CHAPTER I.

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CLEO THE MAGNIFICENT

by

LOUIS ZANGWILL

* * * * *

MR. LOUIS ZANGWILL'S WORKS.

A Drama in Dutch.

_Spectator:_ Certainly a book which has not merely cleverness but real

vitality.

_Speaker:_ Deliciously original ... and told with great spirit, humor

and dramatic vigor.

"T. P." in _Weekly Sun:_ What a delightful creation Mrs. de Griendt

is! Indeed I should have personally been glad if we had had more of

her.... I think the reader will agree with me that I have not

exaggerated the literary merit of this exquisitely-described scene.

The World and a Man.

_Academy:_ A masterful novelist.

_Illustrated London News:_ One of the cleverest novels of the day.

_Pall Mall Gazette:_ Finely told.... It is an achievement in a high

form of art.

_Daily Chronicle:_ It contains many passages which the greatest

masters in the same _genre_ might have been proud to have written.

The Beautiful Miss Brooke.

_Brooklyn Eagle:_ A brilliant bit of work.

_Detroit Free Press:_ He has analyzed with ability and finish.... This

is a story to be admired for its discernment and its originality.

_Boston Beacon:_ The story is thoroughly entertaining and well done,

... and in analysis of character, force, and directness, it exceeds

the author's previous essays in fiction.

_Chicago Record:_ Very few recent novels which have come out of

England will compare with this story in two points--absolute

conciseness of form and analysis of motive.... Here is a theme of

vital truthfulness and Mr. Louis Zangwill has dealt with it with the

hand of a master of form....

A Nineteenth Century Miracle.

_Academy:_ As tantalizing a problem as was ever bound in cloth.

_Pall Mall Gazette:_ As tangled a skein as ever the brain of Gaboriau

evolved.

_Daily Chronicle:_ We have seldom read a better piece of

mystification.

_Morning Leader:_ It would probably defy the most ingeniously

imaginative reader to make in the course of the story even an

approximate leap toward the heart of the miracle that Louis Zangwill

has wrought for his astonishment.

* * * * *

CLEO THE MAGNIFICENT

Or

The Muse of the Real

A Novel

by

LOUIS ZANGWILL

Author of "The Beautiful Miss Brooke," "The World and a Man," Etc., Etc.

New York: G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers.

London: Wm. Heinemann.

MDCCCXCVIII.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1897, by G. W.

DILLINGHAM CO., In the office of the Librarian of Congress at

Washington, D. C.

_Cleo the Magnificent._

BOOK I.

CLEO THE MAGNIFICENT

CHAPTER I.

It was past midnight, and both men were smoking leisurely by the study

fireside. Morgan Druce sat just on the edge of a low chair, his long,

slim body bent forward, his clean-shaven boyish face well within the

glow of the fire. Though he appeared to be looking at it, he was only

conscious of its warmth.

Robert Ingram, middle-aged and bearded, lolled back in sensuous

comfort. "The long and the short of it is," he resumed, "you've a

soul-crisis on just at present. Crises are bad for the digestion, and

I took care to grow out of them long ago."

"Our temperaments are very different," said Morgan.

"That's what makes your case so difficult to meet," returned Ingram.

"It's your infernal temperament. One never knows how to take it. In

fact, you're the sort of person in whose existence I never really

believed; for though, as you know, I once had ideals and a literary

conscience, I was always aware they would go as soon as I had a market

for everything I could manufacture. You are the genuine incorruptible

artist, to whom art is sacred. I really don't know whether to be

doubtful of my cynicism or your sanity."

"That my case _is_ a pretty bad one I've already admitted," put in

Morgan.

"Now, if you were only some poor devil who was alone in the world,"

went on Ingram without heeding his remark, "I could take you in hand

and make something of you, for you've quite brains enough. Poor devils

are generally more reasonable in their views than you, even when

they're geniuses. You simply keep on wearing out your heart day after

day. Why? For fame? What is it worth? Well, I won't answer the

question--I deal quite enough in platitudes."

"You don't understand, Ingram. What do you really know of me?"

"Well, if I don't know you by this time, you must be an uncommonly

deep person--or perhaps I am an uncommonly shallow one."

Morgan Druce did not answer. His last remark had been more of a

reflection than an interrogation. What did Ingram really know of him,

he asked himself again, despite the five years of the indefinable

relation between them? Admitting that the man beneath the cynic was

kindly and sympathetic, yet he could not but be aware that Ingram's

treason to the aspirations of his youth had destroyed the finer edge

of feeling. His vision did not respond to subtler vibrations; his

judgment was broad and coarse.

Such was Morgan's intuition about Robert Ingram. He believed the man

to be sincere with him and he trusted him. And yet, as he looked up

now and saw Ingram, relapsed into his luxurious arm chair, blowing

rings of smoke, he seemed to detect something in his expression that

filled him with a vague distrust about the genuineness of his

professed interest in him. There was a sort of swagger in his whole

posture, a slickness about his well-dressed, well-fed body, and a

self-satisfaction in his somewhat burly face, nay, even in the manner

his fat fingers held his fat cigar, that set Morgan wondering for the

first time whether Ingram's attitude to literature did not in truth

sum up the whole man; whether that popular novelist and dramatist

could really have a place in his heart for anything that was of

unimportance to his own personal existence--for a poor devil of a

poetaster, for instance.

It was one of those sudden doubts that are created by a chance glimpse

from an accidental new point of view; and Morgan thrust it from him as

absurd and unjust. It could have no foundation, else why had Ingram

responded to his appeal at the beginning? Why had he tolerated his

calls all these years? Why were they talking together in that room

now?

He had often been puzzled about this relation between them, though, as

with his friendship with Lady Thiselton, its very strangeness and

originality pleased him. His relation to that charming woman was, he

felt, both indefinable and incredible; and his relation to the man

beside him, though less odd, could be included neither in the category

of acquaintanceship nor in that of friendship. Morgan was ignorant of

Ingram's personal life, even as Ingram was ignorant of such a large

fact in his own as Lady Thiselton. Their coming together had been

always on the ground of their one common interest; otherwise there was

the most absolute mutual exclusiveness between their existences.

True that Morgan's periodical appearance at this Albert Gate flat, of

which Ingram had made for himself a luxurious bachelor's home, had

eventually resulted in a certain frankness of speech and familiarity

of manner between them. But here their intercourse began and ended.

Perhaps Morgan had all along seen the position a little bit out of

perspective; the very freedom with which Ingram had come to unmask

himself before him and the intimacy with which they addressed each

other had perhaps misled him. The cheery breeziness of Ingram had

attracted him a good deal from the first, and he had liked the man for

the ready good nature he had displayed towards him. And altogether it

had been easy for him to think that he had done more than just rub up

against the surface of Ingram's life, the depth and fullness of which

he had scarcely realised.

At the beginning he had looked upon his being allowed to come and see

the older man now and again as a privilege. It had never struck him to

look at these visits of his from the other's point of view. It was

precisely this point of view that now forced itself upon him as he

struggled with the suspicion that had come to him. Had Ingram looked

upon him merely as somebody who deserved to be good-humouredly

tolerated? And was his openness only due to the consciousness of his

(Morgan's) being an outsider, into whose ears he had got into the

habit of speaking thoughts he would have told to no other living

person, pretty much as he might have written them in a diary? Such a

habit was easy to acquire with regard to an outsider whom one came

into contact with periodically, and with whom one had a long talk

each time.

He was not pleased, however, that such a train of thought should have

come to him, and, urged by something akin to remorse, his mind went

travelling back over the past five years in search of arguments in

favour of Ingram.

There was a long interval during which both smoked in silence.

"Do you remember," asked Morgan, at length, "the circumstances under

which we first became acquainted?"

"Perfectly," responded Ingram. "You wrote me a long letter, a rather

pathetic one. That was the first intimation I had of your existence."

"Did you destroy that letter?"

"I never destroy letters--compromising ones, of course, always

excepted."

"Then I may assume it still exists. Would it give you very much

trouble to find it now?"

"I pride myself upon my system," answered Ingram.

"Please put it to the test, then."

"Your system is excellent," admitted Morgan, as at the end of about

five minutes Ingram held up the sheets in triumph. "Now I wonder if

you'd read it to me. I want to hear how it sounds."

"Certainly, you amusing beggar," said Ingram. "You wrote it during

your last crisis and you want to compare your feelings then with now."

"I forget what I wrote," said Morgan, with an attempt at gaiety. "It

must be very dramatic, so please put the proper expression into it,

just as if it were a passage in one of your plays."

"Dear Mr. Ingram," read out that gentleman. "For nearly six years I

have been trying to live by writing verse--ever since I was seventeen.

Six years of passionate hope and longing, failure and failure, all

years of wandering in the desert, of groping in the dark. I know no

one--no one to criticise me--no one to encourage, to blame, or to

praise; only the voice of purpose in my breast. Amid loneliness this

passion for fruitless labour has grown strong, frenzied, blind.

Perhaps one day I shall penetrate--if I live. But for life one must

have food; for work one must have shelter. At twenty-three one does

not want to die; not when one has lived always in the future, when one

has striven and toiled for recognition that may yet come. Not mere

recognition of genius or talent, of knack or gift, but recognition of

Truth as opposed to Imposture, of my right to life, of my right to

give free and full expression of the individuality that is mine.

"As matters are now--I am utterly friendless so far as my inner life

is concerned--I can see no other end than fall. God knows what shape

that fall is destined to take; into what mire my soul must plunge in

the fight for life. I could bear anything if I were not so utterly

alone and helpless. I would do hack-work if I but knew Grub Street. I

would sell my soul to a publisher for fifty pounds a year. Anything to

get my foot on the lowest rung of the ladder! Anything to help me on

the way to freedom!

"If you could see me, speak to me, help me in any way! Believe me, I

do not wish to force my personality on you. I do not want you to give

me any material thing. I only beg of you to aid me in asserting my

claim on life by telling how I may win bread.

"I should be deeply grateful for a word from you. In any case, pardon

this intrusion. Yours, etc., Morgan Druce."

* * * * *

Ingram drew a long breath and threw the sheets on to the table.

"Have I read it nicely?" he asked.

"And I wrote that--to you, Robert Ingram!" exclaimed Morgan, brokenly.

"You did," said Ingram, quietly. "And you know what the sequel was."

"You were moved by my appeal. You came to seek me out."

