now came the question as to whether they 
 should let John know of it. Long into the night they 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 223 
 
 discussed the question, their two white heads lying 
 side by side on the pillows, their voices whispering 
 in the darkness. 
 
 " And yet — I believe he would understand," said 
 the little old lady on her side — " he's such a dear, 
 good boy, I'm sure he would understand." 
 
 *' I don't know — I don't know," replied the old 
 gentleman dubiously — " It will be bad enough when 
 he sees my last pictures. No — no — I don't think 
 I'll tell him. Foscari can look after the place. I 
 need hardly be there at all while he's with us." 
 
 And then, making the sign of the cross upon each 
 other's foreheads — saying — " God bless you " — as 
 they had done every night their whole lives long, they 
 fell asleep. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE RETURN— VENICE 
 
 It was sunset when John arrived. The gondolas 
 were riding on a sea of rose ; the houses were stand- 
 ing, quietly, silently, as you will see cattle herd, 
 knee-deep in the burning water. Here and there in 
 the distance, the fiery sun found its reflection in 
 some obscure window, and burnt there in a glowing 
 flame of light. Then it was a city of rose and pink, 
 of mauve and blue and grey, one shading into the 
 other in a texture so delicate, so fine that the very 
 threads of it could not be followed in their change. 
 
 John took a deep breath as he stepped into his 
 gondola. It needed such colour as this to wash out 
 the blackness of that night in London. It needed 
 Buch stillness and such quiet to soothe the rancour 
 of his bitterness ; for the stillness of Venice is the 
 hushed stillness of a church, where all anger is 
 drugged to sleep and only the sorrow that one 
 learns of can hold against the spell and keeps its 
 eyes awake. 
 
 Now, in the desolation of his mind, John was 
 learning, of the things that have true value and of 
 those which have none. It is not an easy lesson to 
 acquire, for the sacrifice of pre-conceived ideas can 
 only be accomplished on the altar of bitterness and 
 only the burning of despair can reduce them to the 
 ashes in which lies the truth concealed. 
 
 2U 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 223 
 
 Having deposited his belongings in his rooms in 
 the Rio della Sacchere, where he always stayed, he 
 set off on foot by the narrow little pathways to the 
 Palazzo Capello. 
 
 That was always a moment in John's life when, 
 upon his arrival every year, he first opened the big 
 gate that closed on to the fondamenta. It was al- 
 ways a moment to be remembered when first he be- 
 held, from beneath the archway, the glow of the 
 flaming sunset in that old Italian garden, framed in 
 the lace-worked trellises of iron. 
 
 Life had these moments. They are worth all the 
 treasure of the Indies. The mind of a man is never 
 so possessed of wealth as when he comes upon them ; 
 for in such moments as these, his emotions are wings 
 which no sun of vaunted ambition can melt; in such 
 moments as these, he touches the very feet of God. 
 
 Closing the big door behind him, John stood for 
 a moment in contemplation. The great disc of the 
 sun had just sunk down behind the cypress trees. 
 Their deep black forms were edged with a bright 
 thread of gold. Everything in that old garden was 
 silhouetted against the glowing embers of the sun- 
 set, and every bush and every shrub was rimmed with 
 a halo of hght. 
 
 This was the last moment of his warfare. Had 
 his ideal not lifted again before the sight of such 
 magnificence as this, it would inevitably have been 
 the moment of defeat. Through the blackness of 
 the tunnel, it is inviolably decreed that a man must 
 pass before he shall reach the ultimate light; but 
 if, when that journey is accomplished, the sight of 
 
226 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 beauty, which is only the symbol of the good, if that 
 does not touch him and, with a beckoning hand, raise 
 his mind into the mystery of the infinite, then that 
 immersion in the darkness has not cleansed his soul. 
 He has been tainted with it. It clings like a mist 
 about his eyes, blurring all vision. He has been 
 weighed in the balance that depends from the nerve- 
 less hand of Fate, and has been found — wanting. 
 
 But as a bird soars, freed from the cage that held 
 it to earth, John's mind rose triumphantly^ Ac- 
 knowledging all the credit that was Amber's due — 
 and but for her, he could not have seen the true 
 beauty, the beauty of symbolism, in that sunset 
 there — he yet had passed unscathed from the depth 
 of the shadow into the heart of the light. 
 
 Here was a moment such as they would have known 
 had the story of the City of Beautiful Nonsense 
 come true. Here was a moment when they would 
 have stood, hands touching, hearts beating, seeing 
 God. And yet, though she was hundreds of miles 
 from him then, John's mind had so lifted above the 
 bitterness of despair, had so outstripped the haunt- 
 ing cries of his body, that he could conjure Jill's 
 presence to his side and, in an ecstasy of faith, be- 
 lieve her with hira, seeing the beauty that he saw; 
 there. 
 
 In the text-books of science, they have no other 
 name for this than hysteria; but in those unwritten 
 volumes — pages unhampered by the deceptive sight 
 of words — a name is given to such moments as these 
 which we have not the C3'es to read, nor the sim- 
 plicity of heart to understand. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 227 
 
 Forcing back the rush of tears to his ej^es, John 
 passed under the Httle archway in the wall, mounted 
 the dark stone steps, dragged down the chain, and 
 with the clanging of the heavy bell was brought 
 back, tumbling to reality. 
 
 With a rattling of the rings, the heavy curtain 
 was pulled, the little door was thrown open. The 
 next moment, he was gripping Claudina's hand — 
 shaking it till her earrings swung violently to and 
 fro. 
 
 Then came his father, the old white-haired gen- 
 tleman, looking so old to have so young a son. 
 
 They just held hands, gazing straight, deep down 
 into each other's eyes. 
 
 " God bless you, my boy," said the old man jaun- 
 tily. He stood with his back to the light. He would 
 not for the world have shown that his eyes were filled 
 with tears. Old men, like little boys, think it baby- 
 ish to cry — perhaps it is partly because the tears 
 rise so easily. 
 
 And last of all, walking slowly, because her pa- 
 ralysis had affected her whole body, as well as ren- 
 dering powerless her hands, came the little old 
 white-haired lady. There was no attempt from her 
 to hide the tears. They were mixed up in a con- 
 fusion of happiness with smiles and with laughter in 
 the most charming way in the world. 
 
 She just held open her thin, frail arms, and there 
 John buried himself, whispering over and over again 
 in her ear — 
 
 " My dearest — my dearest — my dearest " 
 
 And who could blame him if Jill were there still 
 
228 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 in his mind. There comes a time when a man loves 
 his mother because she is a woman, just as the 
 woman he loves. There comes a time when a mother 
 loves her son, because he is a man just as the man 
 she has loved. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE TRUE MOTHER 
 
 It was not that evening that she plied her questions, 
 this gentle, white-haired old lady. That first even- 
 ing of his arrival, there was John's work to talk of, 
 the success of his last book to discuss, the opinions 
 upon his criticisms to lay down. The old gentleman 
 had decided views upon such matters as these. He 
 talked aflBrmatively with wise nods of the head, and 
 the bright brown eyes of his wife followed all his 
 gesticulations with silent approval. She nodded her 
 head too. All these things he was saying then, he 
 had said before over and over again to her. Yet 
 they every one of them seemed new when he once 
 more repeated them to John. 
 
 This critic had not understood what he had been 
 writing about ; that critic had hit the matter straight 
 on the head. This one perhaps was a little too 
 profuse in his praise; that one had struck a note of 
 personal animosity which was a disgrace to the 
 paper for which he wrote. 
 
 " Do you know the man who wrote that, John? " 
 he asked in a burst of righteous anger. 
 
 John smiled at his father's enthusiasm. One is 
 so much wiser when one is young — one is so much 
 younger when one is old. 
 
 " I know him by sight," he said — " we've never 
 299 
 
230 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 met. But he always reviews me like that. I suppose 
 I irritate him." 
 
 His mother felt gently for his hand. Without 
 looking down, he found the withered fingers in his. 
 
 "How could you irritate him, my darling?" she 
 asked. It seemed an impossibility to her. 
 
 " Well — there are always some people whom we 
 irritate by being alive, my dearest. I'm not the only 
 one who annoys him. I expect he annoys himself.'* 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " The old gentleman brought down 
 his fist emphatically upon the arm of his chair — 
 " But he should keep these personal feelings out of 
 his work. And yet — I suppose this kind of thing 
 will always exist. Oh — if it only pleased the Lord 
 that His people should be gentlemen ! " 
 
 So his father talked, giving forth all the enthu- 
 siasm of his opinions which for so long had been 
 stored up in the secret of his heart. 
 
 It was no longer his own work that interested him ; 
 for whatever contempt the artist may have for his 
 wage, he knows his day is past when the public will 
 no longer pay him for his labour. All the heart of 
 him now, was centred in John. It was John who 
 would express those things his own fingers had failed 
 to touch. He had seen it exultantly in many a line, 
 in many a phrase which this last book had con- 
 tained; for though the mind which had conceived it 
 was a new mind, the mind of another generation 
 than his own, yet it was the upward growth from 
 the thoughts he had cherished, a higher understand- 
 ing of the very ideas that he had held. He, Thomas 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 231 
 
 Grey, the artist, was living again in John Grey, the 
 writer, the journahst, the driver of the pen. In the 
 mind of his son, was the resurrection of his own in- 
 tellect, the rejuvenescence of his own powers, the 
 vital link between him, passing into the dust, and 
 those things which are eternal. 
 
 It was not until John had been there two or three 
 days, that his mother found her opportunity. 
 
 The old gentleman had gone to the Merceria to 
 look after the Treasure Shop. Foscari, it seemed, 
 had been selling some more of his beloved curios. A 
 packet of money had been sent to him the evening 
 before for a set of three Empire fans, treasures he 
 had bought in Paris twenty years before. With a 
 smothered sigh, the little old lady had consented to 
 their going to the Merceria. Only to make a show, 
 he had promised her that. They should never be 
 purchased by anyone, and he put such a price upon 
 them as would frighten the passing tourist out of 
 his wits. It was like Foscari to find a man who was 
 rich enough and fool enough to buy them. With his 
 heart thumping and, for the first time in his life, 
 not quite being able to look John in the eyes, he had 
 made some excuse — a picture to be framed — and 
 gone out, leaving them alone. 
 
 This was the very moment John had dreaded. He 
 knew that those bright brown eyes had been reading 
 the deepest corners of his heart, had only been bid- 
 ing their time until such moment as this. He had 
 felt them following him wherever he went; had 
 realised that into everything he did, they were read- 
 
232 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ing the hidden despair of his mind with an intuition 
 so sure, so unerring, that it would be quite useless 
 for him to endeavour to hide anything from her. 
 
 And now, at last they were alone. The sun was 
 burning in through the windows into the little room. 
 The old garden below was pale in the heat of it. 
 
 For a little while, he stood there at the window 
 in nervous suspense, straining to think of things to 
 say which might distract her mind from that sub- 
 ject which he knew to be uppermost in her thoughts. 
 And all the time his face was turned away as he 
 gazed down on to the old garden, he could still feel 
 her eyes watching him, until at last the growing 
 anticipation that she would break the silence with a 
 question to which he could not reply, drove him 
 blindly to speak. 
 
 He talked about his father's pictures ; tried in vain 
 to discover whether he had sold enough for their 
 wants, whether the orders he had received were as 
 numerous, whether his strength permitted him to 
 carry them all out. He talked about the thousand 
 things that must have happened, the thousand things 
 they must have done since last he was with them. 
 And everything he said, she answered gently, dis- 
 regarding all opportunity to force the conversation 
 to the subject upon which her heart was set. But 
 in her eyes, there was a mute, a patient look of 
 appeal. 
 
 The true mother is the last woman in the world 
 to beg for confidence. She must win it ; then it comes 
 from the heart. In John's silence on that one sub- 
 ject that was so near as to be one with the very 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 233 
 
 centre of her being, it was as though she had lost 
 the power of prayer in that moment of her life when 
 she must need it most. 
 
 At last she could bear It no longer. It could not 
 be want of confidence in her, she told herself. He 
 was hurt. Some circumstance, some unhappiness 
 had stung him to silence. Instinctively, she could 
 feel the pain of it. Her heart ached. She knew 
 his must be aching too. 
 
 " John," she said at length and she laid both those 
 poor withered hands in his — " John — you're un- 
 happy." 
 
 He tried to meet her eyes ; but they were too 
 bright; they saw too keenly, and his own fell. The 
 next moment, with straining powerless efforts, she 
 had drawn him on to his knees beside her chair, his 
 head was buried in her lap and her hands were gently 
 stroking his hair in a swift, soothing motion. 
 
 " You can tell me everything," she whispered ; 
 and oh, the terrible things that fond heart of hers 
 imagined! Terrible things they seemed to her, but 
 they would have brought a smile into John's face 
 despite himself, had he heard them. " You can tell 
 me everything," she whispered again. 
 
 " There's nothing to tell, dearest," he replied. 
 
 For there was nothing to tell; nothing that she 
 would understand. The pain of his losing Jill, 
 would only become her pain as well, and could she 
 ever judge rightly of Jill's marriage with another 
 man, if she knew? She would only take his side. 
 That dear, good, gentle heart of hers was only 
 capable of judging of things in his favour. She 
 
234 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 would form an utterly false opinion and, he could 
 not bear that. Much as he needed sympathy, the 
 want of it was better than misunderstanding. 
 
 " There's nothing to tell," he repeated. 
 
 Still she stroked his head. There was not even 
 one thought of impatience in the touch of her 
 fingers. It may be said without fear or hesitation 
 that a mother at least knows her own child; and 
 this is the way with children when they are in trouble. 
 They will assure you there is nothing to tell. She 
 did not despair at that. For as with John asking 
 his question of Jill in Kensington Gardens, so she 
 asked, because she knew. 
 
 "Isn't it about the Lady of St. Joseph.?" she 
 said presently. " Isn't that why you're unhappy ? " 
 
 He rose slowly to his feet. She watched him as he 
 moved aimlessly to the window. It was a moment of 
 suspense. Then he would tell her, then at that 
 moment, or he would close the book and she would 
 not see one figure that was traced so indelibly 
 upon its pages. She held her breath as she watched 
 him. Her hands assumed unconsciously a pathetic 
 gesture of appeal. If she spoke then, it might alter 
 his decision ; so she said nothing. Only her eyes 
 begged mutely for his confidence. 
 
 Oh — it is impossible of estimate, the worlds, the 
 weight of things infinite, that swung, a torturing 
 balance, in the mind of the little old white-haired 
 lady then. However much emotion may bring 
 dreams of it to the mind of a man, his passion is not 
 the great expression by which he is to be judged; 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 235 
 
 is the woman who loves. It is the man who is 
 loved. He may believe a thousand times that he 
 knows well of the matter; but the great heart, the 
 patience, the forbearance, these are all the woman's 
 and, from such are those little children who are of 
 the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 If these qualities belonged to the man, if John 
 had possessed them, he could not have resisted her 
 tender desire for confidence. But when the heart 
 of a man is hurt, he binds his wounds with pride and 
 it is of pride, when one loves, that love knows 
 nothing. 
 
 Turning round from the window, John met his 
 mother's eyes. 
 
 " There's nothing to tell, dear," he said bitterly. 
 ** Don't ask me — there's nothing to tell." 
 
 Her hands dropped their pathetic gesture. She 
 laid them quietly in her lap. If the suffering of 
 pain can be reproach, and perhaps that is the only 
 reproach God knows of in us humans, then, there it 
 was in her eyes. John saw it and he did not need 
 for understanding to answer to the silence of its 
 cry. In a moment he was by her side again, his arms 
 thrown impulsively about her neck, his lips kissing 
 the soft, wrinkled cheek. What did it matter how 
 he disarranged the little lace cap set so daintily on 
 her head, or how disordered he made her appearance 
 in his sudden emotion? Notliing mattered so long 
 as he told her everything. 
 
 " Don't think I'm unkind, little mother. I can't 
 talk about it — that's all. Besides — there's nothing 
 — absolutely nothing to say. I don't suppose I 
 
236 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 shall ever see her again. We were just friends, 
 that's all — only friends." 
 
 Even this was more than he could bear to say. 
 He stood up again quickly to force back the tears 
 that were swelling in his throat. Tears do not be- 
 come a man. It is the most reasonable, the most 
 natural thing in the world that he should abominate 
 them, and so he seldom, if ever, knows the wonderful 
 moment it is in the life of a woman when he cries 
 like a baby on her shoulder. It is only right that 
 it should be so. Women know their power well 
 enough as it is. And in such a moment as this, they 
 realise their absolute omnipotence. 
 
 And this is just why nature decrees that it is 
 weak, that it is foolish for a man to shed tears in 
 the presence of a woman. Undoubtedly nature is 
 right. 
 
 Before they had well risen to his eyes, John had 
 left the room. In the shadows of the archway be- 
 neath the house, he was brushing them roughly from 
 his cheek while upstairs the gentle old lady sat just 
 where he had left her, thinking of the thousands of 
 reasons why he would never see the lady of St. 
 Joseph again. 
 
 She was going away. She did not love him. They 
 had quarrelled. After an hour's contemplation, she 
 decided upon the last. They had quarrelled. 
 
 Then she set straight her cap. 
 
CHAPTER XXVin 
 
 THE TREASURE SHOP 
 
 At a quiet comer in the Merceria, stood the Treas- 
 ure Shop. In every respect it had all the features 
 which these little warehouses of the world's curiosi- 
 ties usually present. Long chains of old copper 
 vessels hung down, on each side of the doorway, 
 reaching almost to the ground. Old brass braziers 
 and incense burners stood on the pavement outside 
 and, in the window, lay the oddest, the wildest as- 
 sortment of those objects of antiquity — ^brass can- 
 dlesticks, old fans, hour-glasses, gondola lamps, 
 every conceivable thing which the dust of Time has 
 enchanced in value in the eyes of a sentimental 
 public. 
 
 At the back of the window were hung silk stuffs 
 and satin, rich old brocades and pieces of tapestry 
 — just that dull, burnished background which gives 
 a flavour of age as though with the faint scent of 
 must and decay that can be detected in its wither- 
 ing threads. 
 
 All these materials, hanging there, shut out the 
 light from the shop inside. Across the doorstep, 
 the sun shone brilliantly, but, as though there were 
 some hand forbidding it, it advanced no further. 
 Within the shop, was all the deepest of shadow — 
 shadow like heavy velvet from which permeated this 
 dry and dusty odour of a vanished multitude of 
 years. 
 
 SS7 
 
238 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 The Treasure Shop was a most apt name for it. 
 In that uncertain light within, you could just imag- 
 ine that your fingers, idly fumbling amongst the 
 numberless objects, might chance upon a jewelled 
 casket holding the sacred dust of the heart of some 
 Roman Emperor or the lock of some dead queen's 
 hair. 
 
 Atmosphere has all the wizardry of a necromancer. 
 In this dim, faded light, in this faint, musty smell 
 of age, the newest clay out of a living potter's 
 hands would take upon itself the halo of romance. 
 The toiicli of dead fingers would cling to it, the 
 scent of forgotten rose leaves out of gardens now 
 long deserted would hover about the scarce cold 
 clay. And out of the sunshine, stepping into this 
 subtle atmospheric spell, the eyes of all but those 
 who know its magic are wrapt in a web of illusion ; 
 the Present slips from them as a cloak from the will- 
 ing shoulders ; they are touching the Past. 
 
 Just such a place was the Treasure Shop. Its 
 atmosphere was all this and more. Sitting there 
 on a stool behind his heaped-up counter, in the 
 midst of this chaos of years, the old gentleman was 
 no longer a simple painter of landscape, but an old 
 eccentric, whose every look and every gesture were 
 begotten of his strange and mysterious acquaintance 
 with the Past. 
 
 It came to be known of him that he was loth to 
 part with his wares. It came to be told of him in 
 the hotels that he was a strange old man who had 
 lived so long in his musty environment of dead peo- 
 ple's belongings that he could not bring himself to 
 sell them ; as though the spirits of those departed 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 239 
 
 owners abode with him as well, and laid their cold 
 hands upon his heart whenever he would try to sell 
 the treasures they once had cherished. 
 
