After lunch they parted in the Strand, John promising to take Smith

the short story which he confessed he had written. It was now a

quarter past three. He walked slowly down towards Fleet Street.

Would Cane fulfill his promise and arrange his interview with Walsh?

He particularly wanted to join the staff of the _Daily Post_. He had

read it regularly at school. Three times they had published letters

of his, and they had taken two articles.

He found the Square, lying back from Fleet Street, in which the

offices of the _Daily Post_ were situated. Through the swing doors

he came to an enquiry office, and asked for Mr. Walsh. Had he an

appointment? He thought so, through Mr. Cane. The uniformed

attendant noted the fact on a slip of paper with John's name. He was

then led into a small waiting-room. It was opposite the lift and

contained a bare table and four chairs. The walls were hung with

portraits of former editors and directors. John waited, standing.

His heart was beating with suppressed anxiety; he felt he was on the

fringe of things. A long wait, then a page boy asked him to follow.

He entered the lift, rose several storeys, walked down a long

white-bricked corridor, turned a corner and found himself in an oval

hall, with several doors leading out of it. John was asked to wait.

Behind one of these doors sat the great man. There was much coming

and going of clerks, and possibly reporters. Half an hour dragged

by. John stood up and paced the floor. Then three quarters of an

hour, and still no summons. Through a glass door he could see a

young man writing under a shaded light He tapped the door, and the

writer came to him.

"Is Mr. Walsh disengaged yet?"

"I don't know--have you an appointment? What name?"

John told him. The dark young man disappeared through another door.

He came back in a few seconds.

"Mr. Walsh is sorry, but he cannot see you."

Dismay covered John's face.

"But I have been kept--"

"He is very busy to-day ."

"Surely he knew that before?"

"Perhaps--but he can't see you."

"Then I shall sit here until he can."

The young man smiled.

"This office never closes," he said.

"But that door opens," retorted John, nodding at a a door.

It was a lucky guess.

"His secretary won't let you in--it is quite useless, really."

"We shall see," said John, now enjoying his obstinacy. A door close

by opened, and a small clean-shaven man, of middle age with gold

pince-nez, stood by listening to the debate. He suppressed a smile

as he looked at the flushed youngster, then came forward.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to see the editor, sir, and if he's a gentleman--he'll see me

after waiting for him an hour."

The man peered at him through his eye glasses.

"I'm afraid he's not a gentleman, but you can see him."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

"Come along," he said and showed him into a large room littered with

papers and books. He motioned John to a seat.

"Now what do you want?" he asked, standing with his back to the door.

"I want to see Mr. Walsh, please."

"On what business?"

"It's personal--" began John.

"Perhaps so--but he must know. You want to write for the paper I

suppose?"

"You've guessed it, sir,--but do let me see him," John pleaded.

"He's engaged with the chief reporter at present--but he will see you

soon, if you're patient."

He then left the room by another door.

John looked out of the window, down across the flat top of temporary

buildings, and saw the traffic surging along Fleet Street. He was

engrossed in the spectacle when his benefactor re-entered and seated

himself in the revolving chair before the littered desk.

"The editor will see you now," he said.

John jumped up.

"Oh, thank you sir," he cried, and walked toward the door.

"In here!" said the man, waving a hand for John to resume his seat.

"I am Mr. Walsh--though you may have expected a gentleman."

"Oh!" cried John, and collapsed in confusion.

"Mr. Cane tells me you are an enterprising young man. I see you are

an obstinate one. They are both qualities required on a newspaper.

I'm sorry we've no vacancies. The principle on which a newspaper is

staffed is that we always have more men than we can employ--for

emergencies and for weeding out. You have no experience?"

"No sir, but I--"

"Don't worry, experience is unnecessary to any but duffers. You look

sharp. Leave your address with my secretary. If a vacancy occurs--"

"But it won't sir."

"How do you know?"

"I know that's the way every unsatisfactory interview ends," said

John, grimly, more desperate than insolent.

Mr. Walsh got up and crossed to the mantelpiece.

"How old are you?"

"Nearly twenty, sir. You see, I must earn a living, my bit of money

won't last long. That has nothing to do with you, but I know you

will be glad to have me when it is too late."

The editor smiled.

"You believe in yourself, and you'll succeed. But I can't take you

on. I'll attach you, however. You can do a few theatres, and art

galleries and perhaps the literary editor can give you a little work."

"Oh, thank you sir."

"And one day we may be able to put you on the reporting staff."

"On what basis am I paid?" asked John.

"For what you do."

"And how much is that?"

"Depends on the chief reporter. It's all I can offer you, it's a

chance."

"I'll take it, thank you."

John rose.

"See Mr. Merritt before you go." He held out his hand. "And I wish

you luck."

John was dismissed. Outside the door he took a deep breath. He had

won the first round. All now depended on Mr. Merritt, who, he

learned, was out. John left word to say he would call the following

afternoon. His next job was to go into Philip's shop, and buy a map

of London. At tea, in a Lyon's shop, he read down a list of

amusements. Dramatic critic for the _Daily Post_--he murmured to

himself. It sounded splendid. And what a shock for Wellington and

de Courtrai! That evening he wrote to Vernley, to Muriel and to

Marsh. He also sent a letter to Mrs. Graham and Mr. Steer, saying he

was in London, and asking if he might call.

CHAPTER III

I

In the entrance of the Circle Theatre there were already several

loiterers awaiting friends with whom they were going to see the new

play. Among them John. There was of course, nothing unusual in his

appearance; the gallery queue which had filed past the main entrance,

after its long vigil, would not know he differed from any other of

those fortunate fellows who, well-groomed, drove up in taxis and cars

and walked to their reserved seats, carrying the undigested peacock

to the stalls. It was all so new to him, this animated scene with

its types of humanity. Merritt, a thoroughly good fellow who had

immediately shown a kindly disposition to the new man, had introduced

him to Bailey, the dramatic critic of the _Echo_, who now accompanied

him. Together they stood by the portrait of a famous American

actress and scrutinised the arriving audience. There were Jews, of

course, little men, with semi-bald heads and black curly fringes;

they all wore patent button boots, and very fancy dress waistcoats.

The cut of their clothes was ultra-fashionable, and there was a glint

of gold and a flash of diamonds at many points of their ostentatious

persons. Gold-mounted walking sticks and cigars were noticeable.

"These are the inner circle of the dramatic world," said Bailey.

"That's Reinstein; he owns six theatres and a chain of restaurants;

you eat his dinners and then try to digest them and his plays in his

stalls. I've seen great dramatists, men who can make you weep with

their beautiful sentiment, run across the street to speak to him."

"That's an awful looking beggar," said John, catching a vile leer

directed at an under-dressed young woman who waved an ostrich feather

fan as she passed, on the arm of an old man.

"A clever fellow--nine successes this season. That's Wentz, his

scout, a word from him will make or mar an actor or actress."

"Who's the man he's talking to?"

"Ah--that's Lewis--he's one of us," replied Bailey.

"Us?"

"The most aggressive, the most feared and advertised of us all. His

column every Sunday is said to be the only thing that Reinstein and

his crowd worry about."

John looked at him. Hook-nosed he wore an ingratiating smile and his

voice purred as he spoke; when he laughed he emitted a high falsetto

note. John's observation was broken by the entrance of an amazing

spectacle into the charmed circle. A man, so diminutive that his

dress shirt dominated him like a plate on a plate-holder, was shaking

hands with Lewis. On his fat nose he balanced, precariously, a pair

of pince-nez through which he peered bemusedly. The tips of his

chubby hands just emerged from two prominent cuffs, his legs being

wholly lost in corkscrew trousers falling over the feet.

"Good heavens!" cried John, "just look at--"

But another apparition joined the circle. Nature had created him as

an antidote to the little man. He was huge; a behemoth. His heavy

jaw, the massive head, the long teeth, made him a perfect ogre, and

in fulfilment he scowled at his companions. His large hands hooked

themselves by the thumbs on to the pockets of voluminous trousers.

"They belong to us," said Bailey, enjoying the shock he administered.

John's pride in his vocation had been too obvious not to afford

amusement to a confirmed cynic who had sat in the stalls for twenty

years, and had never betrayed the weakness of enthusiasm.

"But--but surely," said John, "the newspapers don't send people like

these--what about their dignity?"

"Dignity! There's no such thing in journalism. That belongs to the

leader-writer--in print."

"Are they all like this?"

"Most of us," replied Bailey, lighting a cigarette from the stub of

another. "We're working 'subs' by day and deadhead gentlemen by

night--the more respectable are civil servants--and they are the

least civil critics. Still--there are a few presentable ones; we

have the Grand Old Man--he's not here yet. He is a perfect contrast

to the Nut-food man--they'll be here later."

A curly-headed young man in a fur coat strolled in. He gave himself

a side glance in the long mirror, approved of his classic beauty and

passed on. Everybody nodded to him and he acknowledged their homage

graciously. Several elderly ladies and a flashily dressed actress

hurried after him into the theatre.

"That's Ronnie Mayfair--the actor. Freddie Pond will be here soon.

I've never known him to miss a first night."

Just then, John's attention was attracted by a swift glimpse of a

passing head. Its unusual beauty arrested him, the dark vivacious

eyes flashing under a head of black bobbed hair. She could not be

more than twenty, he thought, she was so slim. The extreme

simplicity of her dress, falling without any decoration from shoulder

to the knee, emphasised the lightness of her poise. She was a swift

darting creature, with a sensuous mouth, crimson and pensive. But

there was determination, defiance almost, in every movement of her

body. Passion merely smouldered: she could be a creature of sudden

contrary moods. She threw John a quick but searching glance as she

passed, conscious of her power to attract, and the weakness of all

his sex to respond, and yet it was not a challenge so much as a

half-contemptuous provocation of his nature. Bailey, observant and

detached, did not fail to see the magic fire that had leapt from one

to the other. He saw this youth quiver with a sudden agitation, saw

the answering challenge of the lithe form that flitted by, sure of

the spoil if it cared to possess.

"No," said Bailey, laying a hand on John's shoulder, amused at his

false assumption of indifference, "don't be another moth. There are

too many singed already."

The boy laughed, then, with a careless tone----"Who is she?"

"The Chelsea Poppy--she's Hoffmann's famous model."

He knew then in a moment. So this was the Chelsea Poppy, the much

sonneted model of Hoffmann's famous heads. He loathed this forceful

Jew's sculpture--its deliberate accentuation of the ugly, its cult of

the repulsive, its coarse workmanship, apologised for as the new art.

Like others he had wondered how foolish Society women could make

themselves so extravagant over this ugly little man, the jerseyed

king of the Café de l'Europe, with a court of disorderly disciples.

The head of Poppy was famous. In the marble he had loathed its

sensuality, the ugliness of the contorted face. But there was a

repulsive similarity to the original; it was a cruel travesty of the

flower-like beauty he had just seen.

"She's--amazing," said John, not trusting himself to say more.