"Well, your letter interested me. It was not the letter of a duffer or

a swindler--the sort of thing you can tell by its ornate pompousness;

and it just caught me when I was somewhat bored by things, so that I

rather welcomed it as an excitement. I expected to find you lodging in

some miserable cottage--a Chatterton in a garret. I came to bring food

to the hungry. Instead----"

"You found me living in a palace standing in a fine park, with no lack

of loaves and fishes, of milk and honey."

"It was the greatest surprise of my life. When I could no longer doubt

that the only people called Druce in the neighbourhood lived in the

magnificent Elizabethan mansion, whose name was that of the supposed

cottage from which you addressed your letter, I began to think the

family kept a skeleton in one of the cupboards. In plain

language----"

"You thought one of the members of the family must be a lunatic."

"Anyway, the champagne was first-class, the cigars were worth

half-a-crown apiece," said Ingram, laughing.

"And when you had gone into the matter you thought that if I wasn't

quite a lunatic, I was not far short of one for disagreeing with my

father."

"Frankly, I did."

"You never really sympathised."

"I did--all the time I conceived of you as a Chatterton."

"A palace is worse than a garret," asserted Morgan, "under the

conditions in which I lived."

"Bah! You know nothing about garrets. And, as I pointed out to you,

even if, in spite of the competition, you did sell your soul to a

publisher for fifty pounds a year, he'd take care to stick to it. You

were hopelessly wrong in your ideas about getting your foot on the

first rung of the ladder."

"I am ashamed of ever having had those ideas--of ever having been

willing to suppress my individuality, if only temporarily, for the

sake of living. It all ought to have ended then. Why did you advise me

to go on?"

"I only advised you to go on writing--I took the other thing for

granted. In the light of my experience of myself at the same age, I

judged it was the only advice you would take. And then having entered

on the adventure, I wanted to finish it; so naturally I set about

making peace between father and son. Excellent man, your father! So

open to reason! You must have been deuced clumsy to irritate him. To

refuse to enter such a business! You'd have been a rich man in a few

years. But I'm sorry to see your last remark implied a sort of

reproach."

"It was a stupid remark," admitted Morgan. "Of course I wanted to go

on. At twenty-three one does not want to die."

"If there is still a prospect of being allowed to write poetry," added

Ingram. "You wanted to be put in the way of earning fifty pounds a

year, and naturally you invoked the assistance of the man who was

reputed to have a weakness for embryo genius. However, at the age of

twenty-eight, it appears, one does want to die. I helped you over the

last crisis; perhaps I may help you over this one. Let us look at the

facts. You've had a good chance and you've been defeated. Your poetry

is not wanted. As I've told you before, I am not competent to say

whether it's great or whether it's downright drivel--it's years since

I discovered my limitations. You've been imprudent enough to pay the

expenses of publishing two small volumes, and certain it is that

nobody found any greatness in them. I admit I couldn't make head or

tail of the bulk of the stuff--I'm satisfied myself to write what

plain folk can understand. To put the matter bluntly, you send work to

market that most people would look on as the ravings of a lunatic.

Now, my advice is--cut poetry. There is plenty in the world for you to

live for. Go and travel awhile. See men and cities, sculpture and

paintings. Study humanity instead of merely thinking about it. Sail

over the wide seas; breathe in the good air; be true to your youth and

fall in love right bravely. You are rich--all this is in your power. I

am sure your father will be pleased."

Morgan was touched by the other's enthusiasm.

"I have always misunderstood you," he cried, remorsefully; "you are

not the mere gross tradesman you boast of being."

"Really, you embarrass me. Anyway, I hope that, now your opinion of me

has gone up, my advice will bear fruit. After which I shall not mind

confessing that that last nice bit is a quotation from my first novel.

I could have invented nothing more apropos."

"You give me advice I am powerless to act on," said Morgan, after some

hesitation. "I spent my last shilling to-day."

"No money!" ejaculated Ingram. "The deuce! Don't you draw a regular

income from your father?"

"That was not the arrangement," said Morgan. "I was the first-born,

and he was mortally offended by my refusal to enter the bank and carry

on the name and the tradition of the house. During all those six years

there had been friction and bitterness between us. At last came an

appalling outbreak, and I was suffering from the full pain of my

wounds when I wrote to you. You were good enough to tell him that

genius sometimes earned quite considerable amounts, and the ultimate

result of your intercession, of which you only knew the happy issue,

not the details, was that he agreed to give me six thousand pounds,

with the understanding I was never to expect another penny from him.

My brother was to take my commercial birthright and I the

responsibility for my whole future. I've earned nothing save an odd

few shillings now and again, and all I had from my father I've somehow

managed to mess away."

"Good God!" shrieked Ingram. "Six thousand pounds in five years! An

exemplary young man of simple habits like you! What could you

have done with it all? You're not a spendthrift. You don't gamble, do

you?"

"I don't know how it has gone," said Morgan, helplessly. "I made bad

investments, I lent some of it away, and I suppose I spent the rest."

"And you wanted to sell your soul to a publisher for fifty pounds a

year! The fact is, I suppose, you don't know the value of money at

all--it just melts away."

"For me money has no value. I don't care a pin about it," said Morgan,

doggedly.

"That's scarcely the point," said Ingram. "Whether you care about it

or not, you'll have to raise some of it. Let me interview your father.

The fault is his. He knew you were a poet, and yet he was imprudent

enough to give you capital instead of an income."

"It was my doing. I wanted to be perfectly free and independent of

him--not to be worried by sordid complaints and lectures and warnings

with each quarter's cheque. I told him so frankly, and I so annoyed

him even at the end that he gave me the money, saying he did not care

what I did with it. I certainly intend to stand by the arrangement I

made with him. That money was to be the last, and the last it shall

be."

"You are difficult," said Ingram.

"You must be indulgent."

Ingram lighted a new cigar and appeared lost in reflection a little

while.

"There is only one thing, then, I can suggest," he said at last.

"And that is?" asked Morgan, in a tone that clearly indicated his

belief that he was beyond all suggestions.

"You can be my ghost. Don't be alarmed--you must do some work, you

know, and that is the only work I can think of for you. I have to

refuse very many commissions. Try your hand at some of them and I'll

run over the work and sign. As I've said before, you've got brains

enough if you'll only use them in the right direction."

"You mean it for the best; but I could not be party to a fraud."

"How so? My business in life is to manufacture stories and plays for

the people. My signature merely guarantees the quality just as the

name of a maker on a pianoforte guarantees the instrument. But every

such maker employs others whose names do not appear in connection with

the finished product."

"The whole thing is impossible. Forgive me for ignoring your

arguments. I ought never to have troubled you with my miserable

concerns. It would, perhaps, have been better if I had never written

you this."

And Morgan took up his own letter from the table, morbidly fascinated

by it, and impelled to read again the words that had been wrung from

him five years before by his torturing sense of his position in life.

But, as he began to read, an odour he had been vaguely conscious of

inhaling all along was wafted very perceptibly to his nostrils. Then

he became aware that the letter was subtly scented.

An unreasoning anger came upon him.

"Some woman has had this in her possession," he exclaimed.

Ingram looked at him strangely, hesitated, then seemed finally to

comprehend.

"You are a veritable Lecoq," he said coolly.

Then that conception of Ingram that had before begun to hover in

Morgan's mind now forced itself upon him wholly. He had always

understood that the man had been inclined to take him somewhat as a

good joke, but this he had not minded so much, so long as he believed

that his personality and his aspirations really interested him. Now

his sense of not having been looked upon seriously predominated, and

with it came an exaggerated consciousness of everything in Ingram that

was obnoxious to his spirit. If the re-reading of the letter had been

a torture for him, the knowledge that it had been ruthlessly exposed

to other eyes aggravated the pain tenfold, especially at this

particular moment.

"And so this person, whose vile scent impregnates this, has had my

soul laid bare before her for her amusement!"

"Whose vile scent?" repeated Ingram, angrily. "I must ask you not to

use such language about any friend of mine."

"You went to her, no doubt, to be praised and fawned upon for your

generosity to me, and afterwards----"

"Don't be a fool!" exclaimed Ingram, cutting him short.

"Thank you. I shall take the advice. I have been a fool long enough."

Morgan moved out of the room, leaving Ingram flushed and motionless.

CHAPTER II.

As Morgan had told Ingram, he had that day spent his last shilling. He

had thus no option but to walk home to his rooms in Chester Terrace,

Regent's Park. It was a long walk, and one had already struck, but he

did not hurry. The night was a fine one of early spring, and it suited

his mood to linger in the free air.

He had not really gone to Ingram for advice, though he had been unable

to prevent his despair from showing itself. He was sorry that the

exhaustion of his funds should have come just at the moment when he

had resigned himself to the final abandonment of the ambition that had

determined his whole life. He was sure now that a mind like Ingram's

would inevitably set down his despair to his money difficulties. But

the next moment he told himself it was grotesque on his part to care

just then what inference Ingram might draw about him. Ingram and he

would be concerned with each other but little in the future!

But what was the future to be? Were there not others who would be

fully as astonished as Ingram at learning the truth? And even if it

were possible for him to hide besides there was Margaret Medhurst.

What meaning could the future have for him without her?

His old inner life had at length come to an end and he was now to pass

from it into he knew not what--perhaps a raw, cold air. And yet his

feeling now was not so entirely one of despair as when he had that

evening rung Ingram's bell. He seemed to have been stung out of his

terrible apathy. The smart had stirred up his deadened nerves. He was

trying to set in order the jumble that possessed his mind and to think

clear and straight.

The vague figure of a scented woman reading his letter haunted him,

and at moments Ingram was added to the picture, and he saw them

uniting in mockery of him--prosaic, prosperous author, and strange,

romantic serpent-woman!

Though that letter of five years before had been wrung from him, he

had written it with but the vaguest idea of sending it. A romantic

impulse had dictated its form as an appeal to a prominent novelist,

and it was only when he had finished it that the same romantic impulse

urged him to post it. His feeling about it was purely poetic, and he

scarcely realised he was addressing a real, living person. The

commercial world of literature was to him a mysterious, far-off chaos,

and at very bottom he had no belief the letter would be the means of

his getting nearer to it.

