No such friendships had come his way, and when he turned his thoughts

more closely to the subject he could not imagine that he would be likely

to happen upon such a one. Beyond the intermittent flashes of Uncle

Clem’s society there had been no one with whom he could discuss his real

feelings and emotions. Pride, and desire to excel, had kept him from

seeking Uncle Clem when the mood of loneliness was upon him. He, as it

were, saved up that friendship for the great days ahead. The few

occasions when he had sought to quicken intimacy from acquaintance had

invariably led to nothing. Once a young actor asked him to share an idle

hour or two, and before they arrived at the end of the street stopped at

the door of a public-house and invited him to enter.

“Let’s get primed—what do you say?”

And Wynne said, “Need we? I don’t drink for a hobby.”

“Care for a game of pills?”

“Not very much.”

“Well, what _do_ you care about?”

The suggestion that in order to be entertained one must either drink or

play billiards made Wynne laugh, and since no man cares to have his more

serious pleasures ridiculed, the young actor snorted, and left him to

spend the rest of the evening alone.

Possibly it was loneliness which directed Wynne once more to seek

employment upon the stage. In the play in which he appeared he was given

the part of a hot-potato man who was on the stage for only a few

moments.

To perfect the detail for this rôle he made the acquaintance of a real

example of this calling, and spent many midnight hours talking with the

old fellow and warming himself before the pleasant coke fire.

Wynne discovered that there was a deal of philosophy to be gleaned in

this manner. Thereafter he became well known to many of the strange,

quiet men who feed the hungry in queer, out-of-the-way corners of the

sleeping city.

On Sundays he would go to Petticoat Lane, or pry into the private lives

of the outcasts of Norfolk House. The East End fascinated him, with its

mixture of old customs and new—its spice of adventure and savour of

Orientalism. Many of the folk with whom he conversed were strangely

illuminating. After an initial period of distrust and suspicion they

would open out and disgorge some startling views on life and matters in

general. They spoke of anarchy and crime and confinements as their more

civilized brothers of the West spoke of the brand of cigarettes they

preferred. The elemental side of these men’s natures, being so totally

dissimilar from his own, made a profound impression upon Wynne. Their

attitude toward women amazed and perplexed him. The phrase, “_my_

woman,” with its solid, possessive, animal note, was original to the

ears. It suggested an entirely different attitude from the one he had

observed in France, the one so alive with thrill and volatile desire.

“_My_ woman!” he repeated it over to himself as he plodded homeward

through the dark streets. He said it experimentally with the same

inflection that had been used—and yet to him it was only an inflection.

He could not conceive a circumstance in which he would naturally stress

the “my,” or would actually feel the possessive impulse to make it

inevitable.

“She’s _my_ woman,” the man had said, when telling his story—“_my_

woman, d’y’hear?” Followed an oathy description of a chair and table

fight, a beer bottle broken across a bedrail and used as a

dagger—something, that was once a man, carried in the arms of a

trustworthy few and hidden in a murky doorway a couple of streets

distant.

It was hard to imagine such a coming about at the dictates of a

convention of sex. If a woman inclined to sin with another man, let

her—what did it matter? Fidelity was of very little consequence. Common

reason proved it to be a myth. Yet men committed murder that

fidelity—physical fidelity—might be preserved. That’s what it amounted

to. But did it? That possessive “my” argued a greater and more masterful

motive—something beyond mere moral adherences.

“_My_ woman!” Very perplexing!

“But I suppose I would fight to the death for my ideals—whatever they

may be.”

With sudden force it struck Wynne that he should define his ideals, and

know precisely at what he aimed. It was good for a man to be certain of

those things for which he would be prepared to lay down his life.

He set himself the task of writing down what his ideals actually were,

and in so doing failed horribly. What he wrote was inconclusive and

embryonic. To a reader it would have conveyed little or nothing. There

was a hint of some ambition, but nothing more. It showed the target of

his hopes in the pupal stage. The grammatical perfection with which he

wrote only added melancholy to the failure.

“My God!” exclaimed Wynne, “I can’t even write a specification of what I

want to do.”

VI

The play in which Wynne figured as a hot-potato man was not a success,

and there followed a period in which he found no work, and very

considerable hardship. Then his fortunes turned a trifle, and to reward

himself for all he had endured he took new rooms at the top of a house

near Tottenham Court Road, and spent all his money buying furniture and

queer odds and ends of brass and Oriental china. It was the first time

he had indulged in the luxury of agreeable appointments, and it gave him

tremendous pleasure. The furniture he bought was true to its period,

though time and the worm had bitten deep beneath the blackened surfaces.

He bought in the Caledonian Market or little known streets, and took a

fierce pride in bartering for his prizes. These he would bring home upon

his head, or, if their size defeated his powers, would push them before

him on a greengrocer’s barrow. For pieces of _vertu_ he possessed a sure

and infallible eye, and a remarkable sense for disposing them to the

best advantage.

On the mantelpiece of the attic sitting-room he achieved successfully

what, years before, he had failed to do in his father’s home. A note of

colour from a cracked Kin Lung bowl, a fillip of light from a battered

copper kettle, a slanting pile of beautifully-bound books, and the thing

was done.

There was no struggle after effect, but the effect was there as if by

nature—the right things had found their rightful abiding place.

He found writing easier in these surroundings. Hitherto his eye had

inevitably fallen upon some hideous object or picture, unthinkingly

bought and disastrously disposed in relation to its neighbours—then his

thoughts would travel away, lose the thread of their reasoning, or

become involved in futile speculation upon other folks’ perverted

tastes. But here it was different: here there were no disturbing

influences, nothing but a pleasant, restful simplicity.

Mrs. Mommet, the bed-shaker, who, for a very small wage, gave Wynne an

equally small measure of time, did not share his high opinions of

himself as a decorator.

“I don’t know ’ow you can put up with the place,” she said, shaking her

head sadly over the pail of dirty water which was her constant

companion. “It gives me the creeps every time I comes into it. That ole

table, y’know. Well, it _looks_ as if it was a ’undred years old.”

“It’s a great deal more,” said Wynne.

“There you are, y’see! Why you don’t git a nice cloth and cover it up

beats me!”

“Roundheads drank at that table,” said Wynne.

“Fat-’eads, more like—nowhere for your knees or anything. And the

walls, too! My ole man does a bit o’ paper-’anging to oblige in ’is

spare time. I dessay ’e’d ’ang a piece for you, to oblige.”

“He would oblige me very much by doing nothing of the kind.”

“Thet’s silly—that is. No one can’t like plain walls when they can ’ave

’em floral. Not so much as a picture anywhere! W’y don’t you pin up a

few photos?”

“Don’t possess any, and I—”

“Well, if that’s all, I dessay I could give you a few. Liknesses, they’d

be—not views. You could ’ave any one of my pore Minnie o’o was took.”

Wynne did not want to offend the woman, but was forced to safeguard his

own peace of mind.

“You ought not to give them away in the circumstances,” he said.

Fortunately Mrs. Mommet did not press the offer. She had some views to

express in relation to “nice plush curtains,” which Wynne hastily

discouraged.

“Oh, well, you must please yourself, I s’pose. Gentlemen never do ’ave

any taste, as the sayin’ is. Still, it’s no small wonder you look

poorly, and yer face is as white as the under-side of a lemon sole.”

The description was apt. Wynne’s features were certainly of a lifeless

hue. The long hours, the poor food, and the never-ending mental activity

had sapped a full measure of his youth. No one would have placed his age

at twenty-three, yet twenty-three summers were all that he held to his

credit. One might have guessed him nearer forty—and a none too hearty

forty either. Only his eyes were young—young and greedily active—for

ever assessing and assimilating, but this seemed to detract from, rather

than add to, his youth.

Yet despite his frailty and general suggestion of weakness, Wynne could,

upon occasion, develop startling energy. He used his brain as the

driving force which overcame his feebleness, and bade his muscles

undertake tasks out of all proportion to their ability. On one occasion

he carried an armchair, weighing nearly a hundredweight, for three

miles, a task which a strong man might well have failed to accomplish.

His power lay in the will to do, and a form of obstinate courage which

defied all obstacles.

“I am glad you said soul,” he said, “for I have long believed that to be

the only thing that matters.”

Mrs. Mommet shook her head.

“I was talkin’ of fishmonger’s, not parson’s souls,” she replied; “but

if you ask me, I should say firce look after the body, and the soul’ll

look after itself. Same as the ole sayin’ ’bout the pennies and the

poun’s. If you was to feed your body up a bit, ’stead o’ wastin’ money

on ole cracked plates, books and whatnot, you’d be doing yerself more

good, you would.”

“Depends on the point of view.”

“I know I can’t never do nothin’ if I neglect my bit o’ nourishment.”

“Nor I, but you work with your body and I with my brain. That’s why we

stock our larders with different fare. There’s mine yonder.” He tilted

his head toward the crowded bookcases.

“Lot o’ nonsense! Ole books!”

“Don’t despise them, please.”

“I don’t; but a book’s a thing for after dinner, not to make yer dinner

off of, like you do. Wonder is you ’aven’t more pride in yerself.”

“Pride?” He was quite startled.

“A young feller like wot you are lettin’ ’imself go to pieces like the

lilies in the field, or whatever the sayin’ is. ’Ow d’you s’pose you’ll

ever take the fancy of a young woman lookin’ like you do? You wouldn’t

never do it.”

Wynne smiled. “Is it only the dressed ox which can go to the altar?” he

asked.

“I donno nothin’ ’bout dressed oxes, but I do know as any young woman of

spirit looks for a man with a bit of blood in ’im. After all, nature’s

nature, y’know, with Christian or ’eathen alike, and there’s no gettin’

away from it.”

“You should write a treatise on Eugenics,” said Wynne, and escaped to

the solitude of his bedroom.

PART FIVE

EVE

I

During a rehearsal of a new play in which he was engaged Wynne noticed

Eve Dalry. She was walking-on in the crowd, and did not seem of a piece

with the other girls. When her scene was over she slipped away to a

quiet corner and produced a book. Finding the required page, she shook

her head as though to banish other considerations, seated herself on an

upturned box, and began to read with great absorption.

Partly from curiosity to see the title of the book Wynne moved toward

her. Carlyle’s “Heroes and Hero Worship.” A queer choice for a girl to

make, he thought, and wondered how much she understood. For awhile he

stood behind her glancing at a paragraph here and there, and watching

the careful way she turned over a page, then turned it back again to

reread and reconsider some passage not wholly understood. He was unused

to women who read so seriously, and, despite the semi-cynical smile at

the corners of his mouth, her studiousness impressed him.

Presently, impelled by a new and curious familiarity, he drew a long,

tapered forefinger over the straight, thin parting in her hair. She

looked up slowly, as though his action had been scarcely enough to

distract her attention.

“I like the shape of your head,” he found himself saying in reply to the

query in her eyes, “it is the kind of vessel which is never empty. The

square of your chin, too, is so very right. One seldom sees the two

together.”

She met the critical survey with equal candour.

“I have been liking your head,” she said, “but not the chin. Its—”

She drew a slanting line in the air.

“I know,” he nodded; “but it’s not significant.”

“I meant that—insignificant.”

Wynne was not at his best when humour turned against him. His smile and

his frown struck a balance.

“I could quote the names of a dozen brilliant men who did not carry

their strength or wit in the lower half of their faces, and illustrate

my instances at the National Portrait Gallery.”

“Are you brilliant?” There was no barb to the question.

“It pleases me to think so.”

“One wonders, then, why you are doing this little jobbery in a theatre.”

