CHAPTER IX.



THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING.



It took me three years to win that handshake. For the first six

months I remained in Deptford. There was excellent material to be

found there for humorous articles, essays, stories; likewise for

stories tragic and pathetic. But I owed a hundred and fifty pounds--a

little over two hundred it reached to, I found, when I came to add up

the actual figures. So I paid strict attention to business, left the

tears to be garnered by others--better fitted maybe for the task; kept

to my own patch, reaped and took to market only the laughter.



At the beginning I sent each manuscript to Norah; she had it copied

out, debited me with the cost received payment, and sent me the

balance. At first my earnings were small; but Norah was an excellent

agent; rapidly they increased. Dan grew quite cross with her, wrote

in pained surprise at her greed. The "matter" was fair, but in no way

remarkable. Any friend of hers, of course, he was anxious to assist;

but business was business. In justice to his proprietors, he could

not and would not pay more than the market value. Miss Deleglise,

replying curtly in the third person, found herself in perfect accord

with Mr. Brian as to business being business. If Mr. Brian could not

afford to pay her price for material so excellent, other editors with

whom Miss Deleglise was equally well acquainted could and would.

Answer by return would greatly oblige, pending which the manuscript

then in her hands she retained. Mr. Brian, understanding he had found

his match, grumbled but paid. Whether he had any suspicion who "Jack

Homer" might be, he never confessed; but he would have played the

game, pulled his end of the rope, in either case. Nor was he allowed

to decide the question for himself. Competition was introduced into

the argument. Of purpose a certain proportion of my work my agent

sent elsewhere. "Jack Homer" grew to be a commodity in demand. For,

seated at my rickety table, I laughed as I wrote, the fourth wall of

the dismal room fading before my eyes revealing vistas beyond.



Still, it was slow work. Humour is not an industrious maid; declines

to be bustled, will work only when she feels inclined--does not often

feel inclined; gives herself a good many unnecessary airs; if worried,

packs up and goes off, Heaven knows where! comes back when she thinks

she will: a somewhat unreliable young person. To my literary labours

I found it necessary to add journalism. I lacked Dan's magnificent

assurance. Fate never befriends the nervous. Had I burst into the

editorial sanctum, the editor most surely would have been out if in,

would have been a man of short ways, would have seen to it that I went

out quickly. But the idea was not to be thought of; Robert Macaire

himself in my one coat would have been diffident, apologetic. I

joined the ranks of the penny-a-liners--to be literally exact, three

halfpence a liners. In company with half a dozen other shabby

outsiders--some of them young men like myself seeking to climb;

others, older men who had sunk--I attended inquests, police courts;

flew after fire engines; rejoiced in street accidents; yearned for

murders. Somewhat vulture-like we lived precariously upon the

misfortunes of others. We made occasional half crowns by providing

the public with scandal, occasional crowns by keeping our information

to ourselves.



"I think, gentlemen," would explain our spokesman in a hoarse whisper,

on returning to the table, "I think the corpse's brother-in-law is

anxious that the affair, if possible, should be kept out of the

papers."



The closeness and attention with which we would follow that particular

case, the fulness and completeness of our notes, would be quite

remarkable. Our spokesman would rise, drift carelessly away, to

return five minutes later, wiping his mouth.



"Not a very interesting case, gentlemen, I don't think. Shall we say

five shillings apiece?" Sometimes a sense of the dignity of our

calling would induce us to stand out for ten.



And here also my sense of humour came to my aid; gave me perhaps an

undue advantage over my competitors. Twelve good men and true had

been asked to say how a Lascar sailor had met his death. It was

perfectly clear how he had met his death. A plumber, working on the

roof of a small two-storeyed house, had slipped and fallen on him.

The plumber had escaped with a few bruises; the unfortunate sailor had

been picked up dead. Some blame attached to the plumber. His mate,

an excellent witness, told us the whole story.



"I was fixing a gas-pipe on the first floor," said the man. "The

prisoner was on the roof."



"We won't call him 'the prisoner,'" interrupted the coroner, "at

least, not yet. Refer to him, if you please, as the 'last witness.'"



"The last witness," corrected himself the man. "He shouts down the

chimney to know if I was ready for him."



"'Ready and waiting,' I says.



"'Right,' he says; 'I'm coming in through the window.'