So far as he was concerned at the moment, he had sent his bolt flying

into the clouds, and the contingency of its being shown about had

never occurred to him; moreover, if Ingram had left his appeal

unanswered, the fact he now resented so much would never have come

within the sphere of his consciousness. But to become cognisant of it

years later at a moment of despair humiliated him unbearably. The mere

re-reading of the letter had already humiliated him, for the lapse of

time, the change of circumstance, the literary degeneration of Ingram,

and his very acquaintance with the man, had made him feel the words

very differently than when they had come spontaneously out of his

blood. His sense of their futility added to his resentment.

But as he now walked along he was beginning to be conscious that, side

by side with this resentment, had come something fantastic, something

luring, immanent in the far faintness of the scent that had perfumed

his letter.

He found himself repeating Browning's lines with a sense of the thrill

and romance of life.

"Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes

Of labdanum, and aloe balls,

Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes

From out her hair: such balsam falls

Down seaside mountain pedestals,

From treetops, where tired winds are fain,

Spent with the vast and howling main,

To treasure half their island-gain.

"And strew faint sweetness from some old

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud,

Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;

Or shredded perfume, like a cloud

From closet long to quiet vowed,

With mothed and dropping arras hung,

Mouldering her lute and books among,

As when a queen, long dead, was young."

If his sense of overwhelming defeat made for despair, he was conscious

of his nature being effectively appealed to from another direction. If

he had that evening determined to throttle his ambition and write

poetry no more, he seemed to have become aware of the stirring of a

new motive for existence. But what it was he could not definitely tell

himself.

And always before him rose the figure of the scented serpent-woman

holding his letter in her long fingers, her white teeth gleaming in

mockery!

"I shall live--live!" he exclaimed, as he entered his own door at

last.

He lighted the gas in his large, comfortable sitting-room, and noticed

there were letters for him on the mantel resting against the clock,

whose hands pointed to half-past two.

But he would not look at them just yet. His was a strange mood just

then and he did not wish his thoughts disturbed. There was something

he had to do at once. Let the letters wait till he had finished.

Again he heard Ingram's voice reading. Every word had branded itself

on him.

Soon he had the large table littered with bundles of manuscript. They

represented his poetic output. Many of them had travelled far and

wide; never again should they be sent forth into the world to bring

him that which his heart had most desired. He took up one here and

there and ran his eye through it. Considering the years he had worked,

the output--for a young man's muse--was perhaps not large. But then he

had only taken up his pen when inspiration had come. Certainly during

the earlier years most of his time had been spent in reading and

study. Otherwise he had had a habit of losing himself in the play of

his imagination, awaking after having lived in worlds innumerable.

Thus the actual amount of verse he had produced in the first years was

really quite small.

He could not help dawdling a little before proceeding with the work of

destruction. They were strange products, most of these poems of his;

mirroring vague metaphysical moods, unseizable mystic fancies;

incomprehensible save to one whose own inwardness they suggested, or

to one of infinite emotional sympathy. A blurred, shapeless spirit

brooded behind these melodious masses of words, these outpourings of

disconnected ideas--a spirit invisible for reason and responsive only

to divination, as love responds to love. Sometimes it was hidden amid

a flow of sensuous images; sometimes in an impression of a landscape,

of an atmospheric effect, of a play of light and shade. Such

impression was never pure and complete, such visual effect never

pictured for its own sake; for here and there amid it would lurk a

phrase that was not of it, that struck a note--an elusive

key-note--which set vibrating something haunting in its familiarity,

terrifying in its strangeness; something mocking and meaningless, that

went echoing away into the infinite.

He had not been able to find contentment in the mere presentation of

beauty. Even where he dealt with the concrete there was always

something to destroy the semblance of reality. The world that was

revealed to his vision was a surface-world, for he had not pierced it

by experience, but only dimly through the medium of books, and the

elements it gave him he used freely. But his combinations of them

were seldom along the lines of the possible. Here a colour would flash

out at one; there a jewel would sparkle; now a perfume would be

wafted; now a bird would sing. But all this individual definiteness

was merged into a general blur, or formed itself into a sort of

kaleidoscopic pattern that subtly suggested a meaning to be seized.

And all that Morgan now looked over again gave back to him the spirit

he had put into them. The gaps in his expression of that spirit he was

blind to. Shaped in the mould of his peculiar fantasy, these poems

lived for the mind that had created them, that had been compelled by

its own inner necessity to give them what was to him their particular

form, to others their very formlessness.

His belief that this poetry was of immortal quality was unshaken, but

he had been born into a wrong world, he now told himself. He was aware

that he did not know the world of every-day affairs; that he was not

fitted to know it. The very thought of its swirling incomprehensible

activities turned him giddy; and if he walked amid it daily it was for

him pure visual perception. Beyond that perception he did not seek to

look and so he escaped discomfort.

Well, let him not linger. His old life--the singer's life--was over,

and nothing of it must remain.

The grate was a big one, but even then the work of destruction would

take some time. A fire had been laid that morning, but had not been

lighted. He put back the coals into the vase and filled the grate with

his manuscripts. Then, striking a match, he watched the blaze

blackening and curling up the edges of the sheets.

When eventually the table was bare, he reflected it was strange he

should now feel so little emotion. His predominating sense was one of

physical fatigue, but the figure of the scented woman was still with

him. Would it not be splendid, he asked himself, now that his past

life lay there in a charred heap, to enter with his new life into the

life of this woman--nay, to win her away from Ingram?

He took his letters. There were three of them, and they read as

follows:

"My Dear Morgan:--This is to let you know I shall be in town

to-morrow. I want you to come and meet me at Victoria at one

o'clock and we shall lunch together before I go on to my hotel.

My chief business is to see friend Medhurst about my eyes. I fear

my present reading-glasses no longer suit me. By the way, I've

some splendid ideas for you to work out. It's quite clear to me

now from whom you inherited your genius. Mind you are in time.

Your dad, Archibald D.

"P. S.--The 'Pleiad' to-day publishes that little poem of yours

about Diana. I feel very proud of being your father. Present my

regards to Mr. Ingram."

Morgan merely smiled. He had not had a poem published for many months,

and this was his first indication that the one in point had been

accepted. Curious, he reflected, it should just appear that day.

"Dear Prince Charming," ran the second. "This is to reproach you

for not coming yesterday afternoon. For two hours I waited

without giving up hope. Softest-hearted of mortals, for me alone

is your heart a stone! I had all the sensations of Mariana in

the moated grange, but whilst you are in the world, I certainly

shall not wish myself dead.

"When are you going to take me to Whitechapel? My mind wanders

longingly from this prosaic Belgrave Square to yon fantastic

region. It's quite a month since we last got lost together. I

have next Monday and Thursday free. I wonder whether it will

occur to you to connect the two last sentences. Either day--or

both--will suit me. This doesn't count as a letter. I shall write

you a real one this evening. Helen."

"Dear Morgan," read the last. "As you have probably heard, your

father is coming to town to see Mr. Medhurst professionally, and

of course he is to dine here to-morrow evening. Come in and join

us; we shall be strictly _en famille_. By the way, Margaret has

not only finished 'Chiron' and the 'Spanish Marauder,' but she

has actually sold both! They look very well, indeed, in bronze.

Yours ever, Kate Medhurst.

"P. S.--Diana sends her love and hopes that if you have any more

stamps you will bring them with you."

This postscript was in the writing of the young lady herself.

The reading of these letters did not give him any pleasure just then.

These other lives in whose round he was an important figure were going

on without any intuition of his inner tragedy, without any suspicion

that they would henceforwards have to go on without him; that he could

no more carry them forward into his vague, new life than those equally

vital elements of his old self--his poems! How strangely did their

moods contrast with his--his father's playful good-humour, Lady

Thiselton's sprightly _camaraderie_ and Mrs. Medhurst's cheerful

domesticity!

But the last letter made him wince. It was only a simple invitation,

but it hurt him as though a finger had been put on a raw wound. For

he, who had made a failure of his existence, whose one remaining link

with life was a mere grotesque possibility of an adventure with an

unknown serpent-woman, loved Margaret Medhurst with a poet's

despairing love.

The figure of the scented woman floated up again. She had let the

letter fall into her lap now and her wonderful face seemed to smile at

him.

CHAPTER III.

He awoke in the morning, acceptant of what he had done in the night. A

calmness had set in and with it had come a clarification of his

thought. His grasp of the position was more definite, and his feeling

was that, to meet it adequately, he must disattach himself completely

from the past.

But the future was mystic and seductive.

However, his tendency to dwell on it had to be put aside in favour of

commonplace things that must be done immediately. As Ingram had

pointed out to him, he might be as indifferent to money as he pleased,

yet he must give it his first attention. Though ready cash was

exhausted, he remembered almost with surprise he had several

possessions that might be converted into it.

His breakfast was served to him as usual, but he did not open the

promised letter which duly arrived from Lady Thiselton. His general

sense of things filled his mind sufficiently.

His first business was to wait upon the family jeweller in Oxford

Street, from whom he had made occasional purchases for birthday

presents. The experience was a strange one for him, and he felt

somewhat timid about it. However, when he had explained what he

wanted, he was agreeably astonished at the man's insisting, with a

great show of goodwill towards him, he must accommodate him with

fifty pounds, and before Morgan had recovered from his flurry, he had

given an I. O. U. for the amount and had bank notes in his pocket.

"Why, I shouldn't think of charging _you_ any interest," the jeweller

had declared, and Morgan was much puzzled to understand why. Nor did

he quite know what this piece of paper he had signed represented.

He had now accomplished all the action his brain had planned, and it

was time to go and meet his father. And then it struck him as curious

that life seemed to be ignoring his ideas and to be taking him forward

despite himself. With all his intense feeling that he must complete

his disattachment from the past, its impetus was stronger than he.

Somehow he _must_ go and meet his father; he _must_ dine with the

Medhursts that evening.

As was clear from Archibald Druce's note, the relation between father

and son was scarcely so theatrical as Ingram might have gathered from

Morgan's talk the evening before, a fact of which Morgan was well

aware. He had not really intended to give Ingram a theatrical

impression, but the somewhat subtle truth could never have been

conveyed in the few words they had had together, apart from the fact

that it must inevitably have got coloured by the mood of the moment.

There had been many vicissitudes between father and son. The latter

well remembered the moment when, unable to keep his big idea to

himself any longer, he had divulged it to his father as they were

strolling together in the grounds one sunny afternoon. The two had

always been on the best of terms. Now Archibald Druce's ideas about

his Morgan's career had been definitely shaped for years. He intended

that the boy should, after passing through the University, enter the

banking business with which his whole life had been associated, and

ultimately become a partner therein. But Morgan's own idea of his

mission in life seemed to the banker so extraordinary that it made him

laugh outright. Unfortunately, too, in addition to pooh-poohing his

son's unexpected ambition, he went on, by way of implanting in him

sensible and serious views of life, to point out that the right to

spend money had to be acquired by effort expended.