"In many ways," added Bailey. "Here's Freddie. It is a perfect

first-night, if the Grand Old Man will come."

"Curtain up!" came the call. The lounge emptied into the darkened

house. The dramatic critics became very serious.

II

The end of the first act gave John another glimpse of the Chelsea

Poppy, a less assuring glimpse. She was talking, at the entrance to

the bar, to a cadaverous fellow who leered at her, and an involuntary

shudder passed over John as he noticed the possessive look in the

eyes of the man; he resented the fact that the girl seemed in no way

perturbed. Probably she was at home with that kind of man; certainly

she talked with absolute familiarity, and her hoarse little laugh

jarred on the ears of the youth ready to adore. Twice she winked at

a pair of young cavalry officers who sat on a lounge opposite, partly

to display their seamless boots, partly to catch the girl's eye.

Snatches of their conversation floated over to the youth who stood

alone under the mirror. They were enjoying themselves at the expense

of the promenaders. The diminutive fat man provoked their scorn.

"How do such people get into this part of the house?" asked the pink

and white youth, twisting an auburn moustache.

"Can't say," drawled the pride of the regiment, regarding with

satisfaction his thin thighs. "The fellow's a reporter I suppose!"

They yawned and then watched a girl's ankles until she drew near,

whereupon they coldly looked at her from head to foot. She seated

herself on the lounge. When John turned away she had taken a

cigarette from the proffered case. They did not rise with the call

of the curtain. In the interval after the second act, John let

Bailey point out more celebrities. There was a distinguished looking

Jew, with dilated nostrils, iron grey hair and a stoop, handsome in

the manner of his race, bearing the impress of intellect.

"That's Luboff the novelist!"

The famous portrayer of Jewry passed; his face, despite its lineal

coarseness, had an amazing beauty in its character. A few minutes

later Bailey was talking with the novelist and introduced John, who

found himself magnetised by an intense personality with great charm.

He was a man with a hundred fights against poverty, prejudice and

ill-health, but he had triumphed nobly. He had interpreted the Jews

to a scornful world, displayed their poverty, revealed their poetry.

As a dramatist he had assumed the role of a reformer; he entertained

the crowd, but he lectured it. After a few minutes' chat he left

them to speak to Lord Rendon, who, despite his elephantine exterior,

had a nimble mind versed in the subtleties of politics and

philosophy. At this moment John's attention was arrested by the

re-appearance of the girl in red. She was talking to an astounding

man whose hair straggled in disorder down to and over a soft brown

collar. He wore a pair of black metal pince-nez, smoked a stubby

pipe, the bowl of which he pressed from time to time with fingers

that scorned the need of the manicurist. The Socialist was written

all over him; there was sabotage in his eyes, repressed defiance in

his gestures. He wore, to accentuate his untidy eccentricity, a

faded brown sports coat, the pockets bulging with papers, and most of

the buttons missing.

"Ah," said Bailey, "now you've seen the nut-food man--that's Adams of

the _Argus_--clever chap, but thinks untidiness is a sign of

intellect."

"I see he knows the model--he's a Bohemian?"

"Yes--at least he hopes so. We haven't any real Bohemians in this

country. They live on the Continent. When Englishmen try to be

Bohemian they only succeed in being lazy or noisy. You'll find that

each of them is regarded as a rising poet, a rising novelist or a

rising dramatist. They're always rising until they are middle-aged,

when they disappear somewhere. Really, Bohemians are the dullest

persons; they've no topics but their egotism. Avoid them,

Dean--they're never hygienic. I can enjoy a third-rate artist who is

ornamental, but these people are merely extravagant."

"But he looks interesting," urged John.

"So he is--you want to meet him?"

"Well--" He was desperately anxious to know Adams, for Adams knew

the girl. He must speak to her before the play ended. Bailey

guessed the hope and buttonholed Adams who shook hands.

"This is Mr. Dean. Tilly," he said, turning to the girl who had

drawn aside.

"Miss Topham," he informed John. The girl looked at him casually,

and merely exclaimed, "Oh!" It was a shock to the eager youth and

for two or three minutes she ignored him. Then--

"You're new to London?" she said coldly.

"Yes, but who told you?" answered John.

"No one,--I could see you were by the way you've been looking at

people."

This was a set back. John gave her a frightened look and she was

pleased by this success.

"Have I--I hope I don't appear--" he stammered.

"It doesn't matter--they like it; that's what they come here for."

John was a little uncertain who "they" meant. It seemed to include

every one but herself.

"Have you a cigarette?" she asked, abruptly.

The boy's heart sank.

"I haven't--I don't smoke. I can get some."

"Don't bother." She looked at him curiously. "You don't

smoke--you're a queer kid." They stood alone now, for Adams and

Bailey had strolled on. He noticed how transparently thin were her

hands, which she tucked in her belt. Her neck had a lovely line in

its perfect sweep from the throat down.

"You are an art student?" she asked, with a faint smirk.

"Oh no--I'm on a paper--why?"

"You examine like one."

He flushed with the detection, and she gave a little laugh of triumph.

"Sit down and tell me all about yourself--you puzzle me," she said.

"You look as if you'll do all sorts of wonderful things, but people

who look like that hardly ever do anything."

He was easier now. They sat side by side on the lounge.

"There's little to tell, Miss--"

"Oh, drop that, I'm Tilly to every one."

"Tilly then,--you see I haven't left school long."

"I can see that--the down's on you yet." The remark hurt him and she

saw it, swiftly.

"Don't mind me," she said quietly, putting a hand on his arm. "You

see I'm used to men that gloat and want rebuffing."

She laughed at the surprise in John's eyes.

"Don't look like that or I shall melt. You're a nice boy, and I'm

afraid of you."

"Of me?"

"Yes--you make me think of lots of things I've given up thinking

about. Harry must ask you to tea."

So she was married! Of course she was married, he reflected, he was

a fool not to have known from the first.

"I should like very much to come."

She looked at him again, until he looked away, and with a little

laugh jumped up. "We must get back now. I'll see you soon.

Good-bye!" and she was gone. What an off-hand creature! He was

annoyed at her manner. She had treated him like an infant. She had

laughed at him. He had let her see too much. When the play was

ended and he stood in the crowded vestibule with Bailey, amid the

crush of fur-wrapped women and black-coated men, he was still

thinking of her.

"You've made a hit with Tilly," said Bailey.

"I!"

"Yes--and she doesn't pay compliments--but don't let her play with

you; she doesn't take any one seriously."

"I'm not likely to do that," replied John shortly.

"Come along then--we've to get our work done."

III

Merritt, chief reporter of the _Daily Post_, was a remarkable little

man. He was quite aware of this and retained his reputation with

ease. The life of a chief reporter is a desperate one. The most

amazing news scoop to-day is dead twenty-four hours later, and a big

reputation can be lost in a day's idleness. Merritt showed no signs

of anxiety. He sat at his desk in the stuffy little room adjoining

the reporting room, whence he would dart out to send a man speeding

across London or to Aberdeen. His totally bald head gleamed with

vitality. He could be very rude and very rough, but men had rushed

to Ireland at his behest and accounted themselves rewarded when he

smiled and said "Good!" He was part of the _Daily Post_ and could

not conceive how a man could wish to live for anything else. No one

ever saw him go home and no one ever saw him come; he was the first

and the last, and when he had gone, he was not at rest. His voice

often spoke over the wire from Brixton, disturbing the early morning

rest of a jaded reporter. A fire at Muswell Hill, a murder in Camden

Town, a burglary in Knightsbridge or an assault at Tottenham--he knew

of it first, scented the clue, despatched the sleuth-hounds.

It was rumoured that he was married, but for years there was no

evidence, until one day he disappeared and returned wearing black.

He had buried his eldest boy of twelve. The senior reporter to whom

he mentioned this was about to make a remark, and he saw Merritt's

mouth twitch, but the next second he was being told of an entry on

the diary. It was work, work, work. Other men fell ill, became

nervous wrecks, took to drink, were promoted, or left. Merritt

remained chief reporter, known from one end of Fleet Street to

another, perhaps from one end of the world to the other. He never

went out, save at four o'clock for an hour, when he would be seen in

a bar near by, within sound of the buses, and he went there for news.

He knew every one. Men in the Lobby of the "House," on the Stock

Exchange, in Whitehall or at Epsom would ask "How's Merritt?" He was

the link to publicity. He knew enough about the lives of men to

equip a squad of blackmailers; and K.C.s consulted him when accepting

briefs. He had saved a king from assassination and rescued a bishop

from a charge of being drunk and disorderly. He had witnessed a

succession of editors. Merritt stayed, for Merritt was the _Daily

Post_.

But above all, this stout little man of fifty knew men. It was he

who discovered Burton Phipps, their star descriptive writer, had sent

him off to Norway to intercept and expose the sham explorer of the

Pole. Jane, the finest parliamentary sketch writer in England, was

trained under his hands. Merton, the editor of the _Morning

Telegraph_, Layman, the President of the Board of Trade, Reddington,

chairman of the United Banks--all had groaned in their youth under

his merciless yoke of discipline. Loved and feared, he spared no

man, and he never encountered rebellion because he never pitied

himself. "Merritt's a devil," every one said--"but a wonderful

devil," they added.

He took John in hand. He made him compress a column of wonderful

writing to fifteen living lines. He made him re-dress a plain

narrative in a style that "tickled." He told John to use words of as

few syllables as possible. "All sub-editors are ignorant and full of

malice," he said, with traditional jealousy. He was never to worry

about what the public thought of this or that. "The public don't

think, they follow." It was a heartbreaking apprenticeship. The

fine column on the Kennel Show went into the waste paper basket.

"There's two murders come in and the subs say we're overset." He

ridiculed a "special" on teashop girls with rapier wit, told John he

wrote too fast to write well, and was as guileless as an infant in

arms. Once, with a brusque committal of a much-esteemed article, he

brought misery to John's eyes, saw it, and growled,

"You're a journalist all right, but your stalk's green," and with his

wry smile brought a lump into the youth's throat.

"Am I--am I giving satisfaction, Mr. Merritt?"

The chief reporter looked over the top of his glasses--

"The Chief sent you to me for occasional work. You've done a

banquet, a dog-show, four police courts, three inquests, two plays, a

poster show and several special enquiries. You've been running about

like a hare for ten days--you've not been an occasional, but a daily

event. And I don't waste my time!"

It was true, John was worked hard every day. Each night the diary

had the initials J.D. with a cryptic assignation following.

Sometimes he accompanied a senior, a note-taker, and looked out for a

descriptive paragraph; more often he was alone. On the night that he

had returned from his first play, after he had sent in his pencilled

copy to the subs room, he looked at the diary and almost jumped in

exultation.--"J.D. 7.15., Artists Union, Chelsea Theatre, half col."

Here was his chance!

