CHAPTER II.



PAUL, ESCAPING FROM HIS SOLITUDE, FALLS INTO STRANGE COMPANY. AND

BECOMES CAPTIVE TO ONE OF HAUGHTY MIEN.



All things pass, even the self-inflicted sufferings of shy young men,

condemned by temperament to solitude. Came the winter evenings, I

took to work: in it one may drown much sorrow for oneself. With its

handful of fire, its two candles lighted, my "apartment" was more

inviting. I bought myself paper, pens and ink. Great or small, what

more can a writer do? He is but the would-be medium: will the spirit

voices employ him or reject him?



London, with its million characters, grave and gay; its ten thousand

romances, its mysteries, its pathos, and its humour, lay to my hand.

It stretched before me, asking only intelligent observation, more or

less truthful report. But that I could make a story out of the things

I really knew never occurred to me. My tales were of cottage maidens,

of bucolic yeomen. My scenes were laid in windmills, among mountains,

or in moated granges. I fancy this phase of folly is common to most

youthful fictionists.



A trail of gentle melancholy lay over them. Sentiment was more

popular then than it is now, and, as do all beginners, I scrupulously

followed fashion. Generally speaking, to be a heroine of mine was

fatal. However naturally her hair might curl--and curly hair, I

believe, is the hall-mark of vitality; whatever other indications of

vigorous health she might exhibit in the first chapter, such as

"dancing eyes," "colour that came and went," "ringing laughter,"

"fawn-like agility," she was tolerably certain, poor girl, to end in

an untimely grave. Snowdrops and early primroses (my botany I worked

up from a useful little volume, "Our Garden Favourites, Illustrated")

grew there as in a forcing house; and if in the neighbourhood of the

coast, the sea-breezes would choose that particular churchyard,

somewhat irreverently, for their favourite playground. Years later a

white-haired man would come there leading little children by the hand,

and to them he would tell the tale anew, which must have been a dismal

entertainment for them.



Now and then, by way of change, it would be the gentleman who would

fall a victim of the deadly atmosphere of my literature. It was of no

particular consequence, so he himself would conclude in his last

soliloquy; "it was better so." Snowdrops and primroses, for whatever

consolation they might have been to him, it was hopeless for him to

expect; his grave, marked by a rude cross, being as a rule situate in

an exceptionally unfrequented portion of the African veldt or amid

burning sands. For description of final scenery on these occasions a

visit to the British Museum reading-room would be necessary.



Dismal little fledgelings! And again and again would I drive them

from the nest; again and again they fluttered back to me, soiled,

crumpled, physically damaged. Yet one person had admired them, cried

over them--myself.



All methods I tried. Sometimes I would send them forth accompanied by

a curt business note of the take-it-or-leave-it order. At other times

I would attach to it pathetic appeals for its consideration.

Sometimes I would give value to it, stating that the price was five

guineas and requesting that the cheque should be crossed; at other

times seek to tickle editorial cupidity by offering this, my first

contribution to their pages, for nothing--my sample packet, so to

speak, sent gratis, one trial surely sufficient. Now I would write

sarcastically, enclosing together with the stamped envelope for return

a brutally penned note of rejection. Or I would write frankly,

explaining elaborately that I was a beginner, and asking to be told my

faults--if any.



Not one found a resting place for its feet. A month, a week, a couple

of days, they would remain away from me, then return. I never lost a

single one. I wished I had. It would have varied the monotony.



I hated the poor little slavey who, bursting joyously into the room,

would hold them out to me from between her apron-hidden thumb and

finger; her chronic sniff I translated into contempt. If flying down

the stairs at the sound of the postman's knock I secured it from his

hands, it seemed to me he smiled. Tearing them from their envelopes,

I would curse them, abuse them, fling them into the fire sometimes;

but before they were more than scorched I would snatch them out,

smooth them, reread them. The editor himself could never have seen

them; it was impossible; some jealous underling had done this thing.

I had sent them to the wrong paper. They had arrived at the

inopportune moment. Their triumph would come. Rewriting the first

and last sheets, I would send them forth again with fresh hope.



Meanwhile, understanding that the would-be happy warrior must shine in

camp as well as field, I sought to fit myself also for the social side

of life. Smoking and drinking were the twin sins I found most

difficulty in acquiring. I am not claiming a mental excellence so

much as confessing a bodily infirmity. The spirit had always been

willing, but my flesh was weak. Fired by emulation, I had at school

occasionally essayed a cigarette. The result had been distinctly

unsatisfactory, and after some two or three attempts, I had abandoned,

for the time being, all further endeavour; excusing my

faint-heartedness by telling myself with sanctimonious air that

smoking was bad for growing boys; attempting to delude myself by

assuming, in presence of contemporaries of stronger stomach, fine pose

of disapproval; yet in my heart knowing myself a young hypocrite,

disguising physical cowardice in the robes of moral courage: a

self-deception to which human nature is prone.



So likewise now and again I had tasted the wine that was red, and that

stood year in, year out, decanted on our sideboard. The true

inwardness of St. Paul's prescription had been revealed to me; the

attitude--sometimes sneered at--of those who drink it under doctor's

orders, regarding it purely as a medicine, appeared to me reasonable.

I had noticed also that others, some of them grown men even, making

wry faces, when drinking my mother's claret, and had concluded

therefrom that taste for strong liquor was an accomplishment less

easily acquired than is generally supposed. The lack of it in a young

man could be no disgrace, and accordingly effort in that direction

also had I weakly postponed.