Morgan had made up his mind at a very boyish age that he was destined

to become an immortal bard; the conceptions he had then formed had

remained with him in all their boyish freshness. They were pure

conceptions, detached from the realities, of which he then knew

nothing. Poetry was a great and glorious thing, and when he first

decided that his whole life could be devoted to nothing nobler, he had

selected it away from the actual material circumstances from which

existence cannot be extricated.

But in this first talk with his father he had already been brought

into collision with these sordid complications. Archibald's

well-intentioned scorn had inflicted a wound that pained still after

the lapse of years. Moreover, by raising financial questions, he had

unwittingly poured poison into that wound. Morgan, however, refused to

have his eyes opened and clung desperately to his detached conception

of poetry and the poet's life.

The thought of his being destined for business terrified the lad. He

felt he could never live in the atmosphere of an office. He was born

to sing, to charm, to enchant. What had he to do with money? He must

argue with his father and convince him. And he effectually did succeed

in making him understand he was serious. The banker was upset, and

Morgan, carried along by the freshness and purity of his enthusiasm,

made an altogether wrong judgment of the position. For the first

opposition and the first clash of wills represented a bigger fact to

Morgan than it did to the father, who, not entirely understanding the

force of the ferment in his son's mind, as yet took it for granted

that time was only needed to eradicate this strange, startling

madness. He therefore pressed Morgan to proceed at once to the

University, in the belief he would take a more sensible view of things

when he was a few years older. But Morgan refused. He held to his

ambition with frenzied persistence, and he had felt the bitterness of

dependence. He determined, therefore, to try his wings at once,

remembering that money _was_ attached to success, and, in the optimism

of enthusiasm, forming impossible hopes of supporting himself before

long.

Archibald Druce did not mind his being apparently idle for awhile,

and, by a sort of common understanding, the subject was not touched

upon between them for some time. Morgan perforce had to live at home,

and, as time went by, this very fact caused him a great deal of

misery. Perhaps the very magnificence of his surroundings made matters

worse for him.

His mother, too, was against him, and, after awhile she seemed to

expend all the time she could spare from playing the role of _grande

dame_ in the county, in egging on his father against him. The sense of

her injustice embittered him, for he knew he could not fairly be

accused of spending his time unprofitably. He was studying perhaps

harder than he would have done at college, for he was a student almost

as much as he was poet. Of recreation, though, he had no stint. He

rode, fished, swam and boated; but always alone, for his instinct made

for solitude. With his brother he was not unfriendly, but there was no

intimate sympathy between the two.

During the years that followed there were many fallings-out and

reconciliations between father and son. If the banker had been

entirely able to rid his mind of the plans he had so long cherished

for his son, he would have been quite content that the latter should

go through life as a gentleman of wealth and leisure. But he was

wedded to the business to which he had given the best energies of his

life, and the idea that Morgan must eventually take his place in it

amounted almost to an obsession. A reconciliation always made Morgan

happy, for its own sake quite as much as for the belief that his

ambition was being recognised. Estrangement and friction were always

terrible things to him and caused him unspeakable suffering.

His letter to Ingram was the culmination. It was sincere and expressed

exactly what he felt. The immediate cause of the mood which prompted

it had been Archibald's putting before him again all the old

propositions and his letting it be clearly seen he had never really

abandoned them.

Then followed a few months of happiness in London. At last he felt

master of his own destiny--free of all that had vexed him, free to

succeed. But the routine of his days was much the same as before. He

studied and wrote and dreamed. Now and again he was allowed to come

and chat with Ingram. Friends of the family made him welcome at their

houses whenever he chose to emerge from the isolation that was natural

to him. At the Medhurst's, in particular, he was almost one of the

family.

But, some time after Morgan's leaving home, Archibald Druce retired

from active affairs and began to acquire the taste for reading. And

now came a great change in Archibald's attitude. Morgan one day

realised with astonishment that his father had become perfectly

reconciled to the idea of his following a literary career, nay, that

he was now proud of having a son who was a man of letters. Archibald,

in fact, seemed to be relishing the literary atmosphere tremendously.

He made constant additions to his library, consulting Morgan as to the

choice of books, and spent a great part of his time amid its oaken

magnificence. He read very many novels, buying the newest ones as they

appeared. When Morgan's first volume of poems was published, Archibald

went about in a state of intense excitement. He bought fifty copies to

give away, and never went abroad without carrying one in his pocket.

He bragged and boasted about Morgan, till one might have imagined the

latter had scornfully refused the laureateship.

Morgan, however, had no great respect for his father's literary

judgment. It was all very well when he came to him for advice about

his reading, but there were times when the banker did not hesitate to

lay down the law, for he was growing accustomed to a respectful

hearing on the part of his friends, which was somewhat spoiling him.

All his world knew he had trouble with his eyes. As a matter of fact,

his sight was scarcely worse than it had been for years, his visual

weakness being little more than imaginary, and but one of the

manifestations of his literary phase.

Altogether, Archibald Druce seemed quite satisfied with Morgan's slow

progress. Once he had finally got rid of the notion of making Morgan a

banker, he was a delightful man to have for a father, a fact which

Morgan fully appreciated. Often had he asked the latter if "he were

all right for money," and Morgan had replied he was; so that he knew

quite well his father would take a very lenient view of his

expenditure and had no desire at all to hold him to the arrangement

made. But Archibald always limited himself to the general question,

and never sought to know whether Morgan was living on his interest or

spending the capital.

The relation between the two now was a perfectly hearty one. The

banker was glad to have Morgan home for a few days now and again, and

equally enjoyed coming to town occasionally to see him. But in spite

of his father's liberality and cordiality, Morgan's pride, combined

with the sense of his failure, made him determine never to come upon

the paternal purse again. It was this very pride perhaps that had made

him somewhat distort his father's attitude--rather by implication than

by any definite statement--in his last evening's conversation with

Ingram.

He was but too conscious of that attitude as he waited on the platform

for the train to arrive--it had gradually become an intolerable irony

to him.

CHAPTER IV.

"I'm perfectly ravenous," said Archibald Druce. "We must lunch at

once."

Morgan restrained his usual impatient stride, falling in with the

slow, dignified step of his sire, who, though of broad build, would

have been as tall as his son, had it not been for a slight stoop, of

which he was proud, as it gave him an air of erudition.

They repaired to a restaurant close at hand and had a sumptuous lunch

served them. Archibald, who had a weakness for punning, was in one of

his gayest moods, and was not above being occasionally appreciated by

the waiter. Morgan did his best to appear cheerful; he did not wish

his father to suspect anything was amiss. He listened to a humourous

account of home affairs with smiling face, even interposing a few

humourous comments of his own. Eventually he enquired about his

father's eyesight and Archibald's face brightened still more. Soon the

banker grew eloquent on the subject, detailing all the minute symptoms

a morbid attention had detected.

"But I've great faith in John--he's the cleverest oculist in the

Kingdom. And so I thought I'd better come up to town and see him

before--ha, I was just going to let my secret slip out!"

And Archibald sipped his coffee and beamed at Morgan behind his gold

spectacles.

"That sounds like a direct encouragement to me to be inquisitive,"

said Morgan.

"Well, if you'd like to know the secret, it's simply this: I'm going

to write a book."

"What about?" Morgan's tone and gesture summed up his amused

astonishment.

"A good many things," answered Archibald, his face assuming a serious

expression. "You see, I've got into the habit of thinking a good deal

of late, and I've come to the conclusion I ought to be putting my

thoughts down on paper. New ideas occur to me almost every day, and

I'm really beginning to feel that a man like myself can derive more

mental culture from the free play of his own original thought than

from simply following other men's, however admirable it be. The latter

course rather encourages a certain mental laziness, whereas in

thinking for oneself so many points occur which cannot be passed over

till they have been wrestled with and vanquished. Now yesterday, for

instance, some very stiff problems occurred to me--as thus: Can a man

justly lay claim to merit for the talents he possesses, and is it

immodest of him to let others perceive by his conversation that he is

quite aware he possesses them? Or, on the contrary, is not the fact

that he is talented purely a piece of good fortune, and would it not

be the merest humbug on his part to pretend to be blind to it? Again,

if a man performs what is called a good deed, ought he to claim merit

for that? Does not the performance of such a deed give one pleasure,

and is not that pleasure the real end in view? It has struck me of

late that on such points there's a great confusion of thinking, and

between ourselves, Morgan, I've been lately arriving at conclusions

that most people would call revolutionary and dangerous. But I set

truth above all things, and I can't do better than devote my remaining

years to its service. Now, I think I have really sufficient material

for an original and interesting volume. I have been a man of affairs

all my days, and I think the views of such a man who has lived in

contact with the world should at least be as valuable as those of a

college professor who has been secluded from it. It is really about

this volume I propose to write that I want to consult you. I have made

a memorandum of a few points I should like to thresh out thoroughly

with you."

Morgan was rather startled at this sudden and serious awakening of

literary ambition in his father, though he had before now had many a

hint that he was wrestling with formidable ethical and moral

difficulties. He could see Archibald had set his heart on writing the

book, so he could not do otherwise than encourage him. It would simply

keep him enjoyably occupied, and, as the task would no doubt cause him

to dip into accredited works on ethical science, he would ultimately

discover that the problems he had chanced upon were not quite so

original as he supposed.

But even while Morgan discussed the idea with his father, he had a

curious dream-like consciousness of his own affairs, which somehow

seemed to be retarded by this appearance of the banker in London. And,

all the time he was endeavoring to concentrate himself on the

conversation, he was aware of that floating vision which had never

ceased to haunt him.

Minute details respecting the work were gone into, even to the colour

of the paper on which it was to be written. Morgan did not know

whether blue or buff was the more restful for the eyes, and the

question was left open for John Medhurst to decide. Archibald looked

tremendously pleased at his son's reception of his project, and it

certainly raised his opinion of Morgan's judgment.

"I'm glad to see you've not been spoiled by success, Morgan," he could

not help saying.

It was a strange irony, Morgan thought, that his father's acceptance

of him should be so complete just when he himself had finally

abandoned all hope. The reflection would have been a bitter one had he

not found Archibald's pride in him amusing, in view of the latter's

new theories about "merit."