“Yes, that’s reasonable enough. I wonder, too, sometimes. I suppose I

was hungry when I took the engagement.”

“This is not your real work, then?”

“I hardly know what my real work is, but it is not in the market. In

theory real work never should be in the market.”

“‘And no one shall work for money

And no one shall work for fame,’”

quoted Eve.

“Spare me from Kipling. It is so disheartening to find one’s views

supported by quotations.”

“I’m not so advanced as that. I’m rather proud of quotations—I look on

them as medals for reading.”

He made an intolerant gesture.

“But no sane persons show their medals.”

“While I’m young I had rather not be altogether sane.”

“Good! I take back sanity. It’s the worst asset an artist can possess.”

She looked at him with a faint, intricate smile.

“You are easy to catch out,” she said.

“Possibly. I don’t aspire to be a cricketer. Indeed, cricket stands for

all I dislike most. Cricket is an Englishman’s notion of the proper

conduct of life—a game with rules. If he resists seducing a friend’s

wife it is because to do so is not cricket.”

“Do you favour his doing so?”

“Not I—but it depends on the mood and the man, and the attraction. I

simply do not admit the existence of cricket in these matters.”

“Do you know,” said Eve, “you seem to me to be expressing ideas and not

thoughts. Tell me, what is your real work?”

“I assume that one day I shall know, but I don’t know yet. If I were to

say painting—writing—talking—acting—I should be equally right. I

have searched the dictionaries in vain to find a word to describe

myself. The verb ‘to lead’ is the nearest approach. I think, by nature,

I am the centre of a circle—a circle that is even widening. Sounds

absurd, doesn’t it?—to lead from the centre of a circle.”

The conviction and frankness with which he discussed himself was

remarkable, and, strangely enough, not offensive. He possessed a quality

of magnetism which robbed his words of half their arrogance. Eve allowed

her eyes to travel over him with calm interest. His clothes were

careless and shabby, his collar too big, and his cuffs frayed; his tie

seemed anywhere but in the right place. At the first glance she saw he

was ill-nourished, and felt an immediate impulse to feed him up with

possets and strong beef tea. Frailty excites kindly resolves from the

generous-hearted. She found his features attractive, despite their

irregularity, and his eyes appealed to her enormously. They were such

plucky eyes, eyes that would look the world in the face unfalteringly

and support with impertinent courage the wildest views which the mobile,

cynical, and weak mouth might choose to utter.

When anything pleased her, Eve laughed—not so much a laugh of amusement

as a purr of satisfaction. The unusual appealed to her, and beyond all

doubt Wynne Rendall was unusual. Hers were plucky eyes too. They rested

frankly, and seemed to read the meanings of what they reflected. Eve had

a broad forehead, straight brows, and clean-cut, clearly defined

features. Her mouth was sweet and tolerant; to borrow from a painter’s

terminology, it was a beautifully drawn mouth. One felt she would be

very sure in all her dealings—analytic and purposeful. Hers was not a

present-day face, but belonged rather to the period of the old

Florentine Masters.

For quite a while these two young people surveyed each other with calm

appreciation, and presently Wynne broke the silence.

“You are a new type to me,” he said—“a perplexing type. I’ve seen you

on canvas, but never in the flesh. Something of Leonardo’s Lucretia! We

might see more of each other, I think.”

“Yes,” she said.

He was about to speak again when the leading man came through a door in

the canvas scene and moved toward them. In an instant Wynne pulled down

the corners of his mouth pathetically.

“Oh dear! I must go.”

“Why? Your scene is a long way ahead.”

“I know, but here’s K. G. If I stayed he might think I wanted to talk to

him—and I don’t.”

Eve understood the feeling very well. Those whose future is all to make

are wary and resentful of patronage, and often needlessly shun the

society of others more successful than themselves. None is more jealous

of his pride than the climber.

She allowed Wynne to depart unhindered, and presently the eminent K. G.

came near enough to condescend a “Good morning.”

“Been talking to young Rendall?” he queried.

She nodded.

“A queer boy—quite a clever actor—quite! A good sense of character!”

“Very.”

“Know him well?”

“About five minutes.”

“Oh, yes—yes. Sadly opinionated! Notice it?”

“He has opinions, certainly.”

“H’m! Never get on—people with too many views. He won’t learn—clever

enough in himself, but won’t learn from others.”

“I rather thought he had learnt a good deal from others.”

“Oh no—most inaccessible.”

“Does that mean he wouldn’t learn from you?” she inquired, very frankly.

K. G. looked down in mild surprise. Young ladies who are “walking-on”

should agree with and not interrogate those lofty beings whose salaries

are paid by cheque. But this young lady ignored the principle, and

seemed to expect an answer.

“Yes,” he replied, very frankly. “Of course it’s his own affair if he

cares to ignore the advice of—well—” Modesty forbade the mention of

his own name, and he finished the sentence by a gesture.

“Of course it is,” said Eve.

K. G. frowned. The conversation was not proceeding on orthodox lines.

“Still, as I say, young men of that sort do not get on.”

“I can’t see why. Perhaps he thought you could teach him nothing.”

It was the protective mother instinct compelled the words. The remark

annoyed K. G. excessively. It was not, however, his habit to vent

irritation upon a woman, even though she might be its original cause,

consequently he attacked Wynne Rendall.

“He is a fellow who wants a good kicking, and has never had it.”

“A man always wants to kick what he cannot understand,” said Eve.

To defend some one who is absent from the attacks of a third person is a

sure basis upon which friendships are established. When Eve returned to

her little bed-sitting-room after the rehearsal, Wynne Rendall occupied

a large share of her thoughts.

“I like him,” she said to herself. “He’s all wrong in all sorts of ways,

but there’s something tremendous about him in spite of that—and I like

him.”

She fell to wondering how he had arrived at what he was, what queer

turns of circumstance or inclination had aged the youth from him. With

quickening sympathy she recalled his sunken cheeks, the nervous

sensitive movements of his hands and head.

“Looks as if he never had enough to eat. I’m sure he doesn’t eat

enough.”

Then she laughed, for in her own existence eating did not enter very

largely. A salary of one pound one shilling per week does not admit of

extravagant _menus_. A woman can keep the roses of her cheeks flowering

upon very little. With a man it is different. A man, to be a man, must

set his teeth in solid victuals, or nature denied will deny.

She thought over her exchange with the leading man, and was glad she had

stood up for Wynne. It offended her that a fat, luxurious fellow should

say what he chose, and imagine himself immune from counter-attack on

account of his position in the company. She would not have been at ease

with her conscience if she had acted otherwise. In the circumstances Eve

did not prosper well with her reading that night. “Heroes and Hero

Worship” was cast aside to make room for other considerations.

At the rehearsal next day it was with almost a proprietary interest she

responded to Wynne’s flickering greeting.

“You are making a reputation,” he said, and added, “by the easiest way.”

“What way is that?”

“Being frank with your superiors.”

“Is it easy?”

“Assuredly—if you have the courage. Most people are content to accept

their superiors as being superior. Invert the principle—tell an

accepted success you consider him an ass—and you create an immediate

interest in yourself.”

“It wasn’t my reason,” said Eve.

“Wasn’t it?” He seemed quite surprised.

“No. He annoyed me, and I showed him I was annoyed.”

“You were sincere, then?”

“Of course.”

“How queer of you.”

“Why queer?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It seems so odd to be sincere with a man like that.

Are you often sincere?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

“Inside I am. Been at the stage long?”

“This is the beginning.”

“The egg stage?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, where do you live?”

“A room—anywhere.”

“You’ve no people, then?”

“None to whom I matter—or who matter to me.”

“I know. D’you know I was afraid you might have been rich and

comfortable.”

Eve fingered a piece of her dress and held it out.

“Eight-three a yard, and made at home.”

“There are rich women who disguise themselves.”

“I am not one. I have king’s treasures, that is all.”

“A row of books over your bed, h’m.”

“That was clever,” she smiled.

“I could guess the authors.”

“Try.”

“Meredith—Browning—Hardy—Wendell Holmes.”

“Pretty good—especially Meredith.”

“You mustn’t overdo Meredith—he is a cult, not an author. You’re

intricate—with the ‘Diana’ courage, and that’s dangerous. If you care

to borrow I have some books. Come and choose a few.”

“May I? I should like that.”

“Come tonight?”

“It’s the first night of the play.”

“I’d forgotten. Well”—with a sudden impulse—“why not after it is

over?”

“If you like.”

He rubbed his chin with his long, sensitive fingers, and nodded

approvingly.

“You’d make a friend,” he said.

He could say things very attractively when he chose. The remark was a

compliment to Eve and her sex.

II

Wynne’s part ended with the first act, but he waited at the stage door

till the close of the play. Presently Eve came out and joined him.

Very small she looked wrapped in a long brown coat, with her hands

tucked in the pockets. She wore a little close-fitting hat which

accentuated the oval of her gravely piquant face.

“Which way?” she asked.

“Through Covent Garden, if we walk. Be jollier to walk, I think, don’t

you?”

He suddenly remembered when last he had put the same question, and

almost flushed at the memory. Then, as now, he had been seeking a

friend. He had been a long time finding one.

“Yes, much,” said Eve. “I always walk back. I like it, and it saves the

pennies.”

“I like it, and try not to remember that it saves the pennies,” he

remarked whimsically. “’Tisn’t bad being poor when one doesn’t mean to

be poor for ever. I have tremendous beliefs that this is only a passing

stage, haven’t you?”

“A valley?”

“Yes, which in passing through gives us the answer to all manner of whys

and wherefores.”

Eve nodded. “What a queer old street!” she said. “I haven’t been this

way before.”

“There’s a coffee stall at the corner where I buy provender; that’s why

I brought you. There it is.”

They stopped at the stall, with the proprietor of which Wynne seemed on

excellent terms, and bought some hard-boiled eggs, “balls of chalk” as

they are familiarly called.

“A friend to every one that man is,” said Wynne as they proceeded on

their way. “Does all manner of good turns to the queer folk whose

business keeps ’em abroad late. He lent me three suppers once, at a time

when I needed them badly.”

From a glowing oven on wheels nearer his lodging they bought baked

potatoes.

“Put one in each pocket. Finest things in the world to keep your hands

warm.” As she followed his advice he nodded encouragingly.

“That’s the way. It’s a fire and a good dinner all in one. I’ve a very

great regard for a baked potato; it’s the president of the republic of

vegetables, as the hot pie is the dowager queen of confectionery.”

“What do you call a hot pie?”

“Just that! They used to be cooked in the streets in little portable

ovens. Did you never meet a pieman?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Daresay not, for the last one died two years ago. A fine fellow he was.

I went to his funeral.”

“I’d love to have seen a real pieman. Didn’t Simple Simon meet one going

to a fair?”

“So it’s said.”

“And now they’ve all gone for ever. How sad!”

“Tell you what,” exclaimed Wynne, “there’s an old man Richmond way who

sells hot turnovers. When the spring comes we might ’bus down there,

have a walk in the park, and munch turnovers in the night on the way

home.”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

Very ordinary affairs assume a delicate outline when approached in a

romantic spirit. The idea of eating turnovers on the top of a ’bus does

not sound very attractive, and yet to Wynne, as he suggested it, and to

Eve as she listened, the promised expedition seemed full of the happiest

possibilities. They felt the touch of a spring breeze blowing in their

hair, and saw the whitey-green of the new leaves, and the blue sky turn

to a lavender in which the stars appeared. Almost they could taste the

good baked crust and the sour-sweet apples of the midnight feast.

“D’you know,” said Eve, “I think, of all things in the world, the most

glorious are those we mean to do.”