IV

The members of the Artists Union were certainly artistic. A novelist

who specialised in love and divorce in the Sunday newspapers and was

dignified with the title of 'publicist' made a long tirade against

the ignorant but prosperous industrial classes. A young man followed

this, very nerve-racked and bordering on hysteria, with an oration

proving that hunger and genius were inseparable, whereupon a stout

lady at the back of the diminutive theatre rose up and declared that

all artists, musicians, and authors should be a direct charge on the

Government, a sentiment that was applauded loudly. Thoroughly

enjoying himself, John sat next to a young lady in a gaudy kimono who

was busy sketching the speakers, while a young man with a red beard

that half hid a very weak mouth, drank tea out of a thermos flask. A

wealthy lady, interested in art, occupied the chair, which must have

been very uncomfortable, for most of the brilliantly insulting things

said applied perfectly to her husband, a wholesale grocer, who, to

atone for disfiguring England with placards inciting the public to

drink Tiffinson's Tea, bought preposterous modern paintings at well

advertised figures. John discovered it was a gathering of minor

notabilities; there was Mr. Shandon Gunn, the cubist painter who

laboriously disguised the fact that he had ever studied at the Slade

School, or knew the meaning of perspective. When slightly drunk, he

was reputed to be epigrammatic. His speech was cheered vociferously

for its cleverness in conveying absolutely nothing to the audience.

He was followed by Mr. Leslie Bumbo, a pallid fellow, the apostle of

art with an ego, who wrote art books, and kept a book shop in a slum,

which revealed a knowledge of business, since the bookshop kept him.

Moreover, he led a culture movement for leisured ladies, who gathered

every Wednesday in a shanty at the back of his house, where, in a dim

light and a dim voice, he droned out his latest discourses on art.

It was remunerative if mournful, for the ladies paid a shilling for

admittance, bought the discourses and went home feeling gloriously

advanced. His speech this evening was confined to an embroidery on

"The Ugly as an incentive to Murder."

John was indebted for personal details to the young lady in the

kimono, who called him "kid" and smoked incessantly while she drew.

Towards the end of the meeting she waved her hand to a girl who had

pushed forward in the crowded doorway. John looked and, with a

slight thrill of pleasure, recognised Tilly. In the conversazione

that ensued when the formal meeting ended, they sat in a corner

together and drank coffee. She knew everybody and introduced him

freely as "Scissors." When the company was going, Tilly, who had

collected a small crowd, caught hold of John's arm.

"Come along, Scissors!" she cried, propelling him towards the door.

"Where?" he asked.

"To my studio--we're having a romp."

"But I can't go--I've to get my copy ready for the office."

"Oh damn!"

He wished she hadn't said it. Perhaps he was old-fashioned, but

somehow, a girl who used that word was a little--er? That was what

John could not precisely say; he had been trying to since their first

meeting. He did not want to appear a prig, and yet--. He knew

Muriel would not approve, but he laughed at the thought. A speaker

had been attacking the Victorians for their smugness--well, he was

being very early Victorian.

"Come on, kid," cried the young lady in the kimono. He stood between

Scylla and Charybdis. A vision of Merritt nerved him to resistance.

"Then come after, we'll go on till three or four." Weakly he

declined and weakly he surrendered. He took the address and promised

to return as soon as he could. It was half-past one when his work

was done, and he knocked at the door of Birch Lodge Studios, No. 4,

off the King's Road. There was a great noise of revelry within.

When the door opened, he found himself in a large room, with a

half-roof of sloping glass through which the moon peered down. A

dozen Chinese lanterns illuminated the room and were reflected in the

polished floor whereon about twenty couples were dancing to the music

of a gramophone.

"Scissors, you dear!" cried Tilly, as he entered. "I didn't think

you'd come."

"But I promised," he said, as she took his overcoat. The next moment

she had taken him in her arms and they were whirling through the maze

of the dance. She was hot and the studio was stuffy, and there was a

languor in the manner in which she hung in his arms that was

half-trustful and half-seductive. At the far end of the room, where

the candle of the lantern was guttering, it was almost dark as they

danced round. She gave a little laugh as the candle went out, her

mouth provokingly near to his, her eyes softly luminous in the

moonlight falling through the glass. The rhythm, the warmth, the

music worked upon him; he was whirling, he knew not where. For a

moment he hesitated, then laughed as she laughed, and the next moment

quenched his boyish thirst on her lips. Convulsively she clung a

moment, then collapsed softly in his arms, and he experienced a

strength that was weakness, a tenderness that was cruelty. He

paused, floundering in a sea of the senses.

"Go on," she whispered, for the other couples in rotation were

crowding upon them. She pushed him round, but not before the girl in

the kimono swirled by and laughed out.

"Caught you that time!"

The tone was vile, the accent inexpressibly vulgar; it jarred on the

excited youth who danced dizzily. Tilly, more acutely alive and now

self-possessed, felt her partner give a shiver of disgust.

"Let's sit this out--I don't want to dance any more--please."

They sat on a camp bed along the main wall, in silence.

"You're angry," she whispered looking at him coyly.

"I'm not."

"Oh, yes you are--look at me, you sulky boy."

He looked into her mischievous eyes, and he had to laugh.

She twined her fingers with his.

"That's sensible," she said. "We're only young once," and she let

her head rest on his shoulder, her soft hair warmly clouding his

cheek. The next moment he was holding her with all the strength of

his lissome young body, and laughed delightedly when she winced at

his ardour. Yes, he was only young once.

"_--way down in Tennessee,_"

whined the gramophone. Only a few were dancing now. Little bursts

of laughter and chatter came from dusky groups around the studio. It

was all rather unearthly in that aromatic atmosphere. Some one wound

up the gramophone and put on a new record--

"_While shepherds watched their flocks by night

All seated on the--_"

"Oh, stop it," came a voice, and there was a laugh all round.

"Got 'em mixed," responded another. "Here's 'In Alabama'--how's

that?" The gramophone whirred on, and the dancing began again.

It was nearly three when the guests began to depart. John knew none

of them. He had not seen their faces clearly all the night, but they

somehow knew his name was "Scissors," and treated him familiarly.

Most of the men were about his own age, the women a little older.

The humourist of the party, whom they called "The Doc" was about

forty-five and seemed to father the assembly.

"Don't go yet," said Tilly as she stood by the door. "I'm not a bit

sleepy and I want to talk." He stood aside and let the others go.

At last only one girl remained.

John came back to earth abruptly.

"Where's Mr. Adams--I haven't seen him all the evening."

"Harry?--oh, I don't know--he comes in when he likes," replied Tilly,

drawing up a chair to the anthracite stove. She began talking to the

other girl Fanny, who presently rose and said, "Good night,"

disappearing into another room.

"Is she staying with you?" asked John.

"Who--Fanny?--no, we live here together. She's getting married next

week, poor kid, to a little blighter. Lord knows why she picked

him--or why any girl marries at all."

"But--you're married!" said John, surprised.

She stared at him.

"Married--whatever makes you think that?"

"I thought Mr. Adams--"

Tilly interrupted him with a short laugh.

"You've been listening to gossip. Everybody says I'm going to marry

him--but I say not. I'm not going to keep any man, and that's what

marrying a man of genius means."

But John cared nothing for the philosophy. He was relieved, for the

last two hours he had felt an unmitigated bounder. A new

cheerfulness swept over him, and Tilly noticed it.

"Why, you're waking up--you've been like a bear with a sore head!"

"I'm sorry," he said, simply.

"All right, Scissors!" She slid on to her knees at his feet. "And

kissing's no harm," she sighed, looking up into his face. "And oh,

I'm so lonely at times!"

She pulled his face downwards with her tiny hands, and ran her

fingers through his hair. The sensation made him laugh as he slipped

his arms under hers and drew her upwards until their lips met. In

the darkness he could hear the beating of their hearts, and the

silence singing in his ears.

CHAPTER IV

Annie had been upstairs three times that morning to see if Mr. Dean's

shoes had been taken inside his room. But the door was still closed

and the shoes on the mat outside. At last she gave away her secret

hero.

"Mr. Dean's not up yet," she said reluctantly to Mrs. Perdie, as she

came downstairs to the kitchen. "Shall I keep his breakfast 'ot?"

"What?--not down? Why it's half past ten! Have you cleared away

yet?" cried Mrs. Perdie, emerging wet-handed from the scullery and a

brisk encounter with saucepans. "We can't keep breakfast going into

lunch time."

Annie halted, she did not expect an order that would deprive her

favourite of his breakfast.

"You'd better take it up on a tray to his room," said Mrs. Perdie,

relenting--"and I'll speak to him when he comes down." She

disappeared again into the scullery where she thought long on the

ways of young men and how cruelly the wicked city corrupted them.

Lying in bed late had been the first sign of Mr. Perdie's breakdown.

Once a man began to lie late, his backbone went, of that there was no

question. She tolerated such a thing with de Courtrai and Wellington

on the top floor. It was in keeping with their characters. Weedy

young men in a fast profession might be expected to lie in bed in the

morning, even at the cost of losing breakfast.

Strange to say, the one who suffered most, Annie, who carried up the

breakfast, grumbled least. She tapped, gently at Mr. Dean's door, to

absolve her conscience, but not to wake him, then she tiptoed in. He

was fast asleep--though she could see very little of him, with his

head buried in the pillow and the sheets hunched up round his

shoulders. Cautiously she drew up the blind and flooded the room

with light. Then she placed a small table at the side of the bed.

Still he slept. For a few moments she stood in romantic

contemplation of his tousled head, with its ravelled locks. How

lovely he looked, with his boyish colour and his strong throat. His

pyjama jacket, unbuttoned, gave a glimpse of a strong chest. Greatly

daring, she leaned forward. Just once she would do it--she might

never have the chance again--and oh, she had wanted to, so many

times. Often she had longed he would just come and put his arms

round her and kiss her fiercely--she wouldn't have minded if he had

been cruel even. She stooped and very lightly kissed his hair, just

where it fell in a mass to one side of his brow, and she felt her

very heart would betray her. But he slept on, unconscious of all the

love poured out over him. Softly Annie went out. She halted on the

threshold with the tray in her hand, flushed and trembling with

excitement.

"Lor--I'm daft!" she thought, and then walked loudly into the room

and deposited the tray on the table with a bang.

"Here's breakfast, Mr. Dean. It's half past ten and missus says she

can't keep it any longer!"

He was awake in an instant.

"Good heavens--I've overslept!"

"I should think y'ave, Mr. Dean--that's being up 'o nights at them

dances."

John laughed.

"Captain Fisher's been asking for you, Mr. Dean, He's very excited at

breakfast about something in the papers. He says you're a remarkable

gentleman. He was so excited."

"But what about, Annie?" asked John stretching.

"I don't know that, sir, but he wants to see you--come in drunk last

night 'e did, and was 'orribly rude to Miss Simpson, on the landing.

Said he hated damn gramophones grinding hymn tunes over his head. He

apologised this morning and now says he's been grossly insulted

because Miss Simpson didn't say anything, but gave him a temperance

tract. The missus had to speak to them both and the Captain gave

notice."