 And all this was the necromancy of the atmos- 
 phere in that little curio shop in the Merceria. But 
 to us, who know all about it, whose eyes are not 
 blinded with the glamour of illusion, there is little 
 or nothing of the eccentric about Thomas Grey. 
 
 It is not eccentric to have a heart — it is the most 
 common possession of humanity. It is not eccen- 
 tric to treasure those things which are our own, 
 which have shared life with us, which have become a 
 part of ourselves ; it is not eccentric to treasure them 
 more than the simpler necessities of existence. We 
 all of us do that, though fear of the accusation of 
 sentimentality will not often allow us to admit 
 it. It is not eccentric to put away one's pride, to 
 take a lower seat at the guest's table in order that 
 those we love shall have a higher place in the eyes 
 of the company. We all would do that also, if we 
 obeyed the gentle voice that speaks within every- 
 one of us. 
 
 But if by chance this judgment is all at fault ; if 
 by chance it is eccentric to do these things, then this 
 was the eccentricity of that white-haired old gentle- 
 man — Thomas Grey. 
 
 Whenever a customer — and ninety per cent, of 
 them were tourists — came into the shop, he treated 
 them with undisguised suspicion. They had a way 
 of hitting upon those very things which he valued 
 most — those very things which he only meant to be 
 on show in his little window. 
 
 Of course, when they selected something which 
 
240 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 he had only recently acquired, his manner was 
 courtesy itself. He could not say very much in its 
 favour, but then, the price was proportionately 
 small. Under circumstances such as these, they 
 found him charming. But if they happened to cast 
 their eyes upon that Dresden-china figure which 
 stood so boldly in the fore-front of the window; if 
 by hazard they coveted the set of old ivory chess 
 men, oh, you should have seen the frown that 
 crossed his forehead then ! It was quite ominous. 
 
 " Well — that is very expensive," he always said 
 and made no offer to remove it from its place. 
 
 And sometimes they replied 
 
 *' Oh, yes — I expect so. I didn't think it would 
 be cheap. It's so beautiful, isn't it? Of course — 
 really — really old." 
 
 And it was so hard to withstand the flattery of 
 that. A smile of pleasure would lurk for a moment 
 about his eyes. He would lean forward through 
 the dark curtains of brocades and tapestries and 
 reach it down for inspection. 
 
 " It is," he would say in the gratified tone of the 
 true collector — " It is the most perfect specimen I 
 have ever seen. You see the work here — this glaze, 
 
 that colour " and in a moment, before he was 
 
 aware of what he was doing, he would be pointing 
 out its merits with a quivering finger of pride. 
 
 " Oh, yes — I think I must have it," the customer 
 would suddenly say — " I can't miss the opportunity. 
 It would go so well with the things in my cojlection." 
 
 Then the old gentleman realised his folly. Then 
 the frown returned, redoubled in its forbidding scowl. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 241 
 
 He began putting the Dresden figure back again in 
 the window from whence It had come. 
 
 *' But I said I'd take It," the customer would 
 exclaim more eager than ever for its possession. 
 
 " Yes — ^yes — I know — but the price is — ^well it's 
 prohibitive. I want seventy-five pounds for that 
 figure." 
 
 "Seventy-five!" 
 
 *' Yes — I can't take anything less." 
 
 " Oh " and a look of disappointment and dis- 
 may. 
 
 ** You don't want it ? " he would ask eagerly. 
 
 " No — I can't pay as much as that." 
 
 Then the smile would creep back again into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Of course — It's a beautiful thing," he would say 
 clumsily — " a beautiful thing." 
 
 And when he went home, he would tell the little 
 old white-haired lady how much it had been ad- 
 mired, and they would call back to memory the day 
 when they had bought it — so long ago that it seemed 
 as though they were quite young people then. 
 
 So It fell out that this old gentleman of the 
 curio shop In the Merceria came to be known for his 
 seeming eccentricities. People talked of him. They 
 told amusing stories of his strange methods of doing 
 business. 
 
 " Do you know the Treasure Shop in the Mer- 
 ceria," they said over the dinner tables In London 
 when they wanted to show how intimately they knew 
 their Europe. " The old man who owns that — 
 there's a character for you ! " They even grew to 
 
242 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 making up anecdotes about him, to show how keenly 
 observant they were when abroad. Everyone, even 
 Smelfungus and Mundungus, would be thought sen- 
 timental travellers if they could. 
 
 It was the most natural coincidence in the world 
 then, that John, strolling aimlessly in the arcades 
 of the Square of St. Mark's that morning after he 
 had left his mother, should overhear a conversation 
 in which the eccentric old gentleman in the Merceria 
 was introduced. 
 
 Outside Lavena's two women were taking coffee, 
 as all well-cultured travellers do. 
 
 *' — my shopping in Kensington " he heard 
 
 one of them say, concluding some reference to a 
 topic which they were discussing. 
 
 John took a table near by. It is inevitable with 
 some people to talk of Kensington and Heme Hill 
 when abroad. John blessed them for it, nevertheless. 
 There was that sound in the word to him then, 
 which was worth a vision of all the cities of Europe. 
 
 He ordered his cup of coffee and listened eagerly 
 for more. But that was the last they said of Ken- 
 sington. The lady flitted off to other topics. She 
 spoke to her friend of the curio shop in the Mer- 
 ceria. 
 
 Did she know the place.? Well, of course not, if 
 she had not been to Venice before. It was called 
 the Treasure Shop. She had found it out for her- 
 self. But, then, it always was her object, when 
 abroad, to become intimate with the life of the city 
 in which she happened to be staying. It was the 
 only way to know places. Sight-seeing was abso- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 243 
 
 lutely waste of time. And this old gentleman was 
 really a character — so unbusiness-like — so typically 
 Italian ! Of course, he spoke English perfectly — 
 but, then, foreigners always do. No — she could not 
 speak Italian fluently — make herself understood at 
 table, and all that sort of thing — anyhow, enough 
 to get along. But, to go back to the old gentle- 
 man in the Treasure Shop, she ought to go and see 
 him before she left Venice. She was going early 
 the next week.'' Oh — then, she ought to go that 
 morning. He was such a delightful personality. 
 So fond of the curios in his shop that he could 
 scarcely be persuaded to part with them. There 
 was one thing in particular, a Dresden figure, which 
 he had in the front of the window. He would not 
 part with that to anyone. Well — asked such a 
 price for it that, of course, no one bought it. 
 
 But would it not be rather amusing if someone 
 did actually agree to pay the price — not really, of 
 course, only in fun, restoring it the next day, but 
 just to see how he would take it.? Was she really 
 going next week.? Then why not go and see the 
 Treasure Shop at once? She would.? Oh — that was 
 quite splendid! 
 
 And off they went, John following quietly at their 
 heels. This old Italian who could not bear to part 
 with his wares because he loved them so much, there 
 was something pathetic in that; something that ap- 
 pealed to John's sense of the colour in life. This 
 was a little incident of faded brown, that dull, 
 warm tint of a late Octolicr day when life is be- 
 ginning to shed its withering leaves, when the trees. 
 
244 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 with that network of bare, stripped branches, are 
 Just putting on their faded lace. However unsym- 
 pathetic had been the telling, he had seen the 
 colour of it all with his own eyes. He followed them 
 eagerly, anxious to behold this old Italian gentle- 
 man for himself, to confirm his own judgment of the 
 pathos of it all. 
 
 Letting them enter first, for he had no desire to 
 listen to their dealings, he took his position out- 
 side the window, intending to wait till they came 
 out. 
 
 There was the Dresden figure the lady had men- 
 tioned. Ah ! No wonder that he asked a large price 
 for it! They had one just like that at the Palazzo 
 Capello. His father had often said that if he could 
 get a pair of them, they would be almost price- 
 less. Supposing he bought it for his father? 
 Would it be cruel to the old gentleman inside.? 
 Perhaps, if he knew that it was to make a pair, he 
 would be more reconciled to its loss. 
 
 John waited patiently, gazing about him until 
 the ladies should come out and leave the field free 
 for him to make his study — ^his study in a colour 
 of brown. 
 
 Presently the draperies in the back of the window 
 were pulled aside. An old man leaned forward, 
 hands trembling in the strain of his position, reach- 
 ing for the Dresden figure. John bit on the ex- 
 clamation that rose to his lips. 
 
 It was his father! Had he seen him? No! He 
 slipped back again into the darkness of the shop 
 and the brocades and the tapestries fell together 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTITUL NONSENSE 245 
 
 once more into their place as though nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 What did it mean? Was it true? With an ef- 
 fort, he held back from his inclination to rush into 
 the shop, making sure of the reality of what he had 
 seen. If it were true, then he knew that his father 
 had not meant him to know. If it were true, he 
 knew what the pain of such a meeting would be. 
 
 Crossing to the opposite side of the street, he 
 tried to peer in through the shop door; but there 
 was that clear-cut ray of sunshine on the step, bar- 
 ring the entrance. Only vaguely, like dim, black 
 shadows on a deep web of gloom, could he see the 
 moving figures of the two ladies who had entered. 
 On an impulse, he turned into the magazzino by 
 which he was standing. 
 
 Who was the owner of the curio shop on the other 
 side? They did not know. What was his name? 
 They could not say? Had he been there long? Not 
 so very long. About a year. He was an Eng- 
 lishman, but he spoke Italian. He lived in Venice. 
 They had heard some say in the Rio Marin. He 
 was not used to the trade. It was quite true that 
 he did not like to sell his things. They had been 
 told he was a painter — ^but that was only what peo- 
 ple said. 
 
 That was sufficient. They needed to say no more. 
 This answered the questions that John had put that 
 morning to his mother. His father could no longer 
 sell his pictures. In a rush of light, he saw the 
 whole story, far more pathetic to him than he had 
 imagined with his study in brown. 
 
246 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 One by one, they were selling the treasures they 
 had collected. Now, he understood the meaning of 
 those empty night-caps which Claudina carried away 
 with her every evening. They said the things were 
 broken ; they had said it with nervous little glances 
 at each other and then at Claudina. At the time, 
 he had read those glances to mean that it was 
 Claudina who had broken them. But no — it was 
 not Claudina. This was the work of the heavy, the 
 ruthless hand of cruel circumstance in which the 
 frailest china and the sternest metal can be crushed 
 into the dust of destruction. 
 
 In a moment, as it was all made clear, John found 
 the tears smarting in his eyes. As he stood there 
 in the little shop opposite, he painted the whole pic- 
 ture with rapid strokes of the imagination. 
 
 The day had come when his father could no 
 longer sell his pictures. Then the two white heads 
 had nodded together of an evening before Claudina 
 came in with the night-caps. More emphatically 
 than ever, they had exclaimed — " You don't mean 
 to say it's ten o'clock, Claudina?" And Claudina, 
 laying the box on the table, beginning to take out 
 the night-caps and place forth the treasures before 
 she tucked them up, would vouchsafe the answering 
 nod of her head. At last, one evening, watching 
 the Dresden figure being put to bed, his father had 
 thought of the way out of the difficulty. 
 
 They had not decided upon it at once. Such de- 
 terminations as these come from the head alone and 
 have to pass before a stern tribunal of the heart be- 
 fore license is given them. He could just imagine 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 247 
 
 how bitter a tribunal that had been; how inflexibly 
 those two brave hearts had sat in judgment upon 
 so hard a matter; how reluctantly in the end they 
 had given their consent. 
 
 Then, with the moment once passed, the license 
 once granted, John could see them so vividly, ques- 
 tioning whether they should tell him, their decision 
 that it would not be wise, his father fearing that it 
 would lessen his esteem, his mother dreading that he 
 would feel called upon to help them. Finally, that 
 first day, when the Treasure Shop had been opened 
 and his father, the artist, the man of tempera- 
 ment, with all the finest perceptions and sensibili- 
 ties that human nature possesses, had gone to busi- 
 ness. 
 
 So truly he could see the moment of his departure. 
 Nothing had been said. He had just taken the 
 little old white-haired lady in his arms and kissed 
 her. That was all. It might have been that he 
 was merely going out, as he had quietly said that 
 morning, to see about the framing of a picture. 
 No one would ever have thought that he was about 
 to pass through the ordeal of becoming a shop- 
 keeper, because, in his old age he had failed as an 
 artist. 
 
 All this, Incident by incident, he painted, a se- 
 quence of pictures in his mind. 
 
 Presently the curtains in the shop-window stirred 
 again. John's eyes steadied, his lips parted as he 
 held his breath. The Dresden figure appeared, like 
 a marlonet making its bow to the pubHc. Then 
 followed the head and shoulders of his father. There 
 
248 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 was a smile on his face, a glow of genial satis- 
 faction. They had not bought it. The price had 
 been too much. That little Dresden figure, playing 
 upon its lute, decoyed many a customer into the 
 Treasure Shop, with its living tunes ; but like a will- 
 o'-the-wisp, it always evaded them. Back it danced 
 again into the fore-front of the window where the 
 old ivory chess-men stood stolidly listening to its 
 music of enchantment. You might almost have seen 
 them nodding their heads in approval. 
 
 John felt a lump rise quickly in his throat. He 
 knew just what his father was feeling ; he knew just 
 what was in his mind. He realised all his sense of 
 relief when the Dresden figure made its reappearance. 
 If it had not come back into the window, he could 
 not have restrained his desire to march into the 
 shop and repeat every word of the conversation to 
 which he had listened. 
 
 But it was safe once more and, with a breath of 
 satisfaction, he moved away towards the Rialto, his 
 head hanging as he walked. 
 
 That afternoon at tea, with the little cups that 
 had no handles, he made no comment on his father's 
 absence. The little old white-haired lady was 
 trembling that he would ask, but he said not a 
 word. 
 
 Only that evening, after Claudina had come in 
 for her ceremony and he was saying good-night, he 
 put both hands on his father's shoulders and, im- 
 pulsively drawing him forward, kissed his forehead. 
 Then he left the room. 
 
 The two old people sat staring at each other 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 249 
 
 after he tiad gone. What did It mean? Why had he 
 done it ? 
 
 *' Why, he hasn't kissed you since he was eight 
 years old," said his mother. 
 
 The old gentleman shook his head thoughtfully — 
 *' No — I can't understand it. Don't you remember 
 that first evening he refused, when I bent down to 
 kiss him and he blushed, drew back a little and held 
 out his hand.? " 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 *' You were hurt about it at first," she reminded 
 him. 
 
 " Yes — but then when you said — * John's think- 
 ing about becoming a man ' — of course, it seemed 
 natural enough then. And he's never done it since 
 — till now. I wonder why." 
 
 The old gentleman went to bed very, very silent 
 that night, and long after Claudina had taken away 
 the lamp, he could feel John's lips burning on his 
 forehead and the blood burning in his cheeks. Some- 
 thing had happened. He could not quite understand 
 what it was. Some change had taken place. He 
 felt quite embarrassed; but he fell asleep before he 
 could realise that he was feeling just what John had 
 felt that night when he was eight years old. That 
 was what had happened — that was the change. The 
 child was now father to the man — and the man was 
 feeling the first embarrassment of the child — so the 
 last link had been forged between the irrevocable 
 past and the eternal present. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 THE CANDLE FOR ST. ANTHONY 
 
 If you know aught of the history of Venice ; if the 
 strenuous eflTorts of all those little lives that have 
 done their work and lived their day in that vast 
 multitude of human ephemera should have any mean- 
 ing for you; if, in the flames of colour that have 
 glowed and vanished in the brazier of Time, you can 
 see faces and dream dreams of all that romantic 
 story, then it is no wasting of a sunny morning to 
 sit alone upon the Piazetta, your face turned to- 
 wards San Giorgio Maggiore and, with the sun 
 glinting upwards from the glittering water, weave 
 your visions of great adventure in the diaphanous 
 mist of light. 
 
 It was in such a way as this that John was 
 spending one day when he could not work, when the 
 little old white-haired lady was busy with Claudina 
 over the duties of the house, when his father had 
 departed upon that engrossing errand of seeing to 
 the framing of a picture. 
 
 The sun was a burning disc, white hot in a smel- 
 ter's furnace. A few white sails of cloud lay be- 
 calmed, inert, asleep in a sky of turquoise. John 
 sat there blinking his eyes and the windows in the 
 houses on San Giorgio blinked back in sleepy recog- 
 nition as though the heat was more than they could 
 
 960 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 251 
 
 bear. Away down the Giudecca, the thin bare masts 
 of the clustering vessels tapered into the still air — 
 giant sea-grass, which the sickle of a storm can mow 
 down like rushes that grow by the river's edge. Their 
 reflections wriggled like a nest of snakes in the danc- 
 ing water, the only moving thing in that sleepy day. 
 Everything else was noiseless ; everything else was 
 still. 
 
 John gazed at it all through half-closed eyes, till 
 the point of the Campanile across the water seemed 
 to melt in the quivering haze, and the dome of the 
 chiesa was lost in the light where the sun fell on it. 
 What had changed.'* What was different to his eyes 
 that had been for the eyes of those thousands of 
 workers who had toiled and fought, lived and died, 
 like myriads of insects to build this timeless city of 
 light, this City of Beautiful Nonsense.? What had 
 altered.'* A few coping stones, perhaps, a few mosaics 
 renewed ; but that was all. It was just the same as it 
 had been in the days of the Council of Ten; just 
 the same as when Petrach, from his window on the 
 Riva degli Schiavona, sat watching the monster gal- 
 leys ride out in all their pomp and blazonry across 
 the pearl and opal waters of the lagoons. 
 
 In another moment the present would have slipped 
 from him ; he would have been one of the crowd upon 
 the Piazetta, watching the glorious argosy of Do- 
 menico Michieli returning from the Holy Land, with 
 its sacred burdens of the bodies of St. Isidore from 
 Chios and S. Donato from Cephalonia ; in another 
 moment he would have been seeing them unload their 
 wondrous spoils of the East, their scents and their 
 
252 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 spices, their silks and their sandalwood, had not a 
 most modern of modern hawkers, his little tray slung 
 by straps from his shoulder, chosen him out for prey. 
 
 " Rare coins, signor," he said — " coins from every 
 country in the world." 
 
 And for the price of one lira, he offered John an 
 English penny. 
 
 John looked him up and down. 
 
 " Is this your idea of humour? " he asked in 
 Italian. 
 
 The man emphatically shook his head. 
 
 " Oh, no, signor ! It is a rare coin.'* 
 
 John turned away in disgust. 
 
 *' You'd better go and learn your business," he 
 said. " That's an English penny. It's only worth 
 ten centesimi." 
 
 The hawker shrugged his shoulders and walked 
 away. He had got the coin from a Greek whose 
 ship lay in the Giudecca there. It was no good say- 
 ing what the Greek had said. The signor would 
 never believe him. He cast a wandering eye at the 
 ships and shrugged his shoulders once more. 
 
 John watched his retreating figure with a sense 
 of irritation — irritation because the man had gone 
 away thinking him an English fool — irritation be- 
 cause, unasked, the hawker had betrayed to him his 
 loss of a sense of humour. 
 
 To be offered an English penny for one lira! To 
 be told quite seriously that it was a rare coin! 
 And to take it in all seriousness ; to go to the trouble 
 of saying in an injured voice that it was only worth 
 ten centesimi! Was this what he had fallen to? 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 253 
 
 Was his sense of humour so far gone as this? Of 
 course it was a rare coin ! Had there not been times 
 when an Enghsh penny would have saved him from 
 the dire awkwardness of an impossible position. 
 How about the chair in Kensington Gardens? How 
 about the friend who mounted the 'bus with him in 
 the cheerful expectation that he was going to pay? 
 Of course it was a rare coin ! Why, there were times 
 when it was worth a hundred lire! 
 
 He called the hawker back. 
 
 *' Give me that coin," he said. 
 