"'Wait a bit,' I says; 'I'll go down and move the ladder for you.



"'It's all right,' he says; 'I can reach it.'



"'No, you can't,' I says. 'It's the other side of the chimney.'



"'I can get round,' he says.



"Well, before I knew what had happened, I hears him go, smack! I

rushes to the window and looks out: I see him on the pavement,

sitting up like.



"'Hullo, Jim,' I says. 'Have you hurt yourself?'



"'I think I'm all right,' he says, 'as far as I can tell. But I wish

you'd come down. This bloke I've fallen on looks a bit sick.'"



The others headed their flimsy "Sad Accident," a title truthful but

not alluring. I altered mine to "Plumber in a Hurry--Fatal Result."

Saying as little as possible about the unfortunate sailor, I called

the attention of plumbers generally to the coroner's very just remarks

upon the folly of undue haste; pointed out to them, as a body, the

trouble that would arise if somehow they could not cure themselves of

this tendency to rush through their work without a moment's loss of

time.



It established for me a useful reputation. The sub-editor of one

evening paper condescended so far as to come out in his shirt-sleeves

and shake hands with me.



"That's the sort of thing we want," he told me; "a light touch, a bit

of humour."



I snatched fun from fires (I sincerely trust the insurance premiums

were not overdue); culled quaintness from street rows; extracted

merriment from catastrophes the most painful, and prospered.



Though often within a stone's throw of the street, I unremittingly

avoided the old house at Poplar. I was suffering inconvenience at

this period by reason of finding myself two distinct individuals,

contending with each other. My object was to encourage the new

Paul--the sensible, practical, pushful Paul, whose career began to

look promising; to drive away from interfering with me his strangely

unlike twin--the old childish Paul of the sad, far-seeing eyes.

Sometimes out of the cracked looking-glass his wistful, yearning face

would plead to me; but I would sternly shake my head. I knew well his

cunning. Had I let him have his way, he would have led me through the

maze of streets he knew so well, past the broken railings (outside

which be would have left my body standing), along the weedy pathway,

through the cracked and dented door, up the creaking staircase to the

dismal little chamber where we once--he and I together--had sat

dreaming foolish dreams.



"Come," he would whisper; "it is so near. Let us push aside the chest

of drawers very quietly, softly raise the broken sash, prop it open

with the Latin dictionary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the

voices of the weary city, voices calling to us from the darkness."



But I was too wary to be caught. "Later on," I would reply to him;

"when I have made my way, when I am stronger to withstand your

wheedling. Then I will go with you, if you are still in existence, my

sentimental little friend. We will dream again the old impractical,

foolish dreams--and laugh at them."



So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to me approvingly a

businesslike-looking, wide-awake young fellow.



But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed. My position was by now

assured; there was no longer any reason for my hiding myself. I

determined to move westward. I had not intended to soar so high, but

passing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-covered corner

house that my father had once thought of taking recalled itself to me.

A card was in the fanlight. I knocked and made enquiries. A

bed-sitting-room upon the third floor was vacant. I remembered it

well the moment the loquacious landlady opened its door.



"This shall be your room, Paul," said my father. So clearly his voice

sounded behind me that I turned, forgetting for the moment it was but

a memory. "You will be quiet here, and we can shut out the bed and

washstand with a screen."



So my father had his way. It was a pleasant, sunny little room,

overlooking the gardens of the hospital. I followed my father's

suggestion, shut out the bed and washstand with a screen. And

sometimes of an evening it would amuse me to hear my father turn the

handle of the door.



"How are you getting on--all right?"



"Famously."



Often there came back to me the words he had once used. "You must be

the practical man, Paul, and get on. Myself, I have always been

somewhat of a dreamer. I meant to do such great things in the world,

and somehow I suppose I aimed too high. I wasn't--practical."



"But ought not one to aim high?" I had asked.



My father had fidgeted in his chair. "It is very difficult to say.

It is all so--so very ununderstandable. You aim high and you don't

hit anything--at least, it seems as if you didn't. Perhaps, after

all, it is better to aim at something low, and--and hit it. Yet it

seems a pity--one's ideals, all the best part of one--I don't know why

it is. Perhaps we do not understand."



For some months I had been writing over my own name. One day a letter

was forwarded to me by an editor to whose care it had been addressed.