They stopped before an old Queen Anne house, and producing a latchkey

Wynne unlocked the door.

“Top floor,” he said, “and rather a climb.”

They mounted the creaky stairs, and he was puffing gustily when they

reached the top landing. For a young man he seemed unduly exhausted.

Striking a light on his boot, he entered and lit a shaded lamp.

“Take off your hat and I’ll get the fire going. Look! I must have paid

the rent, for it is actually laid.”

Eve smiled as he went down on his knees before a tiny basket grate, then

let her gaze travel round the room. Inset, in the damp-stained slanting

roof, were two gable windows, broad silled and littered with books and

papers. Before one of these was a writing table, dilapidated but

glorious with age; this, too, was liberally sprinkled with half-written

manuscripts, pens, cigarette ends, and the jumble of odds and ends with

which a man surrounds himself. A small Jacobean table stood in the

middle of the uncarpeted floor, a tarnished copper bowl, battered but

still shapely, giving tone to its dark fissured surface. Two age-worn

grandfather chairs were drawn up near the fire. In each recess in the

walls was a bookcase, piled ceiling-high with books. A couple of Holbein

prints, and an unframed Albrecht Dürer completed the decoration. It was

a shabby, unkempt room, yet, like its owner, it possessed individuality

and charm.

“I like this,” said Eve. “I’m glad I came.”

“You like it. I thought you would—hoped so, too. I’ve never shown it to

any one else. It is good though, isn’t it? Try that chair. I carried it

back on my head from a ragshop in Holloway Road, and having nearly

deprived me of life it gave it back to me in sweet repose. Take off your

coat first, won’t you? That’s right. Don’t forget the ’taters though.

Thanks! I’ll put ’em on the trivet. Good. Thank God the fire means to

burn. D’you know sometimes I’ve almost cried when it wouldn’t. I can’t

lay a fire, and I loathe to be defeated.”

He began wandering round the room and producing plates and knives from

unexpected quarters. Presently he stopped and puzzled.

“Can you think of a likely place to find the bread?” he asked.

“Where did you see it last?”

“I don’t know. I have meals at all sorts of odd times and places, so one

loses track. Wait a minute, though.”

He disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a loaf and a saucer

with butter on it.

“Breakfasted while I was dressing,” he explained, “or else I had supper

in there over night. I don’t know which—but let’s make a start.”

They feasted very royally off bread and hard-boiled eggs and hot

potatoes and raspberry jam, followed by a pot of tea. The tea they drank

from little Chinese Saki cups without handles.

“I only use these on the especialist occasions,” he announced, adding

with a smile, “In fact I have never used them before.”

“Haven’t you many friends?”

“No. Have you?”

“No.”

“I thought you hadn’t.”

“Why?”

“People with lots of friends don’t like me—but then I don’t like

them—so that’s that—isn’t it. Let’s draw near the fire. The poor

little thing means well, but it can’t reach us at such a distance.”

So they drew up their chairs and talked. They talked of books, of dead

men, and of great ambitions. Under the influence of her society Wynne

seemed to lose much of his arrogance and cynicism. He spoke of the

things he loved naturally and with reverence. Ever and again he would

dart to the shelves for a volume and read some passage to the point of

the subject they had been discussing. Then he would throw it aside and

paraphrase with a clear and almost inspired insight.

“One should always paraphrase,” he said. “One should paraphrase one’s

own thoughts and every one else’s. It’s the sure way of getting down to

basic facts. If I were to produce a play of Shakespeare’s I should make

every actor translate his lines into colloquial schoolboy English. Then

we should know he had his meanings right. Some glimmer of that necessity

occurred to me the first time I went to a theatre, but now I see how

absolutely essential it is.”

The talk always led back to himself. His own ego was the all-important

factor.

“Extraordinary wrong most people are in their ideas!”

“When will you start to put them right?”

He looked at her keenly—on guard lest she should be laughing at him.

But the question was sincere enough.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t believe in beginnings—gradual

ascent, ladder of fame, and all that. Life to me is divided into two

halves—the period of finding out and the period of handing out. I don’t

intend to be a person who is beginning to be spoken of. When I am spoken

of it will be by every one—simultaneously. In the meantime it is better

to be obscure—and absorbent.”

“You want success.”

“I shall have it too.”

“For the world’s sake.”

“Ye-es—and for mine.”

Quarter after quarter boomed out from the neighbouring clocks. It was

after two when Eve rose and took her coat from the nail on the door.

“You going?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I walk with you?”

“No, it isn’t far.”

“Very well—I want to work too. But you’ll come again, won’t you?”

“If I may.”

“’Course you may. You must. You’re an easy person—easier than I’d have

thought possible—you sort of—don’t bother me. Take a Walter Pater with

you. Better for you than Meredith. Treat it gently, though; I starved a

whole week to buy that book.”

She took the white-vellum bound volume, nodded, and tucked it under her

arm.

“Good-night.”

“’Night. You are rather an admirable person.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. A girl is generally frightened to be in a man’s rooms in the

middle of the night.”

“It wouldn’t occur to me to be frightened of you,” said Eve.

“Why not?”

“A man who starved for a week to buy this.” She touched the book under

her arm.

For some reason her gently spoken words piqued him, and he replied:

“Yet I am a man just the same.”

“A man but not the same,” she said, and, smiling, passed out on to the

landing.

She had descended the first flight before he moved and followed her to

the front door.

“I will walk back with you.” It was what any man would have said.

“No, please not. I had rather think of you as the student working for

the day.”

He hesitated—then, “Very well. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

He retraced his steps slowly. The memory of her attitude and her words

puzzled him.

“More like a boy,” he concluded, which if you think it out was a very

fine form of conceit.

His thoughts wandered from his work, and he bit his pen for a long, long

while. His eyes rested unseeingly on the black patch which was the

window.

“More like a boy—much more.”

He nodded to convince himself. After all, the friendship of a boy who is

really a girl is very pleasant.

Never once did it cross his mind how entirely negligible was the

physical side of his nature. A man whose brain works with febrile

intensity night and day, and whose earnings are scarcely sufficient to

buy the meanest fare, knows little or nothing of passionate callings.

Unlike your idle, over-fed fellow whose intellect performs no greater

task than finding excuses for bodily indulgence, the student’s

sensuality lies in words and colour. His worst vice is the prostitution

of an artistic standard.

III

It was the neuter quality in Wynne Rendall which made possible the

all-hour intimacy which came to exist between Eve and himself. She would

come to his rooms, indifferent to time and convention, and stay far into

the night.

Sometimes they conversed little, and then, while he worked or wandered

about in a seemingly aimless fashion, seeking some cherished but elusive

word, she would read, curled up in the age-worn chair. When the talking

mood possessed him she would lay her book aside and contribute

endorsement or censure to his ideas. In this respect her courage was

boundless, for she never hesitated to dispute with him when she felt he

was at fault. He would fight for his mental holdings to the last breath

of argument, then of a sudden swing round and say:

“Yes, I know you are right—but how do you know?”

His extraordinary belief in himself filled her with a queer mixture of

distress and admiration, but the distress was outweighed by the

admiration and the joy she took in their brain to brain fencing or

accord. Their talks, although embracing nearly every subject under the

sun, were, as a rule, impersonal, or rather impersonal in so far as

their relations to one another was concerned.

In common with many folk, Wynne thought more highly of his lesser deeds

than of his greater, and vaunted them enthusiastically. He was

inordinately proud of his truculence and acerbity to men who were more

successful than himself, and took pleasure in recounting the fine-edged

verbal tools he had employed against them. He was mortally offended when

Eve told him frankly the attitude was unworthy and easily misconstrued.

“They only think you are envious,” she said.

“I envious of them? Good God!”

Her frankness had its effect, however, for he modified the

characteristic, and no longer shouted “Yah” at lesser intellects and

longer purses.

Another change she brought about was the matter of diet. Very

drastically she quashed the nibbling habit which with him had taken the

place of meals.

“Wynne,” she said, “what did you have for breakfast?”

“Lord knows. I don’t! Nothing, I expect.”

“Would you like to please me?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I suppose so.”

“You are starving yourself.”

“What nonsense!”

“You are. You won’t be able to stand the strain if you don’t eat

properly.”

“I shan’t if I do,” he replied. “How can I buy books and pay rent and

all that if I lavish my substance on victuals.”

“How much do you spend a week on food?”

“Never thought.”

“Think then.”

“Not I. Look! You haven’t seen this copy of ‘Erewhon,’ have you? It’s a

first edition!”

“I want you to answer my question.”

He tossed his head petulantly.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he implored. “The world is peopled with folk

who worry about these matters; let’s be away from them. You’ll want me

to buy a dinner-gong next so that half the street may know I am sitting

down to table.”

“Perhaps I shall, for I want you to sit at table—regularly.”

He caught the word “regularly,” and played tunes upon it.

“I know,” said Eve, “and I like you for feeling that way—but you are

fighting against nature—not convention—and that’s all wrong. We funny

little things who walk about on the world must follow certain laws—we

can’t help ourselves—and we may as well follow them sensibly. We have

to lie down and get up and wash our faces and brush our hair and eat our

dinners; we have to—if we didn’t we should accomplish nothing. It is

foolish to fight with the ‘musts’ when there are armies of ‘needn’t

be’s’ to draw the sword against.”

He snorted derisively and ridiculed prosaic philosophy. When he had

finished she calmly repeated her question.

“How much do you spend a week on food?”

Very reluctantly he produced a sheet of paper and a pencil and scribbled

a rough estimate.

“Will you give me the nine shillings and let me cater for you?”

“No,” he said emphatically.

“Please do.”

“Why should I spend money on a dinner when I can stave off hunger with a

stick of chocolate?”

“Couldn’t we make a common fund and have one meal together each day. I’d

cook it here.”

His expression brightened instantly.

“You would? You’d come each day?”

“If you consent.”

Hitherto her comings had been sporadic—too sporadic. He had felt, when

she was absent, the consciousness of something lacking.

“I should like you to come here every day,” he said.

He was willing to accept a routine of her society, though rebelling

against a time-table for meals. She smiled as the thought crossed her

mind, but to have voiced it would have been to sacrifice the gains she

had made.

“If you consent,” she repeated.

“All right; do what you will,” he said.

So every afternoon Eve cooked a meal over a grubby little gas-ring,

assisted by a methylated spirit stove, and had the satisfaction of

seeing her labours rewarded by a slightly added tinge of colour to his

cheeks.

In buying the food she contributed more toward the cost than he, for in

the matter of money he was strangely unmindful. Frequently he forgot his

weekly contribution altogether, and returned home with some trifle of

china or an old print by way of alternative. On these occasions it did

not occur to him to question how meals still appeared upon his table,

and Eve would not have told him for the world how hard it had been that

this should be so.

Increasingly her thoughts centred on his welfare, and her own

personality took second place. Even her ambitions—and they had been

many and glorious—became merged in the task of helping him to success.

He had not taken into consideration the possibility that she, too, was a

climber at heart, and had set her sails for the port where the dreams

come true. He was quite offended when one day she spoke of herself.

“But can you act?” he staccatoed.

“One day I shall,” she answered. “One day I shall feel I know so much

more than all the others—then I shall act, and people will sit up and

say so.”

“H’m.”

“You think it unlikely?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He fidgeted with a cup on the mantelshelf. “It

seemed you were echoing those things which I say to myself.”

“We have thoughts in common.”

He shook his head irritably.

“I don’t admit it. There is no common currency in thoughts or ideas. To

me parallel lines are antagonistic lines. Why should you want to act?”

“I want to express myself as strongly as you do. I want to succeed.”