"When does he go?" asked John, cracking his egg. The gossip of this

caravanserai amused him.

"He never does go; he always gives notice when Mrs. Perdie says what

she thinks," replied Annie. "'Ow could he go anywhere else when all

know 'is little 'abbits? But I've got a lot to do. The tea orl

right, Mr. Dean?" she said, moving to the door.

"Quite, Annie, thank you," he replied smiling at her. She closed the

door on her hero with a resolute sniff.

Drinking his tea, with a head clearing, John became reflective. This

would really not do. Half of the morning gone, and he was due at the

office at twelve! Then his mind went back to the night before, and

to Tilly. It had all been rather hectic. Now he thought of it, he

had been a decided fool, sitting there until the early morn, just

holding in his arms and kissing a girl whom he had not known six

hours, and who called him "a dear kid." Why had he behaved like

that? He was lonely perhaps--and he had amused himself, that was

all. He didn't, couldn't love her, and certainly she had never for a

moment thought of him in that way. Turning to pour out some more

tea, his eyes fell on a framed photograph on his dressing table.

Yes, he had been a bounder--he couldn't tell _her_, she wouldn't

understand, for even he did not. And yet, if he met Tilly again--he

dismissed the idea deliberately, but remembered in doing so that he

_would_ meet her again. There was a dance at the Studio next Friday.

No,--he must not go there again.

He slipped out of bed, and bath towel in hand, surveyed himself

critically in the glass. Did he look a rake? Was dissipation

stamping its marks upon him? But the vision in the mirror was that

of youth, flawless in careless health and grace.

When he appeared in the hall downstairs, and Mrs. Perdie hurried

forth to give a little motherly advice, he looked such a slim picture

of radiant youth, his dark eyes shining, his face gleaming, with high

spirits bubbling over, that she lost the opening words of her

prepared overture, and worshipped for a moment, after which her

chance was gone, for Captain Fisher emerged from the drawing-room,

newspaper in hand. He flourished it in John's face.

"Egad, sir, it's great--I've not laughed so much for years--you've

got the real touch--I always thought those Bohemians were mad."

He touched his forehead with the rolled-up copy of the _Daily Post_.

"May I look a moment?" asked John, a little bewildered. He opened

the paper on the third page and saw his name in black type. The

editor had put it to the description of the Artists Union meeting.

John suppressed a shout of triumph. There was his name true enough,

"John Dean," with three quarters of a column of close print

following! Of course, the House of Commons was not sitting, so space

was plentiful; still there was his name, for all the world to see!

The omnibus that carried him on its top that gay spring morning as it

wound its way past the Victoria Station down Victoria Street, under

the grey front of Westminster Abbey façade, on up lordly Whitehall,

might have been the steeds of Apollo the sun-god, so radiantly rode

youth through the world, all civilisation singing about him,

organised for his delight. He remembered hearing an odd remark of

Merritt's one night.

"The first time you hit a bull's eye with the Chief, he gives you

credit for it--there's your name on the target--but you've to be a

marksman for that to happen." And it had happened. For the first

time he experienced confidence, he was now conscious of approval.

Before, it had been like dropping his articles down a drain. They

disappeared for ever.

Merritt said nothing to him at the office, but in the afternoon, as

he sat writing a letter in the reporters' room, the door of Merritt's

little office opened. There was a sound of laughter within, and John

caught sight of Phipps, who had just returned from a conference at

Vienna, on which he had been writing with customary brilliance. John

had never spoken to their leading man, who was as dizzily remote from

his humble inquest-police-court haunting orbit, as the Pleiades from

the sun.

"Dean," called Merritt, putting his head round the doorway. John

went in. "I want to introduce you to Burton Phipps," he said.

Phipps rose and held out his hand to him. John could not see him

clearly in the sensation of the moment. Why was he so ridiculously

sensitive that his eyes watered, whenever something really wonderful

happened? He gulped and heard Phipps praising and laughing about his

article.

"Are you doing anything?" asked Phipps.

"No, sir."

"Come out and have tea with me then. Good-bye, Merritt."

"Good-bye--Phipps."

John followed as in a dream.

Outside they crossed the square, plunging into the five o'clock

traffic vortex below Ludgate Circus, walked a short way and then

turned into a narrow entry. Through a couple of swing doors they

found a hall, whose walls were plastered with notices, and then a

lounge with small tables. A few men nodded to Phipps, the diminutive

waiter smiled as on an old friend when taking the order for tea.

Now for the first time John was able to look critically at his new

friend. It was a face and head of arresting dignity, beauty almost.

Of small build, he was a slim, compact man of about thirty-five with

a boyish expression. He was pale, his eyes a steely grey, very

intense, with points of light in the pupils, glowing and alive in

contrast to the general pallor of the brow. His hair was short and

slightly wavy, the nose arched and Roman. It was a chiselled face,

that of a man of thought, into whose lines had passed the experience

of emotion, suffering perhaps. It was, in a curious way, a face,

ascetic and carven, that suggested sorrow, sprung from contemplation

rather than life's trials. And the voice was in accordance with this

impression, for it was deep, with notes of rich melancholy, the voice

of a great preacher. To John, he seemed much as he would have

expected to find one of the knights of the Round Table, a strong,

handsome personality--yet human, and sensitive to the beauty of life

as well as its ugliness. There was a quick nervousness in the shape

and movement of the hands, the right fingers being stained with

nicotine, for he was an incessant smoker of cigarettes. In his talk

he had a sense of humour which seemed to belie the seriousness of his

expression, but that may have been due to his subject, for John had

got him to talk of his famous adventure at a Grand Duke's wedding

when he had figured as a foreign statesman and given Fleet Street an

"inside" story that kept it talking for twenty-four hours--a long

time for Fleet Street to discuss any subject.

Then he told John something of his experiences as a war correspondent

in the Balkan War.

"A bloody, horrible business. I can hardly forgive the folly of men,

Dean. There are people here talking about our next war--with

Germany. What insanity--and what wickedness! If only they had seen

and not read about war. I don't think there's any war worth

fighting."

"Not for honour?"

"Were they ever fought for that?" Phipps looked at him piercingly.

"I suppose not," assented John.

"And in future, there'll be no war worth winning," he said in his

deep voice. "The price of the effort will out-value the prize.

Well, if another war comes along, thank heaven I shall be too old for

sending telegrams to the British Public about its picturesque

bloodiness."

When they had parted John felt he had made a new friend. That was

the marvel of London. You met the men who did things; you were at

the hub of creation, their names and faces were familiar with the

day. Steer, Ribble, Phipps--what would some men have given for his

good fortune?

When he arrived back at the office, word came that the Chief wanted

to see him. He went through to the Secretary's room.

"Oh--Mr. Walsh's just going--I'll ask if he'll see you."

He came back a moment later and ushered John in.

Walsh sat at his littered desk.

"Sit down, Dean. Do you know French?"

"A little, sir."

"Do you speak it?--can you be understood and understand?"

"I--I hope so sir."

Walsh smiled.

"And how much Danish?"

John looked surprised. "Danish, sir?"

The editor laughed and then got up, putting his hand on the youth's

shoulder.

"Don't let that worry you--England was proud of possessing a Viking's

daughter as queen, but few of us know a word of her language. On

Friday, I want you to go to Copenhagen to an international telegraph

conference. It will last a fortnight. Merritt will tell you what we

want, and our man in Copenhagen will look after you. You will go to

Harwich and cross to Esbjerg. The cashier will give you the

necessary money. I hope you'll enjoy the trip. Good-bye."

He touched a bell, his secretary came in, John went out. Dizzily he

walked back to his room. Travel! And he was a special

correspondent! He could envision the italicised words, the magic

words he had seen under Phipps' name. "_Our Special Correspondent._"

To Merritt he stammered out the news, but the unimpressionable

Merritt seemed to know all about it.

"Keep your mouth shut until you go--or others will be green with

envy. They can't help it, poor fellows. Half of them are plodders,

and you don't work for all you do--it's just in you, that's all.

That's half the tragedy of life--to the plodders. You needn't come

in to-morrow. I'll look up the boats and trains."

Outside, in the street, John stood for a moment, while the world went

by him. A queer fellow Merritt. How he had humbled that

triumph--"half the tragedy of life--to the plodders." Somehow it

made his exultation seem childish and mean. They were such good

fellows too, full of kindness, and a spirit of give and take, and he,

the newest among them, the cub, was racing ahead. It must be bitter.

They filed before him--merry little Bewley, daring and audacious,

Lawton, the dreamer and writer of rejected verse, Russell, the

ponderous, saving hard for a home and sentimental about children,

Johnson, who longed to retire on a farm--name after name, each

coupled with hopes and ambitions.

And now his chance had come. He must tell some one. He went back

into the clerk's office and rang up Mrs. Graham. Yes, she was in and

would be delighted if he would dine with her. At the Temple Station

he booked for Sloane Square, his nearest point to her flat in Cheyne

Walk.

CHAPTER V

I

The success that fell upon John Dean did not delude him. He had been

unnerved too young to feel trustful toward life. While everybody

called him lucky or blessed by the gods, and prophesied the dizzy

heights to which good fortune would carry him, he was, nevertheless,

suspicious. Twelve months had gone by since he had secured his

position with fine work at Copenhagen. That mission, which from an

incident had developed into an important European situation, he had

handled in a masterly manner for his years and inexperience. Some

men in Fleet Street called him precocious, others, less complimentary

and less successful, brazen-faced. Phipps, with whom a warm

friendship had grown up, called him "an amazing child," and laughed

good-naturedly over the adroitness with which he had got his

despatches through ahead of his colleagues. They had met, about

mid-June, at Warsaw, whence Phipps was bound for Constantinople to

report on the Young Turk party and the revolutions. It was the

following Spring when they met again, and greatly to John's delight,

Phipps had hunted up Ali, at college in Constantinople, and had

brought back news that the finely grown young Turkish gentleman, now

a keen follower of Enver Bey, had talked rapturously of John and the

early days at Amasia.

"You must be one of his gods, Dean, by the way he spoke of you."

"We were great friends, I remember. I often wondered if he still

recalled me. We have ceased to write--how strange to think he is now

a big fellow--he used to be so shy."

Phipps had brought a letter for him. Later, in his own room, John

had broken the seal and read it. It was a strange epistle, one

moment full of the formality of the Orient, and then suddenly

passionate, breaking into ornate declarations of eternal friendship.

But it was Ali, as of old, and as John read, there were the old

scents of that gorge in his nostrils; he could hear the tinkle of the

Yeshil Irmak as it ran down, moon-silvered, over the stones, and, as

the moon peered into the dark ravine, the distant drone of the drums

in the valley. The old thrill was still in his blood.