 The man took it out with a grin of surprise. 
 
 *' It cost me half a lira, signor," he said, which 
 was a lie. But he told it so excellently that John 
 paid him his price. 
 
 " Do you think they'll find it worth a candle at 
 the shrine of St. Anthony ? " asked John. 
 
 "You have lost something, signor?" 
 
 He said it so sympathetically. 
 
 " My sense of humour," said John, and off he 
 strode to St. Mark's, the hawker gazing after him. 
 
 Without laughter in it, the voice is a broken reed ; 
 without laughter in it, the heart is a stone, dullened 
 by a flaw; without laughter in it, even a prayer 
 has not the lightness or the buoyancy of breath to 
 rise heavenwards. 
 
 Can there be one woman in the world who has 
 never prayed to St. Anthony in all seriousness for 
 some impossible request which, by rights, she should 
 have enquired for at the nearest lost property office 
 — for a lost lock of hair that was not her own — one 
 of those locks of hair that she ties to the wardrobe 
 
254 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 in the morning and combs out with all the serious- 
 ness in the world? Surely there must have been one 
 out of the thousands? Then why not for a lost 
 sense of humour? There is no oflBce in the world 
 that will return you such valuable property as that, 
 once it has slipped your fingers. He has the sense 
 himself, has St. Anthony. Think of the things he 
 has found for you in your own hands, the jewels 
 that he has discovered for you clasped about your 
 own neck! Why, to be sure, he must have a sense 
 of humour. And if it is impossible to pay an Eng- 
 lish penny for his candle in an Italian church — an 
 English penny, mind you, which has profited some 
 poor beggar by the sum of one lira ; if it is a sacri- 
 lege, a levity, to ask him for the return of so in- 
 valuable a quality as a lost gift of laughter, then 
 why pray at all, for without laughter in it, even a 
 prayer has not the lightness or the buoyancy of 
 breath to rise heavenwards. 
 
 If, when one drops upon one's knees at night and, 
 beginning to deceive oneself in one's voluntary con- 
 fessions, making oneself seem a fine fellow by tardy 
 admissions of virtue and tactful omissions of wrong, 
 if when one shows such delightful humanity in one's 
 prayers as this, and cannot laugh at oneself at the 
 same time, cannot see that it is but a cheating at a 
 game of Patience, then it might be as well not to pray 
 at all. For the humour in which a prayer is prayed, 
 is the humour in which a prayer will be judged, and 
 if, seriously, one deceives oneself into believing that 
 one is a fine fellow, just so seriously will that deceit 
 be weighed ; for there are mighty few of us who are 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 9.55 
 
 fine fellows, which is a great pitj, for so mighty 
 few of us to know it. 
 
 By the time John had reached the shrine of St. 
 Anthony in the Duomo, by the time his English 
 penny had rattled in the box along with all the other 
 Italian coins, by the time the first words of his 
 prayer were framed upon his lips, a laugh began to 
 twinkle in his eyes ; he had found his sense of 
 humour, he had found his gift of laughter once more. 
 It was in his own prayer. Before he could utter it, 
 he was smiling to think how St. Anthony must be 
 amused by the whole incident. Then, all it needed 
 was for him to be grateful and, dropping his head 
 in his hands, he expressed his gratitude by asking 
 for other things. 
 
 St. Mark's is one of the few churches in the world 
 where you can pray — one of the few churches in the 
 world where they have not driven God out of the 
 Temple, like a common money-changer, driven Him 
 out by gaudy finery, by motley and tinsel. Mass at 
 the High Altar there, is the great Passion Play it 
 was meant to be, performed upon a stage unhung 
 with violent colours, undecked with tawdry gems. 
 They had no pandering fear of the God they wor- 
 shipped, when they built that theatre of Christianity 
 in the great Square of St. Mark's. The drama of 
 all that wonderful story has a fit setting there. No 
 stage is Kt quite like it; no tragedy is so tragic in 
 all its awful solemnity as when they perform the 
 Mass in the duomo of St. Mark's. As the Host is 
 elevated, as that sonorous bell rings out its thrill- 
 ing chime and as the thousand heads sink down 
 
256 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 within two thousand hands, a spirit indeed is rush- 
 ing upwards in a lightning passage to its God. 
 
 Once his head was bowed, once his eyes were 
 closed, John was lost in the contemplation of his 
 prayer. He did not observe the party of people 
 who came by. He raised his head, but his eyes were 
 fixed before him towards the little shrine. He did 
 not see one separate herself from the party, did not 
 notice her slip away unobserved and, coming back 
 when they had gone on, seat herself on the chair 
 close by his side. 
 
 Only when his thoughts were ended, when St. An- 
 thony had listened to all that he had lost, to all the 
 aching story of his heart, did he turn to find what 
 St. Anthony had brought him. 
 
 His lips trembled. He rubbed and rubbed his 
 eyes. 
 
 There on the seat beside him, her hands half 
 pleading, her eyes set ready to meet his own, sat 
 JilL 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE QUALITIES OF IGNATIA 
 
 In amazement, John put out his hand. He touched 
 her to see if she was real. Her hand answered. She 
 caught his finger. Then she let it fall. 
 
 " Are you sorry ? " she whispered. 
 
 He looked up at the image of St. Anthony, then 
 back at her ; around the church, then back once more 
 at her. 
 
 "Where have you come from?" he asked. 
 
 " From home — from London." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " I arrived last night.'* 
 
 " Alone? '» 
 
 "No! No! With the Crossthwaites." 
 
 " Then what has happened.? " 
 
 " Why — nothing has happened — and ^" her 
 
 voice dropped below the whisper — that strange pitch 
 in which you hear not a syllable, yet know the 
 worst — " and everything has happened." 
 
 " You're going to be married? " 
 
 It sounded no less terrible in his voice because he 
 knew it. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then why have you come here? " 
 
 " The Crossthwaites were going. They asked me 
 to come too. It was the only chance I knew I should 
 
 267 
 
258 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ever have — our City of Beautiful Nonsense — I had 
 to come." 
 
 Still John gazed at her, as though she were un- 
 real. One does not always believe one's own eyes, 
 for there are some things, which the readiness to see 
 will constitute the power of vision. He put out his 
 hand again. 
 
 " I can hardly believe it," he said slowly. *' Here, 
 just a minute ago, I was telling St. Anthony all I 
 had lost. You — the best thing in my life — my ideal 
 as well — even my sense of humour." 
 
 She looked up at his face wondering. There had 
 been strange lost things for which she had prayed 
 to St. Anthony — things to which only a woman can 
 act as valuer. But to pray for a lost sense of hu- 
 mour. She touched the hand that he put out. 
 
 " You're very funny," she said gently — " You're 
 very quaint. Do you think you'll find the sense of 
 humour again? " 
 
 " I've found it," said John. 
 
 "Already.?" 
 
 " Yes — already." One eye lifted to St. Anthony. 
 
 Then he told her about the hawker and that rare, 
 that valuable coin — the English penny — and in two 
 minutes, they were laughing with their heads in their 
 hands. 
 
 This is not a reverent thing to do in a church. 
 The least that you can offer, is to hide your face, or, 
 turning quickly to the burial service in the prayer- 
 book — granted that you understand Latin — read 
 that. Failing that of burial, the service of matri- 
 mony will do just as well. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 259 
 
 But before the image of St. Anthony, to whom 
 you have been praying for a lost gift of laughter — 
 well, you may be sure that St. Anthony will excuse 
 it. After all, it is only a compliment to his powers ; 
 and the quality of saintliness, being nothing without 
 its relation to humanity, must surely argue some 
 little weakness somewhere. What better then than 
 the pride that is pardonable? 
 
 At length, when she had answered all his ques- 
 tions, when he had answered all hers, they rose re- 
 luctantly to their feet. 
 
 " I must go back to them," she said regretfully. 
 
 " But I shall see you again.'* " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Does Mrs. Crossthwaite know that you have 
 seen me.'' " 
 
 " Yes. Her husband doesn't. He wouldn't un- 
 derstand." 
 
 John smiled. 
 
 " Men never do," said he. " They have too keen 
 a sense of what is wrong for other people. When 
 shall I see you.? " 
 
 " This afternoon." 
 
 "Where.?" 
 
 " Anywhere " she paused. 
 
 " You were going to say something," said John 
 quickly. "What is it?" 
 
 She looked away. In the scheme of this world's 
 anomalies, there is such a thing as a duty to one- 
 self. They have not thought it wise to write it in 
 the catechism, for truly it is but capable of so in- 
 definite a rendering into language, that it would be 
 
260 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 only dangerous to set it forth. For language, after 
 all, is merely a sound box, full of words, in the noisy 
 rattling of which, the finer expression of all thought 
 is lost. 
 
 But a thousand times, Jill had thought of It — 
 that duty. Its phrases form quite readily in the 
 mind; they construct themselves with ease; the 
 words flow merrily. 
 
 Why, she had asked herself, should she sacrifice 
 her happiness to the welfare of those who had 
 brought her into the world? What claim had they 
 upon her, who had never questioned her as to a de- 
 sire for existence? 
 
 All this is so simply said. Its justice is so pal- 
 pably apparent. And if she had gained nothing 
 herself by the transaction, it would have been so 
 easy of following. But the mere knowledge that 
 she stood to win the very heart of her desire at the 
 cost of some others' welfare, filled her with the ap- 
 prehension that she was only inventing this duty of 
 self for her own gratification, as a narcotic to the 
 sleeplessness of her own conscience. 
 
 The education of the sex has so persistently 
 driven out egotism from their natures, that the 
 woman who finds paramount the importance of her- 
 self, has but a small place in this modern commu- 
 nity. 
 
 Fast in her very blood, was bred in Jill that com- 
 plete annihilation of selfishness, that absolute aban- 
 donment to Destiny. Strive as she might, she could 
 not place her own desires before the needs of her 
 father and mother; she could not see the first essen- 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 26l 
 
 tial of happiness in that gain to herself which would 
 crush the prospects of her brother Ronald. 
 
 To such women as these — and notwithstanding 
 the advent of the tradeswoman into the sex, there 
 are many — to be able to give all, is their embarrass- 
 ment of riches, to withhold nothing is their concep- 
 tion of wealth. 
 
 In the ideal which she had formed of John, Jill 
 knew that he was possessed of more in himself, than 
 ever would be the bounty bequeathed to those three 
 people dependent upon her generosity. And so, she 
 had given her consent of marriage to one, whom she 
 might have valued as a friend, whom, as a man, she 
 respected in every way, but who well, since brevity 
 is invaluable — ^like poor St. Joseph, had a brown 
 beard. 
 
 All this, in the pause that had followed John's 
 question, had passed for the thousandth time 
 through Jill's mind, bringing her inevitably once 
 more to the realisation of her duty to others. And 
 when he pressed her again, offering, not perhaps 
 the penny for her thoughts, but an equivalent, just 
 as valuable as that most valuable of coins, the prom- 
 ise of his eyes, she shook her head. 
 
 *' Ah, but you were going to say something ! " he 
 pleaded. 
 
 " I was going to ask you," said she, " if you 
 would take me to see your people." She hesitated. 
 " I — I want to have tea with thera out of the little 
 blue and white cups with no handles. I want to go 
 and buy lace with the little old white-haired lady 
 in the arcades." 
 
262 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 He seized her hand so that she winced. 
 
 *' You've not forgotten ! You shall come this 
 afternoon." And there, with a smile, she left him, 
 still standing by the silent image of St. Anthony ; 
 and, gratitude being that part of prayer which be- 
 longs to the heart and has nothing in common with 
 delay, John knelt down again. When Jill looked 
 back over her shoulder, his head was buried in his 
 hands. 
 
 The little old white-haired lady was waiting over 
 the mid-day meal for him when he returned. His 
 father had taken his food and gone out again, leav- 
 ing her alone to keep John company. She was sit- 
 ting patiently there at the head of the table and, 
 by the side of her empty plate, stood a small bottle 
 containing white pills, over which she hurriedly laid 
 her hand as he entered. 
 
 But clever as they are. In their cunning, childish 
 ways, old people lose all the superior craft of deceit. 
 They go back to childhood when they imagine that 
 once a thing is hidden, it is out of sight. That is 
 not at all the case. There comes a moment when it is 
 too late to conceal; when curiosity will bring the 
 hidden thing twice vividly before the eyes. Under 
 the very nose of John, was the best place for that 
 secret bottle of pills, had she needed it not to be 
 seen. 
 
 As it was, his eyes travelled more quickly than 
 her hand. She made a gentle little effort to hide 
 her concern as well. She smiled up at him, asking 
 where he had been. But it would not do. The child 
 is parent to the man, he is parent to the woman 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 263 
 
 too — a stern parent, moreover, who will brook no 
 simple trifling with his authority, who overlooks 
 nothing and whose judgments are the blind record 
 of an implacable justice. John could not let that 
 little deception pass. Instead of answering her 
 question, instead of taking his place at the table, he 
 came to her side and put one arm gently round her 
 neck. 
 
 " What are you hiding, dearest ? " he asked. 
 
 Like a child, who is discovered in the act of nefari- 
 ous negotiations with the good things of this world, 
 she quietly took her hand away. There stood the 
 innocent little bottle in all its nakedness. John 
 stared at it questioningly — then at his mother. 
 
 " Is it something that you have to take, dearest ? " 
 he asked. " Aren't you well ? " 
 
 *' Yes, I'm quite well," she said, and she played 
 nervously with the cork in the little bottle. It was 
 a delicate subject. She began to wish that she had 
 never embarked upon it at all. But faith brings 
 with it a rare quality of courage, and so firmly did 
 she believe, with the quaint simplicity of her heart, 
 in the course she had determined to adopt, that the 
 wish broke like a bubble on the moment. 
 
 *' Well, what is in the bottle ? " persisted John. 
 
 " Ignatia." 
 
 There was just the faintness of a whisper in her 
 voice. She had not found full courage as yet. Even 
 in their firmest beliefs, old people are pursued by the 
 fear of being thought foolish. The new generation 
 always frightens them ; it knows so much more than 
 they. 
 
264, THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Ignatia? " John repeated. 
 
 " Yes — I — I want you to take it." 
 
 She began uncorking the bottle. 
 
 "Me? What for.? I'm all right. I'm not ill." 
 
 " No — but " she paused. 
 
 "But what.?" 
 
 " It'll do you good. Try it, to please me." 
 
 She hid her white head against his coat. 
 
 " But what for, dearest.? " 
 
 *' Have you never heard of Ignatia.?" she asked. 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 " It's a plant. It's a homeopathic medicine. It's 
 a cure for all sorts of things. People take it when 
 their nerves are bad, for worry, for insomnia. It's 
 a cure for trouble when — when you're in love." 
 
 She said it so simply, in such fear that he would 
 laugh ; but when he looked down and found the hope- 
 fulness in her eyes, laughter was impossible. He 
 caught it back, but his nostrils quivered. 
 
 " And do you want to cure me of being in love? " 
 he asked with a straightened face. 
 
 " I thought you'd be happier, my dear, if you 
 could get over it." 
 
 " So you recommend Ignatia? " 
 
 " I've known it do wonders," she asserted. " Poor 
 Claudina was very much in love with a worthless 
 fellow — Tina — one of the gondolieri — surely you re- 
 member him. He lived on the Giudecca." 
 
 John nodded smiling. • 
 
 *' Well, she came to me one day, crying her heart 
 out. She declared she vm5 in love with the most 
 worthless man in the whole of Venice. * Get over it 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 265 
 
 then, Claudina,' I said. But she assured me that it 
 was impossible. He had only to put up his little 
 finger, she said and she had to go to his beckoning, 
 if only to tell him how worthless she thought he 
 was. Well — I prescribed Ignatia, and she was cured 
 of it in a week. She laughs when she talks about 
 him now." 
 
 John was forced to smile, but as quickly it died 
 away. 
 
 " And is that what you want me to do ? " he asked. 
 *' Do you want me to be able to laugh when I talk 
 about the lady of St. Joseph.? You'd be as sorry 
 as I should, if I did. It would hurt you as much as 
 it would me." 
 
 " Then you won't take it, John ? " She looked 
 up imploringly into his face. 
 
 *' No — no charms or potions for me. Besides — " 
 he bent down close to her ear — " the lady of St. 
 Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to see you this 
 afternoon." 
 
 With a little cry of delight, she threw the bottle 
 of Ignatia down upon the table and caught his face 
 in her trembling hands. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE SACRIFICE 
 
 A BELIEF in Ignatia argues a ready disposition for 
 Romance. 
 
 The mind of the little old white-haired lady be- 
 longed to that period when love was a visitation 
 only to be cured by the use of simples, herbs, and 
 magic. She called the treatment — homeopathic. 
 It was her gentle way of assuring herself that she 
 marched bravely with the times ; that the super- 
 stition of the Middle-Ages had nothing whatever 
 to do with it. 
 
 This is all very well; but there is no such scien- 
 tific name for the portents told by the flight of a 
 magpie; you cannot take shelter behind fine-sound- 
 ing words when you admit to the good fortune 
 brought by a black cat ; there is no marching with 
 the times for you, if you are impelled to throw salt 
 over your left shoulder. You are not stepping it 
 with the new generation then. And all these things 
 were essentials in the life of the little old white- 
 haired lady. Certainly there were no flights of mag- 
 pies over the tiny Italian garden at the back of the 
 Palazzo Capello to disturb the peace of her mind 
 with joyous or terrible prognostications. But the 
 resources of an old lady's suspicions are not ex- 
 hausted in a flight of magpies. Oh, no! She has 
 many more expedients than that. 
 
 866 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 267 
 
 The very day before John's announcement of the 
 advent of the lady of St. Joseph to Venice, she had 
 seen the new moon, a slim silver sickle, over her right 
 shoulder. There is good omen in that. She had 
 gone to bed the happier because of it. What it be- 
 tokened, it was not in the range of her knowledge 
 at the time to conceive. Destiny, in these matters, 
 as in many others, is not so outspoken as it might 
 be. But immediately John told her, she remembered 
 that little slip of a moon. Then this was what it 
 had heralded — the coming of the lady of St. Joseph. 
 
 As soon as their meal was finished, John went out 
 to the Piazza, the meeting place which he had ar- 
 ranged with Jill, leaving his mother and Claudina 
 to make all preparations for his return. How fast 
 the heart of the little old white-haired lady beat 
 then, it would be difficult to say. She was as excited 
 as when Claudina put the treasures away to bed in 
 their night-caps. Her little brown eyes sparkled, 
 for a party to old people is much the same as is a 
 party to a child. The preparations for it are the 
 whirlwind that carries the imagination into the vor- 
 tex of the event. And this, for which she was get- 
 ting ready, was all illuminated with the halo of 
 Romance. 
 
 Sometimes, perhaps, a wave of jealousy would 
 bring the blood warmly to her cheeks. Supposing 
 the lady of St. Joseph was not equal to her expec- 
 tations .!* Supposing she did not fulfil her hopes 
 and demands of the woman whom she had destined 
 in her mind to be the wife of her son? How could 
 she tell him.'* How could she warn him that he was 
 
268 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 unwise? How could she show him that the woman 
 he loved was unworthy of him? It would be a dif- 
 ficult task to accomplish ; but her lips set tight at 
 the thought of it. She would shirk no duty so grave 
 or serious as that. 
 
 Yet all these fears, with an effort, she put away 
 from her. A generous sense of justice told her that 
 she might judge when she had seen, so she sent out 
 Claudina when everything was ready, to buy some 
 cakes at Lavena's and, stealing into her bedroom, 
 knelt down before the little altar at her bedside. 
 
 There, some ten minutes later, her husband found 
 her. It was not her custom to pray at that time 
 of the afternoon, unless for some special request 
 and, for a moment, he stood in silence, watching the 
 white head buried in the pathetically twisted hands, 
 the faint rays of the little coloured lamp before the 
 image shining through the silken silver of her hair. 
 