“I don’t like women who succeed. Why should you succeed? Where’s the

necessity—?”

“Born in me,” she answered.

His words for the moment had hurt her bitterly, but the subtler side of

her nature took comfort from the almost childishly petulant tone in

which he had spoken them.

“The necessity is born by the things around you,” he said. “They are the

impulses toward success.”

“Yes, that’s true. Perhaps it was the wretched drabness of my

surroundings which fired the impulse in me. We haven’t talked to each

other of our people, you and I?”

“I never think back,” he said.

“I do, because it’s the impetus to think forward.”

He looked at her critically.

“You might have come from princely stock by the look of you. You haven’t

the seeming of the drab.”

“Perhaps I did; but it was the inbred collapsed finish of the good

stock. My father idled backward to the slums—my mother was gentle, but

that was all. He was dead before I could remember. Oh, that dreadful

back-street life! You can’t understand. We were only a little removed

from the gossipy-doorstep folk who talk of a neighbour’s confinement as

they lean on the rickety railings. We played with their children, my

sister and I, bought from their horrid mean shops—went to the same

wretched school. Oh! how I hated it all—the miserable rooms, the

bargaining for food, the squabbles, and the never-ending economy and

thrift. Grey—grey—grey! I used to lash a purple whiptop at the corner

of the street, and pray sometimes a great chariot of fire would snatch

me up into the skies.”

It was Wynne’s habit to ignore central ideas in another’s conversation,

hence the question:

“Why a _purple_ top?”

“I hardly know—but it was _always_ purple. I kept a patch of purple on

my horizon.”

He looked at her queerly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Royal Purple. Somehow it stands out as the colour which rises above

all sordidness. Can’t explain it otherwise.”

He nodded. “I know what you mean. Strange you should feel like that,

too.” The “too” was scarcely audible.

“When I was ever so little I had that feeling, and it has grown up with

me. I used to believe that a purple goodness lined the great clouds

above and the hilltops of my imagination. I could travel in my

imagination, too. Just close my eyes and say to myself: Now the world is

falling away, and I’m floating upwards, and I would pass above all the

slates and see down all the chimneys until the houses became cities, and

the cities grey marks on the green earth—and the rivers twisted silver

wires which curled from the mountains to the sea.”

“You should meet Uncle Clem,” said Wynne.

“Who is he?”

“A man who thinks that way. But what is it like up there in the clouds?”

“Do you know, strangely, it isn’t very different—only fuller. Just as

if one went up discontented and found contentment in what one had left

behind. I used to think this was because my imagination couldn’t picture

a better state, but I believe that no longer.”

“The climb is for nothing, then?”

“Oh, no, for the climb proves that what you sought is the best of what

you left behind.”

“H’m! Sometimes,” he said. “You have queer notions. Have you found out

what is the best of your possessions?”

“I don’t know them by heart, yet.”

“Why by heart?”

“I am a woman.”

“Yes, and sometimes, I think, just like any other.”

“I am.”

“Once I tried to define my motives—can you define yours?”

“I want a place in the sun—want it tremendously. I want to be able to

think and feel and move among lovely things and people. I have given

away twenty years to sordidness, and all I have earned is appreciation

of the beautiful. I want to live the beautiful now, and rise above the

trivial bother of a washpail and a gas-ring.”

“Mammon, Mammon,” cried Wynne, for want of a better thought.

“Oh no. Don’t think I crave for money, for it isn’t so; but one must

have money if one is never to think of it.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t half the sorrow in the world traceable to such little causes as

an extra halfpenny on a quartern of bread?”

“Not untrue,” Wynne nodded. His eyes fell on the dirty gas-ring of the

grate, and he frowned. “Why do you come here, then?”

“Don’t you know?” she replied.

“No. It’s squalid enough!”

“Then it is because you are the first real person I have ever met

outside the cover of a book.”

“I give you something, then?”

“A great deal.”

A modesty seized him, touched with self-reproach.

“Only because it pleases me,” he said, brusquely. “The giving is done by

you. That much I realize.”

“I’m glad—and I’m glad to give.”

“Yes, a woman’s life is to give—that’s natural law—the only kind of

law worth accepting.” He hesitated—then, “Are you satisfied to give?”

She smiled her wise, intricate smile, and he did not wait for the

answer.

“You never smile as you should,” he reproached. “Yours is a thinking

smile—perplexing. Do you never smile or laugh from sheer happiness?”

“Perhaps I have never yet been sheerly happy.”

“What would make you?”

“I haven’t found out.”

“But I want to know. If you smiled for me you would seem less remote.”

“Am I remote?”

“Yes—remote is the word.” He looked at her fixedly, then shook himself

and began to pace up and down the room. When next he spoke his voice was

querulous and irritable:

“I should have been working all this while. The train of my thoughts is

all upset—disordered. It is unlike you to disturb me. I’ve lost an

hour. Tomorrow I must work all day—alone.”

“Go back to yourself,” she said, gently.

She did not leave at once, but half an hour later he looked up and saw

she was buttoning her coat.

“You needn’t go.”

“I had better,” she said; and at the door—“I come here too often,

perhaps. It is selfish of me.”

“But I like you to be here—I want you here. I meant nothing—only I’m a

little keyed up and worried. I don’t know why.”

“It’s all right,” said Eve. “Just for tomorrow I’ll stay away.”

“You want to?”

“No; but it is good sometimes to do what one doesn’t want. G’bye.” And

she was gone.

That night, as he lay in bed, the same feeling of self-reproach which

had sprung into being for an instant during their talk came back to him

heavily.

“What do I do for her? Nothing.”

IV

The thought awoke with him next day, and seemed to write itself across

the pages of his manuscript. He could not concentrate, and the ink on

his dipped pen dried times without number, and not a line was committed

to the paper. The hour for their united meal came, and with it a feeling

of loneliness and disappointment. He made no attempt to set the table

for himself, but sat staring dully at the criss-cross lines of the

window transoms, fiddling aimlessly with the books and papers before

him.

Once he thought he would go out, but changed his mind, and threw his hat

aside before he had reached the door of the room. He tried to read, but

the words were meaningless and confused, and conveyed nothing to his

mind, so he dropped the book to the floor and fell back to the fruitless

staring again. The words she had spoken about her childhood recurred,

and with the startling reproductive faculty which he possessed he was

able to picture it all very vividly. He could almost visualize the cheap

short dress she would have worn when, years before, she lashed her

purple top at the corner of that grey side street. The houses there

would have narrow and worn steps leading down to the pavement; they

would have mean areas, and windows repaired with gelatine lozenges. One

of the lodgers would boast a row of geranium pots on the window-sill,

stayed from falling by a slack string. No flowers would bloom in those

pots—a few atrophied leaves on a brown stalk would be the only reward

of the desultory waterings. In the yards at the back queer, shapeless

garments would flap and fill upon a line, and gaunt cats would creep

along the sooty walls. There would be querulous voices somewhere raised

in argument or rebuke, and the shrill cries of children at unfriendly

games. On Sundays vulgar youths with button-holes would loaf by the

letter-box at the street corner, making eyes and blowing coarse kisses

to the giggling girls who warily congregated on the far side. At times

there would be chasings, slaps, and rough-and-tumble courtships. Old men

without coats would blink and smoke complacently on the doorsteps, and

women would nod and whisper of their misfortunes and their fears.

“She came from there—untouched by it all,” thought Wynne. “She deserves

her place in the sun.”

A strange restlessness seized him, and he started to pace up and down.

V

Wynne arrived at the theatre earlier than usual that night, and met Eve

in one of the corridors.

“Well,” he said.

“Well?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t worked all day—I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry. What have you done?”

“Walked about—and thought.”

“Of what?”

“Of you mostly.”

“Have you? I’m glad. I wanted you to think of me today.”

“Why today?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“No!”

She nodded.

“How old?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one!”

It seemed rather sad. Twenty-one is a great birthday. Had she been an

earl’s daughter there would have been laughter and dancing in the hall

that night—white flowers and scarlet in happy clusters everywhere.

There would have been pearls from her father, and a dream dress to wear.

Wax candles would have glittered the silver on the board, and

pink-coated huntsmen would have led her to the dance.

It seemed rather sad she should be walking-on in a crowd to earn three

shillings and sixpence. And with this reflection there came to Wynne an

idea—one of the first that did not actually concern himself. It smote

him gloriously, and sent a pulsation of delight throbbing through his

veins. But all he said was:

“You will come to the rooms after the play?”

She hesitated. “I said I would not.”

“But it’s your birthday.”

“Then, if I shan’t disturb you.”

“Even if you do, I want you to come.”

“Very well. Will you wait for me?”

“No. Follow me round. I’ve something to do first. Here, take a key and

keep it if you will. I give you the freedom of the rooms.”

“I wish you’d wait,” she said.

“Sorry,” he replied, shaking his head.

“After all, a birthday means very little to a man,” thought Eve. Yet she

was disappointed he had refused so small a service.

When his scene was over, Wynne dressed quickly and hurried from the

theatre. In his pocket was a sum of six shillings and threepence. He

counted it by touch as he walked down Maiden Lane and struck across

Covent Garden. Before a modest wine shop in Endell Street he stopped and

considered. In the window was a pyramid of champagne bottles, the base

composed of magnums, the first tier of quarts, the second of pints, and,

resting proudly on top, a single half-pint. Each size was carefully

priced, even the tiny bottle showing a ticket on which was printed, “Two

shillings and eightpence.”

Wynne squared his shoulders and entered the shop with an air of some

importance.

“This Dry Royal,” he said, “is it a wine you can recommend?”

“It is a very drinkable wine,” replied the merchant. “Of course it does

not compare—”

But Wynne interrupted with:

“I’ll take one of the half-pints to sample.”

“I have no half-pints.”

“There is one in the window.”

“It is not for sale.”

“Why not?”

“There is no demand for that size.”

“I am supplying the demand.” His tone was irritatingly precise, and the

merchant was offended.

“I regret, sir, I cannot undertake to spoil my window dressing for so

small an order.” He spoke with finality that could not be misconstrued.

“Good God!” exclaimed Wynne. “You call it a small order? It is nearly

half of all I possess. Am I to be cheated of a celebration for the sake

of your damned ideas of symmetry?”

His very genuine concern excited interest.

“I should be very sorry to cheat you of anything,” came the answer in a

more kindly voice. “Perhaps if you would explain—”

“What explanation is needed? Why does any one buy champagne except to

celebrate an event? Must I sacrifice the desire to please and the hope

of giving a sparkle of happiness because your hide-bound conventions

won’t let you knock the top off a triangle? Is the expression of a

kindly wish to be nullified because my worldly wealth won’t run to a

pint? Would you decline to serve a rich man with a quart because you

stock magnums? There’s no damned sense of justice in it.”

It so happened there were warm springs in the heart of the little Endell

Street wine merchant—and imagination too. As he listened to this

intemperate outburst he pictured very vividly the event which the small

gold-braided bottle was destined to enliven. A man does not spend half

his belongings for no purpose, and accordingly he said:

“I never wish to disappoint a customer, sir. If you would accept a pint

for the price of the half, you would be doing me a service.”

But the rancour had not abated, and Wynne replied:

“This is a celebration—not a damned charity.”

“I see—of course not. Please forgive me,” said the little man, and

opening a panelled door he took the tiny bottle from the top of the

pyramid and wrapped it up.

Wynne placed two shillings and eightpence on the counter, pocketed the

parcel, and walked to the door. Arrived there, he turned and came back

with an outstretched hand.

“You’re a good sort,” he said.

“Thank you, sir, and a very merry evening.”