"_O sworn brother, I clasp your hands and look into those wonderful

eyes of yours. Still am I Ali, your proud servant, still would I

follow you, John effendi. Often I think of you in the night time

when the _caiques_ are at rest by the Galata Bridge, and the moon

floods the cypress groves. Often I wonder if still that gift of mine

is with you. Your friend tells me that you prosper, that you are

fair to behold, a leader among men. It is well. I knew this would

be, of old. Sad that manhood is upon us and that we hear not the

voice of each other. Still in my heart you linger. In time, it may

be we meet, and oh, beloved friend, the joy that shall fall upon us,

Insh'allah._"

On the night he received the letter, John went round to Lindon's flat

at Battersea, which overlooked the river and Chelsea on the opposite

bank. It was a grey Spring evening, and the great flood ran linked

with lights reflected in the stream; the beauty of melancholy was on

the face of things. John stood staring out of the window. Lindon

was playing by candle light; now grasping fame as a pianist, he was

attractive and forceful as ever. John watched his splendid head

between the candles on either side, as it moved with the rhythm of a

Brahms waltz. Suddenly the player stopped.

"A penny, Scissors," he said, seeing the deep gaze. John laughed and

looked out of the window again.

"They're not worth it--only--I often wonder, Lindon, if ever we quite

realize the whole wonder of life--of this--of friendship, of youth?

It's all slipping by and it's so good, and we make so little of it."

Lindon rose, walked across to the window and put his arm in John's.

"Scissors, you're quite an old sentimentalist. Of course it's

good--and we enjoy it, at least I know I do."

They watched the sunset fade in silence. When a last line of flame

had died into the grey bank of cloud, John spoke. It was evidently

the end of some thoughts.

"It will have been worth it--when it all ends and we look back. I've

been lucky."

"Ends? What a morbid fellow you are! Why ends? It's all just

beginning, Scissors! Why we've got the world at our feet!" Lindon

laughed. It was so hearty and infectious that at any other time,

John would have laughed too. All's letter had upset him a little.

He shivered in his chair.

"You know, it's silly, Lindon--but I feel there's a tragedy coming.

Life's just too good--it won't behave always like this. It waits and

then pounces and you are in its grip."

"Rot!--Scissors. Let's have the light on, it's getting creepy."

"No--I want you to play--"

"What, in the dark?"

"Please--play that Brahms again--I can see all kinds of pictures."

For a moment, Lindon hesitated and then, seeing the earnest appeal in

John's eyes, shook him playfully and went over to the grand.

"I shall have to feel my way, Scissors."

But he played very softly and with great feeling. John sat in the

window and let the rich music flow over him in that growing darkness.

It was of Ali he thought; and then he was a little boy on the

verandah, in the arms of a grown man; suddenly he was standing with

him under an almond tree in blossom, and the man's head was bowed in

grief; out of the dusk came face after face; what did they here in

this scented Eastern Garden? He caught the swift animation of

Marsh's glance, about to speak; there was Vernley, the old poise of

the head he knew so well; and, somehow, Mr. Fletcher was with them.

How wonderfully Lindon was playing--and how insistently came the

muffled pulse of a drum, perhaps down the gorge in the old deserted

Khan. He must follow it--how it beat through his brain, insistent

and full of wonder. He was going towards it, strangely elated.

It was quite dark when Lindon struck the last chord and let the sound

flow through the room before the pedal-release curtained the room in

silence.

John started, as if rudely awakened.

II

It was a London he knew now. He had followed the long social

programme reaching its climax in June. He watched the fashionable

crowd at Burlington House on private view day; the smaller, but more

interesting gathering at the Grosvenor Galleries when the

International Society's show opened; concerts at Queen's Hall, first

nights at the theatre, garden parties, polo at Hurlingham, the Derby

and Goodwood,--all these things occupied his days. It was a vivid,

everchanging experience, this life of the journalist, and with it all

he touched many circles and found new friends. The cranks, the

idealists, the hard relentless men of affairs, the propagators of

creeds,--he met them all, and from them learned something. There was

a soft spot in the heart of most men if you could touch it; they were

very human in one aspect, though he stood appalled at the pace

humanity set itself in the mad race to success. How many of these

hectic men and women ever realized what life was? They dared not

stop to contemplate. On, on, on, lest the horror of their own entity

should frighten them. They feared themselves, they must never be

left to themselves. Solitude meant madness--there was forgetfulness

flowing down the crowded thoroughfares.

"Only artificial people praise the country--they feel so superior to

it," said Harry Merivale, brightly, as he sat at lunch in the Union

Club, where John was the guest of Major Slade. The company laughed

at this statement; it was the applause that always spurred Merivale

to further efforts in the preposterous. At thirty he had been

considered a wit and a man of promise. Now at forty cautious men

shook their heads and looked suspiciously at the flippant

monologue-artist. Merivale was an advanced revolutionary on five

thousand a year. Three years as private secretary to Lord Eastbourne

had filled him with contempt for those who did not decorate their

titles. Merivale, who developed his sense of the theatre assiduously

and derived pleasure from the fact that persons thought must be

descended from the famous historian of the Roman Empire, was a

precisian. He pronounced his words, despite the pace of an utterance

made to prevent interruption, with unction; he was as careful about

their use as he was careless about their meaning. He would have

sacrificed his grandmother for an epigram.

His attire was as precise as his small flat in Mayfair. He hoped he

was the last to preserve the traditions of the Augustan age. He read

Locke "On the Human Understanding" in a room hung with choice

examples of Signorelli, Lippo Lippi and Angelico. His furniture was

Chippendale, his books were all leather bound. Sometimes in a long

monologue on the bad government of the age, he quoted John Stuart

Mill. He refused to recognise any novelist since Fielding, any

musician since Handel. The last statesman died with Pitt the

younger. The only persons he really respected were his valet and his

banker. They both moved in the best circles. Major Slade collected

his epigrams and performed the office of an enlarging mirror. He

spoke of Merivale with a note of melancholy as of a man who could

have been great had it not been vulgar. Merivale himself found

comfort in this reflection; after all, he was, among the crowd, the

one man self-possessed.

His day was perfectly ordered, his trousers perfectly creased. A

vellum bound copy of "Marius the Epicurean" always lay on a bedside

table. He had a model bachelor's rooms, and kept a full diary. He

envied the poor their indifference to dirt and despised the rich for

their contempt of brains. He had a beautiful voice, an unfailing

eloquence and a safe income; few men had attacked the dinner tables

of Mayfair with more perfect, if restricted, assets.

John met Merivale at the Phyllis Court Club, where he had been

staying for Henley Regatta. Marsh was rowing for his college,

Vernley and his people were also at the club. Merivale was known to

Mr. Vernley, who delighted in pairing him with Marsh, now a brilliant

extempore antagonist. Those had been great days at Henley. Marsh

was radiant. Never had John seen him more audacious, more

triumphant. Merivale, disconcerted, admired, and, being an astute

tactician, adopted Marsh as his pupil. Their dinner table was the

noisiest, their little set the most conspicuous. They all registered

a vow to spend August together on the East Coast.

These were days of supreme happiness. Evenings in Mrs. Graham's

charmed circle, the intellectual stimulus of a supper gathering at

Mr. Ribble's house, the glimpse of home, obtained at Steer's, where

the nursery woke to riotous mirth with the advent of "Uncle John"--or

those marvellously perfect dinner parties at Slade's house in Braham

Gardens, with guests as carefully chosen as the menu; the air of

self-possession and quiet mannered ease, the atmosphere in short

which is the inseparable adjunct of the Wykehamist the world

over--or, turbulent and youthful, the late dance-parties in Tilly's

studio--with Tilly, deep in love this time with the attractive young

pianist whom John had brought along one evening--yes, it was a

splendid life, with every hour booked ahead, and heights of glory for

youth to scale.

But, in all these things the most ardent, John turned aside at

moments and his thoughts were far away. If Muriel were here among

his friends, to share this wine of youth! At night-time, often in

the stillness of the long stone streets, so solemn at mid-night, as

he walked home, he would wonder just how she lay pillowed in her bed

in a room he knew not in the Convent of the Sacred Heart. A

momentary glimpse held him in the spell of recollection--the way her

little hand tucked away a rebellious curl behind the ear, even the

way she had of nibbling at a concert programme! And to see her run

up a flight of steps--up the terrace at "The Croft," and then turn at

the top, breathless and flushed, her eyes shining! Why was she

exiled from him? It was cruel to waste the ardour of their youth in

this senseless fashion.

On his last visit to the Vernleys, he could no longer keep silent

upon his dream. Quickly, bluntly almost, he poured out his whole

heart before Mr. Vernley, who listened to him with a kindly

tolerance. It might end everything; he would have to leave the

house, of course, but this dual existence was intolerable. To his

surprise Mr. Vernley just placed his hand on his shoulder, and said

very kindly--

"You must be patient, my boy--you are but boy and girl yet.

Twenty-one--and so much before you yet. Just wait, John, and then

we'll talk seriously."

"But I'm very serious, sir."

Mr. Vernley smiled in his kindly fashion.

"That is why you should wait. Come, John--suppose we talk of this in

a year?" He looked at the intense young face before him.

"Then you--you don't forbid me, sir--I mean I may hope--" he

stammered.

"The verdict is with Muriel, John. She will know her own mind soon,

and when she is home and has been presented, then you two can decide.

I am not so old-fashioned as to think a father can do other than

advise. If I say 'Good luck' to you, will that suffice for the

present?"

"Oh, thank you, sir!" cried John, gladly.

So ended the overture. It was a phase successfully passed. The

young lovers breathed freely again. Time was the enemy now.

The summer wore on. There were visits to the Fletchers and to

Marsh's.

"Mother's another 'ism," said Marsh, meeting him at the station.

"They come and go like Dad's pipes. She's a Sunphoner this time--all

gladness and love is transmitted on rays of light. To smile is to

love. Clouds, which obstruct sunshine, are agglomerations of sin.

When you frown you are abetting the devil. Mother carefully

cultivates the gladsome wrinkles of the sunphoners. Dad calls it the

Cheshire Cat Society."

John found her as sweet and gentle as before. Always in her hands

there seemed to be flowers, and the birds sang louder in her garden.

Were any evenings, anywhere, more restful than those around her lamp?

Mr. Marsh came and went from the study. His hair was a little

whiter, his belief in the _Nation_ even more unshakable. As for

Marsh, was there any one in the world quite like this tall, perverse,

quick-spoken humourist? Mrs. Marsh sat and worshipped, her hands

ever busy in his service, and John thought he treated her like a

fluttered bird, something to be petted and soothed.

"It is splendid to watch over your success, John," she confided one

evening. "But please don't let success harden you."

"Am I hardening?"

"No--perhaps not--it's youth changing, I suppose--I would like to

keep that first glimpse of you--when Teddie brought you here--so

nervous."

John laughed happily, and held her hand which, somehow, had found its

way into his.

"What a silly little woman I am," she whispered.

"I think you're a darling," he responded, "and Teddie's a lucky boy."