Later on, at the hotel, Archibald produced the copy of the "Pleiad,"

which contained the verses inspired by Margaret Medhurst's younger

sister, and insisted on reading them aloud. His paternal pride was

more than satisfied by the small sum total of Morgan's published work,

and each little addition to it furnished an occasion of great

excitement for him.

Of course, Ingram was mentioned before long, and Morgan had to say

that that gentleman and he were no longer friends. Archibald said he

was sorry, and looked it. He considered Ingram a great author, and the

breach rather a misfortune.

"Is there no hope of smoothing things over?" he asked. "Why not take

me into your confidence? I flatter myself I have had some experience

in patching up even serious differences between people, and you know

I'm at your disposal."

Time had, indeed, brought about a strange reversal of role between the

banker and Ingram.

Morgan explained that Ingram had behaved in such a way as to make him

revise his estimate of him, but that it would scarcely serve any

purpose to go into details.

The banker again said he was sorry, and looked it still more than

before. Anyhow, as the subject was so obviously disagreeable to

Morgan, he would not allude to it again.

In the afternoon they took a little stroll together, and, after

partaking of a cup of tea, they parted, promising to see each other at

Wimpole Street.

"By the way," said his father, at the last moment, "I hear from Katie

that they haven't seen very much of you of late, and that you had

struck them as pre-occupied. She even seemed rather doubtful about

your coming this evening. I hope you don't stick too long at your

desk. I've long since found out that sort of thing is a mistake."

CHAPTER V.

Morgan arrived rather late at Wimpole Street, for father and son had

dallied almost till evening. However, he was the earlier of the two,

and he took the opportunity of presenting Diana with the stamps he had

got together for her and of chatting with her about her collection and

her newest acquisitions. He was relieved to find that Mrs. Medhurst

gave him his usual warm welcome, but at the same time he felt rather

guilty about his unsuspected intention to cease all relations with the

family. This house was more associated with happiness for him than any

other place in the world; he had passed in it perhaps the best moments

of his life. He had always been a favourite with the Medhursts, and

they had believed in him and taken his part even in the early days

when he had been looked at askance in his own family.

Were oblivion of all else possible, he would have felt to-night

supremely happy, for that needed but the sole condition of his being

where he was. But he thought of the borrowed money in his pocket, of

the charred remains of his manuscripts, of his hopeless love for

Margaret, now so near him, speaking to him, of the vague future to

which he was going to abandon himself. And the comfort he could not

help finding here mingled strangely with the emotions that troubled

his spirit and gave him a quivering sense of unrest.

The link between him and the Medhursts had been from the first one of

more than ordinary friendship. For, some thirty years before, when

Mrs. Medhurst was only seventeen, Archibald Druce had been a suitor

for her hand. But her romance with John Medhurst had already begun,

and she waited to marry her true love seven years later. Though

Archibald married within a few years of his rejection, he had all but

kept Kate to her promise to be a sister to him all his life. Certainly

he had remained one of her most devoted admirers.

Mrs. Medhurst was still beautiful, and even Morgan admitted that she

was just the mother a girl like Margaret ought to have. Her face was

winning and sweet, and the simplicity of her attire held no suggestion

of severity. Morgan's eye was pleased by the quiet harmony of the gray

silk dress with its silver girdle and its touches of silver at the

throat and wrists.

Margaret herself was only just nineteen. Taller than her mother by

half a head, she was built with a slender grace and a rare purity of

outline. A somewhat high forehead lent her distinction, perhaps

accentuating the shade of thoughtfulness that was characteristic of

her expression, and that never clashed with its sweetness; rather were

the two qualities blended into a charming spirituality. Her dark blue,

velvety eyes suggested the clear depth of a stream, her cheeks were

modelled in a full, soft curve, her nostrils were delicately

chiselled, and her mouth was small, red and sweet. The neck showed

cool and white above the silver-blue of her girl's soft, silk evening

gown that came almost to her throat. Margaret rather affected

silver-blue--she knew quite well it made her adorable; for, being a

sweet human being, she had just a charming touch of vanity, and would

have been less charming without it. The only other note of colour was

given by the quaint silver buckle at her waist, for the sash was of

the same material as the gown itself.

At sixty-three, Archibald Druce--for the old fellow's heart was still

susceptible--worshipped her almost as much as he had once worshipped

her mother. And Morgan had only realised how she had grown into his

spirit just when despair had begun to show itself again. The discovery

had perhaps given him a fresh spurt of hope, but the charred mass had

marked the end of that.

John Medhurst was somewhat past fifty, and his beard was getting just

a little grey. He was of medium height, and wore spectacles himself--a

fact which, in view of his profession, had given Archibald endless

material for humour. His manner and voice alike were singularly soft

and gentle. He possessed both a sense of humour and a quiet humour of

his own; and his laugh was always ready to ring out. Sometimes it

struck Morgan that Margaret's features were hinted at in his face even

more than in Mrs. Medhurst's, but so subtly, that the resemblance

would seem to vanish for long stretches of time, and he would only be

able to detect it at odd moments.

Archibald arrived quite half an hour late, so that his ferocious knock

and ring caused general rejoicing. His spirits invariably mounted as

soon as he set foot on the Medhursts' doorstep, and, once within the

house, he overflowed with jest and laughter, extracting fun and

merriment from anything and everything, making rather a terrible noise

and enjoying every instant.

"My scamp of a boy and I got talking together," he explained, in

high-pitched apology. "Now, Morgan has some ideas in that head-piece

of his"--here he tapped his son playfully on the skull--"so that when

we two _do_ get talking together, we both find it so fascinating that

we lose all count of time. I've had quite a rush to get here, though I

see Morgan has raced me. I suppose that, at my age, I mustn't

expect----"

"To keep pace with the youngsters."

Margaret finished the sentence for him in playful anticipation of his

platitudinarianism. Archibald took her in his arms and kissed her on

the forehead, with a "No harm at my age, my dear," after which he

laughed gleefully, and proceeded to kiss Diana on the lips, adding:

"No harm at _your_ age, my dear."

"I'm thirteen, and I shall really not allow that sort of thing any

more," said Diana, severely.

"Not from me--your sweetheart!" exclaimed Archibald. "Ah! I

understand," he went on. "It's the grown-up frock."

She was in a shaped dress to-day, but he had recalled her as she was

in her poke-bonnet days, when she had been wont to accept the same

kind of salutation without demur. It did not seem so very long ago

since he had seen her bare-kneed, in short, crimson skirts and all

sorts of fantastic caps and brilliant turbans; and he now reminded her

of the fact, undeterred by the haughtiness of her mien and the

arrogantly rippling masses of golden-brown hair, just a shade darker

than Margaret's.

She gave him a withering glance that asked how he dared!

"Perhaps it's not the frock. It's the poem in the 'Pleiad.' Morgan has

turned her head," recommenced Archibald.

"Morgan, take me down, please," said Diana, majestically ignoring her

tormentor, who thereupon offered his arm to Mrs. Medhurst, and

Margaret and her father brought up the rear.

But when they came to take their seats, they somehow got mixed up

again, so that Morgan found himself next to Margaret, whilst Diana and

Archibald sat opposite. Morgan had more than a suspicion that this was

the result of adroit manoeuvring on Diana's part. Very soon, however,

there arose such a clattering dispute between that young lady and her

neighbour, that Morgan could not talk to his, which made him rather

angry. Anyhow, it was impossible not to be amused after a while by the

altercation, for Diana's tongue was ready and brisk and attacking.

Margaret was a far less militant character, and would never strike,

were there the slightest chance of wounding. Diana's aim was always to

wound, and to wound deeply, provided it was some dear friend she was

pitted against.

In view of the fact that this was the last visit he purposed to the

Medhursts, Morgan had been feeling that a close conversation with

Margaret would prove too much of an ordeal for him, and he had

determined to talk to her as little as possible. But somehow he did

not find himself welcoming the practical inhibition from the other

side of the table; it gave him a sense of frustrated desire. If his

will made him say "I must not talk to her intimately, for I shall lose

all the ground I have gained by purposely avoiding this house so long;

I shall be drawn back close to her and, as the parting must come

nevertheless, the greater will be its anguish," his temperament made

reply: "What! you calculating effects, whose business has always been

poetry? Let your business still be poetry, but weave it out of life

instead of words. Abandon yourself without underthought. Live in that

wonderful region which is here, even as it is everywhere, but in which

only the souls of poets may wander and rejoice." And his temperament

prevailed over his will. He allowed the full flow of love to flood his

spirit. Great poems were summed up in one quick flash; in a second he

lived through a century of fine words.

And, as if divining his thought, she turned to him and spoke. Her

words seemed softly to ring through the din, and he gave himself up to

the full delight of the moment.

"Do you know, Morgan"--for he was always "Morgan" to everybody

there--"a great change has occurred in my dignity the last few days?"

"You are to marry a peer," he hazarded.

"I have risen much higher than that."

"You were at the utmost height."

"I only moved in yesterday, with my benches and mess and clay and wax

and tools. Pa had a hole made in the roof and a top light put in. I

feel so pleased with my studio, and, of course, I mean to entertain

there. We shall have such gay times, and I've a fine excuse for

keeping the company young and select."

"Too high up for old legs?"

"How shrewd!" she exclaimed. "I see that for real worldly insight one

must go to a poet."

"Thank you. This is the first time I've been accused of common sense."

"That is hardly to be wondered at. Your poems have every other

quality. You'll come up and see my studio anyhow?"

"By moonlight?"

"No, by candle light. And you the bearer, like the Latin motto on one

of my old school books."

Meanwhile the combat opposite still raged, and in the end Archibald

and Diana had to be parted almost by force. Diana sent a final shot

from the door, and then scampered away.

"The little rogue!" murmured Archibald, and then broke into one of

those unrestrained laughs which he usually reserved for his own

witticisms.

The three men drew near the fire. Medhurst said something about taking

Diana in hand. She had been somewhat spoiled at school, being looked

upon as a sort of demi-goddess by her classmates. Archibald declared

he wouldn't have her any different for the world. What was the good of

a girl if she was just the same as any other girl? Thence, proceeding

to attack convention, Archibald eventually steered the conversation

round to the contribution he himself purposed making to ethical

philosophy, for he had been waiting for an opportunity to let Medhurst

into the secret.