They shook hands warmly.

At a very special fruiterer’s in Southampton Row Wynne bought a quarter

of a pound of hothouse grapes, and argued fiercely with the shop

assistant who did not consider the purchase warranted placing the fruit

on vine leaves in a basket. He next made his way to a confectioner’s,

and forced an entrance as they were putting up the shutters. Here he had

a windfall, and secured a small but beautifully iced cake for a

shilling, on the double account of the lateness of the hour and a slight

crack in the icing.

On the pavement outside he counted what remained of his original

capital.

“One and tenpence—good!” he remarked.

The red and green lights of a chemist lured him to enter, and he

emerged, after a period of exquisite indecision, with two elegant

packages—one containing a tablet of soap, and the other a tiny bottle

of perfume.

Carrying his treasures with prodigious care he hastened toward his

rooms, but had hardly covered half the distance when an appalling

thought occurred to him. Under the weight of it he stopped short, and

beat his forehead with a closed fist.

“I’ve forgotten the candles,” he gasped. “The fairy candles—the

twenty-one candles!”

Without those twenty-one candles the whole affair would be flat and

meaningless. In being able to obtain them reposed the success of the

scheme. He tried an oilshop, but without success—he tried another with

the same result.

“My God!” he exclaimed in an ecstasy of anxiety, “where can I get the

things?”

And the good angel who listens for such prayers heard, and sent toward

him a small boy of pleasing exterior who whistled gaily.

“I say,” said Wynne, “ever had a Christmas-tree?”

The boy grinned and nodded.

“One with candles on it, I mean—coloured candles?”

“Yus, it was a proper tree.”

“I want some candles—want ’em tremendously. Know where I could get

some?”

Appealed to as a specialist, the urchin adopted a professional mien, and

paused for consideration. Eventually he said:

“Dad got ours at Dawes’s, rahnd the street. She’s still got some, ’cos

my mate, Joe, bought one for his bull’s-eye.”

“Round which street?”

“Over there.”

Wynne waited for no more, and broke into a run. By a kindly Providence

Mrs. Dawes had not put up the shutters, being a lady who traded sweets

to little voyagers whose parents were not over particular as to the

hours they kept.

“I dessay I could lay my ’and on a few,” she replied to Wynne’s fervent

appeal, “though it isn’t the season for them, you understand.”

With that she opened, or rattled, an incredible number of wrong boxes,

taken from beneath the counter. The sweat had beaded Wynne’s forehead

when at last she discovered what she had been seeking. She did not

appear to be in any hurry, and conversed on technical subjects during

the search.

“There isn’t the sale for coloured candles that there used to be. Of

course you may say as it is more the peg-top season, and that might

account for it; but it doesn’t—not altogether, that is. Putting the

Christmas trade on one side, boys don’t go for bull’s-eye lanterns as

once they did—no, nor Chinese neither. It’s all iron ’oops, or roller

skates nowadays, as you may say. Why, I dessay I sell as much as ten or

a dozen ’oops a week.”

“Do you indeed?”

“Quite that. Let’s see! Candles! Ah, I think this is them.” And it was.

“Thank God!” exclaimed Wynne. “I want twenty-one.”

He watched in an agony of suspense as she turned out precisely that

number.

“Five a penny,” she said.

“Lord!” he gasped. “I’ve only fourpence.”

“You can pay me the odd farthing when you are passing.”

Greatly to the good lady’s surprise the extraordinary young man leant

across the counter and planted a kiss upon her ample cheek, then seizing

his purchases raced from the shop and scuttled down the street.

“Well I never!” she exclaimed—“must be a bit mad.” But nevertheless she

rubbed the spot where the kiss had fallen with a kindly touch.

VI

Probably for the first time in his life Wynne felt the need of fine

linen. It is a sorry happening to lay choice dishes on a bare board. A

flash of memory provided an alternative, and he unearthed a roll of

white wallpaper from a cupboard. Mindful of a trick performed by small

boys at gallery doors, he folded and tore the paper to a rough

presentment of a lace cloth. Quite imposing it looked upon the black

surface of the old oak table.

To the rim of a fine, but much-riveted blue-and-white plate he waxed the

twenty-one candles, and in the centre, pedestalled upon an inverted

soap-dish, he stood the birthday cake. The champagne and some glasses

were placed on one side of this setpiece, the grapes on the other, while

before it, squarely and precisely laid, were the two beautifully tied

parcels of soap and scent.

So wrapped up was he in the exquisite pleasure of his preparations that

he was quite insensible to the deliberate symmetry he had brought

about—a circumstance which may prove a great deal, or nothing at all.

When he had done he fell back and surveyed his handiwork as an artist

before a masterpiece.

And outside rumbled the voices of the clocks saying the hour was eleven.

“Eleven! She will be here in a moment,” he thought. A sudden nervousness

seized him. He did not know why or what it was about. He touched his

pocket to be sure the matches were there. He wondered if she were all

right, and had crossed Long Acre and Oxford Street safely—they were

busiest in theatre traffic at that hour, and private cars and taxis paid

little heed to pedestrians. It would be so easy for her to be knocked

down and run over. He could picture the curious, jostling crowds that

would gather round, the blue helmets of the police in the centre—and

the gaunt ambulance which would appear from nowhere.

“God! What a fool I am,” he exclaimed. “She’s all right—of course she

is.”

Yet, despite this guarantee of her safety, thoughts of possible disaster

raced across his mind. Memory of his visit to the Morgue in Paris arose

and would not be banished. He recalled what he had said that day: “Death

is so horribly conclusive.” Conclusive! Suppose it were visited upon

her?—something would die in him, too. He asked himself what that

something would be, but could find no answer. It would be something so

lately come to life that he did not know it well enough to name.

Once more his eyes fell upon the table, and the fears vanished. Of

course she would come—of course nothing would happen to her. Even

though it were against her will, she would be drawn by what he had

prepared.

He blew out the lamp, and crossing the room opened the window and leant

over the sill to wait.

It was a sweet night, starred and silent. Smoke rose ghostily from the

silhouetted stacks, and a faint, murmurous wind, which seemed to have

stolen from a Devon lane, touched his hair to movement. North, south,

east, and west stretched the roofs of London, and in imagination he

could hear the soft rustle as the dwellers beneath tucked themselves in

for the night.

A hundred times before he had leant out, as now, with thoughts which ran

on the groundlings who ate and slept and worked and squabbled beneath

that army of stacks and slates; and how, one day, his name should come

to be as familiar with them as the pictures hanging on their walls. But

tonight his feelings were different. He conceived these people in their

relation to each other and not to himself. In each and all those myriad

abiding-places there would be folk with gentle thoughts and kindly

desires, even as his were then. They would be linked together by the

common tie of doing something to please. Never before had it occurred to

him that in pleasing another happiness was born in oneself. Hitherto he

had only thought to please by the nimbleness of his artistry—the

perfection of a style, the ability to express; but now he saw the surer

way was to appeal to the heart—to minister to the true sentiment—to

hand over sincerity from one’s simple best.

A footfall below, and the glimpse of a grey figure in the light of the

street-lamp, brought him to immediate action. He drew back from the

window, and, trembling with excitement, put a match to the circle of

coloured candles.

A ring of fire leapt into being—a tiny flame for every year of her in

whose honour they were burnt in offering.

Standing behind the lights, and almost invisible in the twinkling glare,

Wynne waited breathlessly for the door to open.

She was drawing off her gloves as she came into the room, but she

stopped, and her hands fell gently to her sides. Her eyes rested on

every detail of the little scene, hovering over it with an exquisite

increase of lustre. And slowly her lips broke into a smile of the purest

child-happiness, as, with a little catch in her voice, she breathed:

“How lovely and dear of you.”

It was hard to find a reply.

“You’re pleased?” he said. “I’m glad.”

“Pleased! Look! there are two presents for me—real champagne, with its

livery all bright and goldy—and the bloom on the grapes, it’s—that’s a

proper birthday cake, with ‘marzi’ inside—and twenty-one candles

because I am twenty-one years old today.”

She held out her hand, and he came to her and took it in one of his. For

quite a while they stood in silence.

“This is my first real birthday, and you’ve thought of it all for me.

Oh, it is wonderful, you know.”

“You have done something more wonderful for me,” he said, in a voice

that seemed unlike his own.

“I?”

“You smiled for me.”

“Because you made me utterly happy.”

“D’you think—I could—go on making you happy?”

For the first time she raised her eyes from the fairy candles to meet

his.

“Do you want to?”

His reply was characteristic.

“Yes—for I am happier now than I have ever been.”

She laughed understandingly, and caressed his hand.

“Oh, here!” he said. “Sit down, I want to talk.” He almost thrust her

into the chair and settled himself upon the arm. “All of a sudden you

have become something that I want—must have. Spiritually I want you

near me—you’re—you’re essential. Without you I am incomplete. If I

lost you I should lose more than you—far more. D’you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Together we could reach any heights, you and I, for you give me the

atmosphere I need—the right essence. I used to believe the line, ‘He

travels fastest who travels alone,’ but now I scout it—it’s lost its

truth for me. I believe you are wrapped up in my happiness and my

success; I believe without you they would be in jeopardy—in danger.

D’you care for me well enough to take me on those terms?”

Very slowly she replied:

“I want you to have your happiness, Wynne, and your success—I want that

to be a true dream.”

“Then—?”

“I’ll accept your spiritual offer—and give you all in return. But won’t

you say just one thing more?”

“What have I left unsaid?”

“Did you say you loved me?”

“No,” he replied; “but, in God’s name, I believe I do.”

“My dear,” she said, with a mother’s voice.

He broke away from her and started to pace the room feverishly.

“Come back,” she pleaded. “I am so proud of that belief.”

He threw up his head.

“I was honest enough to offer all I possessed,” he cried. “A man would

have taken you in his arms. God! I’m only half a man—a starveling—!

You are beautiful—beautiful to me—beautiful—subtle—desirable—but I

haven’t a shred of passion in my half-starved body.”

“Yours is the better half, dear. The spirit counts, and the greatest

possession a woman can have is all that her man can give. Let us keep

our spirits bright together.” She rose, and he came toward her, and

suddenly his face lost its tragic look, and the lines at the corners of

his mouth pulled down in a whimsical smile.

“What a triumph for Plato!” he said. “When shall it be?”

She smiled back at him. “Whenever you wish.”

Very delicious she looked in the dancing fairy light. A strangely new

and elemental impulse seized him, and he gripped her shoulders fiercely.

“You are wonderful,” he said. “We’ll work together for the Day. The Day

shall be our _real_ wedding; till then—partners.”

“Partners.”

“You shall help to make a success, and—a man; and when I’m a man I

shall seek a man’s reward. We’ll pledge that! Come, let’s feast before

the candles burn low.”

The tiny bottle of champagne popped bravely, and the wine tinkled

against the glass.

PART SIX

“HE TRAVELS FASTEST—

I

They were on their way to the registrar’s when Wynne stopped short and

exclaimed, “Of course!” Then, in answer to an arched-brow inquiry from

Eve: “Would you like to meet some one nice?”

“I have,” she smiled, for it was their wedding day, and future wives and

husbands say pleasant things to each other on their wedding days, even

though sometimes they forget to do so afterwards.

“A man—in fact, an uncle of mine.”

“Uncle Clem?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Guessed.”

“Have I spoken of him?”

“Once.”

“I want you to meet him.”

“Then I do too.”

“Don’t know where he lives though.”

“Let’s try a telephone directory.”

They did—and successfully.

“He would live in Kensington Square,” said Wynne.

“Have you never been to see him before?”

Wynne shook his head.

