_Which discovers something of Despised Poetry in a Waste-paper Basket_
Noll, the door having closed on Betty’s skirts, took his way in the
darkness of the lamp-lit night towards Soho.
He turned to his most loyal and closest friend to secure him as witness
to his marriage.
As he went, the young fellow forestalled in his mind all the questions
that Gomme’s searching humour might ask. Why was he going to Paris? He
scarcely knew. He had some vague idea that he must see life before the
creative gift of artistry could be his. He had some even more vague
idea that he would see such life in Paris. His instinct told him that
life would be easier for Betty there--she would not suffer slight. He
knew that life would be gayer at a far smaller price. His young blood
was jumping for a change.
He must be moving--doing.
He roused at Gomme’s doorway, ran up the steps, and rang the bell.
The house was in gloomy darkness, and, the door being opened, there
stepped into the resulting blackness the grim grey figure of Netherby’s
mother.
“Ah, Mrs. Gomme, how are you?”
The youth hailed her, and entered the hall. And he added, as the door
was closed behind him:
“You look unhappy, Mrs. Gomme.”
The old lady sighed:
“I am feeling a little lonely, Noll.”
“Isn’t Netherby in?” he asked.
Her mouth shut firmly:
“No,” she said.
“Gone out?”
“Gone out,” she answered grimly.
“Do you know where?”
“No,” she said. “He has gone to meet some fool of a girl.”
Noll whistled:
“Oho!” said he.
“Quite so.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Who?” asked Noll.
“God only knows. But come in here, Noll,” said the old lady; and
led him into her little sitting-room. She lit the gas; went to her
writing-table; took a rumpled piece of paper out of a drawer, and
handed it to Noll.
Noll smoothed out the piece of paper, glanced at the grim old face
before him from under his brows; and read:
“There’s glory in my dear love’s hair,
Sweet fragrance hath great part in it;
The threads have caught my feet in lair,
And tangled is my heart in it.
The beckoning laughter in her eyes
(With the shy look therein)
Now wins me to her, then denies
The sweet lips and the chin....”
The old lady watched the reading keenly.
When it was finished, she said:
“I found that in his waste-paper basket.”
“Oh, fie! Mrs. Gomme!”
Noll handed her back the sheet of crumpled paper.
The old lady flung it into the fire; she sat down in her armchair and
watched it burn.
Noll smiled:
“Ah, Mrs. Gomme--when a man is in love with a woman he does not write
poetry about it--he does it. When a man writes poetry about love, he is
not in love with love, but with reputation.”
The old lady shook her head grimly:
“If it began like _that_,” said she, unheeding of arguments, and
jealous, brooding still--“what must the rest have been like?”
Noll laughed, and put his hand on the old lady’s shoulder:
“Ah! Mrs. Gomme--the girl has probably followed your example--you see,
the last generation set such a bad example in these things....”