It was a short, formal note from the maternal Sellars, inviting me to

the wedding of her daughter with a Mr. Reginald Clapper. I had almost

forgotten the incident of the Lady 'Ortensia, but it was not

unsatisfactory to learn that it had terminated pleasantly. Also, I

judged from an invitation having been sent me, that the lady wished me

to be witness of the fact that my desertion had not left her

disconsolate. So much gratification I felt I owed her, and

accordingly, purchasing a present as expensive as my means would

permit, I made my way on the following Thursday, clad in frock coat

and light grey trousers, to Kennington Church.



The ceremony was already in progress. Creeping on tiptoe up the

aisle, I was about to slip into an empty pew, when a hand was laid

upon my sleeve.



"We're all here," whispered the O'Kelly; "just room for ye."



Squeezing his hand as I passed, I sat down between the Signora and

Mrs. Peedles. Both ladies were weeping; the Signora silently, one

tear at a time clinging fondly to her pretty face as though loath to

fall from it; Mrs. Peedles copiously, with explosive gurgles, as of

water from a bottle.



"It is such a beautiful service," murmured the Signora, pressing my

hand as I settled myself down. "I should so--so love to be married."



"Me darling," whispered the O'Kelly, seizing her other hand and

kissing it covertly behind his open Prayer Book, "perhaps ye will

be--one day."



The Signora through her tears smiled at him, but with a sigh shook her

head.



Mrs. Peedles, clad, so far as the dim November light enabled me to

judge, in the costume of Queen Elizabeth--nothing regal; the sort of

thing one might assume to have been Her Majesty's second best, say

third best, frock--explained that weddings always reminded her how

fleeting a thing was love.



"The poor dears!" she sobbed. "But there, there's no telling.

Perhaps they'll be happy. I'm sure I hope they may be. He looks

harmless."



Jarman, stretching out a hand to me from the other side of Mrs.

Peedles, urged me to cheer up. "Don't wear your 'eart upon your

sleeve," he advised. "Try and smile."



In the vestry I met old friends. The maternal Sellars, stouter than

ever, had been accommodated with a chair--at least, I assumed so, she

being in a sitting posture; the chair itself was not in evidence. She

greeted me with more graciousness than I had expected, enquiring after

my health with pointedness and an amount of tender solicitude that,

until the explanation broke upon me, somewhat puzzled me.



Mr. Reginald Clapper was a small but energetic gentleman, much

impressed, I was glad to notice, with a conviction of his own good

fortune. He expressed the greatest delight at being introduced to me,

shook me heartily by the hand, and hoped we should always be friends.



"Won't be my fault if we're not," he added. "Come and see us whenever

you like." He repeated this three times. I gathered the general

sentiment to be that he was acting, if anything, with excess of

generosity.



Mrs. Reginald Clapper, as I was relieved to know she now was, received

my salute to a subdued murmur of applause. She looked to my eyes

handsomer than when I had last seen her, or maybe my taste was growing

less exacting. She also trusted she might always regard me as a

friend. I replied that it would be my hope to deserve the honour;

whereupon she kissed me of her own accord, and embracing her mother,

shed some tears, explaining the reason to be that everybody was so

good to her.



Brother George, less lank than formerly, hampered by a pair of

enormous white kid gloves, superintended my signing of the register,

whispering to me sympathetically: "Better luck next time, old cock."



The fat young lady--or, maybe, the lean young lady, grown stouter, I

cannot say for certain--who feared I had forgotten her, a thing I

assured her utterly impossible, was good enough to say that, in her

opinion, I was worth all the others put together.



"And so I told her," added the fat young lady--or the lean one grown

stouter, "a dozen times if I told her once. But there!"



I murmured my obligations.



Cousin Joseph, 'whom I found no difficulty in recognising by reason of

his watery eyes, appeared not so chirpy as of yore.



"You take my tip," advised Cousin Joseph, drawing me aside, "and keep

out of it."



"You speak from experience?" I suggested.



"I'm as fond of a joke," said the watery-eyed Joseph, "as any man.

But when it comes to buckets of water--"



A reminder from the maternal Sellars that breakfast had been ordered

for eleven o'clock caused a general movement and arrested Joseph's

revelations.