But now, a gentleman at large, my education could no longer be

delayed. To the artist in particular was training--and severe

training--an absolute necessity. Recently fashion has changed

somewhat, but a quarter of a century ago a genius who did not smoke

and drink--and that more than was good for him--would have been

dismissed without further evidence as an impostor. About the genius I

was hopeful, but at no time positively certain. As regarded the

smoking and drinking, so much at least I could make sure of. I set to

work methodically, conscientiously. Smoking, experience taught me,

was better practised on Saturday nights, Sunday affording me the

opportunity of walking off the effects. Patience and determination

were eventually crowned with success: I learned to smoke a cigarette

to all appearance as though I were enjoying it. Young men of less

character might here have rested content, but attainment of the

highest has always been with me a motive force. The cigarette

conquered, I next proceeded to attack the cigar. My first one I

remember well: most men do. It was at a smoking concert held in the

Islington Drill Hall, to which Minikin had invited me. Not feeling

sure whether my growing dizziness were due solely to the cigar, or in

part to the hot, over-crowded room, I made my excuses and slipped out.

I found myself in a small courtyard, divided from a neighbouring

garden by a low wall. The cause of my trouble was clearly the cigar.

My inclination was to take it from my mouth and see how far I could

throw it. Conscience, on the other hand, urged me to persevere. It

occurred to me that if climbing on to the wall I could walk along it

from end to end, there would be no excuse for my not heeding the

counsels of perfection. If, on the contrary, try as I might, the wall

proved not wide enough for my footsteps, then I should be entitled to

lose the beastly thing, and, as best I could, make my way home to bed.

I attained the wall with some difficulty and commenced my

self-inflicted ordeal. Two yards further I found myself lying across

the wall, my legs hanging down one side, my head overhanging the

other. The position proving suitable to my requirements, I maintained

it. Inclination, again seizing its opportunity, urged me then and

there to take a solemn vow never to smoke again. I am proud to write

that through that hour of temptation I remained firm; strengthening

myself by whispering to myself: "Never despair. What others can do,

so can you. Is not all victory won through suffering?"



A liking for drink I had found, if possible, even yet more difficult

of achievement. Spirits I almost despaired of. Once, confusing

bottles, I drank some hair oil in mistake for whiskey, and found it

decidedly less nauseous. But twice a week I would force myself to

swallow a glass of beer, standing over myself insisting on my draining

it to the bitter dregs. As reward afterwards, to take the taste out

of my mouth, I would treat myself to chocolates; at the same time

comforting myself by assuring myself that it was for my good, that

there would come a day when I should really like it, and be grateful

to myself for having been severe with myself.



In other and more sensible directions I sought also to progress.

Gradually I was overcoming my shyness. It was a slow process. I

found the best plan was not to mind being shy, to accept it as part of

my temperament, and with others laugh at it. The coldness of an

indifferent world is of service in hardening a too sensitive skin.

The gradual rubbings of existence were rounding off my many corners.

I became possible to my fellow creatures, and they to me. I began to

take pleasure in their company.



By directing me to this particular house in Nelson Square, Fate had

done to me a kindness. I flatter myself we were an interesting

menagerie gathered together under its leaky roof. Mrs. Peedles, our

landlady, who slept in the basement with the slavey, had been an

actress in Charles Keane's company at the old Princess's. There, it

is true, she had played only insignificant parts. London, as she

would explain to us was even then but a poor judge of art, with

prejudices. Besides an actor-manager, hampered by a wife--we

understood. But previously in the Provinces there had been a career

of glory: Juliet, Amy Robsart, Mrs. Haller in "The Stranger"--almost

the entire roll of the "Legitimates". Showed we any signs of

disbelief, proof was forthcoming: handbills a yard long, rich in

notes of exclamation: "On Tuesday Evening! By Special Desire!!!

Blessington's Theatre! In the Meadow, adjoining the Falcon

Arms!"--"On Saturday! Under the Patronage of Col. Sir William and the

Officers of the 74th!!!! In the Corn Exchange!" Maybe it would

convince us further were she to run through a passage here and there,

say Lady Macbeth's sleep-walking scene, or from Ophelia's entrance in

the fourth act? It would be no trouble; her memory was excellent. We

would hasten to assure her of our perfect faith.



Listening to her, it was difficult, as she herself would frankly

admit, to imagine her the once "arch Miss Lucretia Barry;" looking at

her, to remember there had been an evening when she had been "the

cynosure of every eye." One found it necessary to fortify oneself

with perusal of underlined extracts from ancient journals, much

thumbed and creased, thoughtfully lent to one for the purpose. Since

those days Fate had woven round her a mantle of depression. She was

now a faded, watery-eyed little woman, prone on the slightest

provocation to sit down suddenly On the nearest chair and at once

commence a history of her troubles. Quite unconscious of this

failing, it was an idea of hers that she was an exceptionally cheerful

person.



"But there, fretting's no good. We must grin and bear things in this

world," she would conclude, wiping her eyes upon her apron. "It's

better to laugh than to cry, I always say." And to prove that this

was no mere idle sentiment, she would laugh then and there upon the

spot.



Much stair-climbing had bestowed upon her a shortness of breath, which

no amount of panting in her resting moments was able to make good.



"You don't know 'ow to breathe," explained our second floor front to

her on one occasion, a kindly young man; "you don't swallow it, you

only gargle with it. Take a good draught and shut your mouth; don't

be frightened of it; don't let it out again till it's done something:

that's what it's 'ere for."



He stood over her with his handkerchief pressed against her mouth to

assist her; but it was of no use.



"There don't seem any room for it inside me," she explained.



Bells had become to her the business of life; she lived listening for

them. Converse to her was a filling in of time while waiting for

interruptions.



A bottle of whiskey fell into my hands that Christmas time, a present

from a commercial traveller in the way of business. Not liking

whiskey myself, it was no sacrifice for me to reserve it for the

occasional comfort of Mrs. Peedles, when, breathless, with her hands

to her side, she would sink upon the chair nearest to my door. Her

poor, washed-out face would lighten at the suggestion.



"Ah, well," she would reply, "I don't mind if I do. It's a poor heart

that never rejoices."