“But why not?”

“Did you never have that feeling of wanting to keep something back? How

can I explain? If you are thirsty and at last you are within reach of a

drink, have you never waited awhile instead of snatching it to your

lips?”

“I know.”

“Then that’s why. Only here and there has he entered my life, and

somehow each time I felt the better for him. I’m not a very grateful

individual, but I’m grateful to Uncle Clem—and I’m grateful _for_ Uncle

Clem, too. He sees things very agreeably. When I was a child I thought

him a god—and I haven’t altogether outgrown that feeling.”

“Then why do you avoid him?”

“When one goes before the Presence one likes to have something to show.”

“I see.”

He touched her hand lightly.

“Today I have something to show.”

They climbed to the top of a bright red ’bus and journeyed to

Kensington. At the church they descended, and dipped into the little

side street which leads to the Queen Anne houses of Kensington Square.

There was a copper knocker on the door of Uncle Clem’s abode, with which

Wynne very bravely tattooed his arrival.

“Yes, Mr. Rendall is in,” admitted the manservant who answered the

summons. “Was he expecting you?”

“Heavens! no,” said Wynne. “I’m his nephew—but let him find out for

himself. We shouldn’t pocket the spoons if you invited us to come

inside.”

The man smiled. “I recognize the relationship in your speech, sir.”

He opened the door of a white-panelled room, and, when they had entered,

mounted the stairs to inform his master.

“Good, isn’t it?” said Wynne, his eyes roaming over the comfortable

disorder and beautiful appointments. “Everything right. Hullo!” He

halted abruptly before a large framed canvas on one of the walls, “The

Faun and the Villagers.”

He was standing so when the door opened, and Uncle Clem, dressed in

quilted smoking jacket and a pair of ultra vermilion slippers, came in.

He paused a moment, then out rang his voice:

“Ha! The young fellow! Ain’t dead, then? Let’s look at you!”

Wynne met the full smack of the descending hand in his open palm.

“No,” he laughed. “Look here, instead,” and pivoted Uncle Clem so that

Eve came in his line of sight.

“Splendid!” said Clem, moving to meet her. “Used to tell him he’d do no

good until he fell in love. May I kiss her?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Well, may I?”

“Um!” said Eve.

And he did, saying thereafter:

“First rate! I like it immensely. Sit down—take off your hat, or

whatever you do to feel at home. That’s the way. Now let’s hear all

about it. Are you married—or going to be? I see—going to be—no ring.

Splendid!”

“Here’s the ring,” said Wynne. “It will be worn for the first time

today.”

“Today! Today the best day in all the year! And you came to see me on

the way to the church. Fine! Y’know, there is something in ’im after

all, even though he’s devilish sporadic in coming to see me.”

“He’s saving you up for the good time ahead,” said Eve; “and I can see

why, now.”

“Then give up seeing why, little lady. What’s your name, by the way?

What is her name, young fellar?”

“Eve.”

“Eve—couldn’t be better. What was I saying? Ah, yes. Give up seeing

_why_ and come and see _me_ instead. Rotten policy to save! (never saved

a penny in my life). Fatal to save! Find out, when it’s too late, don’t

want what you’ve been saving for—outgrown your impulses. Buried with

your bankbook, and every one glad you’re dead. No—no. Spend while you

are young. Get a hold on all the friendship and all the love within

reach—and then, why then, when you’re old, at least memories will be

yours as comforters. You agree, don’t you?”

“Yes, I agree,” said Eve.

“And what about you?”

“All or nothing,” replied Wynne. “And I had rather keep the ‘nothing’

till I can claim the ‘all.’”

“Good stars!” exclaimed Clem. “What a speech for a wedding day!” Then,

catching a glimpse of the growing colour on Eve’s cheeks:

“Don’t heed me, my dear. I’ve a reputation for saying things which, in

the vernacular, I didn’t ought. But a man who speaks of nothing on his

wedding day—?”

Wynne hesitated, then:

“This isn’t altogether our wedding day,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Today she and I are becoming—legalized partners.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Partners. We shall join forces, she and I, and work together for

success—think of, live for, and concentrate on that goal. Afterwards

we—”

But Uncle Clem would not let him finish.

“Rank folly!” he cried, jumping to his feet.

“You’ve read your Plato!” said Wynne.

“Plato be damned! Well enough for an old philosopher to mumble his

repressive theories from a dead log in the market-place—but for you at

twenty-what-ever-it-may-be, tss—madness—rot—folly! My dear, dear

girl, for God’s sake, tell him not to talk such utter damn nonsense.”

“You haven’t quite understood,” said Eve, very gently.

“He speaks of success and denies love—he places success before love.

Doesn’t he know—? Here! don’t you know,” twisting suddenly round, “that

love is the only success worth having—that success is only possible

through love?”

“Love is the reward,” said Wynne.

“It is not. It is no more the reward than rain is a reward to the

ground, or air is a reward to the lungs. Love is a necessity—a primary

necessity—and the fountain of all inspiration. If you can’t realize

that, don’t marry—you have no right to marry. Don’t marry him, my dear.

Keep away from him till he comes to his proper senses.”

“I think we have a greater knowledge,” said Wynne, moving to Eve’s side.

“And I think you have no knowledge whatsoever—that you are throttling

it at the main. Partners!” he threw up his head. “Oh, can’t you see what

partners means—what it amounts to in practice? A staling of each other

for each other—that’s all. A mutual day-by-day loss of conceit and

regard. You can see it in the City, or wherever you choose to look.

Listen to what any man says of his partner: ‘He’s all right, but getting

old—losing his grip—isn’t the man he was,’ so on and so forth. And why

is it? Because they have no closer tie than their signatures on a piece

of paper. Nature admits of no lasting partnership between man and woman

save one—love.”

“Even that partnership is sometimes dissolved.”

“By fools, yes, and by the blind, but not by those who can see.

Knowledge is the keystone which holds up the archway of heaven, my

boy—knowledge which has sprung from love. I may be no more than a

talkative old bachelor, but, by God! I know that to be true. There are

few enough spirits on this earthy old world of ours, and only through

love comes the power to know them each by name.” He stopped and fiddled

with a pipe on the mantelshelf. “This is a disappointment to me—a big

disappointment. I’d looked to you young folk to open your hearts and

tell me what was inside, and, instead, I’ve done all the talking, and

told you what I think they ought to contain, and perhaps offended you

both into the bargain.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Eve. “I like you for it.”

“And you?”

“If I were offended,” said Wynne, “I should not ask you to come to the

wedding—and I do.”

Uncle Clem shook his head slowly.

“Not I,” he said. “I’m an idealist—not a business man. I’d as soon

watch a stockbroker signing scrip.”

On the doorstep, a few moments later, he touched Eve’s arm and

whispered:

“Run away—don’t do it—run away.”

She shook her head. “I love him,” she said.

In silence she and Wynne walked to the High Street and turned into

Kensington Gardens.

“He’s losing his grip—not the man he was—getting old,” quoted Wynne.

“And yet,” she answered, “he is younger than we are.”

They fell upon a second silence, then very suddenly Wynne said:

“Are you unhappy?”

“No.”

“Are you doubtful?”

“No.”

“You do believe in me?”

“Yes.”

“It’s—it’s not much of a wedding for you.”

“There’s all the future.”

“Yes. He was wrong, of course.”

“If the future is to be ours.”

“It shall be ours. What’s it matter if we grope along the flats if at

last we jump to the mountain top together?”

“I put all my faith in that.”

“You shall never regret it.”

She hung close upon his arm. “No, you won’t let me regret it, will you?

You won’t _ever_ let me regret it?”

“’Course not.”

“I want to know, when you make that leap to the mountain top, that my

arm will be through yours as it is now.”

“It will be then. I shall want to show my treasures to the world,” he

said.

Her mouth broke into a smile.

“Nothing else matters,” she said.

II

A registrar is not, as a rule, an enlivening person. He is a dealer in

extremities—to him a birth or a death is merely a matter of so many

words written upon a page, and a marriage is no greater affair than a

union of two people brought together for the purpose of providing him

with subjects for his more serious offices.

The particular registrar who was responsible for making Wynne and Eve

man and wife was no exception to the rule. He proved to be a man of

boundless melancholy, who recited the necessary passages with a gloom of

intonation better befitting a burial than a bridal. His distress was

acute in that they had failed to import the required witnesses—and,

indeed, at one time he seemed disposed to deny them the privileges of

his powers. The apartment in which the ceremony took place smelt

disagreeably from lack of ventilation, and the newly-wed pair were

thankful to come into the sunshine of the street outside.

So great was the oppression produced that neither one nor the other felt

capable of saying a word, and it was only by a mighty effort Wynne was

able to say:

“We’re married.”

Eve pressed his hand, and nodded.

“Rather beastly, wasn’t it?”

She nodded again.

“Doesn’t seem very real, does it?”

And she replied, “Would you kiss me just to make it seem more real?”

Rather awkwardly he stooped and brushed her cheek with a kiss.

“Better?” he said.

“A bit.”

He began to speak rather fast:

“After all, what’s it matter? This is only the beginning. We’ll count

today as any other day—a working day. I’m no more to you—or you to

me—beyond the sharing of a single name and a single roof. We won’t

spoil our future by any foretaste of its good. Do you agree?”

“I agree.”

“Then shake hands, partner.”

“God bless you and let you win,” said Eve, as she laid her hand on his.

By the doors of the British Museum they nodded a temporary farewell. He

entered and made his way to the reading-room, and she walked home alone.

III

The moonlight streamed through the slanting window, pitching a dim ray

upon Wynne as he lay asleep.

It was dark in the lonely corner, on the far side of the room, where,

very faintly, the outline of a slim white figure could be seen—a figure

hugging her knees and resting her chin upon them. Very quiet it

was—just the rise and fall of a man’s breathing and the muted, humming

noises of the night.

The clocks of the City coughed and jarred the hour of three.

Presently the still white figure moved, and, bare-footed, crossed the

floor between the two beds. For a little while she stood looking down

upon the sleeping man; then, in answer to a human impulse too gentle,

and yet too strong to be denied, stooped and laid her head beside his

upon the pillow. Her breath was warm upon his cheek, but he made no

movement; her hair tressed upon his arm, but it did not quicken to life

and fold around her, as a husband’s might; her lips were almost touching

his, but he did not move that they might meet in the darkness.

With a little catch in her throat Eve lifted herself and crossed to the

lonely shadows beneath the sloping roof.

IV

“May I read these?” asked Eve.

She had unearthed a box full of old manuscripts he had written and cast

aside.

“Burn ’em, if you like,” he replied.

She chose one from the pile, saying:

“Have they been sent anywhere?”

“Oh yes, a few have been the round. They are true to the boomerang type,

for they always returned to the point of departure.”

She curled herself in the big armchair and began to read. The breakfast

things had been washed up, the beds made, and the rooms tidied.

It was an article she had chosen, and the subject was “Education.” Wynne

had a singularly marked style of his own—his sentences were crisp and

incisive, his views original and striking. When he chose he could write

with a degree of tenderness that was infinitely appealing; but in odd

contrast to this mood, and usually in immediate proximity to his most

happy expressed phrases, occurred passages of satire and mordant wit

which detracted immeasurably from the charm of the whole. They stood out

like blots upon the page.

The same conditions prevailed in each of the other manuscripts which Eve

read, with the result that the fine susceptibilities which had been

awakened by his best, were wounded by the ill-humour of his worst.

“Why do you give all the butterflies stings?” she asked.

The question pleased him, and he smiled.

“Why not? Aren’t they mostly well deserved?”

“By whom?”