"See you again, perhaps," he murmured, and pushed past me.



What Mrs. Sellars, I suppose, would have alluded to as a cold

col-la-shon had been arranged for at a restaurant near by. I walked

there in company with Uncle and Aunt Gutton; not because I

particularly desired their companionship, but because Uncle Gutton,

seizing me by the arm, left me no alternative.



"Now then, young man," commenced Uncle Gutton kindly, but boisterously

so soon as we were in the street, at some little distance behind the

others, "if you want to pitch into me, you pitch away. I shan't mind,

and maybe it'll do you good."



I informed him that nothing was further from my desire.



"Oh, all right," returned Uncle Gutton, seemingly disappointed. "If

you're willing to forgive and forget, so am I. I never liked you, as

I daresay you saw, and so I told Rosie. 'He may be cleverer than he

looks,' I says, 'or be may be a bigger fool than I think him, though

that's hardly likely. You take my advice and get a full-grown

article, then you'll know what you're doing.'



I told him I thought his advice had been admirable.



"I'm glad you think so," he returned, somewhat puzzled; "though if you

wanted to call me names I shouldn't have blamed you. Anyhow, you've

took it like a sensible chap. You've got over it, as I always told

her you would. Young men out of story-books don't die of broken

hearts, even if for a month or two they do feel like standing on their

head in the water-butt."



"Why, I was in love myself three times," explained Uncle Gutton,

"before I married the old woman."



Aunt Gutton sighed and said she was afraid gentlemen didn't feel these

things as much as they ought to.



"They've got their living to earn," retorted Uncle Gutton.



I agreed with Uncle Gutton that life could not be wasted in vain

regret.



"As for the rest," admitted Uncle Gutton, handsomely, "I was wrong.

You've turned out better than I expected you would."



I thanked him for his improved opinion, and as we entered the

restaurant we shook hands.



Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained that having been

able to obtain only limited leave of absence from business, he had

concluded the time would be better employed at the restaurant than at

the church. Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted,

young sparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia in her

professional capacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clapper, who was something

in the City. Altogether we must have numbered a score.



Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. The wedding

presents stood displayed upon a side-table. My own, with my card

attached, had not been seen by Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She and

her mother lingered, examining it.



"Real silver!" I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, "Must have paid a

ten pound note for it."



"I hope you'll find it useful," I said.



The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered

together at the opposite end of the room.



"I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were a

gentleman," said the Lady 'Ortensia.



"Don't let's talk about it," I answered. "We were both foolish."



"I don't want you to think it was merely that," continued the Lady

'Ortensia. "I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you--at

least, I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never

gave me time."



"Believe me, things are much better as they are," I said.



"I suppose so," she answered. "I was a fool." She glanced round; we

still had the corner to ourselves. "I told a rare pack of lies," she

said; "I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over.

But I have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth,

if you like."



I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. "My dear girl," I

said, "you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go

scot-free. It was generous of you."



"You mean that?" she asked.



"The truth," I answered, "would shift all the shame on to me. It was

I who broke my word, acted shabbily from beginning to end."



"I hadn't looked at it in that light," she replied. "Very well, I'll

hold my tongue."



My place at breakfast was to the left of the maternal Sellars, the

Signora next to me, and the O'Kelly opposite. Uncle Gutton faced the

bride and bridegroom. The disillusioned Joseph was hidden from me by

flowers, so that his voice, raised from time to time, fell upon my

ears, embellished with the mysterious significance of the unseen

oracle.



For the first quarter of an hour or so the meal proceeded almost in

silence. The maternal Sellars when not engaged in whispered argument

with the perspiring waiter, was furtively occupied in working sums

upon the table-cloth by aid of a blunt pencil. The Signora, strangely

unlike her usual self, was not in talkative mood.



"It was so kind of them to invite me," said the Signora, speaking low.

"But I feel I ought not to have come.



"Why not?" I asked



"I'm not fit to be here," murmured the Signora in a broken voice.

"What right have I at wedding breakfasts? Of course, for dear Willie

it is different. He has been married."