"It's curious that the more one thinks, John, the more one gets one's

notions upset. I know quite well that most people would think it a

highly dangerous doctrine to put forward, but I really cannot see that

the man who is a saint deserves any more to be praised than the man

who is a murderer. The murderer is simply unfortunate and ought to be

pitied. Nature gave him the impulse to murder--in fact, on a closer

analysis, all personal responsibility seems to disappear."

"And what does your wife say to all this? Isn't she rather alarmed?"

asked Medhurst.

"My wife!" exclaimed the banker, contemptuously. "She's hopelessly

behind the times. Why, she's a perfect child. She takes no interest in

anything beyond the tittle-tattle of the county. We had quite a scene

the other day because I gave expression to my opinion that young

people should be properly instructed in life by means of explanatory

handbooks, instead of being left to gather their knowledge haphazard.

I have never known her to make a single original remark--her

observations are invariably the most obvious. Morgan should be

thankful for the happy hazard of nature which fashioned his brain

rather in the mould of mine than in that of his mother."

"And so you really intend publishing?" said Medhurst.

"I am not afraid. People must be taught to look the problems of life

straight in the face. Truth must be driven home, my dear John, and it

is my intention to say some pretty straight things to the world."

"Have you yet fixed on a title?" asked Medhurst, secretly amused at

this sudden, strange development on the part of his old friend.

"Ah! there's just the difficulty. It was one of the first questions I

put to myself--what about the title? The thing is to get a good

striking one, and that's by no means an easy task. The title of a book

is almost as important as its contents, and, confound it all, my dear

John, I'm blessed if it doesn't take nearly as long to manufacture.

I've been cudgelling my brains for the last three months, and I must

confess my mind is an absolute blank so far."

"Why not call it 'Plain Thoughts of a Practical Thinker?'" suggested

Morgan. "And perhaps you might add a sub-title--'An attempt to

investigate some questions of primary importance that are usually

shelved.' How does that strike you?"

"Splendid!" exclaimed Archibald, enthusiastically. "'Plain Thoughts of

a Practical Thinker'--the very thing. 'An attempt to investigate some

questions of primary importance that are usually shelved.' Admirable!

'Practical Thinker!' That is just the idea I want to convey to the

world. I am not one of your mere dreamers, your theorists, your college

professors. I speak as one who has had a large experience of men and

affairs, as one who has for years administered the fortunes of a great

house. And yet I have sufficient of the thinker and the idealist in me

to have begotten a son whose name will live in English letters. It will,

Morgan, I tell you. You are a little bit misunderstood now, but what

great man has ever escaped misunderstanding? I expect to be misunderstood,

but if they think I am to be howled down--'Plain Thoughts of a Practical

Thinker!' A perfect inspiration! Suppose we join the ladies. I want to

tell Kate about it."

CHAPTER VI.

While Archibald unfolded his literary scheme to Mrs. Medhurst, Diana

mimicking his enthusiastic gestures at a safe distance, Morgan and

Margaret sat apart in that region of the drawing-room which lay

nearest the door. She had been telling him about some parties she had

gone to, and he, terribly jealous of the men who had danced with her,

made pretence to rally her about them. She, however, remained quite

calm, admitting cheerfully she _had_ a good many admirers, who filled

her programme, and whom it was always pleasant to meet. Then they were

both silent and looked at each other.

"Once upon a time," said Margaret, deciding at length to speak her

mind; "_you_ used to be one of those who wrote on my programme. Now

you never appear anywhere. I suppose you are afraid you might have to

talk to me a little."

"You are unjust," he said somewhat bitterly. "It is not kind of you to

say such things."

"If a friend suddenly develops a distaste for one's company and

manifests it as markedly as you have, how can one be blind to it? You

are a changed man, Morgan. In two months you have come here once to

tea, and you had not even the decency to put on a cheerful face. Such

a lackadaisical expression you had! And not even an enquiry about my

great works. You seemed to be saying the whole time, 'How you

commonplace people depress me--me, the genius, the genius; you are

killing my inspiration.'"

Something in his look checked her.

"Genius suffers from fits of melancholy as well as from fits of

inspiration," he reminded her.

"Poor Morgan!" said Margaret, softening. "And so you've had a fit of

melancholy! What a long one, too! All the same, I ought to reproach

you for not believing in our sympathy. Well, I suppose now I may tell

mamma not to be afraid to send you a card for our dance next month."

"I had no idea your mamma was so timid a person," he said, with

successful evasion. "And how goes Chiron, how the Spanish marauder?

And how much did you get for them?" he went on gaily, in one breath.

"You see I am well posted in your affairs."

"Well, since you _are_ a little bit interested, come."

Instinctively they looked towards the other group. Archibald still

harangued Mrs. Medhurst, endeavouring to prove to her that John's

abilities were no merit of his, any more than her beauty was a merit

of hers. A happy accident was the cause of either, and he had been

intellectually wrong in lavishing so many compliments on her during

all these years.

Morgan and Margaret left the room quietly, and stole up the stairs on

tip-toe, like two children at play. Right on the top landing Margaret

threw open a door, and Morgan peered into a shadowy abyss, for the one

gaslight was round a corner by which its rays were cut off from this

part of the landing.

"The candle is on a ledge in the hall," explained Margaret,

disappearing within the darkness; and in a second he heard her strike

a light.

"This is the hall," she went on. "I insisted on pa having it

partitioned off from the rest of the room--though, as you see, only by

a sort of green baize screen that doesn't reach to the ceiling. But it

makes the place ever so much more romantic."

Morgan stepped into the tiny vestibule, which was fitted with a little

oak table, and passed through a door in the green baize into the attic

itself.

"Was I not to be the candle-bearer?" he asked, taking the light from

her. "What a tremendous place!"

"It's perfectly ripping," said Margaret, "though I reckon it won't

hold more than four of us when we're in a gay mood. That's an old

piano. It takes up a lot of room, but there's still a good deal of

thumping to be got out of it. As yet the place is quite bare, but all

next week I'm going to hunt up odd things in back streets, and when

you come again you'll be astonished at the transformation. All that

mess there covered up in the corner--well, you can guess what it

consists of."

"And where are Chiron and the Spanish gentleman?"

"The first casts are on the mantel yonder--lost in the gloom. Pa wants

them for the drawing-room, but I am so childishly pleased, I can't

part with them yet. The moulds were to be destroyed after sixty

examples of each had been taken. I have received twenty-five pounds

each. You see, Morgan, I, too, am a genius."

On closer examination Morgan found he could conscientiously extol

Margaret's handiwork. From a technical point of view both figures were

excellent, and there was a virility and vigour in the handling which

one would scarcely have associated with the work of a young lady

modeller, and which certainly showed she had towered above her

material. The Spanish Marauder swaggered along in helmet,

breast-plate, doublet and hose, a hare and pheasant slung jauntily

over his shoulder, and his jolly, devil-may-care face, that had

evidently smelt powder, full of an arrogant self-satisfaction. The

Chiron was a strong piece of anatomical modelling. The ancient

centaur, indeed, looked very wise and very noble, and the horse into

which he merged was arranged with quiet skill in its lying posture, so

that not a line, limb, hoof or muscle struck a note of awkwardness.

"Then you think I really am worth talking to--a little?" asked

Margaret.

He set down the light on the mantelshelf and somehow found himself

holding her hand. Neither appeared to be aware of the fact.

"My dear Margaret, I was hoping you had accepted my fit of

melancholy----"

"You stupid Morgan! I only wanted you to tell me how clever I am. I am

so greedy for praise--because I haven't any of those melancholy fits,

and my vanity must be gratified _somehow_. At least, when I do have

the mopes I always know the reason, and it has never been anything

connected with my genius."

"What! you don't mean to say that you ever----"

"Sometimes," she interrupted. "A good deal of late, only, unlike you,

I never let anybody guess."

"I thought you were a perfectly happy girl in the first flood of

enthusiasm for your work and with all those nice men to admire you."

Her fingers tightened perceptibly on his.

"If you continue to plague me about those nice men, Morgan, you shall

not have a single dance next time, but you'll just see those nice men

get them all."

"I am sure you don't look a bit as if you could devise such cruel

torture."

"Would it be a very terrible punishment?"

"I would do any penance to avoid it."

"You'd look too comic in sackcloth and ashes. Come to my

studio-warming instead."

"A charming penance, Margaret."

"Perhaps we ought to go down now," she suggested, irrelevantly.

He took up the light again.

"Have you fixed the date for the warming?"

"Impossible yet. But I'll send you----"

"Not cards--now you've moved up into Bohemia!"

"Oh, no. A little pink note. I hope that is the correct thing in

Bohemia, or, at least, that it isn't incorrect."

"In Bohemia there are no correct things."

"What an awful place it must be. Whatever one does is wrong."

"On the contrary, whatever one does is right."

"Then all things are correct in Bohemia!"

"How can that be, Margaret? There are things--no, there aren't,

and--and--I'm afraid I've got myself into an awful tangle. You've

quite turned my head with your logic."

He began to move across the room towards the door.

"If it's only my logic that turns your head, then I take everything

back. I won't speak to you ever again."

"My goodness!" began Morgan, losing his wits, forgetting he held the

candle and letting it fall. The light vanished like a spectre. "I beg

your pardon," he ejaculated, in some astonishment, whilst Margaret's

laugh rang out.

Just as he stooped down to recover the candle, they became aware of

footsteps, and in a moment the handle of the outer door was being

turned.

"All dark," said Diana's voice. "Then I suppose they're not here--or,

at least, I shouldn't like to think they were. I fancy Marjy put a

candle and matches on the table."

They heard the sound of her fumbling, and, as if by common

understanding, they remained still as mice. Then Diana declared the

things weren't there, and Archibald suggested they might inspect the

place in the dark.

"I certainly shall do nothing so improper," returned Diana severely.

"There must be match-light at least. I draw the line at that. Produce

your pretty, golden box."

Diana opened the green baize door, and Archibald struck a light.

"Ho, ho!" he said, playfully.

"We are evidently _de trop_" said Diana. "Let us retire."

"Be careful," called Margaret. "You'll burn your fingers."

But the mischief was already done. Archibald uttered a "d--n," threw

down the end of the match and stamped on it wrathfully.

Morgan picked up the fallen candle, lighted it and replaced it on the

mantelshelf. The wax was broken in the middle, and the top part

leaned disconsolately to one side.