And then, her tongue unloosened, she would sit there and tell me

stories of my predecessors, young men lodgers who like myself had

taken her bed-sitting-rooms, and of the woes and misfortunes that had

overtaken them. I gathered that a more unlucky house I could not have

selected. A former tenant of my own room, of whom I strangely

reminded her, had written poetry on my very table. He was now in

Portland doing five years for forgery. Mrs. Peedles appeared to

regard the two accomplishments as merely different expressions of the

same art. Another of her young men, as she affectionately called us,

had been of studious ambition. His career up to a point appeared to

have been brilliant. "What he mightn't have been," according to Mrs.

Peedles, there was practically no saying; what he happened to be at

the moment of conversation was an unpromising inmate of the Hanwell

lunatic asylum.



"I've always noticed it," Mrs. Peedles would explain; "it's always the

most deserving, those that try hardest, to whom trouble comes. I'm

sure I don't know why."



I was glad on the whole when that bottle of whiskey was finished. A

second might have driven me to suicide.



There was no Mr. Peedles--at least, not for Mrs. Peedles, though as an

individual he continued to exist. He had been "general utility" at the

Princess's--the old terms were still in vogue at that time--a fine

figure of a man in his day, so I was given to understand, but one

easily led away, especially by minxes. Mrs. Peedles spoke bitterly of

general utilities as people of not much use.



For working days Mrs. Peedles had one dress and one cap, both black

and void of ostentation; but on Sundays and holidays she would appear

metamorphosed. She had carefully preserved the bulk of her stage

wardrobe, even to the paste-decked shoes and tinsel jewelry.

Shapeless in classic garb as Hermia, or bulgy in brocade and velvet as

Lady Teazle, she would receive her few visitors on Sunday evenings,

discarded puppets like herself, with whom the conversation was of

gayer nights before their wires had been cut; or, her glory hid from

the ribald street beneath a mackintosh, pay her few calls. Maybe it

was the unusual excitement that then brought colour into her furrowed

cheeks, that straightened and darkened her eyebrows, at other times so

singularly unobtrusive. Be this how it may, the change was

remarkable, only the thin grey hair and the work-worn hands remaining

for purposes of identification. Nor was the transformation merely one

of surface. Mrs. Peedles hung on her hook behind the kitchen door,

dingy, limp, discarded; out of the wardrobe with the silks and satins

was lifted down to be put on as an undergarment Miss Lucretia Barry,

like her costumes somewhat aged, somewhat withered, but still

distinctly "arch."



In the room next to me lived a law-writer and his wife. They were

very old and miserably poor. The fault was none of theirs. Despite

copy-books maxims, there is in this world such a thing as

ill-luck-persistent, monotonous, that gradually wears away all power

of resistance. I learned from them their history: it was hopelessly

simple, hopelessly uninstructive. He had been a schoolmaster, she a

pupil teacher; they had married young, and for a while the world had

smiled upon them. Then came illness, attacking them both: nothing

out of which any moral could be deduced, a mere case of bad drains

resulting in typhoid fever. They had started again, saddled by debt,

and after years of effort had succeeded in clearing themselves, only

to fall again, this time in helping a friend. Nor was it even a case

of folly: a poor man who had helped them in their trouble, hardly

could they have done otherwise without proving themselves ungrateful.

And so on, a tedious tale, commonplace, trivial. Now listless,

patient, hard working, they had arrived at an animal-like indifference

to their fate, content so long as they could obtain the bare

necessities of existence, passive when these were not forthcoming,

their interest in life limited to the one luxury of the poor--an

occasional glass of beer or spirits. Often days would go by without

his obtaining any work, and then they would more or less starve. Law

documents are generally given out to such men in the evening, to be

returned finished the next morning. Waking in the night, I would hear

through the thin wooden partition that divided our rooms the even

scratching of his pen.



Thus cheek by jowl we worked, I my side of the screen, he his: youth

and age, hope and realisation.



Out of him my fears fashioned a vision of the future. Past his door I

would slink on tiptoe, dread meeting him upon the stairs. Once had

not he said to himself: "The world's mine oyster?" May not the

voices of the night have proclaimed him also king? Might I not be but

an idle dreamer, mistaking desire for power? Would not the world

prove stronger than I? At such times I would see my life before me:

the clerkship at thirty shillings a week rising by slow instalments,

it may be, to one hundred and fifty a year; the four-roomed house at

Brixton; the girl wife, pretty, perhaps, but sinking so soon into the

slatternly woman; the squalling children. How could I, unaided,

expect to raise myself from the ruck? Was not this the more likely

picture?



Our second floor front was a young fellow in the commercial line.

Jarman was Young London personified--blatant yet kind-hearted;

aggressively self-assertive, generous to a fault; cunning, yet at the

same time frank; shrewd, cheery, and full of pluck. "Never say die"

was his motto, and anything less dead it would be difficult to

imagine. All day long he was noisy, and all night long he snored. He

woke with a start, bathed like a porpoise, sang while dressing, roared

for his boots, and whistled during his breakfast. His entrance and

exit were always to an orchestration of banging doors, directions

concerning his meals shouted at the top of his voice as he plunged up

or down the stairs, the clattering and rattling of brooms and pails

flying before his feet. His departure always left behind it the

suggestion that the house was now to let; it came almost as a shock to

meet a human being on the landing. He would have conveyed an

atmosphere of bustle to the Egyptian pyramids.



Sometimes carrying his own supper-tray, arranged for two, he would

march into my room. At first, resenting his familiarity, I would hint

at my desire to be alone, would explain that I was busy.



"You fire away, Shakespeare Redivivus," he would reply. "Don't delay

the tragedy. Why should London wait? I'll keep quiet."



But his notion of keeping quiet was to retire into a corner and there

amuse himself by enacting a tragedy of his own in a hoarse whisper,

accompanied by appropriate gesture.