“The public.”

She had it in mind to say that it was not the public who felt the sting,

but, instead, she replied:

“May I copy these out?”

“If you like.”

She did, and, with certain reservations and omissions, dispatched them

to the kind of periodical which might be interested.

Three weeks later a letter arrived from _The Forum_ accepting the essay

on Education. “Payment of ten guineas will be made on publication,” said

the letter.

“But they refused it before!” exclaimed Wynne.

“I made a few cuts, and altered it a little.”

His forehead flew into straight creases.

“Where? What did you cut?”

She showed him.

He shook his head and paced up and down the room. “Heavens above!” he

reproached. “Those were the best passages.”

“They weren’t. They were bad, and destructive.”

“Revolutionary, if you like.”

“The wrong sort of revolution.”

“Not at all. I wrote them with a purpose.”

“Then the purpose was wrong.”

“Thank God you cut them and not I. I should esteem myself a coward if I

had done that.”

“I don’t. You will never heal by throwing vitriol.”

Wynne’s tenacity was tremendous, and he fought for every inch of ground

before conceding it. The lesson, however, did him good, and thereafter,

if not always with the best grace, he submitted his writings to her for

approval.

Eve had a very sure literary sense, and her criticisms were as just as

they were courageous. Wynne could never gauge to what extent a reader

will allow the scourge of wit to fall upon his shoulders, but Eve, by

some peculiar insight of her own, knew this to a nicety, and little by

little forced him to her way of seeing.

As his writings began to be accepted he came to a silent acknowledgment

of the value of her decisions, and, subconsciously, his mind, in certain

directions, ran parallel with hers. By his sharp acquisitive sense he

came to know how she arrived at her reasoning, and in learning this, the

necessity to appeal to her diminished correspondingly. Once an idea was

firmly implanted it became a part of his being, and very soon his pen

lost its jagged edge and ran more smoothly over the pages.

For nearly a year the partners worked together, each in their separate

spheres, to the common end of success.

That his mind might go free and unworried wheresoever it willed, Eve

cooked and darned, and kept his house in order. It was a grey enough

life, with little to raise it from the ruck of sordid domesticity. To

all intent and purpose she was a general servant, privileged at rare

intervals to wash her hands, sit at her master’s table and share his

speech. Her reward was to hear an echo of some of her sweetness in his

writings, and to see the results of her gentle care in his looks and

bearing.

He had more colour, his step was springier than in the days before they

had met, and this added vitality he converted into longer hours of

labour. He never spared himself or relaxed, and his tireless energy,

perseverance, and concentration were abnormal. Except when he needed her

advice he appeared to be wholly detached, and scarcely aware of her

presence. The cramped conditions in which they lived made it very

difficult for Eve to conduct her household duties without disturbing

him. He was very sensitive and exacting, and the sound of a rattled

teacup would throw him out of line. Not the least of Eve’s achievement

was the manner in which she contrived to do everything that was needful

without disturbance, and at the same time to be ever ready to lay all

aside in case he should want her.

A man will always give or find occupation for a woman, and in some small

way or another the whole of Eve’s time was taken up in meeting his needs

and wishes. She was obliged to forego many of the happy book hours she

used to spend in order that the wheels could run smoothly and silently.

This in itself was a very great sacrifice, for she had loved her

reading, and grubbing with pots and pans, or bargaining with tradesfolk,

was a sorry substitute.

“But it’s only for a while,” she comforted herself. “One day—” and her

thoughts floated out to the sun-lit hills and the sweeping purple

heather of the moors.

V

One evening Wynne arrived home and announced that he had left the stage.

“I am going to write a play,” he said, “and I shall want all my time.”

He had not taken into consideration that with the loss of his theatre

salary their finances would be seriously crippled. Of late there had

been rather more money than usual, and Eve had entertained the hope of

engaging a maid to come in and do the rougher work, but with this

announcement that happy prospect took immediate wings.

A play would certainly take several weeks to write, and probably months

or even years to place. In the meantime there were three or four

outstanding sales of stories and articles which would realize a total of

thirty or forty pounds.

Yet, although these considerations arose very clearly in Eve’s mind, she

only nodded and expressed enthusiasm for the idea.

And so, with a great deal of energy and intention, Wynne attacked the

play, and Eve rolled up her sleeves and washed the greasy plates, and

blacked the stove and cooked the meals, and did the meagre housekeeping,

and many things she liked not, on little more than nothing a week. It

was strenuous work, but she carried it out cheerfully and

unostentatiously, and contrived to provide enough to keep his mind from

being worried with sordid considerations.

Sometimes—not so often as she wished—he read what he had written, and

they talked over the human considerations that go to make a play. He

himself was most enthusiastic about the work, and to a great extent she

shared his belief. There was, however, a certain chilliness in his lines

and expressed thoughts, which by the gentlest tact she strove to warm.

It was a delicate enough operation in all conscience, for there is no

machinery more difficult to guide than an artist’s mind, and none that

demands overhaul more constantly. Hers was the task of tightening the

bolts of a moving vehicle—one attended with grave risks to the

mechanic. She took her satisfaction after the manner of a mechanic, by

noting the smoother running and more even purr of the machine.

As they had determined upon their wedding day, the physical, and even

the spiritual, side of their union was in abeyance. Of sweet intimacies

and gentle understandings there were none. It was the work first, the

work last, and the work which took precedence to all.

For Eve it was a lonely life—a life of unceasing mental and manual

exercise. She strove with head and hand that his spirit might talk with

posterity.

Sometimes there were knocks, but she took them bravely, looking always

to the future to repay.

One morning in the early summer Wynne fretfully threw down his pen.

The whitey-gold sunshine was calling of bluebell woods and cloud shadows

racing over the downs.

“I must get out,” he said—“out in the fields somewhere.”

Eve filled her lungs expectantly.

“Let’s go to Richmond,” she said. “Do you remember the first night I

came back, and we said we’d go there one day and eat apple turnovers on

the way home?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“It’ud be gorgeous to have some fresh air, and we could make plans

and—”

“Yes, but not today. I want to think today—I should be better alone.”

It was foolish to be hurt, and gently she answered:

“I shouldn’t stop you thinking.”

“Some other day, then. This morning I’ll go alone. That last act is

bothering me. I shall bring back a fierce hunger for you to appease.”

That was all. He reached for his hat and walked to the door. As he laid

his hand on the knob she said:

“Think of me bending over the gas-ring, Wynne.”

He turned and looked queerly at her without replying. The angle of her

speech was new and unexpected. Then his cleverness suggested:

“I shall think of you as you’ll look when our honeymoon begins.”

In an instant she was disarmed and had stretched out a friendly hand.

“I wanted to be level with the future for one day,” she said. “Out in

the fields we are as rich as we shall ever be.”

He nodded.

“The leaves would be no greener if all fame were ours,” he answered; and

added, “but they’d seem greener. Come, if you like.”

“No, I’ll stay.”

She gave his hand a small pressure. He looked down on it as it lay in

his palm. There was dirt upon her fingers from the scouring of pots and

pans. As he noted this he laughed shortly.

“We must employ a Court manicurist when our Day dawns,” he said. “I

could not worship a queen whose hands were soiled. Expect me about six.”

He closed the door behind him.

Who can pretend to fathom the deeps of a woman’s mind. Long after he had

gone, Eve stood looking at her hands with solemn, frightened eyes.

VI

The manner of Wynne Rendall’s coming into prominence was fortuitous. It

happened a little over two years after his marriage, and, broadly

speaking, was engineered by Eve.

As a result of some unexpected sales to American publishers a few extra

pounds slipped through the lodging letter-box, and Eve insisted he

should spend some of these in joining a club of good standing.

“You’ve been in the dark too long, Wynne. A writer of plays must be

known by the people who produce them, by the better actors and critics.

They must get used to seeing you before they will believe in you.”

He raised no opposition to the idea. Of late he had felt cabined and

confined, and the thought of broader horizons appealed to him.

“Uncle Clem would put you up for the Phœnician, wouldn’t he?”

Wynne shook his head irritably.

“I’m not disposed to ask favours of Uncle Clem,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“It was evident enough he disapproved of my mode of life when last we

met. It will be time to ask him to do things for me when he approves.

Besides, there’s no need. A cousin of my mother’s is a member—I’ll ask

him.”

“Does he approve of your mode of life?”

“Probably not; but, since I have no interest in him one way or the

other, it doesn’t matter. The man is rich and a fool.”

“I didn’t know you had a rich cousin.”

“It isn’t a thing to boast about. I rather believe I have a moderately

rich father and mother somewhere—still it can’t be helped.”

“Do you know,” said Eve, “you have never mentioned them before.”

“I don’t know what persuaded me to do so at all.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Nothing to tell. They wanted me to accept a sound commercial

position—whatever that may mean; in declining to do so I forfeited my

birthright, and sacrificed my immortal soul to the flames.”

“Did you run away?”

“I walked away. They were too slow to render running a necessity.”

“I think you are rather callous,” said Eve.

“Surely to God you don’t expect me to take off my hat, like a music-hall

serio, when I speak of Home and Mother.”

“No, that would be rather silly—still—”

“One must judge the value of things and persons on two counts—their

service and their effect. If their service is negligible, and they

produce no effect, it is clearly useless to have any further dealings

with them.”

“I don’t like that,” said Eve. “It’s a cold philosophy. You sponge the

wine from the cellars and complain when the vats are empty.”

“I don’t complain—I pass on. One must, or die of thirst.”

“It is a false thirst.”

“That doesn’t matter so long as one feels it acutely.”

She generally allowed him the luxury of supplying the phrase to round

off an argument. It is a tribute to the gallantry of women that they

will allow the vanquished to feel he is the victor, and as true of the

best of them as the popular belief to the contrary is false.

Wynne joined the Phœnician, and after a while came to spend much of his

time there. It made, he said, a change from the never-ending sameness of

their penny-threefarthing home.

It was so long since he had foregathered with fellow-men that at first

he spent his club hours in shy silence. He would sit, ostensibly reading

a periodical, and actually listening to the conversation of those about

him. In so doing he learnt many things in regard to the subjects which

men will discuss one with another. The Phœnician was to a great extent a

rabble club. The members were composed of professional men—artists,

writers, actors, and those curious individuals who form a tail-light to

the arts, being bracketed on as a kind of chorus. These latter always

appeared to be well provided with money and ill provided with brains.

They knew the names of many stage people, and reeled them off one after

another as a parrot delivers its limited vocabulary. Seemingly they

derived much pleasure from the practice, and their happiest

conversational circumstance was to mention some one whose name they had

never introduced before.

Wynne made unto himself an enemy of this section of the rabble by a

chance remark on an occasion when he happened to be in their midst.

“I suppose,” he said, “you collect names as more intellectual folk

collect cigar bands.”

As invariably was the case he was rather pleased with himself for

producing this remark. It suggested a line of thought, and shortly

afterwards he produced an article entitled “Men and their Talk.” The

article, which boasted a lemon wit, appeared in the _Monday Review_, and

offended many people.

“The average man,” he wrote, “has but four topics of conversation which

he considers worthy of discussion. 1. His relation to other men’s wives.

2. His prowess at sport. 3. The names of restaurants at which he would

have us believe he dines. 4. His capacity for consuming liquor. Of these

subjects Nos. 1 and 4 are usually taken in conjunction. Thus, before we

are privileged to hear the more intimate passages of his amours, we are

obliged to follow the assuaging of his thirst from double cocktail to

treble liqueur. A nice balance in self-satisfaction is proved by a man’s

pride in what he drinks and how he loves.” Then, in another paragraph:

“The average man is not proud of resisting the temptations of the flesh,

but is always proud of yielding to them. Whenever men are gathered

together you will hear them speak in admiration of what our moral code

forbids, but you will not hear them boast of their fidelity. Many a

faithful husband lies of infidelity that he may stand even with his

fellows.”