"We are sorry to have unwittingly interfered with your little

arrangement," said Margaret, curtseying in mock apology. "But you are

quite welcome to make free of my humble abode, so we shall leave you

in possession. Come, Morgan." And the two swept out of the room.

"Come and lunch with me to-morrow at the hotel," said Archibald to

Morgan, as he got into a hansom an hour later. "We'll spend the

afternoon together. There are some points about my book I want to

settle. 'Plain Thoughts of a Practical Thinker!' Splendid title!

Morgan, you're indeed a genius. 'An attempt to investigate some

questions of primary importance that are usually shelved.' That just

hits it off--the very book I intended to write!"

CHAPTER VII.

When his father had driven off, Morgan, seized with a restlessness,

began to stroll slowly homeward. He had at least wrung some happiness

from the evening. His love for Margaret had been strong enough to

absorb him, save when at moments his sense of his general position had

obtruded. But now he surrendered himself once more to the mood which

the events of the day had interrupted.

He was again conscious of the tragedy of his past life with its

culminating episode of the evening before, and of the infinite

possibility that life held of mystery and fantasy--a mystery and

fantasy into which he was going to plunge. The hours he had just

enjoyed, he told himself, must not be allowed to influence him. They

must be sternly isolated from the future; the disattachment of the new

life before him from the wreckage of the old must be complete.

Wreckage! He used the word deliberately, though he was aware there

were elements in the position that would have made his estimate of it

seem grotesque to many ears.

He was the son of a father of unlimited wealth, who idolised him now.

In addition to very many acquaintanceships, both in London and the

country, that were pleasant even if they did not occupy the centre of

his consciousness, he had the friendship of Lady Thiselton and the

more intimate though less fantastic relation with the Medhursts. And,

moreover, he was in love with a beautiful and talented girl, who, he

modestly felt, had a great esteem for him--though any other eyes than

those of the diffident lover would have seen at a glance that she

loved him in return.

How could all these things fail to make a man happy, especially when

the man was only twenty-eight years old?

But Morgan's happiness was dependent on his attitude towards things,

not on the things themselves. And just now he but perceived all these

elements that might have made another life enviable as so many

ironies. His ambition--his self-realisation and its recognition by his

fellows--had been all in all to him; its abandonment had been the

culmination of anguish infinite. The best years of his youth had been

lost in vain effort, and some of the bitterness of early opposition

that success might have purged still lingered in his spirit. His

nature was proud and sensitive and his very failure made it impossible

for him to ask for more money, even though he knew it would be

forthcoming without stint. What wonder now if he perceived his life as

a tragedy!

Common Sense would have advised him to put on one side all emotions

and moods that arose out of and summed up the past, all the subtle

feelings that possessed and mastered him; would have urged him to

begin a new epoch, seek the paternal aid, retain his friendships, and

persevere in his love; would have given him assurance of a perfectly

satisfactory outlook if he would but readjust his mental focus.

But Common Sense is obtuse and safe. Morgan was a mass of fine

sensibility; his temperament was full of subtle light and

shade--therefore dangerous. Plain-souled, clumsy-handed Common Sense,

with perception limited to the thick outlines of character, could not

have comprehended him, and would unwittingly have confessed it by

classifying him contemptuously.

Morgan had lived his own life--felt it. His present estimation of it

was, therefore, spontaneous; not a cold estimation by mere intellect,

but a living one by his whole complex being. And, as the result, he

was meditating, at this period of pause and summing-up, to carry

forward all that Common Sense would have suppressed, and to suppress

all that Common Sense would have carried forward, to sacrifice all the

inter-relations with others that constituted his outer life--even as

he had already sacrificed the expression of his corresponding inner

life; retaining only his emotional unrest.

And the seductive picture of the scented serpent-woman, ever smiling

at him now with gleaming teeth, symbolised the future for him, and

alone preserved the continuity of interest that stimulated him to go

forward at all. His attitude, in some respects, was analogous to that

of a romantic boy playing with the idea of running away from home,

drawn by visions of marvellous adventures in strange lands. The sequel

might be vague and in the clouds, but that very fact only made it the

more fascinating.

His temperament had said to him that evening: "Let your business still

be poetry, but weave it out of life instead of out of words." The

thought resurged in his brain and then it struck him as crystallising

his whole feeling about the future course of his existence, as

furnishing the key to his position.

To make of life a fantasy, a poem, a dream! The idea was an

illumination.

But beyond a half-considered intention of changing to humbler rooms

and hiding therein from his world, he did not meditate any definite

activity. The feeling at the bottom of his mind was rather that events

would shape themselves. To this attitude of passivity his whole life

had tended. His will-strength had gone into his passionate desire of

poetic achievement, and were it not that he had, so to speak, grown

into relation with others, his life would have been utterly static.

The movement of their lives alone had taken his along. He had not the

least idea now how he was going to become acquainted with the strange

woman who filled his thoughts, but, without actually translating his

feelings on the point into definite terms, he counted it as a

certainty that a path would somehow be opened. It pleased him, too, to

think that he owed his cognisance of her existence to that first

impulse which had caused him to write to Ingram. That fantastic

initiation had set in motion fantastic life-waves that were now

flowing back to him.

For others the regularities of existence, the steady round of work,

the care and hoarding of money; for him the mystery and the colour of

life!

And in a flash of insight he seemed to understand that the poet in him

had already asserted itself in his life as well as in his work. Was it

not the very curiousness of his relationship with Ingram had made it

so palatable? Was it not the strangeness of his friendship with Lady

Thiselton and the originality of her personality that appealed to him

so much, and was it not his imaginative side that had always been so

pleased with both? Was it not his peculiar temperament that had always

made him keep his relation with each person a thing apart, so that

each was unaware of the others; that had made him like to feel that

his life, in a manner, was cut up into strips, along each of which he

could look back with a certain sense of completeness, though it was

only by the nice fusion of all these isolated completenesses that his

existence could be seen as a whole?

But underneath the imaginative spirit of the poet lay the human spirit

of the man. And if the former predominated the latter was not entirely

dormant. If the poet in him coloured his life and thought, it was the

man in him that felt the results, so that the instincts of the poet

often clashed with the sympathies and affections of the man. Of this

discord within himself he could not help being aware, but he knew it

purely by its effect, for he had never searched deeply into the

complexity of his nature.

Thus it was that the man in him was grieved at his having had to make

promises of further visits to the Medhursts; was paying for every

grain of happiness wrung from the evening by a reaction of pain

unspeakable. But the poet in him governed, was trying to suppress the

man.

He was roused from his meditations by a familiar voice when he was but

a few feet from his own door.

"I have been hovering about for a quarter of an hour."

He was startled, then laughed. The veiled woman stood on tip-toe and

kissed him on the forehead, he stooping mechanically to meet her

movement.

"You don't mind the veil?" she said.

"How did you know I was not indoors and abed by this time?" he asked.

"I didn't know. I only came to meditate in the moonlight. I have been

enjoying such exquisite emotions. Are you too tired for a promenade

round the circle?"

He fell in with her humour.

"Morgan, reproaches have been accumulating. To save time--you know I

never waste any--you shall have them all in one ferocious phrase. You

have been brutal to me of late. I don't mean to say that you've ever

ceased to be charming, but--why, at least, didn't you answer my note?"

"It only came this morning," he stammered, "and I haven't had time to

read it yet."

"In other words, you wrinkled your brow as soon as you saw it, made up

your mind I was beginning to be somewhat of a nuisance, and threw it

aside unopened. Of course, you forgot all about it afterwards. You

have a perfect genius for putting crude facts in a delicate way."

"Another new discovery about me."

"That is but the natural result of the profound thought I bestow upon

you."

"Your profound thought contradicts itself. It declares me brutal and

charming with the same breath."

"Profound thought always contradicts itself. I know it for a fact,

because I've been looking up Hegel. The nice things and nasty things I

say about you arise equally from my love for you, which is thus the

unifying principle. The apparent contradictoriness, therefore,

disappears in a higher synthesis."

"Quarter! A man can't stand having philosophers hurled at his head."

"But I kiss your head sometimes. I'm sure I'd much prefer that always,

only you goad me into the other thing."

"I goad?"

"Yes. By your masterly inactivity when I am concerned. I have to force

myself into your life, and after we've been chums for three years,

you, left to yourself, ignore my existence. You have such a terrible

power of negative resistance against poor, strong-willed me. But,

after all, you admire me tremendously, don't you, dear Morgan?"

"I have told you scores of times you are the cleverest woman in the

kingdom."

"I am the only woman who understands your poetry. I don't mean that as

a bit of sarcasm at the expense of your compliment--I merely want to

show you I deserve it."

He made no reply. For a few moments there was a silence.

"How reticent you are to-night!" she said at length. "You usually have

quite a deal to tell me. Are the sentimental chapters preying on your

mind? I do so much want to know about those sentimental chapters, but

you always evade the subject. Tell me, _are_ there any in your life?"

"Ours was to be an intellectual companionship only."

"Comprising intellectual sympathy and kissing on the forehead--both

of them chaste, stony, saint-like, tantalising things. But I'd be

content for the time being if I were only sure your heart were

perfectly free. I couldn't bear the thought of your making love to

another woman."

"You are amusing."

"I am jealous."

"Then you have been imagining sentimental chapters for me."

"Well, being a woman of the world, thirty-three years of age--no

deception, Morgan--and, knowing you have lived twenty-eight, I

naturally suspect the existence of those chapters, you darling sphinx.

And when I suddenly come across a poem from your pen about a sweet

little girl, my suspicion becomes almost a certainty."

He could not help laughing.

"That sweet little girl is too concrete, too much away from your

metaphysical manner, to be a mere creation of your brain. What vexed

me particularly was that the most stupid woman I know--I mean my dear

friend Laura--admired the thing and called it a gem. Now I don't like

my monopoly threatened in that way. I have always prayed against your

own prayer. I don't want the world at large to admire you--yet. I want

you, disgusted with the world's non-acceptance of you, to find

consolation in my love. There is a fair proposal for you, Morgan. Love

me, marry me--and after that you may become as great as you like. Your

poetry as yet is my friend, but I begin to feel afraid of it when you

start pictures of sweet little girls."