The O'Kelly, who never when the Signora was present seemed to care

much for conversation in which she was unable to participate, took

advantage of his neighbour's being somewhat deaf to lapse into

abstraction. Jarman essayed a few witticisms of a general character,

of which nobody took any notice. The professional admirers of the

Lady 'Ortensia, seated together at a corner of the table, appeared to

be enjoying a small joke among themselves. Occasionally, one or

another of them would laugh nervously. But for the most part the only

sounds to be heard were the clatter of the knives and forks, the

energetic shuffling of the waiter, and a curious hissing noise as of

escaping gas, caused by Uncle Gutton drinking champagne.



With the cutting, or, rather, the smashing into a hundred fragments,

of the wedding cake--a work that taxed the united strength of bride

and bridegroom to the utmost--the atmosphere lost something of its

sombreness. The company, warmed by food, displaying indications of

being nearly done, commenced to simmer. The maternal Sellars, putting

away with her blunt pencil considerations of material nature, embraced

the table with a smile.



"But it is a sad thing," sighed the maternal Sellars the next moment,

with a shake of her huge head, "when your daughter marries, and goes

away and leaves you."



"Damned sight sadder," commented Uncle Gutton, "when she don't go off,

but hangs on at home year after year and expects you to keep her."



I credit Uncle Gutton with intending this as an aside for the

exclusive benefit of the maternal Sellars; but his voice was not of

the timbre that lends itself to secrecy. One of the bridesmaids, a

plain, elderly girl, bending over her plate, flushed scarlet. I

concluded her to be Miss Gutton.



"It doesn't seem to me," said Aunt Gutton from the other end of the

table, "that gentlemen are as keen on marrying nowadays as they used

to be."



"Got to know a bit about it, I expect," sounded the small, shrill

voice of the unseen Joseph.



"To my thinking," exclaimed a hatchet-faced gentleman, "one of the

evils crying most loudly for redress at the present moment is the

utterly needless and monstrous expense of legal proceedings." He

spoke rapidly and with warmth. "Take divorce. At present, what is

it? The rich man's luxury."



Conversation appeared to be drifting in a direction unsuitable to the

occasion; but Jarman was fortunately there to seize the helm.



"The plain fact of the matter is," said Jarman, "girls have gone up in

value. Time was, so I've heard, when they used to be given away with

a useful bit of household linen, maybe a chair or two.

Nowadays--well, it's only chaps wallowing in wealth like Clapper there

as can afford a really first-class article."



Mr. Clapper, not a gentleman in other respects of exceptional

brilliancy, possessed one quality that popularity-seekers might have

envied him: the ability to explode on the slightest provocation into

a laugh instinct with all the characteristics of genuine delight.



"Give and take," observed the maternal Sellars, so soon as Mr.

Clapper's roar had died away; "that's what you've got to do when

you're married."



"Give a deal more than you bargained for and take what you don't

want--that sums it up," came the bitter voice of the unseen.



"Oh, do be quiet, Joe," advised the stout young lady, from which I

concluded she had once been the lean young lady. "You talk enough for

a man."



"Can't I open my mouth?" demanded the indignant oracle.



"You look less foolish when you keep it shut," returned the stout

young lady.



"We'll show them how to get on," observed the Lady 'Ortensia to her

bridegroom, with a smile.



Mr. Clapper responded with a gurgle.



"When me and the old girl there fixed things up," said Uncle Gutton,

"we didn't talk no nonsense, and we didn't start with no

misunderstandings. 'I'm not a duke,' I says--"



"Had she been mistaking you for one?" enquired Minikin.



Mr. Clapper commented, not tactfully, but with appreciative laugh. I

feared for a moment lest Uncle Gutton's little eyes should leave his

head.



"Not being a natural-born, one-eyed fool," replied Uncle Gutton,

glaring at the unabashed Minikin, "she did not. 'I'm not a duke,' I

says, and _she_ had sense enough to know as I was talking sarcastic

like. 'I'm not offering you a life of luxury and ease. I'm offering

you myself, just what you see, and nothing more.'



"She took it?" asked Minikin, who was mopping up his gravy with his

bread.



"She accepted me, sir," returned Uncle Gutton, in a voice that would

have awed any one but Minikin. "Can you give me any good reason for

her not doing so?"



"No need to get mad with me," explained Minikin. "I'm not blaming the

poor woman. We all have our moments of despair."



The unfortunate Clapper again exploded. Uncle Gutton rose to his

feet. The ready Jarman saved the situation.