 When at last, she raised her head and found him 
 standing there, a smile crept into her eyes. She 
 beckoned to him silently to come to her, and when 
 he reached her side, she pulled him gently to his 
 knees. 
 
 *' What is it ? " he whispered. 
 
 **I'm praying for John," she whispered back, for 
 when you kneel before an altar, even if it is only 
 rough-made out of an old box, as was this, you are 
 in a chapel; you are in a cathedral; you are at 
 the very feet of God Himself and you must speak 
 low. 
 
 " What about him ? " he whispered again. 
 
 She put her dear lips close to his ear with its 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 269 
 
 tuft of white hair growing stiffly on the lobe, an5 
 she whispered: 
 
 " The lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's 
 coming to tea this afternoon." 
 
 And then, looking round over his shoulder, to see 
 that he had closed the door — ^because old gentlemen 
 are sensitive about these things — his arm slipped 
 round her neck and both their heads bent together. 
 It was, after all, their own lives they were praying 
 for. Every prayer that is offered, every prayer 
 that is granted, is really for the benefit of the whole 
 world. 
 
 What they prayed for — ^how they prayed; what 
 quaint little sentences shaped themselves in her 
 mind, what fine phrases rolled in his, it is beyond 
 power to say. Certain it is that a woman comes 
 before her God in all the simplest garments of her 
 faith, while a man still carries his dignity well hung 
 upon the shoulder. 
 
 Presently, they rose together and went into the 
 other room. Everything was in readiness. The blue 
 and white cups were smiling in their saucers ; the 
 brass kettle was beginning its tempting song upon 
 the spirit stove. 
 
 " Do you like my cap ? " asked the little old 
 white-haired lady and, looking down to see if his 
 waistcoat was not too creased, the old gentleman 
 said that it was the daintiest cap that he had ever 
 seen. 
 
 " Poor John will be very shy," she continued, as 
 she sat down and tried to fold her hands in her 
 lap as though she were at ease. 
 
270 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 "John! shy!" 
 
 The old gentleman laughed at the idea of it and 
 kissed her wrinkled cheek to hide his excitement. 
 John, shy! He remembered the days of his own 
 love-making. He had never been shy. It was like 
 an accusation against himself. Besides, what woman 
 worth her salt would have anything to do with the 
 love-making of a man who was shy.'' John, shy! 
 He straightened his waistcoat for the second 
 time, because it was getting near the moment of 
 their arrival, the kettle was nearly boiling, and he 
 was beginning to feel just a little bit embarrassed. 
 
 " Did John say when they were going to be mar- 
 ried? " he asked presently. 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't say that to him ! " she cried 
 out quickly. " Why, he told me that he would never 
 see her again. He said that they were friends — just 
 friends. But d'you think I can't guess ! Why has 
 she come to Venice.'' She must have known he was 
 here. Oh, he'll tell nothing about it. We must just 
 
 treat her as if she were a friend. But " She 
 
 shook her head knowingly, not caring to finish her 
 sentence. 
 
 Of course, she guessed it all — their meeting in 
 the chapel — their meeting in Kensington Gardens I 
 A young man and a young woman do not meet 
 like that, unless it be that there is some good 
 reason for it. Besides — that last candle! What 
 woman could fail to fall in love with a man, who 
 had thought of such a gentle consideration as 
 that, even letting alone the fact that that man was 
 her son? There are some things in this world which 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 271 
 
 ft woman knows and it Is not the faintest use trying 
 to contradict her. To begin with, she is bound to 
 be right, and secondly, if it were possible to prove 
 her wrong, it would only convince her the more firmly 
 of her opinion. 
 
 The old lady knew quite well what she was talking 
 about. These two were as fondly in love with each 
 other as it was possible for them to be. Their 
 meeting here in Venice, after John had assured her 
 that they were never going to see each other again, 
 was all the proof that she needed of it. And with 
 this knowledge held firmly in the heart of her, she 
 was already pre-disposed to see those signs by which, 
 in spite of all their cleverness, two people are bound 
 in this predicament to show their hands. 
 
 At last the bell clanged loudly. Its jangling 
 hammered like echoes beating to and fro against 
 the walls of their hearts. The old lady set straight 
 her cap for the twentieth time ; for the twentieth 
 time, the old gentleman pulled down his waistcoat, 
 then he crept to the door and looked out into the 
 big room. 
 
 ** Claudina's going ! " he whispered back over his 
 shoulder. " She's opened the door. Yes — ^it's 
 John ! » 
 
 He came back quickly to his seat and there, when 
 the two visitors entered, they were sitting opposite 
 to each other, quite placidly, quite calmly, as though 
 there were nothing left to happen in the world. Yet 
 I doubt if four hearts ever beat so quickly beneath 
 such quiet exteriors as these. 
 
 " This is Miss Dealtry," said John — in much the 
 
272 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 same tone of voice as when he had told the cabman 
 to drive to the opera. 
 
 The old gentleman had risen from his chair and, 
 coming forward, with that air — it is the air of cour- 
 tesy — which makes a woman feel a queen, if she is 
 only a washerwoman, he took her hand, bowed low 
 as he gently shook it and then, drawing her further 
 into the room, he bowed solemnly again. 
 
 " My wife," said he, just catching the last note 
 from the tone of John's voice. 
 
 The little old white-haired lady held out her hands 
 and, as Jill saw the tortured, twisted fingers, her 
 heart shuddered in pity. But before that shudder 
 could be seen, she had bent down and kissed the 
 wrinkled face that was lifted up to hers and from 
 that moment, these two loved each other. 
 
 With women, these things are spontaneous. A 
 woman will go through the play of pretending to 
 kiss another; she will put forward her cheek, mutter 
 an affectionate word and kiss the air with her lips. 
 No one is deceived by it. The lookers-on know quite 
 well that these two must hate each other. The 
 actors know it perfectly well themselves. But once 
 the lips of two women meet, their hearts go with the 
 touching. 
 
 From the instant that the lips of the little old 
 lady touched Jill's, there was sealed a bond. They 
 both loved John, and in that kiss they both admitted 
 it. The mother wanted no further proof than this. 
 Then all jealousy vanished. With that kiss, she 
 made the mother's sacrifice, the sacrifice which is the 
 last that the incessant demands of nature makes 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 273 
 
 upon her sex. She gave up the love of her son into 
 the keeping of another woman. And when Jill stood 
 up again, the old lady's heart had died down to a 
 quiet, faint measure, fainter perhaps a little than 
 it had been before. Her life was finished. There 
 was only left the waiting and her eyes, still bright, 
 Bought John's, but found them fixed on Jill. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE DEPARTURE— VENICE 
 
 Before that little tea party was over, these two 
 old people had won the heart of Jill. For all the 
 world, they were like two children, making believe 
 with the most serious things in life. Like children, 
 they looked at each other in surprise when anything 
 happened, or when anything was said. Like chil- 
 dren, they laughed or were intensely earnest over 
 their game. Like children, it seemed as if they were 
 playing at being old, he, with his nodding of the 
 head, she, with her crumpled figure and withered 
 hands. 
 
 Sometimes at a thing that John would say, they 
 would look at each other and smile. It had re- 
 minded them of something far back in the years of 
 which neither John nor Jill knew anything. And 
 in this again, they were like children, upon whose 
 faces one may sometimes trace a distant look of 
 memory — a look that is very marvellous and very 
 wise — as though they were gazing back into the 
 heart of Time from which the hand of destiny has 
 brought them. 
 
 Yet it was not only this — this charm of wonderful 
 simplicity — but that whenever Jill looked up, she 
 found their eyes resting tenderly on her. It seemed 
 —she did not understand why just then — as though 
 
 274, 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 275 
 
 they were trying mutely to tell her how fond of her 
 they were. 
 
 Then, when the old gentleman handed her her cup 
 of tea, she recognised from the description, the china 
 of blue and white and turned with a smile to John. 
 
 " Aren't these the cups ? " she asked gently. 
 
 He nodded his head and tried to smile, too. The 
 old lady watched those smiles. Her eyes never left 
 them for a moment. 
 
 " I've been told about these cups," Jill explained 
 to the others. " Your son told me one day when — 
 when he was giving me a description of where you 
 Hved." 
 
 " That's the real Chinese cobalt," said the old 
 gentleman. " John told you that of course." 
 
 " Well — no — they were not described in detail — 
 at least " suddenly she found the blood mount- 
 ing to her cheeks. " I — I knew that they had no 
 handles." 
 
 Why did she blush? The little old lady had not 
 failed to see that sudden flame of colour. Why did 
 she blush.? Something she had remembered? Some- 
 thing that John had said? She looked quickly at 
 her son. His eyes were bent on Jill. 
 
 Oh, yes, they loved. There was no fear of her 
 mistaking that. There was a secret between them; 
 a secret that had set free a flood of colour to Jill's 
 cheeks, that had brought a look of fixed intent into 
 John's eyes. What other could such secret be be- 
 tween a boy and girl, than love? No one can keep 
 it ; but it is the greatest secret in the world. 
 
 Before the tea was over, they had betrayed it in 
 
276 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 a thousand different ways to the sharp, bright eyes 
 of the little old white-haired lady. When vying 
 with John to do honour to their guest, the old gen- 
 tleman persuaded .Jill to take from the plate he 
 proffered, then she bent her head and smiled to see 
 her husband's pride and poor John's discomfiture. 
 
 " She loves him ! She loves him ! " she whispered 
 in her heart. " She is the very woman for my 
 John ! " 
 
 " A charming little girl," whispered the old man's 
 vanity, as he proudly bore the plate back to the 
 table. " Exactly the woman I would have chosen 
 for John myself." 
 
 And John was disconsolately wondering why, if 
 she loved him, Jill had so patently refused his 
 offering. 
 
 Why had she refused? The little old white-haired 
 lady knew that. She wanted to please his father, 
 because she loved John. That was their secret. How 
 it affected the blue and white china, she could not 
 guess ; but that was their secret — they loved. 
 
 Only by exercising the greatest control over her- 
 self, could she refrain from drawing her aside and 
 telling Jill all she had seen, all she had guessed, and 
 all she hoped. 
 
 Presently, without seeking for it, the opportu- 
 nity presented itself. They had been eating little 
 jam sandwiches — jam sandwiches, which Claudina 
 knew how to cut so thin, that the bread was almost 
 threadbare, and looked as if it wanted darning. 
 They melted in your mouth, but then, they made 
 your fingers sticky. Jill looked ruefully at hers 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 277 
 
 when the tea was over. Holding them away from 
 her at arm's length, she made a little grimace. When 
 one was young, one's mouth was the best, the quick- 
 est, the most approved-of remedy for these matters. 
 She might have wished she were a child then, but 
 wishing was all. She asked to be allowed to wash 
 them. 
 
 " You will come into my room, dear," said the lit- 
 tle old lady eagerly, and away she led her, where 
 John could not hope to follow. 
 
 Ah, then she was cunning, when once she had her 
 alone! What subtle little compliments she paid! 
 You would scarcely believe how cunning she could 
 be. 
 
 "That is your little altar?" said Jill, when she 
 had dried her hands. As she walked across to it, 
 the old lady took her arm. It needed but little ma- 
 nipulation from there to slip her hand into Jill's. It 
 needed but little management to show her in a hun- 
 dred tender ways as she clung to her for support, 
 that she found her very dear, very loveable. 
 
 The hearts of women are responsive things. 
 When there is sjrmpathy between them, they touch 
 and answer, as though some current united them, 
 as well indeed it may. 
 
 So gentle, so expressive were those simple signs 
 that passed between Jill and the little old white- 
 haired lady, that Jill was stricken in conscience, 
 realising all that they meant and wondering, almost 
 guiltily, what they would think of her if they knew. 
 They must never know. She could not bear the 
 thought that these two old people, far away in 
 
278 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 Venice as they might be, should hold in their hearts 
 anything but the affection which they were showing 
 to her then. 
 
 " I was praying here just before you came," said 
 the little old lady in a whisper. 
 
 Jill pressed the withered hand. 
 
 *' Do you know what I was praying for.?" 
 
 A sudden fear seized Jill. She felt her forehead 
 cold. 
 
 " No " she tried to smile — " How could I 
 
 know? " 
 
 " I was praying for John." She looked up simply 
 into Jill's face. " He's such a dear boy, you don't 
 know. Look at the way he comes every year to see 
 us — all the way from London. I wonder would any 
 other son do as much. Do you think they would? " 
 
 She asked the question as naively as if, were there 
 any doubt about it, she really would like to know. 
 You might have known there was no doubt in her 
 mind. 
 
 Before that little altar then, was a dangerous 
 place to discuss such subjects. Jill drew her gently 
 away towards the door. 
 
 " Do you think there are any other sons have 
 such a mother ? " she said. *' Why don't you ask 
 yourself that question ? " 
 
 The little old lady looked up with a twinkle in her 
 eyes. " I thought perhaps you'd understand it bet- 
 ter that way," she answered. " Besides — it's easy to 
 be a mother. You have only to have a son. It's not 
 so easy to be a son, because you need more than a 
 mother for that." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 279 
 
 Jill looked at her tenderly, then bent and kissed 
 her cheek. 
 
 " I think John's very like you," she whispered. 
 She could not keep it back. And that was as much as 
 the little old white-haired lady wanted ; that was all 
 she had been playing for. With her head high in 
 triumph, she walked back with Jill to join the others. 
 
 Soon afterwards Jill declared she must go; that 
 her friends would be waiting for her. 
 
 " But when " the old people began in a 
 
 breath, then stopped together. 
 
 ** You say, my dear," said the old gentleman — " I 
 can wait." 
 
 Oh, no — she would not hear of it. He began first. 
 Let him say what he wanted to. He shook his head 
 and bowed. John caught Jill's eye and they held 
 their laughter. 
 
 " Then when " they both began again to- 
 gether and this time, they finished out their sentence 
 — " are we going to see you again ? " 
 
 We share the same thoughts when we know each 
 other well. But life runs along in its separate chan- 
 nels with most people. They may be many years 
 beneath the shadow of one roof, yet for all they 
 know of each other, they might live at opposite 
 ends of the earth, so little is it given to human be- 
 ings to understand humanity; so little do people 
 study it except in the desires which are in them- 
 selves. 
 
 In these two old people, it was quite charming 
 to see one standing out of the way to let the other 
 pass on, as if they both were going in vastly dif- 
 
280 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ferent directions, and then, to find that one was but 
 speaking the other's thoughts. 
 
 They all laughed, but their laughter died away 
 again when Jill announced that in two days she 
 was leaving Venice for Milan, passing through the 
 Italian lakes on her way back to England. 
 
 " You only stay three days ! " exclaimed the little 
 old lady, and she looked quickly at John. But John 
 had known of it. There was no surprise in his face. 
 He breathed deeply ; looked away out of the win- 
 dow over the old Italian garden — that was all. 
 
 They made her promise to come the next day to 
 lunch — to tea again if she would — to stay with them 
 the whole day. John looked to her appealingly for 
 her answer. 
 
 " But I can't leave my friends all that time," she 
 said reluctantly. " I'll come to lunch — I'll try and 
 stay to tea. I can't do more than that." 
 
 Then John took her down to her gondola. In the 
 archway, before they stepped on to the fondamentay 
 he took her arm and held her near him. 
 
 " You're sure it's too late.'' " he said hoarsely, be- 
 low his breath. " You're sure that there is nothing 
 I could do to make things different — to make them 
 possible? " 
 
 She clung to him quietly. In the darkness, her 
 eyes searched impenetrable depths ; stared to the 
 furthest horizons of chance, yet saw nothing beyond 
 the track of many another woman's life before her. 
 
 " It is too late," she whispered — " Oh, I should 
 never have come ! I should never have seen these 
 two wonderful old people of yours. Now I know 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 281 
 
 all that the City of Beautiful Nonsense meant. You 
 very nearly made them real to me that day in Fet- 
 ter Lane ; but now I know them. Oh, I don't wonder 
 that you love them ! I don't wonder that you would 
 come every year — year after year to see them! If 
 only my mother and father were like that, how dif- 
 ferent all of it would be then." 
 
 " You haven't the courage to break away from it 
 all.? " asked John quietly — " to make these old 
 people of mine — to make them yours. If I couldn't 
 support you over in London, you could live with 
 them here, and I would do as much of my work here 
 as possible." 
 
 Jill looked steadily into his eyes. 
 
 *' Do you think I should be happy ? " she asked. 
 " Would you be happy if, to marry me, you had to 
 give up them? Wouldn't their faces haunt you in 
 the most perfect moments of your happiness? 
 Wouldn't his eyes follow you in everything you did? 
 Wouldn't those poor withered hands of hers be al- 
 ways pulling feebly at your heart? And if you 
 thought that they were poor ? " 
 
 " They are," said John. He thought of the 
 Treasure Shop; of that pathetic figure, hiding in 
 the shadows of it, who would not sell his goods, 
 because he loved them too well. 
 
 " Could you leave them to poverty then ? " said 
 Jill. 
 
 " So it's too late ? " he repeated. 
 
 " I've given my word," she replied. 
 
 He lifted her hand generously to his lips *nd 
 kissed it. 
 
282 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Then you mustn't come to-morrow," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 " Not see them again ? " she echoed. 
 
 " No. You must send some excuse. Write to my 
 mother. Say your friends have decided to stop at 
 Bologna on their way to Milan and that they are 
 going to start at once. She loves you too well — 
 she counts on you too much already. It'll be a long 
 time before I can drive out of her head the thought 
 that you are going to be my wife. And I don't 
 want to do it by telling her that you are going to 
 be married to someone else. She wouldn't under- 
 stand that. She belongs to an old-fashioned school, 
 where ringlets and bonnets and prim little black 
 shoes over dainty white stockings, make a wonder- 
 ful difference to one's behaviour. She probably 
 couldn't understand your wanting to see them under 
 such a circumstance as that. She could scarcely be- 
 lieve that you cared for me and, if she did, would 
 think that we shouldn't see each other, as perhaps, 
 after this, we shan't. No, I shall have quite enough 
 difficulty in driving you out of her mind as it is. 
 You mustn't come and see them to-morrow. She'll 
 nearly break her heart when she hears it, but nearly 
 is not quite." 
 
 " Shan't I ever see them again then.f* " she asked 
 below her breath. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ** This is the last time you'll see any of us." 
 
 She put her hands on his shoulders. For a mo- 
 ment, she clung to him, her face closely looking into 
 his as though she must store him in her memory 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 28S 
 
 for the rest of time. He shut his eyes. He dared 
 not kiss her. When the lips touch, they break a 
 barrier through which floods a torrent there is no 
 quenching. John shut his eyes and held back his 
 head, lest the touching of her hair or the warmth 
 of her breath should weaken his resolve. 
 
 " How am I to do it ? " she whispered. '* I feel as 
 though I must stay now; as though I never wanted 
 to go back home again.'* 
 
 He said nothing. The very tone of his voice 
 would have been persuasion to her then. Slowly, she 
 unclasped her fingers ; as slowly she drew herself 
 away. That was the last moment when he could 
 have won her. Then she was his as the blood was 
 rushing through him, as her pulses were throbbing 
 wildly in time to his. But in love — it may be dif- 
 ferent in war — these things may not be taken so. 
 Some vague, some mystical notion of the good does 
 not permit of it. 
 
 " You must be going," said John gently. " We 
 can't stay here." 
 
 She let him lead her to the door. As it came open 
 to his hand and the greater light flooded in, he knew 
 that it was all finished. 
 
 She stepped down into her gondola that was wait- 
 ing, and the gondolier pushed off from the steps. 
 Until it swayed out of sight, John stood motion- 
 less on the fondamenta, watching its passing. Some- 
 times Jill looked back over her shoulder and waved 
 a little handkerchief. John bent his head acknowl- 
 edging it. 
 
 But neither of them saw the two white heads that, 
 
284 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 close together in a window up above, were whisper- 
 ing to each other in happy ignorance of all the 
 misery which that little white handkerchief conveyed. 
 