It was good to fall asleep in that little chintz-curtained room, to

watch the moon climbing through the elm-tree branches, to hear the

owl screech and the church clock strike in the dead of night, or to

wake with bird song in the cold freshness of the country morning.

Then Teddie would bang about, pyjama-clad with tousled hair, uttering

some fantastic epigram, or a new plan for exasperating the

conservative-minded.

It was he who, one morning in Grafton Street, saw in the shop window

of an antique dealer, a small bronze statue labelled "Narcissus

listening to Echo."

"Scissors!" he cried, clutching his arm. "There's your namesake,

minus tailor's trimmings!"

In a moment he had rushed into the shop. A fierce discussion ensued

with the bespectacled Jew, who began a recital starting at

Herculaneum B.C., but was interrupted in the Italian Renaissance by

Marsh, who calmly offered him half what he asked. They haggled and

scorned each other while John wondered which traced his ancestry to

Judæa; then Marsh conquered at his original bid.

They bore it home, swaddled in _The Times_, to John's room. John

protested, he could not let Marsh pay so much for a present, but all

his protests were over-ruled.

"Of course you must have it--and offer libations to your great

ancestor. What a leg he's got--he could do with more meat on his

torso and less on his toes, while you could--"

"Don't be rude," interrupted John.

"It was a trick of the Phidian period of sculpture to lengthen the

tibia to ensure--" on went the dissertation. Mid-way through a

comparison of Michael Angelo with Benvenuto Cellini, there was a

sudden explosion.

"The old devil!" cried Marsh, looking closely at the statue. "He's

swindled us--it's cracked over the thigh--look!"

John looked. There was a fissure in the bronze about an inch long.

"An appendicitis operation," said John.

"I'll take it back," cried Marsh indignantly.

"Don't--I like the lad better for his imperfections--he's more human."

So the statue remained, raising its finger in a listening attitude on

the bookshelf, recalling with an antique grace an artist's triumph in

a dead civilisation. It revived, indeed, a pagan creed in the Perdie

household. True, Mrs. Perdie was shocked by "that 'eathen thing

without its coverings," and Annie simpered whenever she swept the

feather brush over it, but Miss Simpson's eyes watered when she saw

it, for she recalled how her dear brother, the Governor, had shown it

to her in the museum at Naples--"when I was quite a girl, and

Lieutenant Ranson, a charming young gentleman, was going to buy me a

copy, but--"

John had seen his portrait on her table, and had looked silently at

the laughing face of the lover, drowned a week after it was taken.

Wellington and de Courtrai borrowed "Narcissus" for a tea party they

gave, with great success, to a crowd of ladies and gentlemen from the

theatre.

"Yer can't see fer face powder in the air," commented Annie, after

taking in the tea. John was a guest. He enjoyed hearing them lie so

magnificently to each other about the salaries they earned and the

promises made by managers. Yet they were good-hearted backbiters,

loving the venom for the chameleonic skill with which their tongues

struck the victims, intending no permanent harm to any one. They all

showed the worst side to the world and kept their private griefs

smothered in the dreary back rooms of dingy lodging houses. For all

their cheapness, Wellington and de Courtrai had hearts of gold. They

had nursed him through a bad attack of influenza, with unwearying

devotion, and no woman's hand could have ministered more skilfully

and patiently. Their artificiality was on the surface, their

feminine air companioned a feminine tenderness to each other--and on

this occasion, to John. Even Captain Fisher, when they cooked his

breakfast, on the sudden collapse of Mrs. Perdie and Annie with

influenza, declared they were born batmen.

"If they'd take a cold bath every morning and crop their hair, they

might pass as men," he growled. They would have won him completely

by their attentions during those influenza days had they not called

him "dear," in conversation on the third morning, whereupon Captain

Fisher spilt his coffee in an apoplectic rage.

III

It was during those weeks of July that Lindon arrived at a condition

which to John seemed hysterical. Ever since he had taken him to

Tilly's studio he had haunted the place like a silent ghost; that he

was madly in love with her he made no attempt to hide, and she, no

less than he, found the day dull when he was absent. He vowed that

Tilly was necessary to his music; he could not work without her,

there was no quality in his playing unless he played to her. One

night, after John had dined at his flat, Lindon walked up and down

the room, pouring out his agony of mind. His people had refused to

allow him to marry yet. "I'm tied up with an allowance,

Scissors--and I can't go on--we can't go on--it's hell!"

"We?--is Tilly unwilling to wait?"

"Yes, to wait--like me--why should we lead this miserable divided

life, when we belong to each other, when there's no existence apart?

I tell you it's immoral! Why shouldn't I marry--in the vigour of

youth, with a girl in a million. It's natural, it's right--and we're

told to wait--for what? Till we're wiser, if you please. Wiser!--oh

my God! Madness, that's how it'll end!"

Suddenly he turned upon his heel and looked at John, who sat quietly

in a chair.

"Scissors, sometimes you make me want to kick you--you agree with

'em! Have you got an ounce of passion in you? Do you know what sex

means? I doubt it. Why, there are nights I can't sleep, when I

think such things as--but you never seem to be aware of anything. I

have seen you dancing with girls, your face like a wax mummy. Why

when I take hold of them, sometimes I want to make them cry out in my

grip, and when their hair touches my face, I--I--"

He halted then, and caught John's wrists in a vice.

"I don't believe you've ever felt like crying about a girl just

because she's been pleasant to another fellow, or wanted to gather

her up in your arms and carry her off to a secret place."

The younger man broke away from the frenzied grip.

"Lindon, I shall think you are mad in a minute."

"I am--do you wonder? Here am I, a vigorous man, with abundance of

life singing through every vein, all nature crying out for me to

express myself, and night and day I fight the desire down, hold

myself in leash, shut up in these four walls--you must know what it

means, you're no longer a kid. Nature never intended this, she meant

us to break the barriers. We're all defying her; I am, you are,

Tilly is--and it's all wrong!" He looked desperately at John.

"I don't think love is a thing that you can talk about in this way,"

said the other quietly.

"For you--perhaps not--you're not hot-blooded like me--you're

self-contained. But I'm not like that, I must have somebody I

worship. Why, do you know at Sedley, it was you--there, now you know

I'm mad." He laughed bitterly.

"I knew," said John, looking out of the window.

"You knew that I cared about you?" asked Lindon. They heard the

clock tick in the long interval of silence.

"Yes--I could see you liked me very much, and I was afraid of you--I

was told you were very jealous."

"By Vernley?"

"Yes."

Lindon laughed rather grimly.

"You see how I torture myself--I don't suppose I'm normal," he added

bitterly.

"No one in love is," added John, half to himself.

Lindon looked at him keenly.

"How do you know that?"

"You're not the only lover, I suppose?"

For a moment Lindon stared at him; there was such a depth of feeling

in those simple words. Impulsively, he linked his arm in John's.

"Scissors, old thing, forgive me. I'm a selfish beast--why do you

let me carry on in this childish way?"

John half smiled in reply.

"Because I've often wanted to myself. After all, you know, you

should be grateful--Chelsea's nearer than Belgium."

IV

The last week in July saw a great re-union. The Vernleys had taken a

house at Mablethorpe, on the East Coast, for the summer. Its chief

attraction was that it possessed no distractions. There were neither

pierrots, promenades, theatres, nor any of the other feeble forms of

amusement with which people in search of a holiday disguise their

boredom. And to increase the solitude of their retreat, the

Vernleys' house was a mile out of the village, snugly ensconced

behind the high sand dunes with which early settlers had fought the

encroaching sea, and kept for themselves a lowland intersected with

dykes and devoid of trees. Bobbie grumbled all day long at the

obvious insanity of his people in choosing such a place. A lover of

the flesh pots, he contemplated the house and surrounding country

with supreme disgust. His disapproval was obviously artificial,

however. They had brought their horses with them, with which to

explore the Lincolnshire lanes. A short car journey took them to

Skegness, "which is Mablethorpe, only more so," commented Bobbie.

Kitty found great excitement in riding her mare down the sand dunes,

until the authorities protested against the breaking down of the sky

line and Mablethorpe's one claim to singularity. But the tennis and

the bathing were without fault. Even Bobbie was silent upon these,

and his frequent indulgence in both betrayed almost enthusiasm. Mrs.

Vernley had chosen the place for the air, although Mr. Vernley swore

that it was because no friends would come there to visit them. He

was consoled somewhat by the discovery of a radical parson in a near

village, who knew all the quaint little inns and the merits of beer.

For the greater part of the day they all lived in bathing costumes

since, as Marsh expressed it, the weather was hot and as perversely

pleasant as the landscape. London was with them, Lindon dwelling in

a wonderful July heaven, for diplomatic John had contrived for an

invitation to be sent to Miss Topham, whose pleasure coincided with

the business of painting Kitty on horseback. Their open delight in

each other supplemented the mirth of the party, though perhaps John

felt lonelier in contrast, for Muriel was visiting the home of a

school friend at Liége until the second week in August. John's sky

had just a little shadow in it, but with Marsh and Vernley at hand,

there were no silences for self-commiseration.

They breakfasted at seven, with the sea wind blowing through the

room. It was Mr. Vernley's great complaint that there were neither

letters nor newspapers until eleven o'clock. A great strike was

threatened, and he watched it carefully day by day.

"Have the silly beggars struck yet?" asked Bobbie, one morning as

they all lay, after bathing, on the slopes of the sand dunes facing

the sea and the wide flat beach. As he asked the question he was

industriously trickling sand down John's bare leg.

"No--the Prime Minister receives a conference to-day. There seems to

be more trouble over the Sarajevo incident."

"What's that, sir?" asked Vernley.

"One of the Hapsburgs potted at by a Serbian--those blighters are

always shooting one another in the Balkans," interrupted Marsh.

"There's a report from Copenhagen that Russia's mobilising," said Mr.

Vernley.

"Oh, you must never believe reports from Copenhagen, sir," cried

Lindon, looking sideways at John. The next moment he just escaped a

shoe by ducking.

"The Kaiser says that Austria must have guarantees from Serbia, with

penalties, and that Russia must acquiesce."

"I wish somebody would have a shot at that idiot," said John.

"Well you can, when he's had one at us, as he intends," replied

Vernley.

"Oh, bosh!" cried Marsh, "every half-pay major who wants conscription

and has had a week's holiday in Berlin, propagates that yarn. The

Germans would no more think of fighting us than the Chinese--they

wouldn't have a dog's chance."

"With twelve million disciplined troops?" queried Mr. Vernley, over

the top of his glasses.

"Why, sir, we'd never meet 'em on land. How would they get

here--with our navy?"

Vernley got up and shook the sand off his legs.

"Come on, Scissors--let's have that tennis four--if we let Lindon and

Marsh go on there'll be war in England; I can see Lindon's gorge

rising at the little Englander!"