"'Ear! 'ear!" cried Jarman, banging the table with the handles of two

knives. "Silence for Uncle Gutton! 'E's going to propose a toast.

'Ear, 'ear!"



Mrs. Clapper, seconding his efforts, the whole table broke into

applause.



"What, as a matter of fact, I did get up to say--" began Uncle Gutton.



"Good old Uncle Gutton!" persisted the determined Jarman. "Bride and

bridegroom--long life to 'em!"



Uncle Sutton, evidently pleased, allowed his indignation against

Minikin to evaporate.



"Well," said Uncle Gutton, "if you think I'm the one to do it--"



The response was unmistakable. In our enthusiasm we broke two glasses

and upset a cruet; a small, thin lady was unfortunate enough to shed

her chignon. Thus encouraged, Uncle Sutton launched himself upon his

task. Personally, I should have been better pleased had Fate not

interposed to assign to him the duty.



Starting with a somewhat uninstructive history of his own career, he

suddenly, and for no reason at all obvious, branched off into fierce

censure of the Adulteration Act. Reminded of the time by the maternal

Sellars, he got in his first sensible remark by observing that with

such questions, he took it, the present company was not particularly

interested, and directed himself to the main argument. To his, Uncle

Gutton's, foresight, wisdom and instinctive understanding of humanity,

Mr. Clapper, it appeared, owed his present happiness. Uncle Gutton it

was who had divined from the outset the sort of husband the fair

Rosina would come eventually to desire--a plain, simple, hard-working,

level-headed sort of chap, with no hity-tity nonsense about him: such

an one, in short, as Mr. Clapper himself--(at this Mr. Clapper

expressed approval by a lengthy laugh)--a gentleman who, so far as

Uncle Gutton's knowledge went, had but one fault: a silly habit of

laughing when there was nothing whatever to laugh at; of which, it was

to be hoped, the cares and responsibilities of married life would cure

him. (To the rest of the discourse Mr. Clapper listened with a

gravity painfully maintained.) There had been moments, Uncle Gutton

was compelled to admit, when the fair Rosina had shown inclination to

make a fool of herself--to desire in place of honest worth mere

painted baubles. He used the term in no offensive sense. Speaking

for himself, what a man wanted beyond his weekly newspaper, he, Uncle

Gutton, was unable to understand; but if there were fools in the world

who wanted to read rubbish written by other fools, then the other

fools would of course write it; Uncle Gutton did not blame them. He

mentioned no names, but what he would say was: a plain man for a

sensible girl, and no painted baubles.



The waiter here entering with a message from the cabman to the effect

that if he was to catch the twelve-forty-five from Charing Cross, it

was about full time he started, Uncle Gutton was compelled to bring

his speech to a premature conclusion. The bride and bridegroom were

hustled into their clothes. There followed much female embracing and

male hand-shaking. The rice having been forgotten, the waiter was

almost thrown downstairs, with directions to at once procure some.

There appearing danger of his not returning in time, the resourceful

Jarman suggested cold semolina pudding as a substitute. But the idea

was discouraged by the bride. A slipper of remarkable antiquity,

discovered on the floor and regarded as a gift from Providence, was

flung from the window by brother George, with admirable aim, and

alighted on the roof of the cab. The waiter, on his return, not being

able to find it, seemed surprised.







I walked back as far as the Obelisk with the O'Kelly and the Signora,

who were then living together in Lambeth. Till that morning I had not

seen the O'Kelly since my departure from London, nearly two years

before, so that we had much to tell each other. For the third time

now had the O'Kelly proved his utter unworthiness to be the husband of

the lady to whom he still referred as his "dear good wife."



"But, under the circumstances, would it not be better," I suggested,

"for her to obtain a divorce? Then you and the Signora could marry

and there would be an end to the whole trouble."



"From a strictly worldly point of view," replied the O'Kelly, "it

certainly would be; but Mrs. O'Kelly"--his voice took to itself

unconsciously a tone of reverence--is not an ordinary woman. You can

have no conception, my dear Kelver, of her goodness. I had a letter

from her only two months ago, a few weeks after the--the last

occurrence. Not one word of reproach, only that if I trespassed

against her even unto seven times seven she would still consider it

her duty to forgive me; that the 'home' would always be there for me

to return to and repent."