 *'You see how long they took to get down the 
 steps," whispered the old lady. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that you can judge anything 
 by that," replied her husband. " Those steps are 
 very dark to anyone not accustomed to them." 
 
 She took his arm. She looked up into his face. 
 Her brown eyes twinkled. 
 
 *' They are," she whispered back — " very dark — 
 nearly as dark as that little avenue up to the house 
 where I lived when you first met me." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE SIXTEENTH OF FEBRUARY— LONDON 
 
 The abhorrence of Nature for a vacuum, is nothing 
 to her abomination of unfinished work. In the great 
 Tapestry which Time sits eternally weaving with the 
 coloured threads of circumstance, there are no loose 
 ends allowed. Every little picture which finds its 
 way into the mighty subject of that vast material, 
 must be complete in its symbol of accomplished Des- 
 tiny. No ragged edges must there be; no lines un- 
 finished, no shadow left out. And even, in so incon- 
 sequent a matter as a story of Beautiful Nonsense, 
 some definite completion must be shown to round 
 the whole, to leave no hanging thread by which the 
 picture might be unravelled. 
 
 When John said good-bye to Jill on the steps of 
 the fondamenta, when the last wave of her little 
 white handkerchief had fluttered into a curling light 
 upon the water, he had turned back into the house, 
 believing that the story was irretrievably ended. 
 The last word had been written. So far as Jill was 
 concerned, he might well close the book and thank 
 the pen of Chance that it had shown him an ideal as 
 high above the common conception of life as it is 
 good for the eyes of a man to lift. 
 
 But he had not, in this calculation, counted the 
 presence of those two white heads in the window up 
 above. For him, so far as his eye could see, Des- 
 
286 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 tiny had had its fill, had drained the cup of possi- 
 bility to its utmost dregs. But this was not so for 
 them. They had yet to be appeased. For them, 
 the matter had only just begun. To them, it was 
 the last shuttle, whose speeding to and fro, would 
 weave in the past with the present and so fulfil their 
 final justification. 
 
 From that day, the little old white-haired lady 
 looked forward to John's marriage with Jill as to 
 the consummation of her whole life's desire. She 
 lived — she thought — she ordered her existence for 
 nothing else. Her disappointment was pathetic to 
 witness when she received Jill's little note telling 
 her departure the next day. But her beliefs were 
 not shaken ; her hopes were not thwarted. She still 
 saw the last burning of her romance before the 
 flame should flicker and become a light no more. 
 
 She spoke to John about it of course. Sitting 
 in the window one day, the window that looked down 
 on to the old gentleman's garden, she told him what 
 she knew; what was not the slightest use his con- 
 tradicting. They loved each other. Oh, not a doubt 
 of it! She spoke authoritatively, as women will on 
 these subjects. Who better able to than they? 
 
 *' You really think she loves me, mother? " he 
 asked in a quick moment of hopefulness. 
 
 She took his hand. She lifted one tired arm about 
 his neck. 
 
 " Why do you think she came like that to Ven- 
 ice? " she asked. " There's not a thing she wouldn't 
 do for you — not a place she wouldn't go to in order 
 to see you. Don't you realise that? " 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 28r 
 
 It was unfortunate she should have chosen that 
 phrase. There were things, Jill would not do for 
 him. It had needed every effort from him to find 
 the full value of unselfishness in what she was about 
 to do; but he could not think that she loved him as 
 his mother would have him believe. It was unfor- 
 tunate, her choosing of that phrase. From that 
 moment, John shrank into himself. He could not 
 bring himself to tell her the. whole truth of it; there- 
 fore, it was no good talking any more. 
 
 *' Her people are too well off," he said, rising with 
 a gesture of despair from the seat in the window. 
 *' They're in a difi'erent position altogether. I've 
 no right to tell her. I've no right to try and win 
 her affection. It would only be a hopeless business 
 all through." 
 
 From that moment, he avoided the subject; from 
 that moment, he became impregnable whenever the 
 little old white-haired lady tried to assail him with 
 the weapons of her worldly knowledge. 
 
 " I can get John to say nothing," she said one 
 night to her husband. " He won't speak about it at 
 all." 
 
 He put his arms round her in the darkness. 
 
 " You're worrying yourself, little woman," he 
 said, sleepily. " I woke up once last night and you 
 were wide awake. Did you sleep at all ? " 
 
 " Very Kttle," she admitted. 
 
 ** Well — you mustn't worry. Leave it to Nature. 
 John will tell her everything about it one of these 
 days. Young men are always getting on the high 
 horse and trying to tilt against Nature, and women 
 
288 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 are forever offering to assist Nature, thinking she 
 must come off the worst. It's waste of time either 
 way, my dearest. Nature's a windmill. It'll grind 
 the flour out of everyone of us when the wind blows. 
 It's no good tilting at it on a windy day; and 
 it's no good trying to turn the sails round when 
 it's calm. The wind'll blow," — he yawned and turned 
 over on his side — " soon enough." And he was 
 asleep. 
 
 She believed so much in what her husband said, 
 did the little old white-haired lady. It is not often, 
 that after twenty odd years of married life, a man 
 keeps still alive that ideal of unquestionable relia- 
 bility which his wife first found in everything he 
 said. Usually there comes a time — sad enough in 
 its way, since ideals are almost everything — when 
 those which once were words of wisdom, fall tainted 
 with the odour of self-interest. It becomes a dif- 
 ficult thing to believe in then, that aphorism of your 
 philosopher, which brings him the warmest seat in 
 the chimney corner, or the softest place in the bed. 
 And that is the wisdom of a lot of people — a phi- 
 losophy of self, translated into a language for 
 others. 
 
 By some kink of chance perhaps — though rather 
 it would be kinder to think, by some quality of mu- 
 tual affection — the old gentleman had avoided this 
 tragedy. It is a tragedy ; for no man likes a mean 
 motive to be attributed to his philosophy — especially 
 when it is true. And so, the old lady still believed 
 in the infallibility of her husband's wisdom which 
 in its way was quite good. That night at least 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 289 
 
 then, she worried no more. She turned over her 
 white head in his direction and she fell asleep. And 
 whenever he turned through the night, she turned 
 as well. After twenty years or so, these things be- 
 come mechanical. Life is easier after twenty years, 
 if you can bear with it till then. 
 
 But before John had left, her worries began again 
 and, not daring to speak to him any more, she was 
 driven to bear her trouble in silence. 
 
 She hoped up to the last that he would mention 
 it once more, and a thousand different times in a 
 thousand different ways, decoyed their conversations 
 into topics which would suggest it to his mind. Yet 
 always with the caution of some wary animal pur- 
 sued, John avoided it — sheered off and chose another 
 path. 
 
 Even on the day of his departure, she yet thought 
 that he would speak and, clinging gently to him, 
 with her arms about his neck, she whispered: 
 
 "Have you nothing to say to me, John?" 
 
 *' Nothing — ^nothing, dearest," he replied, adding 
 the term of endearment as he saw the bitter look 
 of disappointment in her eyes. 
 
 Then he was gone. For another year that vast 
 chamber with its high windows, and that tiny room 
 which peeped out into it, would be silent of the 
 sound of his voice. For another year, night after 
 night, these two old people would continue to look 
 up in surprise when Claudina entered for the cere- 
 mony ; they would continue to exclaim : " You don't 
 mean to say it's ten o'clock, Claudina ! " And per- 
 haps, as the days wore on and the year drew itself 
 
290 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 out to the thin grey thread, the surprise would get 
 fainter, the note of exclamation not so emphatic as 
 it used to be. She took her breath in fear as she 
 thought of it. Supposing the year were to pass 
 and John had not married Jill.? She went into the 
 little altar in her bedroom and commenced a novena 
 — one of the many that she began and dutifully 
 finished, before that year had gone. 
 
 So, it may be seen, in these two old people, who 
 have woven themselves so inextricably into this whole 
 story of Nonsense, how Time has by no means fin- 
 ished with the picture it set itself the weaving on 
 that mysterious 18th of March, whereof the calendar 
 still keeps its secret. 
 
 John went back to his labours in London, but he 
 left behind him, forces at work of which he knew 
 nothing. The old gentleman was quite right. Na- 
 ture has no need of the meddling hand. The seed 
 had been transplanted into the mind of the little 
 old white-haired lady and, in her, will the completion 
 of Destiny be found. 
 
 For the first few weeks, she wrote her usual let- 
 ters to John, avoiding the subject with a rigid per- 
 severance which, she might have known, which cer- 
 tainly her husband knew, she could never hope to 
 maintain. This perseverance did not break down all 
 at once. She began with inconsequent allusions to 
 Jill; then at last, when they called forth no word 
 of a reply from John, she gave way to the passion- 
 ate desire that was consuming her, commencing a 
 long series of letters of counsel and advice such as 
 an old lady will give, who believes that the world 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 291 
 
 is the same place that It was when she was a 
 girl. 
 
 " Have you ever spoken to her, John? " she asked 
 in one of her letters. " With your eyes you have. I 
 saw you do it that afternoon at tea. But the lan- 
 guage of the eyes is not enough for a woman, who 
 has, never heard the sound of the spoken word in 
 her ears.'* 
 
 " Tell her you love her — ask her to marry you, 
 and if she says no — don't believe her. She doesn't 
 mean it. It's more or less impossible for a woman 
 to say yes the first time. It's over so soon." 
 
 " You say her people are wealthy; that they are 
 in a very different position to you. Of course, I 
 know blood is thicker than water, but love is 
 stronger than them both. And, after all, their posi- 
 tion is one of luxury — that is of the body. Your's 
 is a position of the mind. There is no comparison." 
 
 " / lie awake sometimes at night, thinking of all 
 the trials and troubles your father and I had to go 
 through before we found our corner in the worlds 
 and then I know how much more worth than youth 
 or luxury, pleasure or ease, is love." 
 
 " / believe in that short time she was here, she 
 became very fond of me, and in one of those mo- 
 ments when one woman shows her heart to another 
 ■ — they are very seldom — it was when she came to 
 wash her hands after eating the jam sandwiches — 
 she said she thought you were very like me. Now 
 comparisons, with women, are not always odious; it 
 is generally the only way they have of describing 
 anything. 
 
293 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " I am sending you a bracelet of jade to give to 
 her. It is very old. I will send you the history of 
 it another time. I have it all written out somewhere. 
 Anyhow, it belonged to one of the great Venetian 
 ladies when Leonardo Loredano was Doge. Give 
 it to her as coming from you. It does come from 
 you. I give it you. A gift, however small, however 
 poor, means a great deal to a woman. She reads a 
 meaning into it — the very meaning I send with this." 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy, will you tell me nothing. Don't 
 you know how my heart must be aching to hear some 
 news of your happiness. It is the last happiness I 
 shall know myself. Don't delay it too long." 
 
 These extracts from the letters written by the 
 little old white-haired lady to her son, John, over 
 that period of the first three months after her meet- 
 ing with Jill, could occupy the space of many a 
 page in this history. But these few which, with 
 John's permission, I have quoted here, are sufficient 
 to show how close her heart was wrapt up in the 
 fortunes of his love-making. 
 
 Hoping, that, in his reticence on the subject, she 
 might in time grow to lose interest, finally even for- 
 getting Jill's existence altogether, John procrasti- 
 nated, putting off, putting off the day when he must 
 tell her all the truth. There was, too, he has ad- 
 mitted it, some fanciful sense of satisfaction intri- 
 cately woven in with the pain he felt when he read 
 those letters of hers every week. It was nonsense 
 again, perhaps, but it kept the idea a living reality 
 in his mind. He came to look forward to them as 
 to the expression of a life that was too wonderful, 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 293 
 
 except to dream of. And so, as an Eastern takes 
 his opium and, retiring into the gloomy shadows of 
 his den, is transported into the glorious heavens of 
 a phantom creation, John read these letters of his 
 mother's in his room in Fetter Lane. There, the 
 passings to and fro of Mrs. Rowse, the hawker's 
 cries and the screams of the parrot on the other side 
 of the road, had no power to waken him from his 
 sleep, so long as it lasted. 
 
 For nearly three months — week after week — he 
 received these letters, dreamed his dreams and, in 
 writing back to the little old white-haired lady, 
 tried to allay the expectancy of her mind. 
 
 At last it could be done no longer. You may 
 put back the hands of a clock to your heart's con- 
 tent, but there is no warding off of the inevitable. 
 There came a letter saying she would write of it 
 no more. It was not impatient, it was not in anger, 
 but in the spirit, as when an old lady lays down her 
 sewing in her lap as the sun sets and, gently tells 
 you, she can see the stitches no longer. 
 
 It was then, that John, knowing what he had lost, 
 conceived another felonious means of transport — 
 this time the transport of the mind. 
 
 Jill was only known to his people as Miss Dealtry. 
 They did not know where she lived. They knew 
 nothing of her relations. They could not com- 
 municate with her in any way. 
 
 For a long while he sat looking at that last letter 
 of his mother's, where she had said she would write 
 no more of Jill. 
 
 " She wants a love story — bless her heart," he 
 
294 TflE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 said musingly — and Mrs. Morrell's sandy cat com- 
 ing at that moment into the room, he repeated it 
 for the cat's benefit — " She wants a love story," 
 he said. The cat blinked its eyes, curled a rough 
 red tongue lovingly about its whiskers, and sat down 
 as though, having half an hour to spare and the 
 tortoiseshell not being in the way, it was quite ready 
 to listen to it then. 
 
 " And, by Jove ! " exclaimed John — " She shall 
 have it ! " 
 
 Miss Morrell curled her tail comfortably round 
 her in the most perfect attitude of attention. 
 
 " I'll write her a story," said John to Miss Mor- 
 rell — " a story of beautiful nonsense — some of 
 it true and some of it made up as I go along." 
 
 And, therewith, he sat himself down to answer 
 her letter. 
 
 It was necessary, if he were to re-create the 
 interest of the little old white-haired lady, for 
 him to meet Jill again. Accordingly, with some in- 
 genious preamble, in which he explained his silence 
 of the preceding months, he began with the descrip- 
 tion of his second meeting with Jill in Kensington 
 Gardens — that time when she came and spent the 
 entire morning in telling him that she could not come 
 and meet him that day. 
 
 *' Undoubtedly God could have made a place more 
 fitted for Romance than Kensington Gardens," he 
 began — " hut unquestionably He never did" 
 
 And this was how the last tissue of nonsense came 
 to be woven. 
 
 Of course, he told her, that it was all a secret. Jill 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 295 
 
 had to keep it a secret from her people. He had to 
 do that. Well — surely it was true.'' He put the 
 question boldly for his conscience to answer, and a 
 look of the real thing came into his eyes. It was 
 as well, however, that he thought of doing it, for 
 the old lady was nearly landing him in an awkward 
 predicament. She enclosed a letter to Jill and asked 
 him to forward it, as, of course, she did not know 
 the address. 
 
 He made a grimace at Miss Morrell when he re- 
 ceived it, as though asking her what she would do 
 under the circumstances. Miss Morrell yawned. It 
 was so simple. So far, she had taken an interest 
 in the case, had come in every day since the writing 
 of the first letter to get her saucer of milk and hear 
 the latest. But if he was going to put questions 
 to her like this, there was all probabilty that she 
 would be bored. Of course there was only one thing 
 to be done. Miss Morrell could see that. And John 
 did it. He answered the letter himself — wrote in a 
 woman's hand ; which is to say, he wrote every letter 
 slanting backwards — said all that was important 
 when the letter was finished, and scribbled it in and 
 out between the date and the address, then, with 
 a last effort at realism, spelt two words wrong on 
 every page. 
 
 By this means, he was getting two letters every 
 week, answering them both himself with as much 
 industry and regularity as he ever put into his 
 work. 
 
 This was all very well — all very simple so long 
 as it lasted. But even Miss Morrell, whose eye to 
 
296 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 the main chance was unerring when it concerned a 
 saucer of milk, warned him of what would follow. 
 One morning, he received a letter from the little old 
 white-haired lady, asking him when they were going 
 to be married. 
 
 Quite placidly, he sat down and wrote 
 
 " We're to be married on the 16th of February. 
 Vve taken a small cottage down in the country. It 
 costs forty pounds a year. I thought it wise to be- 
 gin on economical lines. There's a little rustic porch 
 to the front door, with William Allan Richardson 
 roses climbing all over it. In the front, there are 
 ten feet of garden, protected from the road by a 
 •wooden railing about two foot and a brick high with' 
 a tiny gate thafs always locked to prevent bur- 
 glars getting in. Three pink chestnuts combine to 
 give it the appearance of an ambrosial park. At 
 the back, there's a little lawn, just large enough for 
 pitch and toss — Vve measured it myself, it takes 
 thirty-nine and a half of the longest steps I can 
 take. And in the middle there's an apple tree, — 
 that's likely to have a crop of three this year," 
 
 Miss Morrell closed her eyes in silent acquiescence 
 when he read it out to her. It is possible that she 
 may have considered him extravagant and, having 
 that eye to the main chance, wondered whether he 
 would be able to afford her her basin of milk with 
 all this expenditure on two establishments. She did 
 not say it, however, and listened patiently when 
 he told her of other arrangements he had made. 
 
 " I forgot to tell you," he said, taking Miss ]\Ior- 
 rell on his knee — " that Lizzie Rowse is going to 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 297 
 
 give up sticking labels on the jam-jars at Crosse 
 and Blackwell's and is coming to do housemaid, cook, 
 and general help for seven and sixpence a week — 
 including beer money as she doesn't drink. I wanted 
 to pay her more, but she wouldn't take it. I asked 
 her why and she said, because she mightn't get it; 
 that it was better to be certain of things in this 
 world, rather than spending your life in hoping for 
 what was too good to be true. It was no good my 
 telling her that the whole business was only going 
 to be transacted on paper, and that black and white 
 would be the colour of everything she'd ever make 
 out of it. But no ! Seven and six was what she 
 stuck at. As it was, it was a rise of sixpence to 
 what she was getting at the jam-jars, and she 
 wouldn't t<ike a penny more. She said I'd been too 
 kind to her as it was." 
 
 Miss Morrell listened to all this with contempt. 
 Mrs. Rowse was not in good repute just then. They 
 thought very nasty things about her on the third 
 and second floors — what is more, they said them, and 
 in tones quite loud enough for Miss Morrell and her 
 tortoiseshell companion to hear. 
 
 Mrs. Rowse, it appeared, had spilt some water 
 on the landing mid-way between the first and second 
 floor where was the water cock common to the entire 
 uses of the whole establishment. Five drops would 
 convey an idea of about the amount she had spilled. 
 At a first glance, this may seem very slight, but 
 when it is explained that the stairs from the first 
 to the second floor were covered with linoleum spe- 
 cially purchased by Mrs. Brown to make the a£- 
 
298 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 proach to her residence the more ornate, it will be 
 easily understood what a heinous offence this was. 
 
 Mrs. Brown had spoken about it and the untidy 
 habits of the people on the first floor generally, in 
 tones so opprobrious and so loud that not only the 
 first floor, but indeed the whole house had heard her. 
 Following this, there had appeared, stuck upon the 
 wall so that all who approached the fountain must 
 read, the accompanying notice — " If persons spill 
 the water, will they have the kindness to slop it up." 
 
 It may be imagined how, in the effort to compose 
 so reserved a notice as this, the feelings of Mrs. 
 Brown, aided and abetted by Mrs. Morrell, must 
 have overflowed in speech, all of which, of course, 
 Miss Morrell would undoubtedly have heard. Hence 
 her contempt. 
 
 When John had finished his dissertation upon the 
 generosity and good qualities of Lizzie Rowse, Miss 
 Morrell climbed down quietly from his knee. She 
 was too dignified to say what she thought about it 
 and so, with tail erect, stiffened a little perhaps for 
 fear he might not perceive the full value of her 
 dignity, she walked from the room. 
 
 The time passed by. It grew perilously near to 
 that 16th of February. But John took it all very 
 placidly ; probably that is the way, when one does 
 these things on paper. He invented all day long, 
 and took as much pride in the ingenuity and con- 
 struction of those letters as ever he took over his 
 work. 
 