"Ah, ah!" I would hear him muttering to himself, "I 'ave killed 'er

good old father; I 'ave falsely accused 'er young man of all the

crimes that I 'ave myself committed; I 'ave robbed 'er of 'er

ancestral estates. Yet she loves me not! It is streeange!" Then

changing his bass to a shrill falsetto: "It is a cold and dismal

night: the snow falls fast. I will leave me 'at and umbrella be'ind

the door and go out for a walk with the chee-ild. Aha! who is this?

'E also 'as forgotten 'is umbrella. Ah, now I know 'im in the pitch

dark by 'is cigarette! Villain, murderer, silly josser! it is you!"

Then with lightning change of voice and gesture: "Mary, I love yer!"

"Sir Jasper Murgatroyd, let me avail myself of this opportunity to

tell you what I think of you--" "No, no; the 'ouses close in 'alf an

hour; there is not tee-ime. Fly with me instead!" "Never! Un'and

me!" "'Ear me! Ah, what 'ave I done? I 'ave slipped upon a piece of

orange peel and broke me 'ead! If you will kindly ask them to turn

off the snow and give me a little moonlight, I will confess all."



Finding it (much to Jarman's surprise) impossible to renew the thread

of my work, I would abandon my attempts at literature, and instead

listen to his talk, which was always interesting. His conversation

was, it is true, generally about himself, but it was none the less

attractive on that account. His love affairs, which appeared to be

numerous, formed his chief topic. There was no reserve about Jarman:

his life contained no secret chambers. What he "told her straight,"

what she "up and said to him" in reply was for all the world that

cared to hear. So far his search after the ideal had met with but ill

success.



"Girls," he would say, "they're all alike, till you know 'em. So long

as they're trying to palm themselves off on yer, they'll persuade you

there isn't such another article in all the market. When they've got

yer order--ah, then yer find out what they're really made of. And you

take it from me, 'Omer Junior, most of 'em are put together cheap.

Bah! it sickens me sometimes to read the way you paper-stainers talk

about 'em-angels, goddesses, fairies! They've just been getting at

yer. You're giving 'em just the price they're asking without

examining the article. Girls ain't a special make, like what you seem

to think 'em. We're all turned out of the same old slop shop."



"Not that I say, mind yer," he would continue, "that there are none of

the right sort. They're to be 'ad--real good 'uns. All I say is,

taking 'em at their own valuation ain't the way to do business with

'em."



What he was on the look out for--to quote his own description--was a

really first class article, not something from which the paint would

come off almost before you got it home.



"They're to be found," he would cheerfully affirm, "but you've got to

look for 'em. They're not the sort that advertises."



Behind Jarman in the second floor back resided one whom Jarman had

nicknamed "The Lady 'Ortensia." I believe before my arrival there had

been love passages between the two; but neither of them, so I

gathered, had upon closer inspection satisfied the other's standard.

Their present attitude towards each other was that of insult thinly

veiled under exaggerated politeness. Miss Rosina Sellars was, in her

own language, a "lady assistant," in common parlance, a barmaid at the

Ludgate Hill Station refreshment room. She was a large, flabby young

woman. With less powder, her complexion might by admirers have been

termed creamy; as it was, it presented the appearance rather of

underdone pastry. To be on all occasions "quite the lady" was her

pride. There were those who held the angle of her dignity to be

exaggerated. Jarman would beg her for her own sake to be more careful

lest one day she should fall down backwards and hurt herself. On the

other hand, her bearing was certainly calculated to check familiarity.

Even stockbrokers' clerks--young men as a class with the bump of

reverence but poorly developed--would in her presence falter and grow

hesitating. She had cultivated the art of not noticing to something

approaching perfection. She could draw the noisiest customer a glass

of beer, which he had never ordered; exchange it for three of whiskey,

which he had; take his money and return him his change without ever

seeing him, hearing him, or knowing he was there. It shattered the

self-assertion of the youngest of commercial travellers. Her tone and

manner, outside rare moments of excitement, were suggestive of an

offended but forgiving iceberg. Jarman invariably passed her with his

coat collar turned up to his ears, and even thus protected might have

been observed to shiver. Her stare, in conjunction with her "I beg

your pardon!" was a moral douche that would have rendered apologetic

and explanatory Don Juan himself.



To me she was always gracious, which by contrast to her general

attitude towards my sex of studied disdain, I confess flattered me.

She was good enough to observe to Mrs. Peedles, who repeated it to me,

that I was the only gentleman in the house who knew how to behave

himself.



The entire first floor was occupied by an Irishman and--they never

minced the matter themselves, so hardly is there need for me to do so.

She was a charming little dark-eyed woman, an ex-tight-rope dancer,

and always greatly offended Mrs. Peedles by claiming Miss Lucretia

Barry as a sister artiste.



"Of course I don't know how it may be now," would reply Mrs. Peedles,

with some slight asperity; "but in my time we ladies of the legitimate

stage used to look down upon dancers and such sort. Of course, no

offence to you, Mrs. O'Kelly."



Neither of them was in the least offended.



"Sure, Mrs. Peedles, ye could never have looked down upon the

Signora," the O'Kelly would answer laughing. "Ye had to lie back and

look up to her. Why, I've got the crick in me neck to this day!"



"Ah! my dear, and you don't know how nervous I was when glancing down

I'd see his handsome face just underneath me, thinking that with one

false step I might spoil it for ever," would reply the Signora.



"Me darling! I'd have died happy, just smothered in loveliness!"

would return the O'Kelly; and he and the Signora would rush into each

other's arms, and the sound of their kisses would quite excite the

little slavey sweeping down the stairs outside.



He was a barrister attached in theory to the Western Circuit; in

practice, somewhat indifferent to it, much more attached to the lower

strata of Bohemia and the Signora. At the present he was earning all

sufficient for the simple needs of himself and the Signora as a

teacher of music and singing. His method was simple and suited

admirably the locality. Unless specially requested, he never troubled

his pupils with such tiresome things as scales and exercises. His

plan was to discover the song the young man fancied himself singing,

the particular jingle the young lady yearned to knock out of the

piano, and to teach it to them. Was it "Tom Bowling?" Well and good.