A tear stood in the O'Kelly's eye. "A beautiful nature," he

commented. "There are not many women like her."



"Not one in a million!" added the Signora, with enthusiasm.



"Well, to me it seems like pure obstinacy," I said.



The O'Kelly spoke quite angrily. "Don't ye say a word against her! I

won't listen to it. Ye don't understand her. She never will despair

of reforming me."



"You see, Mr. Kelver," explained the Signora, "the whole difficulty

arises from my unfortunate profession. It is impossible for me to

keep out of dear Willie's way. If I could earn my living by any other

means, I would; but I can't. And when he sees my name upon the

posters, it's all over with him."



"I do wish, Willie, dear," added the Signora in tones of gentle

reproof, "that you were not quite so weak."



"Me dear," replied the O'Kelly, "ye don't know how attractive ye are

or ye wouldn't blame me."



I laughed. "Why don't you be firm," I suggested to the Signora, "send

him packing about his business?"



"I ought to," admitted the Signora. "I always mean to, until I see

him. Then I don't seem able to say anything--not anything I ought

to."



"Ye do say it," contradicted the O'Kelly. "Ye're an angel, only I

won't listen to ye."



"I don't say it as if I meant it," persisted the Signora. "It's

evident I don't."



"I still think it a pity," I said, "someone does not explain to Mrs.

O'Kelly that a divorce would be the truer kindness."



"It is difficult to decide," argued the Signora. "If ever you should

want to leave me--"



"Me darling!" exclaimed the O'Kelly.



"But you may," insisted the Signora. "Something may happen to help

you, to show you how wicked it all is. I shall be glad then to think

that you will go back to her. Because she is a good woman, Willie,

you know she is."



"She's a saint," agreed Willie.



At the Obelisk I shook hands with them, and alone pursued my way

towards Fleet Street.



The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was Dan. He occupied

chambers in the Temple, and one evening a week or two after the

'Ortensia marriage, I called upon him. Nothing in his manner of

greeting me suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never

demanded anything of his friends beyond their need of him. Shaking

hands with me, he pushed me down into the easy-chair, and standing

with his back to the fire, filled and lighted his pipe.



"I left you alone," he said. "You had to go through it, your slough

of despond. It lies across every path--that leads to anywhere. Clear

of it?"



"I think so," I replied, smiling.



"You are on the high road," he continued. "You have only to walk

steadily. Sure you have left nothing behind you--in the slough?"



"Nothing worth bringing out of it," I said. "Why do you ask so

seriously?"



He laid his hand upon my head, rumpling my hair, as in the old days.



"Don't leave him behind you," he said; "the little boy Paul--Paul the

dreamer."



I laughed. "Oh, he! He was only in my way."



"Yes, here," answered Dan. "This is not his world. He is of no use

to you here; won't help you to bread and cheese--no, nor kisses

either. But keep him near you. Later, you will find, perhaps, that

all along he has been the real Paul--the living, growing Paul; the

other--the active, worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams

are made of, his fretful life a troubled night rounded by a sleep."



"I have been driving him away," I said. "He is so--so impracticable."



Dan shook his head gravely. "It is not his world," he repeated. "We

must eat, drink--be husbands, fathers. He does not understand. Here

he is the child. Take care of him."



We sat in silence for a little while--for longer, perhaps, than it

seemed to us--Dan in the chair opposite to me, each of us occupied

with his own thoughts.



"You have an excellent agent," said Dan; "retain her services as long

as you can. She possesses the great advantage of having no

conscience, as regards your affairs. Women never have where they--"



He broke off to stir the fire.



"You like her?" I asked. The words sounded feeble. It is only the

writer who fits the language to the emotion; the living man more often

selects by contrast.



"She is my ideal woman," returned Dan; "true and strong and tender;

clear as crystal, pure as dawn. Like her!"



He knocked the ashes from his pipe. "We do not marry our ideals," he

went on. "We love with our hearts, not with our souls. The woman I

shall marry"--he sat gazing into the fire, a smile upon his face--"she

will be some sweet, clinging, childish woman, David Copperfield's

Dora. Only I am not Doady, who always seems to me to have been

somewhat of a-- He reminds me of you, Paul, a little. Dickens was

right; her helplessness, as time went on, would have bored him more

and more instead of appealing to him."



