THE FIRST TASTE OF FAME
At first he scarcely recognised her. He had seen her last in furs,
to-day she seemed like a delicate dream of Springtime. She wore a white
spotless muslin gown, whose exquisite simplicity had been the triumph of
a French artiste. Her hat, large and drooping, was a vision of pink
roses and soft creamy lace. There was a dainty suggestion of colour
about her throat--only the sunlight seemed to discover when she moved
the faint glinting green beneath the transparent folds of her gown.
She came over to Douglas with outstretched hands, and he was bewildered,
for she had not smiled upon him like this once during that long journey
to London.
"So it is I who have had to come to you," she exclaimed, taking his
hands in hers. "May I sit down and talk for a little while? I am so
glad--every one is glad--that you are better."
He laughed, a little oddly.
"Every one? Why I could count on the fingers of one hand the people
with whom I have spoken since I came to London."
She nodded.
"Yes," she said, "but to-day you could not count in an hour the people
who know you. You are very fortunate. You have made a wonderful start.
You have got over all your difficulties so easily."
"So easily?" He smiled again and then shuddered. She looked into his
face, and she too felt like shuddering.
"You do not know," he said. "No one will ever know what it is like--to
go under--to be saved as it were by a miracle."
"You suffered, I know," she murmured, "but you gained a wonderful
experience."
"You do not understand," he said, in a low tone. "No one will ever
understand."
"You could have saved yourself so much," she said regretfully, "if you
had kept your promise to come and see me.
"I could not," he answered. "I lost your address. It went into the
Thames with an old coat the very night I reached London. But for that I
should have come and begged from you."
"You would have made me famous," she answered laughing. "I should have
claimed the merit of discovering you."
He looked puzzled.
"Of course you know," she said, "how every one has been reading those
wonderful articles of yours in the Courier? You are very fortunate.
You have made a reputation at one sitting."
He shook his head.
"A fleeting one, I am afraid. I can understand those articles seeming
lifelike. You see I wrote them almost literally with my blood. It was
my last effort. I was starving, poisoned with horrors, sick to death of
the brutality of life."
"Things had gone so hardly with you then?" she murmured.
He nodded.
"From the first. I came to London as an adventurer, it is true. I knew
no one, and I had no money. But the editor of the _Ibex_ had written me
kindly, had accepted a story and asked for more. Yet when I went to see
him he seemed to have forgotten or repented. He would not give me a
hearing. Even the story he had accepted he told me he could not use for
a long time--and I was relying upon the money for that. That was the
beginning of my ill-luck, and afterwards it never left me."
She sat for a moment with a look in her deep, soft eyes which he could
not understand. Afterwards he thought of it and wondered. It passed
away very soon, and she bent towards him with her face full of sympathy.
"It has left you now," she said softly, "and for ever. Do you know I
have come to take you for a drive? The doctor says that it will do you
good."
With a curious sense of unreality he followed her downstairs, and took
the vacant seat in the victoria. It was all so much like a dream, like
one of those wonderful visions which had come to him at times in the
days of his homeless wanderings. Surely it was an illusion. The
luxurious carriage, the great horses with their silver-mounted harness,
the servants in their smart liveries, and above all, this beautiful
woman, who leaned back at his side, watching him often with a sort of
gentle curiosity. At first he sat still, quite dazed, his senses a
little numbed, the feeling of unreality so strong upon him that he was
almost tongue-tied. But presently the life of the streets awakened him.
It was all so fascinating and alluring. They were in a part of London
of which he had seen little--and that little from the gutters. To-day
in the brilliant sunshine, in clothes better than any he had ever worn
before, and side by side with a woman whom every one seemed honoured to
know, he looked upon it with different eyes. They drove along Bond
Street at a snail's pace and stopped for a few minutes at one of the
smaller galleries, where she took him in to see a wonderful Russian
picture, about which every one was talking. Fancying that he looked
tired she insisted upon tea, and they stopped at some curious little
rooms, and sat together at a tiny table drinking tea with sliced lemons,
and eating strawberries such as he had never seen before. Then on again
to the Park, where they pulled up under the trees, and she waved
constantly away the friends who would have surrounded her carriage. One
or two would not be denied, and to all of them she introduced
Jesson--the young writer--they had seen that wonderful work of his in
the _Daily Courier_, of course? He took no part in any conversation more
than he could help, leaning back amongst the cushions with the white
lace of her parasol close to his cheek, watching the faces of the men
and women who streamed by, and the great banks of rhododendrons dimly
seen lower down through the waving green trees. The murmur of pleasant
conversation fell constantly upon his ears--surely that other world was
part of an evil dream, a relic of his delirium. Heaven and hell could
never exist so close together. But by-and-bye, when they drove off she
herself brought the truth home to him.
"Do you know," she said, "this afternoon I have had an idea? Some day I
hope so much that it may come true. Do you mind if I tell it you? It
concerns yourself."
"Tell me, of course," he said.
"You have written so wonderfully of that terrible world beneath--that
world whose burden we would all give so much to lighten. You have
written so vividly that every one knows that you yourself have been
there. Presently--not now, of course--but some day I would have you
write of life as we see it about us to-day--of the world beautiful--and
I would have you illustrate it as one who has lived in it, drunk of its
joys, even as one of its happiest children. Think what a wealth of
great experiences must lie between the two extremes! It is what you
would wish for--you, to whom the study of your fellow-creatures is the
chosen pursuit of life."
He smiled at her thoughtfully.
"I do not know," he replied, "but I should think very few in this world
are ever permitted to pass behind both canopies. To me it seems
impossible that I should have ceased so suddenly to be a denizen of the
one, and even more impossible that I should ever have caught a glimpse
of the other."
"You will not always say so," she murmured. "You have everything in
your favour now--youth, strength, experience, and reputation."
"Even then," he answered, "I doubt whether I still possess the capacity
for happiness. I feel at times as though what had gone before had
frozen the blood in my veins."
"Your friends" she said, "must make up to you for the past.
Forgetfulness is sometimes hardly won, but it is never an
impossibility."
"My friends? My dear lady, I do not possess one."
She raised her parasol. Her wonderful eyes sought his, her
delicately-gloved hand rested for a moment lightly upon his palm.
"And what am I?" she asked softly.
He was only human, and his heart beat the faster for that gentle touch
and the gleam in her eyes. She was so beautiful, so unlike any other
woman with whom he had ever spoken.
"Have I any right to call you my friend?" he faltered.
"Have you any right," she answered brightly, "to call me anything
else?"
"I wonder what makes you so kind to me," he said.
"I liked you from the moment you jumped into the railway carriage" she
replied, "in those ridiculous clothes, and with a face like a ghost.
Then I liked your independence in refusing to come and be helped along,
and since I have read your--but we won't talk about that, only if you
have really no friends, let me be your first."
No wonder his brain felt a little dizzy. They were driving through the
great squares now, and already he began to wonder with a dull regret how
much longer it was to last. Then at a corner they came face to face
with Drexley. He was walking moodily along, but at the sight of them he
stopped short upon the pavement. Emily de Reuss bowed and smiled.
Drexley returned the salute with a furious glance at her companion. He
felt like a man befooled. Douglas, too, sat forward in the carriage, a
bright spot of colour in his cheeks.
"You know that man?" he said.
She assented quietly.
"Yes, I have met him. He is the editor of the _Ibex_."
Douglas remembered the bitterness of that interview and Rice's
amazement, but he said nothing. He leaned back with half closed eyes.
After all perhaps it had been for the best. Yet Drexley's black look
puzzled him.