"Little Englander--why of course! We are the wealthiest race on the

earth, have the greatest possessions, and the worst slums!" cried

Marsh. "What good is the wealth of India when there's Sheffield, or

the possession of Egypt when it can't wipe out the slums of

Lancashire--we have the largest national debt, the heaviest taxation!

And there are idiots banging the big drum, raising the German bogey,

because they want to go and grab more countries, when we can't manage

what we have got!" Marsh was flushed and the wind had blown the hair

down into his eyes.

"But we do manage it--and well," asserted Tod, usually silent, and

just appointed to a commission in the Guards. "We have civilised

India, brought justice and liberty to its people as well as health--"

"And Christianity," added Mrs. Vernley.

"Yes, and thrown away hundreds of lives and millions of money on

South Africa--only to realise we had no right there and to give it

back again," retorted Marsh.

"You must admit, Teddie, we have a genius for government," said John.

"Not while we've Ireland threatening insurrection every minute,"

flared Marsh, his blood up.

"I think you boys had better play tennis," called Mr. Vernley, from

behind the newspaper. "You'll get hot to some purpose then. But

unless I'm mistaken, this old country will be in the balance soon.

Austria has attacked Serbia, and is bombarding Belgrade. Russia has

sent an ultimatum on behalf of her ally, and the Kaiser is hurrying

back to Berlin."

"That idiot will only stir up the mess," said Bobbie. "What's it all

about, Dad?"

"The Austrian Archduke was assassinated at Sarajevo. Austria demands

penalties and will not accept Serbia's offer. It is reported Germany

is strengthening Austria's hand, and Russia stands behind Serbia.

Sir Edward Grey has offered his services as mediator."

"Oh, he'll settle it!" cried Bobbie. "Clever dog, Grey."

"It looks to me like a European conflagration unless great tact is

shown," said Mr. Vernley. He turned to his wife, "I think we ought

to wire for Muriel to come home."

"But why? Belgium is not affected."

The whole circle looked at Mr. Vernley who took off His glasses and

tapped the newspaper.

"It may mean war for us."

"For us!" They all echoed.

"We've too much sense, sir, to be messed up in these ludicrous Balkan

squabbles. The blighters are always nibbling at one another's ears.

Well, here's one who won't join in. If every man thought and acted

as I do, there wouldn't be any wars!" declared Marsh.

"Why?" asked John. He had never seen Marsh quite so excited before.

"Because if there were no feeble fools willing to be made into gun

fodder, there'd be no wars. You can't have wars without soldiers."

"But supposing Germany declared war on us," began Tod.

"Oh, bosh!" interrupted Marsh.

"Germany will not declare war on _us_," said Mr. Vernley quietly,

"but if this unrest spreads, she may declare war on France--and that

would involve our honour; we should have to help France."

"It seems a terrible mix-up, all these entangling alliances," sighed

Mrs. Vernley, "and it is unthinkable that the world's rulers will let

us slip into war. To-day war would be terrible with all the science

and inventions of this age."

"It would be insane!" cried Marsh loudly. "We must refuse to be

pushed in by the financiers and land-grabbers. Think of the millions

it means, the homes ruined, the sons and fathers butchered--why it's

incredible!"

"But if our honour--" began Tod.

"Honour be damned!" snapped Marsh. Then quickly, "Oh, I'm sorry, I

didn't mean that. But it's wicked to think of war. I refuse to

think of it."

"We may have to, Marsh," said Mr. Vernley.

"I won't."

"If we had to fight, wouldn't you?" asked Kitty.

Marsh stood up, looking very handsome in his flushed indignation but

John noticed how his lip trembled as he paused before answering, and

looked out to sea.

"No," he said quietly.

Mr. Vernley looked at him steadily.

"I'm afraid, Marsh, you would be--" he began to say.

"Called a coward, sir--I know. But war's insanity, and only the

corrupt, the insane and the ignorant will allow it. I'll consider it

my duty to refuse to condone it at any cost."

"Oh--you're--you're impossible," muttered Tod.

"You're--you're a professional soldier," retorted Marsh, and the

moment he uttered it, turned white in the face.

"Oh--Tod--please I didn't mean it like that--I didn't really." There

were tears in his eyes as he turned appealingly. Tod put his hand on

his shoulder and smiled at him.

"It's all right, Teddie--you were always volcanic. I believe you're

the kind of fellow that would win the V.C."

"I think," said Mrs. Vernley breathing freely again, "that it is very

silly to take things as seriously as this--there won't be a war."

"Grey'll settle it," said John.

"We hope so," added Mr. Vernley, folding up his paper. "But I shall

go to town to-morrow to be at the centre of things and I shall wire

to Muriel."

"But she will be home in a week, father," cried Mrs. Vernley.

"And she's quite safe in Belgium," declared Bobbie.

"Perhaps--I hope so, but it's too near the storm centre," replied Mr.

Vernley. "And now, my dear, what about lunch?"

Walking back to the house, John expressed fears about Muriel to

Bobbie.

"Oh, she's all right," he replied, confidently. "The guv'nor always

takes a serious attitude to things--it's a parliamentary habit,

Scissors--and Muriel can look after herself." Marsh walked silently

with them. He seemed depressed. The sky was blue, the sun shining,

but John felt the air was heavy. He slipped his arm through Marsh's.

V

Rumours followed rumours, and one morning as John came down into the

hall before breakfast, Tilly met him. She looked very attractive and

girlish in her white jersey with its blue collar encircling her

pretty neck. John could understand Lindon's infatuation. He had

watched her slim figure in the water, a graceful sprite, so light and

vivacious that she might have been a fairy's child. Her cream skirt

this morning was short, revealing two shapely legs in white

stockings, and he could not help looking intently at the little bare

patch beneath her throat, red with the sun, running down to a channel

of milky whiteness, dimpled by the suggested proximity of her

breasts. She noticed his admiring observation, and placed her hand,

light as a bird on his arm.

"Scissors, what do you think--Tod's going to town with Mr. Vernley

this morning! I tell him he'll spoil the men's four we arranged to

play the doctor's friends."

"To town, whatever for?"

"I don't know, you persuade him to stay."

"Righto--where is he?"

Tilly nodded towards the dining room. John walked in, and as he did

so, he realised something.

"Morning, Tod!" he called brightly. "I hear you're going to town."

"Yes, Scissors--I've got to see a few friends."

"Oh--you'll be coming back before I go?"

"Oh, yes--"

At that moment Bobbie burst in.

"I say, Tod, what's this nonsense about going to town! You simply

can't, you'll bust up the--"

He caught a glance from John that checked him.

"I must see some friends," said Tod. "I'll be back in a few days."

"Oh, very well," assented Bobbie, lamely. John had gone out. He

followed quickly, overtaking him in the hall.

"What on earth did you look like that for, Scissors?" he asked. John

drew him aside from where Mrs. Vernley stood watering a flower pot.

"I thought you did not realise."

"Realise what?" asked Vernley.

"Why Tod's going to town--it isn't to see friends." Then seeing the

mystified expression on his friend's face, "I'll bet he visits the

War Office to find out whether his regiment's likely to get orders."

"Good God!" exclaimed Vernley, "but--surely we're not going to war!"

"I don't know."

"We must keep this from the mater," whispered Vernley. Then, to

John, "You're a wise old bird, Scissors--I'd never have guessed."

Immediately after breakfast Mr. Vernley and Tod left for London.

Their going brought one little hope to John. Muriel would be here

now in a few days. This was the last week in July--Tuesday. He had

to return in a week, the Tuesday following Bank Holiday, on August

the fourth. Muriel would be here by the 1st at the latest. They

would have a few days together before he could come back again, early

in September. On the fifth he had to leave for Paris, to relieve

Phipps, who was there on a special mission.

Those jolly days went quickly. They bathed, boated, played tennis

and lolled on the dunes. Marsh made frequent excursions into

Mablethorpe, where he had contracted a mania for shooting at bottles

in a booth, returning with a cocoanut and a German watch as prizes.

He was elated with his great success as a deadly shot.

"I'm surprised you should like shooting," laughed Mrs. Vernley when

he presented her with a cocoanut, and pinned the watch on the cook's

blouse.

"But at bottles, not human beings, Mrs. Vernley!"

"Same thing as soldiers," cried John.

"How?"

"According to you--green and empty."

There was a laugh all round and Marsh shied the cocoanut at John, who

split his white ducks in performing a somersault. That afternoon he

infected Lindon and Tilly with his craze and dragged them off to

Mablethorpe.

John dozed on the lawn, Bobbie was engrossed in a novel, Mrs. Vernley

was taking her siesta. Only Kitty was alert. She had been writing

to Alice who was singing on the morrow at Manchester. Suddenly she

put down her pen.

"Bobbie, I say, just look at Teddie tearing along--has he gone mad?"

She pointed and they looked in the direction of the Mablethorpe road

that ran between a deep dyke and the sandhills. He was running

breathlessly, his shirt wide open at the neck. He was a lonely

figure on the road, but, catching sight of them on the lawn, waved a

paper in the air. John woke up.

"He's won another prize!" he suggested.

"But where's Lindon and Tilly?" asked Bobbie.

Then John started up and went across the lawn, and Marsh, now within

hailing distance, shouted--

"Special out--Germany's at war with France--threatening Luxembourg!"

A minute later, panting, he reached the gate, where they ran to meet

him.

"Hoo! I'm blown--there!" He thrust the paper into eager hands.

"Tilly and Lindon are coming--I've run all the way. It looks like

business, doesn't it?"

They read down the column. It was brief, with messages from many

sources, none authoritative, but the fact was clear--Germany and

France were at war.

"Germany has delivered a request to Luxembourg asking for the free

passage for her troops to the French frontier; her neutrality will be

respected in the event of acquiescence," read John aloud.

"Neutrality respected--after walking across them!" snorted Bobbie.

Suddenly John gripped the paper.

"Brussels. From our special correspondent. It is rumoured that a

demand for the free passage of German troops, as in the case of

Luxembourg, has been made to the Belgian Government. No official

statement was made at noon, but the Belgian army is being mobilised

as a precautionary measure."

And Muriel was in Belgium!

At tea they had a thousand hopes, fears, views. All the evening

Marsh walked about muttering, "It's incredible--the twentieth

century, and civilisation to come to this! But it'll all be over

quickly, there's that in it."

"Quickly, why?" asked Bobbie.

"The Germans will be in Paris in a fortnight!"

"They won't!" said John grimly.

"Why not?" asked Kitty.

"We shall stop them."

"We?" echoed Tilly.

"Yes--France is our ally, we must stand by her."

"There's no definite treaty compelling us," said Mrs. Vernley.

"It's not a matter of compulsion--it's a matter of honour," asserted

Lindon.

"Honour!" cried Marsh. "Honour--and spread the massacre!"

"The French are our allies. Germany knows that, and has thrown down

the gage. We are challenged," said John grimly.

"Then--it--it means war for us?" asked Mrs. Vernley.

"Yes."