 "We went last night to the pit of a theatre,'* 
 he said one morning to Miss Morrell. " Took Mrs. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 299 
 
 Rowse and Lizzie and Maud. The two girls per- 
 sisted in eating oranges till Maud put a piece of a 
 bad one in her mouth ; then they both stopped. I 
 was rather glad, Maud got hold of a bad one, be- 
 cause I was just racking my -brains to know how I 
 could stop them without giving offence." 
 
 Miss Morrell looked quietly up into his face. 
 
 ** You shouldn't take those sort of people to a 
 theatre," said she. 
 
 John took no notice of her grammar. " It was 
 Jill's idea," he replied. 
 
 On the 16th of February, right enough, they were 
 married. Miss Morrell came that morning to drink 
 her saucer of milk in honour of the event. 
 
 She walked in without knocking. It was her 
 privilege. John was seated at his table, with his 
 head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking like 
 a woman's with sobs that had no tears in them. 
 And there, before him, with their paper wrappings 
 all scattered about the place, were a pair of Dresden 
 china shepherds, playing gaily on their lutes. Hang- 
 ing about the neck of one of them was a card, on 
 which was written : " To John on Ms wedding day 
 — from his loving father." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE DISSOLUBLE BONDAGE 
 
 If only it were that these things could continue — 
 but alas ! they cannot ! We make our bubbles with 
 all the colours of heaven in them, but cannot 
 abide to see them only floating in the air. The 
 greens and purples, the golds and scarlets, they 
 seem so real upon the face of that diaphonous, crys- 
 tal disc, that to touch them, to find their glorious 
 stain upon the fingers, becomes the desire of every 
 one of us. Out stretches the hand, the fingers 
 tighten! The bubble is gone! 
 
 That was much the way with John's beautiful 
 bubble of Nonsense. So long as Jill knew nothing 
 of it; so long as he played with the fairy thing by 
 himself, it was enough; but the every-day business 
 of life, in which death is one of the unavoidable 
 duties, intervened. One cannot play at these won- 
 derful games for long. You cannot be married on 
 paper — more perhaps is the pity. There would be 
 fewer separations, fewer misunderstandings if you 
 could. Life unfortunately does not permit of it. 
 The law of Gravity is universal. You come down 
 to earth. 
 
 When John had been living a married life of un- 
 broken happiness for two months, there came two 
 letters on the same day to Fetter Lane. He looked 
 
 300 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 301 
 
 at one with no greater bewilderment than he did at 
 the other. The first was from Venice In a strange 
 handwriting; the second, from Jill. He opened it 
 apprehensively. It could not be an invitation to 
 her wedding.'' She could not have done that? Then 
 what? 
 
 " Is there any reason why we should not see each 
 other again? I shall he in Kensington Gardens to- 
 morrow at 11.30." 
 
 He laid it down upon the table. For the moment, 
 he forgot the existence of the other letter. In the 
 midst of all his make-believe, this message from Jill 
 was hard to realise ; no easy matter to reconcile with 
 all the phantoms in whose company he had been 
 living. 
 
 What strange and unexpected things were women ! 
 Did ever they know what they wanted? or, knowing, 
 and having found it, did any of them believe it to 
 be what they had thought it at first? 
 
 Was she married? Since he had come back from 
 Venice, the world might have been dead of her. He 
 had heard nothing — seen nothing — and now this 
 letter. Like the falling of some bolt of destruc- 
 tion from a heaven of blue, it had dropped into his 
 garden, crushing the tenderest flowers he had planted 
 there, in its swift rush of reality. 
 
 She wanted to see him again. The mere wish 
 was a command; the mere statement that she would 
 be in Kensington Gardens, a summons. All his sac- 
 rifice, his putting her away from him that day of her 
 departure In Venice, was in one moment gone for 
 nought. All this dream in which he had been living, 
 
S02 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 became the bubble broken in the hand of such cir- 
 cumstance as this. While it had lasted, while he 
 had continued to hear nothing of her, it had been 
 real enough. Up till that moment, he had been hap- 
 pily married, quietly living down at Harefield in the 
 county of Middlesex, in his cottage with its William 
 Allan Richardson roses and its insurmountable 
 wooden railing, two foot and a brick high. Every 
 day, he had been coming up to London to work in 
 Fetter Lane and to get his letters. Some very good 
 reason, he had given to the old people why they 
 should Avrite to him there. And now, because he 
 must obey this summons to go to Kensington Gar- 
 dens and talk of things, perhaps, that little mat- 
 tered, for fear they might embark upon the sea of 
 those things that did, all his dream had vanished. 
 The only reality left him, was that he was alone. 
 
 With a deep breath of resignation, he turned to 
 the other letter and opened it. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Grey — / am writing this for your 
 mother, to tell you the unfortunate news that your 
 father is very ill. He has had a heart seizure, and, 
 I fear, cannot live more than a few days. I am told 
 hy Mrs. Grey to ask you and your wife to come here 
 as soon as possible. He knows the worst, and is ask- 
 ing to see you before he dies." 
 
 The paper hung limply in John's fingers. He 
 stared blindly at the wall in front of liim. One hand 
 of ice seemed laid upon his forehead; the cold fin- 
 gers of another gripped his heart. 
 
 Death — the end of everything — the irrevocable 
 passing into an impenetrable darkness. It was well 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE SOS 
 
 enough to believe in things hereafter; but to put it 
 into practice wanted a power greater than belief. 
 The old gentleman was going to die. The little old 
 white-haired lady was to be left alone. How could 
 he believe it.'' Would she believe it.? Old people 
 must die. He had said that often enough to himself 
 while they had been well, while there had been no 
 fear of it. He had said it, as the philosopher says 
 that everything that is, is for the best. Now, as the 
 philosopher so frequently has to do, he had to put 
 it to the test. 
 
 His father was going to die. In a few days, he 
 would see the last of him. Then pictures — scenes in 
 his father's life — rode processionally through his 
 mind. Last of all, he saw him, hands trembling, 
 eyes alight and expression eager, placing back the 
 Dresden Shepherd in the windoAV of the Treasure 
 Shop — that same gay figure in china which, with its 
 fellow, he had sent to John on his imaginary wed- 
 ding day. 
 
 With that picture, came the tears tumbling from 
 his eyes. The wall opposite became a blurred vision 
 in shadow as he stared at it. And all the time, the 
 two Dresden Shepherds, perched upon his mantel- 
 piece, played gaily on their lutes. 
 
 In the light-heartedness of his imagination, he 
 had not conceived of this aspect of his deception. 
 His father had asked to see his wife before he died. 
 Now, he would give the world that the description 
 had never been. Already, he could see the look of 
 pain in the old gentleman's eyes, when he should 
 say — as say he must — that he had had to leave her 
 
304 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 behind. Already, he could feel the sting of his own 
 conscience when, by that bedside in the little room, 
 he invented the last messages which Jill had sent to 
 make his passing the easier. 
 
 It had been simple matter enough to conceive a 
 thousand of these messages and write them upon 
 paper; it had been simple matter enough to write 
 those letters, which they were to suppose had come 
 from Jill's own hand. But to act — to become the 
 mummer in mask and tinsel, beside his father's death- 
 bed, hurt every sensibility he possessed. It was 
 beyond him. He knew he could not do it. Jill must 
 know. Jill must be told everything, the whole story 
 of this flight of his imagination. He trusted the 
 gentle heart of her, at least, to give him some mes- 
 sage of her own ; something he could repeat for his 
 father to hear, without the deriding knowledge in 
 his heart that it was all a lie, all a fabrication, which, 
 if the old gentleman did but know, he would reproach 
 him with in his last moments. 
 
 There, then, with the tears still falling down his 
 cheeks, he wrote to Jill, telling her everything; en- 
 closing the last letter which he had just received. 
 
 ** Give me something to say" he begged — 
 ** something which comes from the kindness of your 
 heart and not from the fiendishness of my imagina- 
 tion. In those few moments you saw him, he must 
 have shown you some of the gentleness of his nature; 
 must have shoxtm you something which, putting aside 
 the blame which I deserve at your hands for all I 
 have said, expects this generosity from you. I have 
 become a beggar, an importunate beggar, scarcely 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 305 
 
 to be denied; but I become so with all humility. Just 
 zvrite me a line. You can see now, that I dare not 
 meet you to-morrow, now that you know. But send 
 me a line as soon as you receive this, which I may 
 learn by heart and repeat to him with a conscience 
 made clear, in so much as I shall know that such 
 words have actually been said by you." 
 
 When he had posted this, John began the packing 
 of those things which he would require for the jour- 
 ney. Into the chapel of unredemption he marched 
 and made an indiscriminate offering of everything 
 he possessed on his list of sacrificial objects. The 
 high priest swept them all into his keeping and 
 winked at his acolytes. 
 
 The next morning came Jill's reply. John tore 
 it open, and read and re-read and re-read again. 
 
 " Meet me on Friday morning on the Piazetta 
 at 12 o'clock" 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE WONDER OF BELIEF 
 
 To believe, is the greater part of reality. 
 
 Despite all argument that flung itself at his cre- 
 dulity, John believed that Jill would be true to her 
 word. Reasons in multitude there were, why it 
 should be impossible for her to take such a journey 
 and at such short notice. He admitted them all, as 
 his mind presented them before him; yet still he be- 
 lieved. Though his faith trembled a thousand times 
 in the balance ; though common sense warned him in- 
 sistently that hope was fruitless ; nevertheless, he be- 
 lieved. Even when the little men on the Plaza be- 
 gan the striking of their twelve strokes on that Fri- 
 day morning and, searching the gondolas as they 
 rode in sight, searching them with eyes burning and 
 pupils dilated in nervous expectancy, yet finding no 
 sight of Jill, he still had faith that triumphed above 
 all reason and overcame all doubt. 
 
 The vibrations of the last stroke from the great 
 clock in the Square had died down to the faint trem- 
 bling in his ear; the single bell in all the churches 
 was tolling for the Angelus; hope was just begin- 
 ning to flicker in John's heart as a candle trembles 
 that feels its approaching end and then, round the 
 corner of the Rio San Luca, shooting quickly into 
 the Grand Canal, came the twentieth gondola John 
 had espied, in which one solitary lady was seated. 
 
 806 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 307i 
 
 Something about the haste with which this gon- 
 dolier phed his oar, something in the attitude of the 
 lady as she half leant forward, half reclined upon 
 the cushion at her back, something even in the crisp, 
 swift hiss of the water as it shot away from the bows, 
 brought him the conviction at last that it was Jill. 
 When instinct is once awake, it finds a thousand 
 little proofs to give it assurance. 
 
 As the gondola came nearer, the lady moved her 
 position. She had observed John waiting. He 
 strained his eyes to see through the glare of light 
 that sparkled up from the dancing water. Then a 
 little white handkerchief darted out, and fluttering, 
 shook the beating of his heart with realisation. It 
 was Jill. 
 
 In another moment, he was holding her hands and 
 saying the most common-place words of greeting, 
 but in a voice that held in it all the joy of his heart. 
 The gondolier stood by smiling, waiting to be paid. 
 The signora had wanted to be taken quickly to the 
 Piazetta, and he had travelled as fast as if they were 
 going to a funeral. It was almost payment enough 
 to see her meeting with the' signor. Not quite 
 enough, however, for when they walked away, for- 
 getting, in the embarrassement of their happiness, 
 what he was owed, he stepped forward and, very 
 politely, touched John's arm. 
 
 " Doue lire, signor," he said and showed some 
 wonderful teeth in a brilliant smile. John thought 
 of a London cabby under similar circumstances, giv- 
 ing him three and a smile as well. 
 
 Then he turned back to Jill. 
 
808 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Well — are you going to explain it all ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " There's nothing to explain," she said, half 
 laughing. " I'm here — isn't that enough ? " 
 
 " But your husband.'' " 
 
 " We're not married yet. I pleaded for a long 
 engagement." 
 
 " Then your people ? " 
 
 " Aren't you satisfied that I'm here? " she said 
 gently. " Does it matter how I got here? You 
 might just as well be curious to know whether I 
 came by the St. Gothard or the Simplon. But you 
 don't ask that. I'm here — you don't worry about 
 that. Then why worry about the other? " and her 
 eyes twinkled with mystery. 
 
 ** Is it Mrs. Crossthwaite again? " 
 
 She nodded her head with a laugh. 
 
 "She's with you?" 
 
 " No — she's at her cottage in Devonshire." 
 
 " But you'll be found out." 
 
 ** Not if I go back to-morrow." 
 
 "And you are going back?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 *' And you came all this way ? " 
 
 *' Yes — here I am — in the City of Beautiful Non- 
 sense again." 
 
 " The little old white-haired lady was right 
 then ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "How right?" 
 
 " She said that you would come anywhere, that 
 you would do anything for me." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 309 
 
 tTIll tried to meet his eyes. 
 
 *' When did she say that? '* she asked. 
 
 *' Last year — after you had gone." 
 
 He watched her as he waited for her to reply, 
 but she kept silent. It was not a moment in which 
 she dared to speak; moreover, other matters were 
 waiting. 
 
 In St. Mark's, beneath the image of St. Anthony, 
 where they had met the year before, they chose to 
 go and make their arrangements. There is every- 
 thing that is conservative about Romance. Places 
 become dear for themselves, for the spirit of the 
 Romance which, like a lingering perfume, still hangs 
 about their comers. The times alter perhaps, some- 
 times even the woman herself is different; but the 
 spirit, the Romance and with them often the place, 
 remain the same. 
 
 " You understand all it means, your coming to see 
 them ? " he asked when they were seated. " You 
 understood my letter.'' You realise what I've been 
 saying ? " 
 
 " Yes, every word." 
 
 "Then why did you come?" 
 
 " I couldn't bear to think of his dying with- 
 out " she hesitated, or did she hang upon the 
 
 words — " without seeing your — your wife as he 
 wanted to. Oh, John! Why did you say it? It 
 wasn't right of you! You ought not to have done 
 it!" 
 
 She was angry! His beautiful nonsense had of- 
 fended her! Might he not have known that? What 
 
310 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 woman in the world was there who could have under- 
 stood so well as to sympathise with the trick which 
 he had played. 
 
 " If it has annoyed you," said he, " why did 
 you come? Of course, I know it was unpardonable; 
 but then, I thought you'd never know. I didn't un- 
 derstand how much a fabrication, an invention it 
 was, until I heard that he was dying and wanted 
 to see you before the end. It had been so easy to 
 make up till then. I'd become infatuated with my 
 own success. Then, when I got the letter from the 
 doctor, I realised that I was done. I couldn't go to 
 his death-bed, making up lies, giving him messages 
 that had never passed your lips, never entered into 
 your thoughts. I was done. And I hoped you'd 
 understand. I hoped — like a fool, I suppose — that 
 you wouldn't be offended." 
 
 " But I'm not offended." 
 
 He stared at her. Even St. Anthony stared, be- 
 cause St. Anthony does not know so much about 
 women as you would expect. He knows full well their 
 extraordinary valuation of trifles, but on serious 
 matters such as these, he is as ignorant of them as 
 the rest of us. 
 
 *' You're not offended ! " echoed John. 
 
 « No." 
 
 " Then why did you say I was wrong? Why did 
 you say I ought not to have done it? " 
 
 " Because it was not fair to them. They might 
 have found out. The little old white-haired lady 
 may find out even now." 
 
 " Then you don't think it was unfair to you? " 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 311 
 
 "You thought I should?" 
 
 He nodded emphatically two or three times. 
 
 " That, I believe, is the way you judge women. 
 That is why their actions are so incomprehensible 
 to you. You form an opinion of them and then, nat- 
 urally, everything they do seems a mystery, because 
 you won't change your opinion. They're not the 
 mystery. I assure you' women are very simple. 
 The mystery is that their actions don't conform with 
 your pre-conceived opinion." She stumbled over 
 those last big words. She was not quite sure of 
 them. They sounded very large, moreover, they 
 sounded as if they expressed what she felt. What 
 they really meant was another matter. She could 
 have told you nothing about that. That is not the 
 way women choose their words. 
 
 *' Well now," he said — " we must be going. Of 
 course I haven't been, though I arrived last night. 
 I counted on your coming." 
 
 ** Yes," she whispered, " that's the wonderful part 
 about you — you believe." 
 
 She thought of her father — she thought of the 
 man with the brown beard like St. Joseph. They 
 believed nothing until it was before their eyes. But 
 a woman likes to be trusted, because at least, she 
 means to do what she says; sometimes — God knows 
 — she does it. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE PASSING 
 
 It was a greater ordeal than they knew of, for 
 Death, though he is for ever in our midst, always 
 covers his face, and you may never recognise the 
 features until that last moment when, with the 
 sweeping gesture of the arm, he throws aside the 
 folds that enshroud him, and in his quiet voice, so 
 low, yet so distinct, announces " It is finished." 
 
 At the opening of the little door, they beheld 
 the dear old white-haired lady. Her arms fell 
 about them both and, in her feeble way, she clasped 
 them to her. It was not hysterical, not that cry of 
 the witless woman who is faced with the stern matters 
 of life and will lean upon any shoulder to support 
 her weight. She was losing that which was hers 
 alone, and these two, though she thought they be- 
 longed irrevocably to each other, belonged also in 
 their way to her. They were all now that was left 
 her. 
 
 " How is he? " asked John, as she led them down 
 that vast chamber to the deep-set door which opened 
 to the tiny bedroom. 
 
 " You're only just in time," she replied. " The 
 priest is with him. It's just the end." 
 
 There was a true, a steady note of reconciliation 
 in her voice. She knew and had accepted the inevi- 
 
 Slt 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 313 
 
 table with that silent courage which brave women 
 have. You knew that there would be no sudden pas- 
 sionate outburst of cries and tears when at last it 
 actually was all over. His time of departure had 
 come. She recognised it; had faced it bravely for 
 the last few days. On Claudina's ample bosom, the 
 first wild torrent of weeping had been made ; for your 
 servant, your meanest slave is a woman when she 
 understands in such moments as these. When her 
 agony had passed, she had raised her head, brushed 
 away the tears. With warm water, Claudina had 
 bathed her eyes and then, bravely setting a smile 
 upon her trembling lips, she had gone to watch by 
 his bedside. 
 
 Gently, now, she opened the door and admitted 
 them, then silently closed it behind her. The jalou- 
 sies were closed. In faint bars of hght, the sunshine 
 stole into the room and lit it faintly as though 
 stained through the amber-coloured glass of church 
 windows. In a deep shadow, burnt the tiny flame of 
 red upon their bedroom altar. Bowed humbly down 
 before it, knelt the priest, whose even, muttered 
 tones just stirred in a gentle vibration of sound as 
 of some hive of bees muffled with a heavy cloth and, 
 only with the sibilant lisping of the breath between 
 his lips as he pronounced certain letters, did it seem 
 that a man was speaking at all. It was all so quiet, 
 so even, so monotonous, a gentle noise to waft a 
 spirit to its last sleep. 
 
 In a dark corner of the room, away from the rest, 
 almost lost in the shadow, knelt Claudina, her head 
 bent low upon her breast, her shoulders gently lift- 
 
314 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ing and falling in sobs that were tuned low to the 
 silence. She did not look up as they entered. The 
 priest did not move his head. It all continued, just 
 as if nothing had happened and, lying still, inert 
 upon the pillow, almost lost in the big bed, was that 
 silent figure of the old white-haired gentleman, who 
 never stirred, nor uttered any sound, as though the 
 chanting of the priest had already lulled him to his 
 infinite sleep. 
 
 They all knelt down by the bedside, buried their 
 faces in their hands, and the chanting continued. 
 