Come on; follow your leader. The O'Kelly would sing the first line.



"Now then, try that. Don't be afraid. Just open yer mouth and gave

it tongue. That's all right. Everything has a beginning. Sure,

later on, we'll get the time and tune, maybe a little expression."



Whether the system had any merit in it, I cannot answer. Certain it

was that as often as not it achieved success. Gradually--say, by the

end of twelve eighteen-penny lessons--out of storm and chaos "Tom

Bowling" would emerge, recognisable for all men to hear. Had the

pupil any voice to start with, the O'Kelly improved it; had he none,

the O'Kelly would help him to disguise the fact.



"Take it easy, now; take it easy," the O'Kelly would counsel. "Sure,

it's a delicate organ, yer voice. Don't ye strain it now. Ye're at

yer best when ye're just low and sweet."



So also with the blushing pianiste. At the end of a month a tune was

distinctly discernible; she could hear it herself, and was happy. His

repute spread.



Twice already had he eloped with the Signora (and twice again was he

to repeat the operation, before I finally lost sight of him: to break

oneself of habit is always difficult) and once by well-meaning friends

had he been induced to return to home, if not to beauty. His wife,

who was considerably older than himself, possessed, so he would inform

me with tears in his eyes, every moral excellence that should attract

mankind. Upon her goodness and virtue, her piety and

conscientiousness he would descant to me by the half hour. His

sincerity it was impossible to question. It was beyond doubt that he

respected her, admired her, honoured her. She was a saint, an

angel--a wretch, a villain such as he, was not fit to breathe the same

pure air. To do him justice, it must be admitted he showed no

particular desire to do so. As an aunt or grandmother, I believe he

would have suffered her gladly. He had nothing to say against her,

except that he found himself unable to live with her.



That she must have been a lady of exceptional merit one felt

convinced. The Signora, who had met her only once, and then under

somewhat trying conditions, spoke her praises with equal enthusiasm.

Had she, the Signora, enjoyed the advantage of meeting such a model

earlier, she, the Signora, might have been a better woman. It seemed

a pity the introduction could not have taken place sooner and under

different circumstances. Could they both have adopted her as a sort

of mutual mother-in-law, it would have given them, I am positive, the

greatest satisfaction. On her occasional visits they would have vied

with each other in showing her affectionate attention. For the

deserted lady I tried to feel sorry, but could not avoid the

reflection that it would have been better for all parties had she been

less patient and forgiving. Her husband was evidently much more

suited to the Signora.



Indeed, the relationship between these two was more a true marriage

than one generally meets with. No pair of love-birds could have been

more snug together. In their virtues and failings alike they fitted

each other. When sober the immorality of their behaviour never

troubled them; in fact, when sober nothing ever troubled them. They

laughed, joked, played through life, two happy children. To be

shocked at them was impossible. I tried it and failed.



But now and again there came an evening when they were not sober. It

happened when funds were high. On such occasion the O'Kelly would

return laden with bottles of a certain sweet champagne, of which they

were both extremely fond; and a friend or two would be invited to

share in the festivity. Whether any exceptional quality resided in

this particular brand of champagne I am not prepared to argue; my own

personal experience of it has prompted me to avoid it for the rest of

my life. Its effect upon them was certainly unique. Instead of

intoxicating them, it sobered them: there is no other way of

explaining it. With the third or fourth glass they began to take

serious views of life. Before the end of the second bottle they would

be staring at each other, appalled at contemplation of their own

transgression. The Signora, the tears streaming down her pretty face,

would declare herself a wicked, wicked woman; she had dragged down

into shame the most blameless, the most virtuous of men. Emptying her

glass, she would bury her face in her hands, and with her elbows on

her knees, in an agony of remorse, sit rocking to and fro. The

O'Kelly, throwing himself at her feet, would passionately abjure her

to "look up." She had, it appeared, got hold of the thing at the

wrong end; it was he who had dragged her down.



At this point metaphor would become confused. Each had been dragged

down by the other one and ruined; also each one was the other one's

good angel. All that was commendable in the Signora, she owed to the

O'Kelly. Whatever was not discreditable about the O'Kelly was in the

nature of a loan from the Signora. With the help of more champagne

the right course would grow plain to them. She would go back

broken-hearted but repentant to the tight-rope; he would return a

better but a blighted man to Mrs. O'Kelly and the Western Circuit.

This would be their last evening together on earth. A fresh bottle

would be broached, and the guest or guests called upon to assist in

the ceremony of renunciation; glasses full to the brim this time.



So much tragedy did they continue to instil into the scene that on the

first occasion of my witnessing it I was unable to refrain from

mingling my tears with theirs. As, however, the next morning they had

forgotten all about it, and as nothing came of it, nor of several

subsequent repetitions, I should have believed a separation between

them impossible but that even while I was an inmate of the house the

thing actually happened.



It came about in this wise. His friends, having discovered him, had

pointed out to him again his duty. The Signora--a really excellent

little woman so far as intention was concerned--had seconded their

endeavours, with the result that on a certain evening in autumn we of

the house assembled all of us on the first floor to support them on

the occasion of their final--so we all deemed it then--leave-taking.

For eleven o'clock two four-wheeled cabs had been ordered, one to

transport the O'Kelly with his belongings to Hampstead and

respectability; in the other the Signora would journey sorrowfully to

the Tower Basin, there to join a circus company sailing for the

Continent.



I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before the appointed

hour of the party. I fancy the idea had originated with the Signora.



"Dear Willie has something to say to you," she had informed me that

morning on the stairs. "He has taken a sincere liking to you, and it

is something very important."



They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking very serious; a

bottle of the sobering champagne stood upon the table. The Signora

rose and kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands

upon my shoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them.