"And the women," I suggested, "do they marry their ideals?"



He laughed. "Ask them."



"The difference between men and women," he continued, "is very slight;

we exaggerate it for purposes of art. What sort of man do you suppose

he is, Norah's ideal? Can't you imagine him?--But I can tell you the

type of man she will marry, ay, and love with all her heart."



He looked at me from under his strong brows drawn down, a twinkle in

his eye.



"A nice enough fellow--clever, perhaps, but someone--well, someone who

will want looking after, taking care of, managing; someone who will

appeal to the mother side of her--not her ideal man, but the man for

whom nature intended her."



"Perhaps with her help," I said, "he may in time become her ideal."



"There's a long road before him," growled Dan.


It was Norah herself who broke to me the news of Barbara's elopment

with Hal. I had seen neither of them since my return to London. Old

Hasluck a month or so before I had met in the City one day by chance,

and he had insisted on my lunching with him. I had found him greatly

changed. His buoyant self-assurance had deserted him; in its place a

fretful eagerness had become his motive force. At first he had talked

boastingly: Had I seen the _Post_ for last Monday, the _Court

Circular_ for the week before? Had I read that Barbara had danced

with the Crown Prince, that the Count and Countess Huescar had been

entertaining a Grand Duke? What [duplicated line of text] I think of

that! and such like. Was not money master of the world? Ay, and the

nobs should be made to acknowledge it!


But as he had gulped down glass after glass the brag had died away.


"No children," he had whispered to me across the table; "that's what I

can't understand. Nearly four years and no children! What'll be the

good of it all? Where do I come in? What do I get? Damn these

rotten popinjays! What do they think we buy them for?"


It was in the studio on a Monday morning that Norah told me. It was

the talk of the town for the next day--and the following eight. She

had heard it the evening before at supper, and had written to me to

come and see her.


"I thought you would rather hear it quietly," said Norah, "than learn

it from a newspaper paragraph. Besides, I wanted to tell you this.

She did wrong when she married, putting aside love for position. Now

she has done right. She has put aside her shame with all the

advantages she derived from it. She has proved herself a woman: I

respect her."

Norah would not have said that to please me had she not really thought

it. I could see it from that light; but it brought me no comfort. My

goddess had a heart, passions, was a mere human creature like myself.

From her cold throne she had stepped down to mingle with the world.

So some youthful page of Arthur's court may have felt, learning the

Great Queen was but a woman.

I never spoke with her again but once. That was an evening three

years later in Brussels. Strolling idly after dinner the bright

lights of a theatre invited me to enter. It was somewhat late; the

second act had commenced. I slipped quietly into my seat, the only

one vacant at the extreme end of the front row of the first range;

then, looking down upon the stage, met her eyes. A little later an

attendant whispered to me that Madame G-- would like to see me; so at

the fall of the curtain I went round. Two men were in the

dressing-room smoking, and on the table were some bottles of

champagne. She was standing before her glass, a loose shawl about her

shoulders.



"Excuse my shaking hands," she said. "This damned hole is like a

furnace; I have to make up fresh after each act."



She held them up for my inspection with a laugh; they were smeared

with grease.



"D'you know my husband?" she continued. "Baron G--; Mr. Paul Kelver."



The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little man.

"Delighted to meet Mr. Kelver," he said, speaking in excellent

English. "Any friend of my wife's is always a friend of mine."



He held out his fat, perspiring hand. I was not in the mood to attach

much importance to ceremony. I bowed and turned away, careless

whether he was offended or not.



"I am glad I saw you," she continued. "Do you remember a girl called

Barbara? You and she were rather chums, years ago.



"Yes," I answered, "I remember her."



"Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago." She was rubbing paint

into her cheeks as she spoke. "She asked me if ever I saw you to give

you this. I have been carrying it about with me ever since."



She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring Barbara had worn

as a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a band of gold. I had noticed

it upon her hand the first time I had seen her, sitting in my father's

office framed by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into my

outstretched palm.



"Quite a pretty little romance," laughed the Baron.



"That's all," added the woman at the glass. "She said you would

understand."



From under her painted lashes she flashed a glance at me. I hope

never to see again that look upon a woman's face.



"Thank you," I said. "Yes, I understand. It was very kind of you. I

shall always wear it."


Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room.