 What thoughts passed through the minds of those 
 two who knelt there, playing their part, acting the 
 life which both of them knew could never be real, 
 it would be impossible to say. In the face of death, 
 the mind has such simple thoughts, that words 
 can scarcely touch their expression. Remorse may 
 have scourged them; it may have been that, in see- 
 ing the peaceful passing of his spirit, they were 
 satisfied that what they did was for the best; or, 
 in the deepest secrets of their hearts they may have 
 been longing that it all were true. Yet, there they 
 both knelt, with the little old white-haired lady by 
 their side. For all the world you might have 
 thought, as did all the others in the room, that they 
 were husband and wife on the very threshold of that 
 journey through the years of which this death-bed 
 meeting was the gate where all must pass out into 
 the land that is in the blue haze beyond. 
 
 Presently, the voice of the priest became silent. 
 The heads of all sank lower in their hands as the 
 Extreme Unction was given. God visits the earth 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 315 
 
 in great silences. It was a wonderful silence then. 
 The wine gurgling softly into the cup, the unfolding 
 of the little napkin, the patten lying on the tongue, 
 the last brave effort as the old gentleman swallowed 
 the sacred bread, were all noises that thrilled and 
 quivered in that silence. 
 
 Then it was all passed, all finished, the spirit 
 cleansed, the last gentle confession made of such sins 
 of thought and deed as a brave and generous gen- 
 tleman is capable of. The priest rose to his feet 
 and, taking his little vessels with him in their case, 
 stole quietly from the room. A moment or so 
 passed in still deeper silence. At last Claudina rose. 
 She crossed herself as she passed the little altar, 
 crept also to the door and went away. 
 
 Now the silence was still deeper than before, as 
 though, in the mere functions of their living, these 
 two had taken with them their disturbing elements of 
 full-blooded life from this place where life was so 
 fainting and so weak. When they had gone, the 
 very vibrations of air seemed more still and a greater 
 quietness fell with their absence. 
 
 And the three who remained, continued there mo- 
 tionless on their knees — motionless, until, in the midst 
 of the silence, came the whispering of a tired voice 
 — a voice, pronouncing with infinite difficulty, one, 
 single word, 
 
 " John— John." 
 
 John knelt quickly upright. He stretched out his 
 hand and found a hand to meet it, a hand that 
 could not hold, that only lay in tender submission 
 upon his own. 
 
816 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 " Father," he said ; and that, after all, is the only 
 word that a son can say — father or mother — they 
 are the last words left in the deepest heart of a man. 
 He utters them, incoherently almost, when emotion 
 is choking speech. 
 
 " Where is Jill ? " the voice whispered again. 
 
 Jill crept round on her knees to his side. With 
 one hand below in the darkness, John held hers. They 
 clasped them and unclasped them as the sobs rose 
 and broke silently in their throats. 
 
 The old gentleman's eyes took a light into them, 
 as he saw their heads together by his bedside. 
 With a great effort, he strained himself to rise upon 
 one elbow in the bed and, laying the other hand upon 
 their heads, he whispered that blessing which it has 
 been in the power of the father to give from time 
 immemorial. 
 
 " God bless you," he whispered. " Make your lives 
 out of love, as I have made mine. Make your chil- 
 dren out of love, as I have made mine. Make your 
 work out of love — as I have made mine." 
 
 His voice burnt low, but yet it burnt. The flame 
 of it was there. It seared into the very hearts of 
 them. Jill's fingers lay in John's as a bird that is 
 starved and cold, lies limply in the hand that suc- 
 cours it. Her cheeks were ashen white. Her eyes 
 stared wildly before her at the pattern on the coun- 
 ter-pane and tears rolled from them without heed 
 or stay. 
 
 The moments passed then, as the old gentleman 
 leant back upon his pillows. Without moving, 
 they stayed there with heads bowed down before him. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 317 
 
 At last, he moved again. His hand stretched out 
 once more and felt for John's. 
 
 " God bless you my boy," he said, as his son bent 
 over him. ** You've made us very happy. You've 
 set your life just as we could wish. Now do your 
 work. I expect I shall hear how you get on. They 
 won't keep that from me. They'll let me see your 
 first happy ending. It's the only way to end — 
 like this. Now kiss me — you don't mind — this time 
 — do you ? " 
 
 John kissed him, as pilgrims kiss the feet of God. 
 
 " And tell me " the old gentleman whispered. 
 
 He paused to breathe as the thought came swiftly 
 on him. " Tell me — ^why did you kiss me — on the 
 forehead — that night — a year ago? " 
 
 *' I'd seen you in the Treasure Shop, sir — and 
 
 I " the words wrestled in his throat — *^ I 
 
 thought you were the finest man I'd ever known." 
 
 The old gentleman lay back again upon his pil- 
 lows. The light of a great pride was flashing in 
 his eyes. His son had called him — sir. That was 
 all. Yet in that moment, he felt like a Viking being 
 borne out upon his burning ship into the sea of 
 noble burial. His son had called him, sir. He lay 
 still, listening to the great sound of it, as it 
 trumpeted triumphantly in his ears. His son, who 
 was going to be far greater than he had ever been, 
 whose work was above and beyond all work that he 
 had ever done — his son had called him — sir. 
 
 Then, for some time, everything was still once 
 more. They bent their heads again within their 
 hands. At last, the little old white-haired lady, like 
 
SI 8 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 the queen in all her wonderful splendour, preparing 
 for the last suttee, rose slowly to her feet. 
 
 Before she could make her way round to his side, 
 he called breathlessly. 
 
 *' Marie ! Marie ! " and there was quickness in his 
 voice. 
 
 She hurried swiftly to him with withered hands 
 held out in dumb appeal. 
 
 " Marie," he whispered — " It's coming, my be- 
 loved. I feel it — in my throat. Cross me " 
 
 She made the sign of the cross, with quick and 
 trembling fingers, on his forehead and on his breast ; 
 then, sitting upright with his last strength, he made 
 the sign upon her, as she blindly guided his hand — 
 just as they had done every night of their life. 
 
 " God bless — you — my dear — one," he muttered 
 and then he slipped slowly back, carrying her with 
 him as his arms fell round her. 
 
 And there they lay in the greatest silence of all. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE CIRCULAR TOUR 
 
 The evening, with her quiet feet, had stolen across 
 the sky; night was fast riding in the wake of her, 
 when at last they left the little old white-haired 
 lady alone. 
 
 Repeatedly John had offered to stay and keep 
 her company. 
 
 ** You may not sleep, dearest," he said gently. 
 ** Someone had better be with you." 
 
 " I shall have Claudina," she replied with a smile 
 of gratitude. " And I think I shall sleep. I've 
 scarcely been to bed since he was ill. I think I shall 
 sleep." And her eyes closed involuntarily. 
 
 Jill offered to stay, to help her to bed, to sit by 
 her side until she slept. But, patiently and per- 
 sistently, she shook her tired, white head and smiled. 
 
 ** Claudina understands my little fidgety ways," 
 she said — " and perhaps I shall be better with her." 
 
 Down the vast chamber, she walked with them 
 again to the little door. Her head was high and 
 brave, but the heart within her beat so faintly and 
 so still, that sometimes, unseen by them, she put 
 her hand upon her bodice to assure herself that it 
 beat at all. 
 
 Before they pulled the heavy curtain, she stopped 
 and took both their hands in hers. 
 
 319 
 
320 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 ** My dear — dear children," she whispered, and for 
 the first time her voice quivered. A sob answered it 
 in Jill's throat. She tried to face the old lady's 
 eyes, bright with a strange and almost unnatural 
 brilliance, but a thousand reproaches cried at her 
 courage and beat it back. 
 
 " My dear — dear children," said the old lady once 
 more, and this time her voice took a new power into 
 itself. Her figure seemed to straighten, her eyes 
 to steady with resolve* 
 
 "I have something I want to say; something 
 your father would have said as well, had there been 
 time. I thought of waiting till to-morrow, perhaps 
 till he was buried. But I'm going to say it now; 
 before you can tell me what I know you mean to. 
 I discussed it all with your father before you came, 
 and he quite agreed with me." She paused. A 
 great, deep breath she drew, as does a painter when 
 he nerves his hand. And in the gathering darkness 
 in that great room, they waited with all attention 
 expectant. 
 
 " When your father is buried," she began slowly, 
 drawing with reserve from that long deep breath, 
 " I am going to live on here." Quickly she raised 
 her hand before John could answer. She thought 
 she knew what he was going to say. " No ! " she 
 said, "you must let me finish. I'm going to live 
 on here. For the next ten years, these rooms belong 
 
 to us — and ten years " she smiled — " are more 
 
 than I shall need. I could not leave here. I know 
 it so well. You want me to come and live with you — 
 but no " the white head shook, and a curl fell 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 321 
 
 out of place upon her cheek. She did not notice it. 
 " No — I know what is best," she went on. " Your 
 father and I decided what was right. Old people 
 have their place. They should never get in the way 
 of the ones who are just beginning. I shall be con- 
 tented waiting here for the year to come round to 
 bring you both to see me. Don't think I shall be 
 discontented. Claudina will take care of me, and I 
 shall not be in your way. You'll like me all the 
 better in the summer. I get tiresome in the winter. 
 I know I do. He used not to say so, but Claudioa 
 has to admit it. I get colds. I have to be looked 
 after. Sometimes I'm in bed for days together and 
 have to be nursed. All of which things," she added, 
 turning with a bright smile to Jill, " Claudina can 
 do so much more easily than you. She's more ac- 
 customed to them." 
 
 And look at my poor hands, she might have said, 
 how much would you not have to do for me? You 
 would have to dress me, to undress me, to get me 
 up, to put me to bed. But she hid her hands. Those 
 withered hands had their pathos even for her. She 
 would not press them upon their notice. 
 
 " Think over what I've said, dear," she concluded, 
 looking up to John. " Tell me what you've thought 
 about it to-morrow, or the next day. I know all 
 this evening, it has been in your mind to tell me of 
 the arrangements you have thought of making for 
 me in your little cottage; but think over it again, 
 from my point of view. Understand it as I do, and 
 I'm sure you'll find I'm right." 
 
 And they could say nothing. In silence, they had 
 
822 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 listened to all this indomitable courage, to this little 
 old white-haired lady preparing to face the great 
 loneliness after death. In silence, Jill had bent down 
 and kissed her. The last lash had fallen upon her 
 then. She could not speak. By the bedside of the 
 old gentleman, the utmost tears had tumbled from 
 her eyes. And now this, from the little old lady, had 
 been more than she could bear. That sensation which 
 they call the breaking of the heart, was almost sti- 
 fling the breath within her. The whole army of her 
 emotions had been thundering all this time at the 
 gates of her heart. When she had heard his blessing, 
 she had flung the gates open wide. Now, they were 
 trampling her beneath their feet. She could not 
 rise above them. She could not even cry out loud 
 the remorse and pain she felt. 
 
 With John, this silence that was forced upon 
 him was more cruel still. On a scaffold, set before 
 the crowd, he stood, listening to the loathing and 
 reproach that groaned in every throat. The little 
 old lady was making this sacrifice, and yet, he knew 
 a thousand times that he should not let it be. To 
 stand there then and, in that derisive silence, to 
 quietly give consent, was the utmost penalty that he 
 could pay. Then, in the teeth of all reproach, as 
 though to shut out from his ears the moaning of that 
 cruel, relentless crowd, he caught her slender figure 
 in his arms and strained her to him. 
 
 " My little mother," he said wildly in his breath, 
 *' it can't be like that — it can't be ! Something must 
 be done. I'll think it out, but something must be 
 done." 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 323 
 
 Then, kissing her again and again, he put her 
 down from him, as you put back a little doll into 
 its cradle — a little doll which some thoughtless hand 
 has treated ill. 
 
 They said no word to each other as they passed 
 through the archway this time. In silence, they 
 stepped into the gondola which had been wait- 
 ing for them at the steps for an hour and 
 more. 
 
 John told him the hotel at which Jill was staying, 
 and the gondolier pushed out into the black water. 
 Another moment, and they were swaying into the 
 soft velvet darkness, rent here and there with little 
 points of orange light, where a lamp burnt warmly 
 in some tiny window. 
 
 " And to-morrow," said John presently, " you 
 must go back.'' Perhaps that's the hardest part 
 of it." 
 
 "I shall not go for a few days," Jill replied 
 quietly. 
 
 He looked quickly at her white face. Impulsively 
 his hand stretched out to hers. She stared before 
 her as he took it. She was like a figure of ivory, 
 set strangely in black marble, as black as the water 
 itself. There was no movement from her, no stir, 
 scarcely a sign of life. 
 
 " That's good of you," he said in honest thankful- 
 ness. " You're being wonderfully good to me." Hq 
 repeated it, ruminating, with his eyes looking out 
 into the distance where hers were set. " But, I might 
 have known you'd be that." 
 
 She shuddered. Praise from him, then, hurt more 
 
S24. THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 than all. She shuddered as if a wind had chilled 
 her. 
 
 After a long pause, he moved and spoke again. 
 
 " How are you going to manage ? " he asked. 
 " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 " I shall write." 
 
 "Home?" 
 
 " No — to Mrs. Crossthwaite." 
 
 "Is it safe.?" 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " But you mustn't be discovered," he said quickly. 
 Conscience pulled him first one way, then another. 
 Every instinct prompted him to accept her generosity 
 without question. You must not take too 
 great a risk. Why, indeed, should you take 
 any ? " 
 
 The words came slowly. He felt both glad and 
 sorry when once they were spoken. The tragedy of 
 life is indecision. They bury suicides at the cross- 
 roads, for that is where lurks all tragedy — the in- 
 decision of which way to choose. 
 
 At last, she turned her head and looked at him. 
 The hand he held quickened with feeling. It became 
 alive. He felt the fingers tighten on his own. 
 
 "You are thinking of me?" she said. 
 
 ** I must," he replied. 
 
 " You feel it your duty because I'm here alone? '* 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ** I don't feel duty," he answered. " There is no 
 such thing. People do what they do. When it is a 
 disagreeable thing to do, they make it worth the 
 doing by calling it duty. That is the satisfaction 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 325 
 
 they get out of it. But everything that is done, 
 is done for love — ^love of self or love of other people. 
 Duty is the name that enhances the value of disagree- 
 able things. But it's only a name. There's nothing 
 behind it — nothing human, nothing real. I don't 
 feel duty as some do, and so I never attempt any- 
 thing that's disagreeable. A thing that is weighed 
 is repugnant to me. Just now things are very hard 
 ■ — just now I scarcely know which way to turn. 
 The little old white-haired lady puts her arms round 
 me and I feel I can't let her go. You hold my hand 
 and I feel that I would move heaven and earth to 
 save you from a moment's unhappiness." Reluc- 
 tantly, he let go her hand and sat upright. " Here 
 we are; I say good-night here. You must think 
 before you write that letter." 
 
 She put out a detaining hand. 
 
 ** Tell him to go back to your rooms," she said 
 ■ — " I'll take you back there before I go in. I've 
 got a lot to say." 
 
 John smiled incredulously. He could have asked 
 heaven for no greater gift. His heart was sick. 
 There was nothing but disillusionment to which he 
 could look forward. His own disillusionment had 
 come already ; but that of the little old white- 
 haired lady was harder to bear than his own. 
 Stretching before him, an ugly shadow, he saw the 
 unswerving promise of that day when he must tell 
 her all the truth ; that day, a year perhaps to come, 
 when, arriving in Venice without Jill, he must ex- 
 plain her absence, either by another fabrication or 
 the naked fact. 
 
326 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 To hide his face from it all a little longer; to 
 have Jill's presence closing his eyes to it, even though 
 it were only for a speck of time in the eternity that 
 was to follow, was a reprieve for which he had not 
 dared to hope. 
 
 " You mean that? " he said eagerly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 John gave the order. The gondolier did not smile. 
 Perhaps the motion of his oar as he swung them 
 round was a gentle comment. Every man has his 
 different medium of expression. There was once a 
 ballet dancer who, whenever she became excited and 
 was driven to gesticulation, always caught her skirt 
 just below the knee and lifted it to show her in- 
 step. It meant more than any words she could ever 
 have uttered. 
 
 John sat back again by Jill's side. 
 
 " Oh ! it's good," he said, half aloud, half to 
 himself. 
 
 " What is good.'' " she whispered. 
 
 " To be just a little while longer with you. I 
 dread to-night, I dread the next few nights to come. 
 I shall see his eyes. I shall hear that sound in his 
 voice when he called to her. I shall see that brave 
 look in her face, and hear that whole speech of her 
 sacrifice as we stood by the door. My God! What 
 wonderful things women can be when they love." 
 
 " She's so gentle and yet so brave," said Jill. 
 
 " Brave ! " he echoed it, but it had not the force 
 of all he felt. " Great Heavens ! Think of her 
 there now, alone. Everything but us gone out of 
 her life; a sudden rent in the clouds — ^just a flashy 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 327 
 
 and but for us, in that moment she's made destitute. 
 And then, with a smile in her eyes, to give up what 
 little she has. And I, to have to accept it. Lord! 
 what a fool I've been, I remember that day when 
 Mrs. Morrell's sandy cat came slouching into the 
 room and I'd just received the letter saying she 
 would write no more of you. I took that confounded 
 cat into my confidence — ^" The little old lady wants 
 a love story," I said. And the cat seemed to wink 
 as though it had no objection to hearing one, too. 
 Then I began. Lord! what a child I am. Not the 
 faintest idea of the future ! No conception of con- 
 sequence ! Just a blind idea of doing things as they 
 come, without the smallest consideration of results I 
 I never foresaw that it was going to lead to this. 
 What a child ! My heavens ! What a child ! He was 
 a child! She's a child! I'm a child, too! We're a 
 family of children, not fit for one of the responsibili- 
 ties of life." 
 
 " Do you think you're any the worse for that.'' " 
 she asked softly. 
 
 " I don't know," he shrugged his shoulders. 
 ** Upon my soul, it seems now the greatest crime 
 a man can commit. In a world of grown-up men 
 and women who can pay their rents and taxes, 
 meet their bills and save their money, to be a child 
 is a monstrous, a heinous crime." 
 
 " Only to those who don't understand," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Well — and who does ? " 
 
 « I do." 
 
 ** You do? Yes, I know that — ^but how can you 
 
328 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 help? You've done more than a thousand women 
 would have done. You helped me to make his pass- 
 ing a happy one; you can't do more than that. 
 You're even going to stay on a few days longer to 
 help this fool of a child still more. That proves 
 you understand. I know you understand — God bless 
 you." 
 
 He shrank into himself despairingly. His whole 
 body seemed to contract in the pain of self-con- 
 demnation, and he pressed his hands violently over 
 his eyes. Suddenly, he felt her move. He took his 
 hands away and found her kneeling at his feet, that 
 white face of ivory turned up to his, her eyes dimmed 
 with tears. 
 
 " Do you call it understanding if I leave you now 
 — little child ? " she whispered, and her voice was like 
 the sound in a long-dreamt dream which, on the 
 morning, he had forgotten and striven to remember 
 ever since. 
 
 Slowly, he took away his hands. Now he recalled 
 the voice. The whole dream came back. It was sum- 
 mer — summer in England. They were in a field 
 where cattle grazed under the warm shadows of high 
 elm trees. Cowslips grew there, standing up through 
 the grass with their thin, white, velvet stems ; here 
 and there an orchid with spotted leaves, a group of 
 scabii bending their feathered heads in the heat of 
 the day. Jill sat sewing little garments, and he lay 
 idle, stretched upon his back, gazing up into the end- 
 less blue where the white clouds sailed like little ships, 
 making for distant harbours. And as she sewed, she 
 talked of things more wonderful than God had made 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 329 
 
 the day; of things that women, in the most sacred 
 moments of their life, sometimes reveal to men. 
 
 This was the dream he had forgotten. In his 
 sleep, he had known that it was a dream ; had known 
 that he must remember it all his life; yet in the 
 morning, but faintly recollected he had dreamt at 
 all. Now, those two words of hers — little child — and 
 the summer day, the browsing cattle, the white flut- 
 ter of the tiny garments, the scent of the fields and 
 the sound of her voice had all returned in one swift 
 rush of memory. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked slowl}'^ — ^** if you 
 leave me now, what do you mean.? What do you 
 mean by — -little child? " 
 
 Both hands, she put out ; both hands to clasp on 
 his. The tears ceased gathering in her eyes. Be- 
 fore God and in great moments, the eyes forget their 
 tears ; there is no trembling of the lips ; the voice 
 is clear and true. 
 