"Mr. Kelver," said the Signora, "you are very young."



I hinted--it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can

be combined with truth--that I found myself in company.



The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head.



"Age," said the O'Kelly, "is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye

never be as old as I am feeling now."



"As _we_ are feeling," corrected the Signora. "Kelver," said the

O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, "we want ye to

promise us something."



"It will make us both happier," added the Signora.



"That ye will take warning," continued the O'Kelly, "by our wretched

example. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possible

happiness. The path of strict--" he paused.



"Propriety," suggested the Signora.



"Of strict propriety," agreed the O'Kelly. "Deviate from it,"

continued the O'Kelly, impressively, "and what is the result?"



"Unutterable misery," supplied the Signora.



"Ye think we two have been happy here together," said the O'Kelly.



I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had

directed me.



"We tried to appear so," explained the Signora; "it was merely on the

outside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him,

Willie, dear, how we have hated each other."



"It is impossible," said the O'Kelly, finishing and putting down his

glass, "to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we have hated each other."



"How we have quarrelled!" said the Signora. "Tell him, dear, how we

have quarrelled."



"All day long and half the night," concluded the O'Kelly.



"Fought," added the Signora. "You see, Mr. Kelver, people in--in our

position always do. If it had been otherwise, if--if everything had

been proper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it

is, it has been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog

existence, Willie?"



"It's been just hell upon earth," murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyes

fixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. Deadly in earnest though

they both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intention

was so obvious. The Signora burst into tears.



"He doesn't believe us," she wailed.



"Me dear," replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness

and satisfaction, "how could ye expect it? How could he believe that

any man could look at ye and hate ye?"



"It's all my fault," cried the little woman; "I am such a wicked

creature. I cannot even be miserable when I am doing wrong. A decent

woman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and made

everybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good

example and have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience,

and I do try." The poor little lady was sobbing her heart out.



When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora

one could be no more shy than of a pair of robin redbreasts. Besides,

I was really fond of them; they had been very good to me.



"Dear Miss Beltoni," I answered, "I am going to take warning by you

both."



She pressed my hand. "Oh, do, please do," she murmured. "We really

have been miserable--now and then."



"I am never going to be content," I assured her, "until I find a lady

as charming and as amiable as you, and if ever I get her I'll take

good care never to run any risk of losing her."



It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook me warmly by

the hand, and this time spoke his real feelings.



"Me boy," he said, "all women are good--for somebody. But the woman

that is good for yerself is better for ye than a better woman who's

the best for somebody else. Ye understand?"



I said I did.



At eight o'clock precisely Mrs. Peedles arrived--as Flora MacDonald,

in green velvet jacket and twelve to fifteen inches of plaid stocking.

As a topic fitting the occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles

and the subject of deserted wives in general.



"A fine-looking man," allowed Mrs. Peedles, "but weak--weak as water."



The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist such men: 'twas

pitiful but true.



"My dear," continued Mrs. Peedles, "she wasn't even a lady."



The Signora expressed astonishment at the deterioration in Mr.

Peedles' taste thus implied.



"I won't go so far as to say we never had a difference," continued

Mrs. Peedles, whose object appeared to be an impartial statement of

the whole case. "There may have been incompatability of temperament,

as they say. Myself, I have always been of a playful

disposition--frivolous, some might call me."



The Signora protested; the O'Kelly declined to listen to such

aspersion on her character even from Mrs. Peedles herself.



Mrs. Peedles, thus corrected, allowed that maybe frivolous was too

sweeping an accusation: say sportive.



"But a good wife to him I always was," asserted Mrs. Peedles, with a

fine sense of justice; "never flighty, like some of them. I challenge

any one to accuse me of having been flighty."



We felt we should not believe any one who did, and told her so.



Mrs. Peedles, drawing her chair closer to the Signora, assumed a

confidential attitude. "If they want to go, let 'em go, I always

say," she whispered loudly into the Signora's ear. "Ten to one

they'll find they've only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.

One can always comfort oneself with that."



There seemed to be confusion in the mind of Mrs. Peedles. Her

virtuous sympathies, I gathered, were with the Signora. Mr. O'Kelly's

return to Mrs. O'Kelly evidently manifested itself in the light of a

shameful desertion. Having regard to the fact, patent to all who knew

him, that the poor fellow was sacrificing every inclination to stern

sense of duty, such view of the matter was rough on him. But

philosophers from all ages have agreed that our good deeds are the

whips with which Fate punishes us for our bad.



"My dear," continued Mrs. Peedles, "when Mr. Peedles left me I thought

that I should never smile again. Yet here you see me laughing away

through life, just as ever. You'll get over it all right." And Mrs.

Peedles wiped away her tears and smiled upon the Signora; upon which

the Signora commenced to cry again.



Happily, timely diversion was made at this point by the bursting into

the room of Jarman, who upon perceiving Mrs. Peedles, at once gave

vent to a hoot, supposed to be expressive of Scottish joy, and without

a moment's hesitation commenced to dance a reel.



My neighbours of the first floor knocked at the door a little while

afterwards; and genteelly late arrived Miss Rosina Sellars, coldly

gleaming in a decollete but awe-inspiring costume of mingled black and

scarlet, out of which her fair, if fleshy, neck and arms shone

luxuriant.



We did not go into supper; instead, supper came into us from the

restaurant at the corner of the Blackfriars Road. I cannot say that

at first it was a festive meal. The O'Kelly and the Signora made

effort, as in duty bound, to be cheerful, but for awhile were somewhat

unsuccessful. The third floor front wasted no time in speech, but ate

and drank copiously. Miss Sellars, retaining her gloves--which was

perhaps wise, her hands being her weak point--signalled me out, much

to my embarrassment, as the recipient of her most polite conversation.