Of all the criticisms provoked by this article Wynne was best pleased by

one from a brother member, who announced that it was “an infernal breach

of confidence.”

The club made serious inroads on Wynne’s finances, for no matter how

abstemious a man may be, he cannot rub shoulders with his own kind

without a certain amount of wear on his pocket linings. In consequence,

Eve was obliged to cut things very fine and forego every atom of

personal expenditure.

Possibly because he had had such small dealings with money, Wynne was

not a generous giver. In these days he disbursed less toward the

household account than ever before, but did not expect less to appear

upon the table on this account. Neither did he expect Eve to appear

before him in dresses which had lost all pretentions to attractiveness.

Sometimes he would remark:

“When on earth are you going to throw away that dreadful old garment?”

The artistic mind is apt to be unreasonable in its demands—a

circumstance which Eve was obliged to keep very much before her eyes if

she would stay the tear which sought to rise there.

VII

It was some months before the club yielded a practical return.

Wynne was seated in the hollow of a deep leather chair, and he overheard

two men talking. One was Max Levis, London’s newest impresario, and the

other Leonard Passmore, a producer of some standing, whose methods Wynne

disapproved of very heartily.

“You’ve read the play?” queried Levis.

“Yes. I should say it was a certainty.”

“Thought you would—that’s capital! Wanted your opinion before writing

to Quiltan.”

Wynne knew Quiltan by reputation. His Oxford verses had caused a stir,

and the rare appearances of his articles were hailed enthusiastically by

press and public alike. Lane Quiltan besides being gifted, was

exceedingly well off—a reason, perhaps, for his small literary output.

Max Levis played with the pages of a manuscript copy of the play.

“Formed any views regarding the production?” he asked.

Mr. Passmore had formed many views, and proceeded to expound them at

some length. He held forth for the best part of half an hour, while

Wynne, from the screen of his chair, silently scorned every word he

uttered.

“God!” he thought, “and these are the men who cater art to the nation!”

Presently the two men rose and walked toward the dining-room, heavy in

talk. On the small table beside where they had sat lay the copy of the

play. As the swing doors closed behind them Wynne picked it up and

started to read.

Messrs. Levis and Passmore stayed long at their meat, and Wynne had read

the play from cover to cover before they returned.

It was not often his heart went out to a contemporary’s work, but this

was an exception. What he read filled him with delight, envy, and

admiration. “Witches”—for so the play was called—possessed the rarest

quality. There was wit, imagination, and satire, and it was written with

that effortless ease at which all true artists should aim.

As he laid the copy back on the small table Wynne gave vent to an

exclamation of indignant resentment, provoked by memories of the

proposals Passmore had made in regard to the manner in which he proposed

to interpret the work. Here was a thing of real artistic beauty, which

was to be subjected to commercial mutilation by a cross-grained fool who

had made a reputation by massing crowds in such positions that the

centre of the stage was clear for the principals.

His feelings toward Mr. Passmore were not improved when that gentleman

and Mr. Levis reoccupied their former chairs, and, warmed by wine,

started to discuss their mutual follies.

With silent irritation Wynne rose and left the club. He arrived home

about nine o’clock, where he inveighed against managers and producers,

and the dunces who dance in high places. In the course of the tirade he

explained the cause of his anger.

“There’s a real thing—and it’s good and right, and cram-jam full of

exquisite possibilities. Those idiots haven’t begun to understand

it—are blind to its beauty—haven’t a notion how good it is. In God’s

name, why don’t they let me produce the thing?”

Then Eve had an inspiration which sent Wynne forth into the night, and

found him, twenty minutes later, ringing the bell of a house in Clarges

Street.

Taking into consideration the clothes he wore, and his general look of

dilapidation, his attitude when the door was opened by an important

footman was praiseworthy and remarkable.

He simply said “Thank you,” and stepped into the hall. Then he removed

his hat and gave it to the man, saying, “Mr. Wynne Rendall.” The bluff

resulted in his being ushered into a drawing-room, in which were a

number of ladies and gentlemen.

“It is always easy to recognize one’s host in a mixed gathering,

provided he does not know you,” commented Wynne, as the door closed,

“for he is the person whose face betrays the greatest perplexity. How do

you do, Mr. Quiltan?”

Lane Quiltan shook hands doubtfully, but not without interest. Out of

politeness he said:

“I seem to know your name.”

“That’s unlikely,” replied Wynne, “for I have been at some pains to keep

it in the background. One of these days, however, you will know it very

much better.”

“Did you come here to tell me so?”

“Not altogether, although in a sense it is mixed up with my visit. To be

frank, I came in the hope of finding you alone. Still, I suppose later

on you will be.” He smiled engagingly.

Quiltan scarcely knew whether to be annoyed or amused. In deference to

his guests, he chose the latter alternative.

“You seem to be an unconventional man, Mr. Rendall,” he laughed.

“Come, I had not looked for a compliment so soon; but perhaps you use

the term correctively?”

“It is just possible, isn’t it?”

“And yet my conduct is nothing like so unconventional as the central

character in ‘Witches’”—a remark which startled from Lane Quiltan:

“What on earth do you know about ‘Witches’?”

Wynne smiled agreeably.

“I have relations of my own.”

“Doubtless, but I _would_ like an answer to my question.”

He did not get it, for Wynne only repeated the smile, with a shade more

satisfaction.

“I fear,” he said, “our conversation is proving very tiresome to your

friends. Shall we talk in another room?”

“Extraordinary creature!” gasped a very splendid lady seated at the

grand piano.

“It is what every one will be saying shortly,” returned Wynne, and won a

laugh for the readiness of his wit.

“I suppose, Lane,” assumed a man who was airing the tails of his

dress-coat before the fire—“I suppose we ought to take the hint and

depart, but your friend is so devilish amusing I vote in favour of

remaining.”

“Sir,” said Wynne, with very great solemnity, “if I vow to be devilish

dull, will you in return vote in favour of going?” The laugh came his

way again; and he proceeded, “I make the suggestion with the most

generous motives, for if you remain with your coat-tails so perilously

near the flame we shall be constrained to the inevitable necessity of

putting you out.”

A youngish man, who was sitting in a corner, rose and shook the creases

from his trousers and glanced at the clock.

“I at least have to go,” he said.

“You needn’t hurry away!”

Wynne touched Quiltan on the arm. “Never stay a pioneer,” he implored.

“‘For the rest shall follow after by the bones upon the way,’ to quote

Kipling.”

Ten minutes after his arrival he had cleared the room completely. The

guests departed without apparent resentment: indeed, one lady gave Wynne

her card, and said, “You positively must come and be amusing at one of

my Thursdays.”

Quiltan was wearing an expression of some annoyance when he returned

after bidding farewell to the last of the company.

“It is all very well,” he said; “but what precisely do you want?”

Before answering Wynne took an easy inspection of the man before him.

Lane Quiltan was tall, well built, and very pleasant to look upon. His

features were attractive and regular, his voice and expression were

compelling of confidence. At a glance Wynne summed him up as a “good

fellow, and a good deal more.”

“Well?” said Quiltan.

“Primarily I have succeeded in doing what I wanted, and that was to

convince you that I am no ordinary man. Secondly, I want to produce your

play, ‘Witches,’ and if you will ask me to sit down for a minute I shall

prove beyond argument why I am the only person who can do it justice.”

Lane Quiltan gestured Wynne to a chair, and seated himself.

“Fire away!” he said; “but I am afraid your chances are small. The play

is already in the hands of Max Levis.”

“I know.”

“You seem pretty well acquainted with my affairs.”

“On the contrary, I know nothing about them. I knew Levis had the play,

because I borrowed his copy without permission while the fellow was

feeding.”

“Do you generally do things like that?”

“I have no general practices. I act as the inclination suggests. In this

case it is fortunate for both of us that I did.”

“For both of us?”

“Certainly, for I _mean_ to produce ‘Witches.’”

Quiltan laughed.

“At least you are persistent,” he said.

“I am, and you are not. You take things too easily, because you’ve all

this”—he made an embracing gesture. “You are too sure, Mr. Quiltan, I

know. You write this play and direct it to Max Levis, and then, because

fame and money are merely accessories in your life, you take no further

interest in the matter.”

“How do you arrive at that conclusion?”

“Simply enough. Why did you send the play to Levis? Do you admire his

work so inordinately?”

“I know very little about him.”

“Exactly. Would you hand over a best child to be taught by some one who

might be an idiot for all you knew? Two years ago Max Levis was a

diamond buyer—what the devil should he know about plays?”

“He engages competent people to produce them.”

“And takes forty per cent. for doing so. Do you consider he is more

qualified to engage competent people than you are?”

“I have never thought about it.”

“Then think about it now. Don’t spoil a fine work through artistic

slackness and drift.”

“I like your enthusiasm.”

“You’d like my production better. Now, look here, I overheard Levis

talking to Leonard Passmore about your play tonight. These are some of

Passmore’s ideas. Tell me if you like ’em.”

Word for word he repeated the conversation of a couple of hours before.

“Were those your intentions, Mr. Quiltan?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What were?”

“I’m not a producer.”

“Of course you are not. You’re an author, and an author never knows

where the good or bad in his own work lies. Your work is shining

good—if the good can be brought out,—and you’d entrust it, without a

thought, to a couple of merchants, with no more artistry or selection

between ’em than a provincial auctioneer. Let me produce the play, and

I’ll give you this—”

There was something dazzling in the sparkle of thoughts Wynne gave voice

to as he discussed the possibilities of the play. He seemed to have

grasped its living essence, and to have impregnated it with a spirit of

higher worth than even the author had believed possible.

“And you could do that?”

“I can always do as I feel.”

Quiltan rose and paced the room excitedly.

“I believe in you,” he said. “I favour this co-operation. But what’d

Levis say? He’d stick out for his own man.”

“Good heavens! What do you want with Levis? Back the venture yourself.”

“I—but—”

“God knows you’ve money enough.”

“I know nothing about theatres.”

“I know plenty.”

Quiltan paused and bit his forefinger.

“Take a theatre and do it ourselves?” he queried.

“Why not?”

“By the Lord, why not indeed! It ’ud be tremendous fun.”

“It ’ud be tremendous earnest.”

“Either way, I’m game.”

“Settled, then?”

“Yes, it’s settled.”

Wynne stood himself a cab from Clarges Street at three o’clock in the

morning. He looked ten years younger as he burst into the room where Eve

was waiting up for him.

“I’ve done it!” he cried. “I’ve done it! I’m on the road upward at

last.”

VIII

Wynne was extraordinarily full of himself in the days which followed.

Day and night he worked with feverish energy on schemes for the play. He

went out and came in at all hours. In his excitement he entirely ignored

Eve’s presence, except when he appealed to her on some delicate point

dealing with the attitude of the women characters. Having secured what

he wanted he would wave aside further discussion and plunge afresh into

his thought-packed aloneness.

Once he jerked out the information that he was to receive a hundred

pounds for the production and ten per cent. profits during the run of

the piece.

“I’ve engaged the cast and we shall arrange about the theatre in a day

or two. Here, read that speech aloud—I want to hear what it sounds like

in a woman’s voice. Yes, that’s it. Thanks! That’s all I want to know.

You read it quite right. I believe you could have acted! Is there

something to eat ready? I’m going out in ten minutes.”

“It won’t be long.”