 "Don't you remember what he said.''" she asked. 
 " * Make your lives out of love, as I have made mine. 
 Make your children out of love as I have made 
 mine.' Did you think I could hear that from him 
 without knowing what you yourself have said just 
 now, that there is no such thing as Duty,? " 
 
 John stared at her. He dared not interpose. He 
 dared not even answer the question she had asked, 
 for fear his voice should break the linking of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Can you hear him saying — * Make your lives 
 out of duty, as • I have made mine. Make your 
 children out of duty as I have made mine?' Can 
 
830 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 you imagine him saying that? Can you feel how it 
 would have grated on your ears? Yet that's just 
 what I'm going to do; but I didn't realise it till 
 then." 
 
 " What is it you're going to say? " he asked be- 
 low his breath. " What is it you're leading to ? 
 All this is leading to something. What is it? " 
 
 " That I'm not going to leave you, little child. 
 That if, after all, there is such a thing as Duty, he 
 has shown me what it is." 
 
 The gondola bumped against the steps. The voice 
 of the gondolier called out that their destination was 
 reached. John rose quickly to his feet. 
 
 " Go back," he said. " Go back to the hotel." 
 
 Away they started again and as he plied his oar, 
 the gondolier gazed up at the stars, and hummed a 
 muffled tune. 
 
 For a few moments, John remained standing. She 
 was not going to leave him. She was never going 
 to leave him. That was the big thought, triumphant 
 in his mind. But a thousand little thoughts, like 
 grains of dust in a great sunbeam, danced and 
 whirled about it. He thought of those rooms of his 
 in Fetter Lane; of his own improvidence, of the dis- 
 reputable appearance of Mrs. Morrell on Saturday 
 mornings when she cleaned the stairs of the house, 
 and conversed, in language none too refined, with 
 Miss Morrell. He thought of the impudence of Mrs. 
 Brown, when she appeared in curling papers and 
 made remarks about her neighbours with a choice of 
 words that can only be said to go with that particu- 
 lar adornment of the hair. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 331 
 
 But these were only cavilling considerations, which 
 made the big thought real. He could change his 
 address. Now, indeed, he could go down to Hare- 
 field. He could work twice as hard; he could make 
 twice as much money. All these things, ambition 
 will easily overcome in the face of so big a thought 
 as this. She was never going to leave him. 
 
 He took her hands as he sat down. 
 
 " Do you think you realise everything? " he said; 
 for the first instinct of the grateful recipient is 
 to return the gift. He does not mean to give it 
 back; but neither does he quite know how to 
 take it. 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 "All my circumstances? How poor I am?" 
 
 ** Everything." 
 
 « And still ? " 
 
 " And still," she replied. " Nothing but your ask- 
 ing could change me." 
 
 He sat gazing at her, just holding her hands. 
 Only in real stories do people at such a moment fall 
 into each other's arms. When the matter is really 
 nonsense, then people act differently — perhaps they 
 are more reserved — possibly the wonder of it all is 
 greater then. 
 
 John sat silently beside her and tried to under- 
 stand. It was so unexpected. He had scarcely even 
 wished that it might be so. 
 
 " When did you think this ? " he asked presently. 
 
 *' Just — before he died." 
 
 *' When he blessed us ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
332 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 "Why haven't you said so before?" 
 
 *' I couldn't. I haven't been able to speak. I've 
 
 suddenly seen things real " 
 
 " In the midst of all this nonsense '* 
 
 " Yes — and it's taken my breath away. All in 
 a few hours, I've seen death and love, and I don't 
 know what the change is in me, but I'm different. 
 I've grown up. I understand. You say I have un- 
 derstood before ; but I've understood nothing. I 
 should never have come here last year, if I had un- 
 derstood. I should never have continued meeting you 
 in Kensington Gardens, if I had understood. Women 
 don't understand as a rule ; no girl understands. She 
 would never play with love, if she did. I know, sud- 
 denly, that I belong to you; that I have no right 
 to marry anyone else. In these last few hours, I've 
 felt that a force outside me determines the giving 
 of my life, and it has frightened me. I couldn't say 
 anything. When you said you were a child, then I 
 suddenly found my tongue. I wasn't afraid any 
 more. I knew you were a child, my child — my little 
 child — not my master. There's no mastery in it; 
 you're just my child." 
 
 Suddenly she closed her arms round him; she 
 buried her head on his shoulder. 
 
 " I can't explain any more ! " she whispered — 
 *' It's something I can't explain — ^I haven't any 
 words for it." 
 
 And, as he held her to him, John thought of the 
 dream he had dreamt, of the field and the cattle, 
 and the white fluttering of the tiny garemnts, and the 
 clouds sailing in the sky, and again came to him 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 3S3 
 
 the note in her voice as she told him the most won- 
 derful thing in the whole world. Then, leaning 
 out from the hood, he called out to the gondolier: 
 
 " Just take us out on the Lagoon before we go 
 back." 
 
 And they swung round again to his oar. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 A PROCESS OF HONESTY 
 
 The very best of us have a strain of selfishness. 
 The most understanding of us are unable to a nicety 
 to grasp the other person's point of view ; and there 
 will always be some little thing, some subtle matter, 
 which it is not in the nature of us to perceive in 
 the nature of someone else. Perhaps this is the 
 surest proof of the existence of the soul. 
 
 When, on the steps of the hotel, John bid good- 
 night to Jill, there was but one rgret in the minds 
 of both of them, that that blessing which they had 
 received at the hands of the old gentleman had 
 come too soon ; that in the receipt of it, they had 
 been impostors, unworthy of so close a touch with 
 the Infinite. 
 
 There is nothing quite so distressing to the honest 
 mind as this and, to avoid it, to mitigate the of- 
 fence, it is quite a simple process for the honest mind 
 to project itself into some further evil of selfishness, 
 so long as it may gain peace and a free conscience. 
 
 " There is only one thing that we can do," said 
 John, and, if good intentions weigh, however lightly, 
 in the sensitive scales of justice, let one be here 
 placed in the balance for him. 
 
 " I know what you are going to say," replied 
 JiU. 
 
 SM 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 335 
 
 Of course she knew. They had begun to think 
 alike already. 
 
 « We must tell her." 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 " We can't deceive her," he went on — " It*s bad 
 enough to have deceived him. And now — ^well, it*s 
 such a different matter now. She must understand. 
 Don't you think she will.'' " 
 
 With a gentle pressure of his hand, she agreed. 
 
 They both pictured her glad of the knowledge, 
 because in the hearts of them both, they were so glad 
 to be able to tell. For this is how the honest deceive 
 themselves, by super-imposing upon another, that 
 state of mind which is their own. With all belief, 
 they thought the little old white-haired lady must 
 be glad when she heard ; with all innocence and ig- 
 norance of human nature, they conceived of her 
 gratitude that such an ending had been brought 
 about. 
 
 " When shall we tell her.? " asked Jill. 
 
 " Oh — not at once. In a day or so. The day 
 you go, perhaps." 
 
 " And you think she'll forgive me ? " 
 
 He smiled at her tenderly for her question. 
 
 " Do you think you know anything about the 
 little old white-haired lady when you ask that.'' 
 I'll just give you an example. She abominates 
 drunkenness — loathes it — in theory has no pity for 
 it, finds no excuse. Well, they had a gardener once, 
 when they were better off. There's not a school for 
 the trade in Venice, as you can imagine. Tito knew 
 absolutely nothing. He was worthless. He was as 
 
336 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 likely as not to pull up the best plant in the gar- 
 den and think it was a weed. But there he was. 
 Well, one day Claudina reported he was drunk. 
 Drunk! Tito drunk! In their garden! Oh, but it 
 was horrible — it was disgusting ! She could scarcely 
 believe that it was true. But Claudina's word had 
 to be taken and Tito must go. She could not even 
 bear to think he was still about the place. 
 
 " Tito — I have heard so and so — is it true? " she 
 said. 
 
 Well — Tito talked about not feeling well and 
 things disagreeing with him. At last he admitted it. 
 
 " Then you must go," said she — " I give you a 
 week's wages." 
 
 But a piteous look came into Tito's face and 
 he bent his head and he begged — " Oh, don't send 
 me away, egregia signora! " and that cry of his 
 went so much to her heart, that she almost took 
 his head on her shoulder in her pity for him. And 
 you say — will she forgive you.? Why, her capacity 
 for forgiveness is infinite! I often think, when they 
 talk of the sins that God cannot pardon, I often 
 think of her." 
 
 She looked up and smiled. 
 
 ** Do you always tell a little story when you want 
 to explain something? " she asked. 
 
 " Always," said he—" to little children." 
 
 She shut her eyes to feel the caress in the words. 
 
 " Well, then," she said, opening them again — 
 " we tell her the day after to-morrow." 
 
 ** That is the day you go ? " 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 337 
 
 " Yes — I must go then. And may I say one 
 thing? " 
 
 *' May you? You may say everything but one." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 *' That I have been dreaming all this to-night." 
 
 *' No, you haven't been dreaming. It was all 
 real." 
 
 " Then — what do you want to say? " 
 
 " That the little old white-haired lady is not to 
 live alone. I'm going to live with her as much of 
 the year as you'll let me — all of it if you will." 
 
 For one moment, he was silent — a moment of reali- 
 sation, not of doubt. 
 
 " God seems to have given me so much In this 
 last hour," he said, " that nothing I could offer 
 would appear generous after such a gift. It shall 
 be all the year, if you wish it. I owe her that and 
 more. But for her, perhaps, this would never have 
 been." 
 
 He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. 
 
 *' Good-night, sweetheart. And the day after to- 
 morrow then, we tell her everything." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE END OF THE LOOM 
 
 When the little door had closed behind them, the 
 old lady stood with head inclined, listening to the 
 sound of their footsteps. Then, creeping to the 
 high window that looked over the Rio Marin, — 
 that same window at which, nearly a year before, 
 she had stood with her husband watching Jill's 
 departure — she pressed her face against the glass, 
 straining her eyes to see them to the end. 
 
 It was very dark. For a moment, as John helped 
 Jill into the gondola, she could distinguish their 
 separate figures ; but then, the deep shadow beneath 
 the hood enveloped them and hid them from her gaze. 
 Yet still she stayed there; still she peered out over 
 the water as, with that graceful sweeping of the 
 oar, they swung round and swayed forward into the 
 mystery of the shadow beyond. 
 
 To the last moment when, melting Into the dark- 
 ness, they became the darkness itself, she remained, 
 leaning against the sill, watching, as they watch, 
 who long have ceased to see. And for some time 
 after they had disappeared, her white face and still 
 whiter hair were pressed against the high window 
 in that vast chamber, as if she had forgotten why it 
 was she was there and stood in waiting for her 
 memory to return. 
 
 338 
 
I'HE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 339 
 
 Such an impression she might have given, had you 
 come upon her, looking so lost and fragile in that 
 great room. But in her mind, there was no want 
 of memory. She remembered everything. 
 
 It is not always the philosopher who makes the 
 best out of the saddest moments in life. Women 
 can be pliilosophic ; the little old white-haired lady 
 was philosophic then, as she stood gazing out into 
 the empty darkness. And yet, no woman is really a 
 philosopher. To begin with, there is no heart in 
 such matter at all; it is the dried wisdom of bitter- 
 ness, from which the burning sun of reason has 
 sucked all blood, all nourishment. And that which 
 has no heart in it, is no fit food for a woman. For a 
 woman is all heart, or she is nothing. If she can 
 add two and two together, and make a calculation of 
 it, then let her do it, but not upon one page in your 
 life, if you value the paper upon which that hfe 
 be written. For once she sees that she can add 
 aright, she brings her pen to all else. The desire 
 of power, to a woman who has touched it, is a 
 disease. 
 
 But it was other than the calculation of philosophy 
 which sustained the mind of the little old lady at 
 this, the saddest and the most lonely moment of her 
 Hfe. 
 
 As she leant, gazing out of the window down the 
 black line of water that lost itself in the silent gath- 
 ering of the houses, there almost was triumph in 
 her mind. She had lost everything, but she had done 
 everything. She was utterly alone ; but only be- 
 cause she had outlived her world. And last of all, 
 
840 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 there was triumph in her heart, because her world 
 was complete. She could have asked nothing more 
 of it. Her Romance was rekindled. If there was 
 anything to live for, it was to see the flames leap- 
 ing up in some other brazier — those flames which 
 she had given the spark of her life to ignite. And 
 had she not seen them rising already.'' Had she not 
 seen the fire blessed by the only hand to whom the 
 power of blessing is given? For all she knew, for 
 all she dared to guess, the old gentleman's blessing 
 had fallen upon a future, further distant than, per- 
 haps, he dreamed of. What more had desire to ask 
 for than that.? 
 
 She remembered how, in those days of doubt and 
 troubling, she had counted in fear the time which 
 was left in which John should take his wife. She 
 remembered doubting that they might even live to 
 see the realisation of such happiness as that. 
 
 They were old people. There had no longer been 
 certainty for them in the counting of the years. 
 And, as this very day had proved, John's marriage 
 had come none too soon. Had it been later, had 
 they not received that blessing to which, with all 
 such things as the flights of magpies and the turn- 
 ings of the moon, this simple soul of hers gave 
 magic virtue, then, indeed, she might have looked sor- 
 rowfully out of the high window in the great room. 
 
 But no — there had been no such mischance as 
 that. The vivid sense of completeness filled her 
 heart and raised the beating of it for a few mo- 
 ments, as the hope of a dying priest is raised by 
 the presentation of his beloved cross. 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 341 
 
 Aiid this is the philosophy, the stoicism of women, 
 who will face the fearsome emptiness of a whole 
 desert of life, so be it, that their heart is full and 
 satisfied. 
 
 Who, passing below on the black strip of water 
 and, seeing her pale, white face looking out from 
 that high window into the night, could have con- 
 ceived of such wonderful reconciliation as this? Who 
 could have imagined the whole moment as it was? 
 An old gentleman lying in a tiny room, the lamp 
 still burning on the altar at his side, his hands 
 crossed upon his breast in an unbreaking sleep ; 
 away out upon the water of the Lagoon, two lovers, 
 young, alight with life, exalted in a sudden realisa- 
 tion of happiness, and this little old white-haired 
 lady, alone in that great, high-ceilinged room, with 
 its heavy, deep-coloured curtains and its massive 
 pictures hanging on the wall and in the heart of her, 
 a great uplifting thankfulness in the midst of such 
 absolute desolation as this, a thankfulness that her 
 life was a great, an all-comprehending fulfilment, 
 that her greatest work was done, her highest de- 
 sire reached — who, in the first inspiration of their 
 imagination, seeing that frail white face pressed close 
 against the window pane, could have conjured to 
 their mind such a moment as this? 
 
 And yet, these simple things are life. A face peer- 
 ing from a window, a hand trembling at a touch, 
 a sudden laugh, a sudden silence, they all may hide 
 the greatest history, if one had but the eyes to 
 read. 
 
 For more than half-an-hour she remained there 
 
S42 THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 without movement almost, except when she pressed 
 her hand inquiringly to her breast to feel for the 
 beating of her heart. At last, with a little shudder, 
 as though, in that moment, she realised the vast 
 space of emptiness in the great room behind her, she 
 moved away. 
 
 Still her steps were steady, still her head was high, 
 as she walked back to the little room where, evening 
 after evening, year after year, the old gentleman 
 had sat with her and talked, until the time came 
 when they must go to bed. For with old people, as 
 you know, it comes to be a state of — must — they 
 must go to bed. It is not kind to tell them so, but 
 there it is. 
 
 The room was disordered; for a time of sickness 
 is as a time of siege — the time when Death lays 
 siege upon a house and there are no moments left 
 to put things as they were. 
 
 On any other occasion, she would have fretted at 
 the sight. The world is sometimes all compassed 
 in an old lady's work-basket, and to upset that, is 
 to turn the world upside down. But now, as she 
 saw all the untidiness, the little old white-haired 
 lady only sighed. She took her accustomed chair 
 and, seating herself, stared quietly at the chair that 
 was empty, the chair that was still placed, just as 
 he had left it that morning when, going down to 
 see to his garden and to speak to Tito, he had fallen 
 in the great room outside, and they had carried him 
 straight to his bed. 
 
 Now it was empty. The whole room was empty. 
 She heard sounds, sounds in Venice, sounds that she 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 343 
 
 had never realised before. She heard the clock tick- 
 ing and wondered why she had never heard that. 
 She heard Claudina moving in the kitchen. She 
 heard the voice of a gondolier singing on the canal. 
 
 Presently, she rose to her feet and walked slowly 
 to a drawer that had long been closed. Opening it, 
 she took out some part of an old lace shawl, unfin- 
 ished, where it had been laid from that moment when 
 God had withered her hands and she was powerless 
 to do her work. 
 
 Bringing it with her, she came back to her chair ; 
 sat doAvn and laid it on her lap. This was the only 
 thing incomplete in her life. Memory became sud- 
 denly vivid as she looked at it. She almost remem- 
 bered — perhaps pretended that she did recall — the 
 last stitch where she had left off. 
 
 And there, when she came in for her unfailing 
 ceremony, Claudina found her, gazing towards the 
 door with the unfinished lace shawl in her hands. 
 
 The little white head moved quickly, the eyes 
 lighted for one sudden moment of relief 
 
 " Surely it's after ten o'clock, Claudina," she said. 
 
 And Claudina shook her head gravely. 
 
 " No, signora. It wants some minutes yet. But 
 I thought if Giovanino was gone, you ought to go 
 to bed." 
 
 They had prepared another little room for her to 
 sleep in ; but she insisted first upon going to see 
 him once more. 
 
 By the light of the altar lamp, she found her way 
 to the bed. Without the sound of a cry, or the hesi- 
 tation of those who are suddenly brought into the 
 
3U THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 
 
 presence of Death, she lifted the sheet from his face. 
 It was almost as though she had expected to find 
 that he was asleep. 
 
 For a httle while, she stood there, looking quietly 
 at the peacefulness of it all, then she bent over 
 the bed. Claudina saw her whisper something in his 
 ear. At the last, she crossed him with trembling 
 finger, laid back the sheet upon his face and, with- 
 out a sound, slowly turned away. 
 
 In Claudina's hands she was like a little child. 
 Like a little child, she was undressed, like a little 
 child put into her bed, the clothes pulled warmly 
 round her, her beads given into her hand to hold. 
 
 With candle lighted and held above her head, 
 Claudina stood at the door before she went out. 
 The tears rushed warmly to her eyes as she saw the 
 white head alone upon the pillow, and thought of 
 the silent figure they had just left in the other 
 room. 
 
 " Buona notte, signoray* she said as bravely as 
 she could. 
 
 " Buona notte," replied the little old white-haired 
 lady. 
 
 At her accustomed hour of the morning, came 
 Claudina into the little room. Feeling her way to 
 the window, she threw open wide the jalousies. A 
 flood of sunshine beat into the room and made all 
 dazzling white. Claudina felt thankful for it. It 
 was a new day. It was a wonderful day. 
 
 She turned to the bed. There was the still white 
 head, alone upon the pillow, the powerless hand just 
 
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE 345 
 
 showing from beneath the coverlet, still holding its 
 string of beads. 
 
 " Buona GiornOy signora," she said, trying to 
 make the note of some cheerfulness in her voice. 
 
 But there was no reply. 
 
 Far away out in the wonderful city, she heard 
 the cry of a gondolier, — " Ohe " — and in through 
 the window, there floated a butterfly of white, that 
 had been beating Its wings against the jalousies 
 outside. Into the room it flew, dipping and dancing, 
 swaying and lifting in the free air of the day just 
 bom. 
 
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