Mrs. Peedles became reminiscent of parties generally. Seeing that

most of Mrs. Peedles' former friends and acquaintances were either

dead or in more or less trouble, her efforts did not tend to enliven

the table. One gathering, of which the present strangely reminded

her, was a funeral, chiefly remarkable from discovery of the romantic

fact, late in the proceedings, that the gentleman in whose honour the

whole affair had been organised was not dead at all; but instead,

having taken advantage of an error arising out of a railway accident,

was at the moment eloping with the wife of his own chief mourner. As

Mrs. Peedles explained, and as one could well credit, it had been an

awkward position for all present. Nobody had quite known whether to

feel glad or sorry--with the exception of the chief mourner, upon

whose personal undertaking that the company might regard the ceremony

as merely postponed, festivities came to an end.



Our prop and stay from a convivial point of view was Jarman. As a

delicate attention to Mrs. Peedles and her costume he sunk his

nationality and became for the evening, according to his own

declaration, "a braw laddie." With her--his "sonsie lassie," so he

termed her--he flirted in the broadest, if not purest, Scotch. The

O'Kelly for him became "the Laird;" the third floor "Jamie o' the

Ilk;" Miss Sellars, "the bonnie wee rose;" myself, "the chiel."

Periods of silence were dispersed by suggestions that we should "hoot

awa'," Jarman himself setting us the example.



With the clearance away of the eatables, making room for the

production of a more varied supply of bottles, matters began to mend.

Mrs. Peedles became more arch, Jarman's Scotch more striking and

extensive, the Lady 'Ortensia's remarks less depressingly genteel, her

aitches less accentuated.



Jarman rose to propose the health of the O'Kelly, coupled with that of

the Signora. To the O'Kelly, in a burst of generosity, Jarman

promised our united patronage. To Jarman it appeared that by

employing the O'Kelly to defend us whenever we got into trouble with

the police, and by recommending him to our friends, a steady income

should be assured to him.



The O'Kelly replied feelingly to the effect that Nelson Square,

Blackfriars, would ever remain engraved upon his memory as the fairest

and brightest spot on earth. Personally, nothing would have given him

greater pleasure than to die among the dear friends who now surrounded

him. But there was such a thing as duty, and he and the Signora had

come to the conclusion that true happiness could only be obtained by

acting according to one's conscience, even if it made one miserable.



Jarman, warming to his work, then proposed the health of Mrs. Peedles,

as true-hearted and hard-breathing a lady as ever it had been his

privilege to know. Her talent for cheery conversation was familiar to

us all, upon it he need not enlarge; all he would say was that

personally never did she go out of his room without leaving him more

cheerful than when she entered it.



After that--I forget in what--we drank the health of the Lady

'Ortensia. Persons there were--Jarman would not attempt to disguise

the fact--who complained that the Lady 'Ortensia was too distant, "too

stand-offish." With such complaint he himself had no sympathy; but

tastes differed. If the Lady 'Ortensia were inclined to be exclusive,

who should blame her? Everybody knew their own business best. For use

in a second floor front he could not honestly recommend the Lady

'Ortensia; it would not be giving her a fair chance, and it would not

be giving the second floor a fair chance. But for any gentleman

fitting up marble halls, for any one on the lookout for a really

"toney article," Jarman would say: Inquire for Miss Rosina Sellars,

and see that you get her.



There followed my turn. There had been literary chaps in the past,

Jarman admitted so much. Against them he had nothing to say. They

had no doubt done their best. But the gentleman whose health Jarman

wished the company now to drink had this advantage over them: that

they were dead, and he wasn't. Some of this gentleman's work Jarman

had read--in manuscript; but that was a distinction purely temporary.

He, Jarman, claimed to be no judge of literature, but this he could

and would say, it took a good deal to make him miserable, yet this the

literary efforts of Mr. Kelver invariably accomplished.



Mrs. Peedles, speaking without rising, from personal observation in

the daytime--which she hoped would not be deemed a liberty;

literature, even in manuscript, being, so to speak, public

property--found herself in a position to confirm all that Mr. Jarman

had remarked. Speaking as one not entirely without authority on the

subject of literature and the drama, Mrs. Peedles could say that

passages she had read had struck her as distinctly not half bad. Some

of the love-scenes, in particular, had made her to feel quite a girl

again. How he had acquired such knowledge was not for her to say.

Cries of "Naughty!" from Jarman, and "Oh, Mr. Kelver, I shall be quite

afraid of you," roguishly from Miss Sellars.



The O'Kelly, who, having abandoned his favourite champagne for less

sobering liquor, had since supper-time become rapidly more cheerful,

felt sure there was a future before me. That he had not seen any of

my work, so he assured me, in no way lessened his opinion of it. One

thing only would he impress upon me: that the best work was the

result of strict attention to virtue. His advice to me was to marry

young and be happy.



My persevering efforts of the last few months towards the acquisition

of convivial habits appeared this evening to be receiving their

reward. The O'Kelly's sweet champagne I had drunk with less dislike

than hitherto; a white, syrupy sort of stuff, out of a fat and

artistic-looking bottle, I had found distinctly grateful to the

palate. Dimly the quotation about taking things at the flood, and so

getting on quickly, floated through my brain, coupled with another one

about fortune favouring the bold. It had seemed to me a good occasion

to try for the second time in my life a full flavoured cigar. I had

selected with the caution of a connoisseur one of mottled green

complexion from the O'Kelly's largest box. And so far all had gone

well. An easy self-confidence, delightful by reason of its novelty,

had replaced my customary shyness; a sense of lightness--of positive

airiness, emanating from myself, pervaded all things. Tossing off

another glass of the champagne, I rose to reply.