"Oh dear--oh dear--oh dear!" she murmured, clasping and unclasping

her hands. Marsh sat silent with the rest. The net was closing.

Not one of them mentioned Muriel's name, chiefly because she was in

all their minds.

That evening a wire came from Mr. Vernley. The Belgian Legation

refused to issue passports. He had wired Muriel to return at once.

He was coming down in the morning. Charlton, of the Foreign Office,

said there was every hope that they would keep out of the war.

Mr. Vernley arrived in the morning, and with him came the news that

Belgium had refused Germany the right of access across her territory

and Germany had declared war and was hacking her way through the

country.

"That means we are all in," said Lindon.

"We shall know soon. England has sent an ultimatum declaring she

will defend Belgian neutrality according to the treaty."

Those were hours of suspense to the Vernley household, all their

thoughts turned to Muriel. Where was she? Mr. Vernley was sure she

was on her way to England; she had had ample time to reach Ostend.

"Just think, all of these people in a few days will be living in

apprehension--and every one of us shouldering a gun!" said John,

looking at the crowd on the shore. A group of red-faced youths

sauntered by, hatless, in vivid blazers.

"There goes gun-fodder," muttered Marsh. The strain was telling on

him; he had lost his buoyancy.

"You pessimist--youth's going to have the time of its life--action, a

world in the making! Why Marsh, it's our age, this. It means the

old men take a back seat!" cried Lindon, laughing at Tilly, who hung

on his arm.

"And what of us?" she asked, a little jealous.

"Nurses, all of you."

She shivered slightly.

"I should be ill at the sight of blood."

It was evening when they sat on the sandhills and saw the wide-winged

sunset spread across the fen-land. Suddenly a cry from Bobbie made

them turn. There, on the grey horizon, where sea dissolved into

approaching night, they saw a twinkle of lights, flashing through the

greyness. The slim forms of ships were just discernible as they

slipped northwards into the gathering darkness.

"Warships!" cried Lindon. "We're ready and watching."

It began to rain. Bobbie and John were the last to enter the house.

They halted for a moment in a cutting of the sandhills and looked

over the dark expanse of sea. That slow procession northwards of

ships had given a sudden reality to the rumours.

John took Vernley's arm as they walked on in silence.

"I wonder where we'll all be next year at this time," said Vernley.

"I suppose this is the end of things--well--we've had a good

time--haven't we, Scissors?"

John could not speak. The great drama rendered him speechless. Out

there, across the North Sea, lay Germany. In millions of homes,

their windows bright in the dusk, mothers and wives were saying

farewell to their loved ones; in Austria too, in Russia, thousands of

leagues across the Balkans, from the Bretagne coast to the sunny

Riviera, the hand of Mars knocked on the door of castle and cottage.

Already the sky was stabbed with flame, the silence of the harvest

fields broken with the battery of guns.

John looked across the peaceful fenland. Here and there a light

shone in a farmstead; the silence was broken only by the low sighing

of the sea, fitfully borne inland. England, his country, sinking to

sleep, guarded by her inviolate seas. A great love of this land rose

in his heart. God keep her secure!

"Dulce et decorum pro patria mori," he half murmured to himself, but

Vernley heard him.

"Yes, and there's one thing, Scissors--we're all in it together,

that'll be the good part of it."

They walked on, arm in arm.

So passed Tuesday, August the fourth; the suspense of the ultimatum,

and then the fifth, with "WAR" flaring in great letters on the

bookstall posters. The station was crowded with the general exodus.

All the Vernley household were going up to town. The platform was a

scene of good-byes. Hatless lads were bidding one another cheerful

farewells, the girls, jerseyed and laughing, hung on their arms.

There was an air of suppressed excitement; they might have been going

to a picnic, but deeper observation revealed a nervous tension. At

Boston, Marsh left them to go on to his people. He had been very

silent for the last two days. He said good-bye gravely. Only to

John did he unburden himself in the last minute.

"This is the end of us all, Scissors. This war will go on for years.

We shall be worked up into a fierce hate. The Press will keep it

going, it'll get bloodier and bloodier--and no one will win in the

end. There'll be nothing but widows and cripples, famine and debt.

Good-bye, Scissors, write to me at home."

They shook hands; neither dared say more. The next minute, the train

moved out, leaving Marsh standing amid his luggage, raising his hat

to them, a graceful figure of youth, outwardly calm.

Intensity increased when they reached London. They all parted

hurriedly. Bobbie was going to enlist at once, Tod had received

orders. Lindon hoped to get out as a despatch rider. John, what was

he going to do? He did not know, he was bewildered. In his head

there was only one idea, to get to Belgium at all costs, to find

Muriel, from whom no word had been received.

At his rooms he found a wire from Merritt, bidding him call. Walsh

saw him at once. His wish was miraculously fulfilled. He was to

leave immediately for Belgium as special correspondent of the _Daily

Post_.

BOOK V

THE NEW WORLD

CHAPTER I

I

The crowded steamer from Folkestone reached Ostend in the last glow

of the sunset as it fell on the straggling Digue, domes, hotels,

casinos, verandahed houses, the pleasure haunt standing inviolate on

the edge of the plains, that beyond, were now drenched with blood. A

fortnight had elapsed, full of irritating delays. There were

interviews at the War Office, where every obstacle had been raised,

frantic journeys to the Foreign Office, the Belgian Legation, the

offices of the Newspaper Proprietors Association. Nobody wanted war

correspondents out there, except the papers. Then more delay while

John bought a car, a rare thing, for every one had been commandeered

by the War Office; and with all this work he had made desperate

attempts to get into touch with the _Daily Post_ resident

correspondent at Brussels, beseeching him to ask for Muriel at the

Convent of the Sacred Heart. But all was chaotic at the other end of

the wire and day after day he had to return to poor Mrs. Vernley with

no news. Then, the last day, at the last minute, news came from

Muriel herself. She had joined the Belgian Red Cross; the convent

had been turned into a hospital.

The steamer was warped in at Ostend amid amazing scenes. The harbour

was crowded with refugees, pitiable objects, sitting on their small

bundles hastily gathered before flight. The moment his car was

landed, John pressed on towards Bruges. Again and again he almost

told his chauffeur to turn round and pick up the wretched people

straggling along the road towards Ostend and England. Tired women

trudged the long roads, carrying infants in their arms, while small

children clutched at their skirts. There was no crying, no

complaining, only dull, voiceless despair on every face. Old men and

women went by, pushing their worldly wealth, bedding for the most

part, on barrows. Yes, they had seen the war, out there. The German

bombardment was terrible. They were destroying everything. The

gallant army resisted every inch, but what could they do, little

Belgium, against these hordes? John ran into Bruges soon after dusk.

At daylight, he was on the crowded road again, this time towards

Ghent, where the other correspondents had established their

headquarters. There had been one topic at Bruges. The wonderful

English army was over and fighting! It had all been so swift and

silent. The Germans were furious and amazed. They had orders to

wipe out the contemptible little army. Nearing Ghent there were

signs of war. Ambulance vans swept by, in them inert swathed

figures, mud-stained and pallid. The environs of Ghent were choked

with cars, lorries, refugees, detachments of men on the march.

John found his colleagues at the long low Hotel de la Poste in the

Place d'Armes. There was Tompkins of the _Standard_, tall, lean, and

depressed with the hopelessness of it all; and V. E. A. Stevenson,

the veteran, who had seen ten wars, and hated them all. He was a

cynic, a pacifist and a revolutionary. He derived grim satisfaction

when ardent Belgians mistook him, with his red, weather-beaten face,

trim beard and white hair, and breast blazing with war ribbons, for

an English general. He suffered them to embrace him ecstatically,

and sighed for his home at Hampstead,--"built out of the blood of the

Boers," he explained grimly. Trevor of the _Times_ walked about

morose and self-important; the heavy brow of Willing of the _Express_

was seen towering above every group of Belgian generals. He had a

miraculous knowledge of the disposition of the armies, and they

consulted him as a general staff. Also, genial, and an optimist to

the core, Biddings of _Reuter_ walked about the lounge in carpet

slippers. He refused to go out. What was the good of running about

the highways and the byways? Every general and person who was

somebody came to the hotel. He picked their brains--"very poor

rubbish heaps"--gathered up the gossip and at tea-time had such a

store that the weary, muddy colleagues were glad to barter news. He

was more eloquent, despite an impediment, with the poker in his

hands, when, with the cinders, he would show why the Germans could

not possibly get to Paris.

On the third day after John's arrival, Phipps turned up. He had been

in the thick of it, at Termond and Alost. He had had no food, was

nervy and on the verge of a breakdown. His eagle features were

sharper than ever, and his brain wonderfully alert. His despatches

had created something of a sensation in England, not only for their

news, but also for the humanity, the tenderness running through his

vivid epics of suffering and incredible heroism. He was in Paris

when the war broke out, moved up with the French armies, had been

with the British Army in its great stand at Mons, had dragged back

through that dogged retreat, "a bloody terrible business,

Dean--walking on torn flesh all the way,"--and had passed on into

Belgium.

"God--how I hate it--it's insensate, blowing all these splendid lads

to atoms, for what?" he cried.

"For England," said Trevor, with disapproving dignity.

"England! Rubbish!" snapped Phipps. "They're giving the same reason

in Germany, Russia, Austria, Serbia--the same fierce old women are

brow-beating every timid lad, and the same stupid, red-faced Generals

are sitting at mess while their puppets are pulverised with something

they can't see, which doesn't give them a dog's chance before

bespattering the turf with their brains! If this is civilisation,

why--" he broke off as though realising the futility of everything.

"I suppose we shall have to go on writing as if it were a football

match, and be censored every time we hint at such a thing as spilt

blood or a nasty mess."

He walked out, even more pallid, and went up to his bedroom where he

hammered out a long despatch on his "Corona." Eight other

correspondents were doing the same thing in other bedrooms. For an

hour there was a rapid clatter of typewriter keys. At five o'clock

the despatch rider left for the Signal Station, whence their

despatches crossed the wires overnight, in time for the Englishman's

breakfast table. Curiously, those at home knew more than these

correspondents. They explored a corner, oblivious of the fate of the

world beyond. In England every morning the public watched the ugly

black snake marked on the map, as it slowly curled its way towards

Paris. In a top left hand corner another black line closed in upon

Antwerp and crept along the coast towards Ostend.

"We shall have to move out soon," said Riddings. "The streets are

choked to-day with ambulances--that's a sure sign." Every night

sleep was broken by the incessant roar of guns, and the night sky

flickered and quivered. Those were the days when the name of Liége

was on every tongue. Could General Leman hold out? Then came news

of a terrible massacre at Malines. The name sang in John's heart

like a bell. Muriel--was she there? Had she remained and met the

German invasion, or where was she? He wired to the Vernleys'

beseeching news. That same day a shell fell into the town. The

British had marched through St. Nicolas; the fate of Antwerp hung in

the balance, the black snake was closing in on Ghent and curling

upwards towards the coast.