Modesty in my present mood would have been affectation. To such dear

and well-beloved friends I had no hesitation in admitting the truth,

that I was a clever fellow--a damned clever fellow. I knew it, they

knew it, in a short time everybody would know it. But they need not

fear that in the hour of my pride, when it arrived, I should prove

ungrateful. Never should I forget their kindness to me, a lonely

young man, alone in a lonely-- Here the pathos of my own situation

overcame me; words seemed weak. "Jarman--" I meant, putting my hand

upon his head, to have blessed him for his goodness to me; but he

being not exactly where he looked to be, I just missed him, and sat

down on the edge of my chair, which was a hard one. I had not

intended this to be the end of my speech, by a long one; but Jarman,

whispering to me: "Ended at exactly the right moment; shows the born

orator," strong inclination to remain seated, now that I was down

seconding his counsel, and the company being clearly satisfied, I

decided to leave things where they were.



A delightful dreaminess was stealing over me. Everything and

everybody appeared to be a long way off, but, whether because of this

or in spite of it, exceedingly attractive. Never had I noticed the

Signora so bewitching; in a motherly sort of way even the third floor

front was good to look upon; Mrs. Peedles I could almost have believed

to be the real Flora MacDonald sitting in front of me. But the vision

of Miss Rosina Sellars made literally my head to swim. Never before

had I dared to cast upon female loveliness the satisfying gaze with

which I now boldly regarded her every movement. Evidently she noticed

it, for she turned away her eyes. I had heard that exceptionally

strong-minded people merely by concentrating their will could make

other, ordinary people, do just whatever they, the exceptionally

strong-minded people, wished. I willed that Miss Rosina Sellars

should turn her eyes again towards me. Victory crowned my efforts.

Evidently I was one of these exceptionally strong-minded persons.

Slowly her eyes came round and met mine with a smile--a helpless,

pathetic smile that said, so I read it: "You know no woman can resist

you: be merciful!"



Inflamed by the brutal lust of conquest, I suppose I must have willed

still further, for the next thing I remember is sitting with Miss

Sellars on the sofa, holding her hand, the while the O'Kelly sang a

sentimental ballad, only one line of which comes back to me: "For the

angels must have told him, and he knows I love him now," much stress

upon the "now." The others had their backs towards us. Miss Sellars,

with a look that pierced my heart, dropped her somewhat large head

upon my shoulder, leaving, as I observed the next day, a patch of

powder on my coat.



Miss Sellars observed that one of the saddest things in the world was

unrequited love.



I replied gallantly, "Whateryou know about it?"



"Ah, you men, you men," murmured Miss Sellars; "you're all alike."



This suggested a personal aspersion on my character. "Not allus," I

murmured.



"You don't know what love is," said Miss Sellars. "You're not old

enough."



The O'Kelly had passed on to Sullivan's "Sweethearts," then in its

first popularity.



"Oh, love for a year--a week--a day!

But oh for the love that loves al-wa-ay[s]!"



Miss Sellars' languishing eyes were fixed upon me; Miss Sellars' red

lips pouted and twitched; Miss Sellars' white bosom rose and fell.

Never, so it seemed to me, had so large an amount of beauty been

concentrated in one being.



"Yeserdo," I said. "I love you."



I stooped to kiss the red lips, but something was in my way. It

turned out to be a cold cigar. Miss Sellars thoughtfully removed it,

and threw it away. Our lips met. Her large arms closed about my neck

and held me tight.



"Well, I'm sure!" came the voice of Mrs. Peedles, as from afar. "Nice

goings on!"



I have vague remembrance of a somewhat heated discussion, in which

everybody but myself appeared to be taking extreme interest--of Miss

Sellars in her most ladylike and chilling tones defending me against

the charge of "being no gentleman," which Mrs. Peedles was explaining

nobody had said I wasn't. The argument seemed to be of the circular

order. No gentleman had ever kissed Miss Sellars who had not every

right to do so, nor ever would. To kiss Miss Sellars without such

right was to declare oneself no gentleman. Miss Sellars appealed to

me to clear my character from the aspersion of being no gentleman. I

was trying to understand the situation, when Jarman, seizing me

somewhat roughly by the arm, suggested my going to bed. Miss Sellars,

seizing my other arm, suggested my refusing to go to bed. So far I

was with Miss Sellars. I didn't want to go to bed, and said so. My

desire to sit up longer was proof positive to Miss Sellars that I was

a gentleman, but to no one else. The argument shifted, the question

being now as to whether Miss Sellars were a lady. To prove the point

it was, according to Miss Sellars, necessary that I should repeat I

loved her. I did repeat it, adding, with faint remembrance of my own

fiction, that if a life's devotion was likely to be of the slightest

further proof, my heart's blood was at her service. This cleared the

air, Mrs. Peedles observing that under such circumstances it only

remained for her to withdraw everything she had said; to which Miss

Sellars replied graciously that she had always known Mrs. Peedles to

be a good sort at the bottom.



Nevertheless, gaiety was gone from among us, and for this, in some way

I could not understand, I appeared to be responsible. Jarman was

distinctly sulky. The O'Kelly, suddenly thinking of the time, went to

the door and discovered that the two cabs were waiting. The third

floor recollected that work had to be finished. I myself felt sleepy.



Our host and hostess departed; Jarman again suggested bed, and this

time I agreed with him. After a slight misunderstanding with the

door, I found myself upon the stairs. I had never noticed before that

they were quite perpendicular. Adapting myself to the changed

conditions, I climbed them with the help of my hands. I accomplished

the last flight somewhat quickly, and feeling tired, sat down the

moment I was within my own room. Jarman knocked at the door. I told

him to come in; but he didn't. It occurred to me that the reason was

I was sitting on the floor with my back against the door. The

discovery amused me exceedingly and I laughed; and Jarman, baffled,

descended to his own floor. I found getting into bed a difficulty,

owing to the strange behaviour of the room. It spun round and round.

Now the bed was just in front of me, now it was behind me. I managed

at last to catch it before it could get past me, and holding on by the

ironwork, frustrated its efforts to throw me out again on to the

floor.



But it was some time before I went to sleep, and over my intervening

experiences I draw a veil.