He did not take her the least bit seriously--he never did. Her

occasional courtship of him had been always so light and airy, so

dispassionately epigrammatic, that he looked on it as mere whimsical

banter and rather good amusement. She had plagued him into consenting

to that kiss on the forehead which she gave him each time they met,

referring to it constantly as an advantage won by hard effort. The

circumstance of their first meeting had been commonplace enough--a

chance introduction at an afternoon tea. They were friends whilst yet

utter strangers to each other, for a mutual personal magnetism had

acted immediately. He understood that her playfulness did but conceal

fine qualities of character that would have pleased even the

aphoristic moralist, whose conception of the ideal woman she

mercilessly outraged. That she had really understood and appreciated

his work naturally counted a good deal in her favour. He knew her

worth, but of course he did not want to marry her. If to-day there was

a more earnest ring than usual in her love-making, he had got too

indurated to it to believe in it.

"Who _is_ the sweet little girl?" she insisted. "I repeat, I am

jealous. This is my first experience of that queer emotion, for you

are the first man I have ever loved."

He found this most amusing of all.

"Really, Morgan, it is perfectly harassing to have one's tragedy taken

for light comedy. You know my wedded life was unhappy. The late

baronet was absolutely ignorant of Schopenhauer, and even cursed him

to my face for a madman, just because he happened to be my favourite

philosopher. Since I've dipped into Hegel, I've come largely to agree

with my husband's denunciation, though not on the same grounds. Not

that I profess to know anything either about Hegel or Schopenhauer.

Edward always thought me a blue-stocking--me, who have only a woman's

tea-table smattering of philosophy! Why, it takes all the fun out of

life to be a blue-stocking! Edward hadn't any brains. I married him

without love, and in face of his attitude towards Schopenhauer, you

may guess what chance it had of springing up. During the brilliant

years of my widow-hood--eight in number--my heart has remained

positively untouched by anybody but you. It's your childlike

helplessness that fascinates me."

"You flatter me."

"There are other things, of course. You've splendid large eyes and

nice, soft, silky hair, and such a pretty curl to your lip. And you've

such a charming, innocent look. If only you'd promise not to write any

more poems about sweet little girls, you'd be perfect."

Whether it was that her proximity at this moment of inner perturbation

and suffering roused in him an overmastering desire for her sympathy,

or whether her last remark exercised an insidious drawing power, he

did not quite know, but he found himself saying immediately:

"I can make that promise very easily. I made a bonfire last night."

She understood at once.

"Which explains much for which I've been reproaching you!" she

exclaimed sympathetically. "You have been suffering, dear Morgan."

Her voice had grown soft and coaxing. His determination to shun

everybody could not stand against this real concern for him. In a few

words he told her of his despair and of the dubiousness of his

position. But he could not bring himself to speak of his hopeless

love, or to raise the veil that concealed his other friendships from

her. His comradeship with her had always stood for him as a thing

apart; and this attitude of his towards it had made it the more

charming. It had been quite natural for him to take it entirely by

itself and as unrelated to the rest of his external life.

"But, my dear Morgan," she protested, "this can't go on. How do you

intend to live?"

He was glad she did not have recourse to that crude, obvious

suggestion of his begging a replenishment from the paternal coffers.

But he did not know how to reply to her question, which rather made

him regret the turn the conversation had taken. The one future for him

was that in which floated mystically the figure of the scented

serpent-woman, and he felt that that drift of things he was relying on

had begun by a wrong move.

"Perhaps I shall write stories," he hazarded.

"You alarm me," she cried. "Your idea is hopelessly impracticable. How

could you possibly hope to rival the Robert Ingrams?"

"The Ingrams!" he echoed, glancing at her sharply.

"I only mention him because he happens to be as popular as all the

rest put together, and because I happened to make his acquaintance

some time back."

Morgan made no remark. He was relieved at her explanation, about which

there was nothing surprising, for he well knew that Ingram moved in

high social latitudes.

"Besides," she went on, "you would naturally be tempted to draw women

like me, which would simply be courting extinction. Of course, in

Ingram's novels no fashionable lady ever does the things I do, and

the critics would insist I was an utter impossibility. Now, as to the

fifty pounds you've got--before long the sin of that borrowing will

rise up against you and you'll be signing again, signing away whole

pounds of your flesh. And I daresay you overlook you've various little

debts. No doubt you owe your tailor, say a year's account, and then

your rooms are pretty expensive, and quarter-day has a spiteful habit

of swooping down on one four times a year, and--and you mustn't have

to bother your pretty head about all these sordid things."

This was somewhat of an appalling speech for Morgan, who certainly did

not want to cheat his creditors. And, indeed, it now occurred to him

that he must be indebted to his tailor for quite a large amount.

Although his horror of debts was far above the average, he never

realised the conception "money" as ordinary people realise it. So far

as it figured in his thoughts at all, money was a gorgeous, poetic

unit--the treasure of romance, the gold and silver of fairyland. In

practice, the very abundance of it at his command had till lately kept

his attention from dwelling on it; just as it did not dwell on, say,

the second toe of his left foot--an equally constant factor in his

existence--till some pain might make him aware it was there. His

present forced awareness of the prosaic side of the notion "money"

gave him somewhat of a sense of being caught amid a swirl of

storm-blown icicles.

"The remedy is simple," he said, at last.

"It is. I have forty thousand a year. Marry me for my money."

"Declined, with thanks."

"So blunt, yet so pointed. A pity it's not original. But I know what

you meant by your remedy. You don't see it would be a double crime,

and you are too good a man even to commit a single one."

"You mean----"

"I mean I should follow you. It would be just lovely to be rowed

across the Styx together. Of course, I should have to pay your

obolus."

"It is getting late. I really think we ought to turn back."

Lady Thiselton sighed.

"I must confess I am dejected," she said. "I should like to have a

quiet cry. What are you going to do, Morgan?"

"Nothing."

But he knew that would mean bankruptcy, and he had also an unpleasant

conviction that she meant what she said about following him.

"And even if we did go to throw sugar to Cerberus, your father would

step in and inherit your debts, and you will have sacrificed us both

in vain. The result is the same, whether we go to Whitechapel or to

the other place. You can't make it otherwise. Now, if you won't let me

be your wife, at least let me be a sort of mother to you."

Her thought met his just at the right junction. He did not answer

because her argument was unanswerable. How else avoid coming on the

paternal purse again?

"I am only asking you, Morgan, to let me help you live just as you

want to live."

She spoke with pleading and humility.

"We shall be towards each other just as we are now," she continued,

"and although I intended to torment you till you agreed I was worth an

occasional kiss on the forehead in return for mine--which would not at

all take us out of the platonic, or rather plutonic, regions in which

you so sternly insist we must abide--I shall give you my word to cease

from active hostilities for six whole months. Just think--I undertake

to be content for the next six months with kissing you on the forehead

once each time. Is that not sufficiently an earnest of my good faith?"

Again he gave her no answer, and, in the silence that followed, their

footsteps seemed to be echoed back to them. Since to die were futile,

let it be she rather than another that helped him to live. She was a

good friend and a loyal one. Of course, it was repugnant to take money

from a woman, but to take it from anybody else would be still more

repugnant.

"As is usually the case in life," she again chimed in his thought,

"the choice is not between the good and the less good, but between the

bad and the worse. Believe me, I understand and sympathise with your

hesitations. But between such friends as we are and such original

people to boot, scruples of a conventional kind ought not to enter.

With us money should count for nothing. So please don't choose 'the

worse,' and perhaps 'the bad' won't turn out so very bad after all."

Still he could not prevail upon himself to accept her generosity,

though conscious he was undeserving of her long-sufferance.

"If I could but see the least prospect of repaying you, I should not

hesitate so much," he said at last.

"My dear Morgan, in life one mustn't look too far ahead, else

existence becomes impossible. Let us not bother too much about the

future, but let us seize the flying moments; which means we ought to

go to Whitechapel on Thursday and spend a happy day."

He was still lost in thought.

"And your silence--may I put the usual interpretation on it?"

"I suppose so," he said, shame-facedly. "Please don't think me

ungracious," he added.

"You very dear person!" she cried; and after that they walked for

fully five minutes without exchanging a word.

The matter had been decided and, according to their wont, there was no

further manifestation, no further reference to it on either side. Each

understood the other's emotions, and that sufficed.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Shall I put you into a hansom?" said Morgan, looking at his watch as

they passed out of the park. "It is getting on towards two."

"Mayn't I come in and smoke a cigarette?" pleaded Lady Thiselton. "My

nerves have been tried a little, and a few minutes' rest will soothe

me."

"I fear the lady of the house would not approve."

"Oh! we shall creep in quietly without disturbing her pious dreams. Do

be nice, Morgan. You know I never smoke any other cigarettes than

yours--I am never wicked except in your company."

They entered almost noiselessly.

"How silent the night is," she remarked, "and what a feeling of

sleeping multitudes there is in the air! Suppose the morrow should

dawn and they should never awaken. I am shivering. Your room is cold,

though the moonlight is quite pretty."

He lighted his reading lamp under its big, green shade. She would not

have the gas--she liked the room full of dusk and shadow. The fire was

ready laid, and Morgan put a match to it, after which he proceeded to

look for the cigarettes. When eventually he turned towards her, he

uttered a suppressed exclamation.

She had taken off her heavy cloak and her hat and thrown them

carelessly on a chair. She now stood a little to the left of the fire,

her face half turned towards it, and was busy removing her long

gloves. Her features, amid which nestled mystic trembling shadows,

showed bloodless, as though carved of ivory, and her great, dark brown

eyes were wonderfully soft and caressing. Her hair ran in a flowing

curve off the warm white pallor of her brow till it was lost beyond

the ear. Almost on top of her head it lay in a coil, bound with a

wide, green velvet band that was fastened in front with a great

emerald. Her throat, neck and shoulders rose with the same dull,

smooth whiteness, and with an exquisite firmness, from the strange,

green velvet costume it had pleased her to wear, and were set in its

gold border that glowed and sparkled with smaller emeralds. The robe

curved in at the waist, defining the adorable grace of her figure and

falling to the ground in gleaming folds and strange contrasts of light

and shade. And on each side hung a long, open sleeve with bright

yellow lining spread out to the view--a wide, descending sweep of gold

in glistening contrast with the deep green of the costume.

She had now placed her gloves on the same chair, and her long, bare

arms showed in all the firm beauty of warm ivory tones, without a

touch of rose in their whole length, even to the very finger tips. A

thick, gold bracelet encircled the wrist of her right hand. On the

other hand the gleam of ornament was given by the wedding ring and a

similar ring on the same finger set with a limpid diamond.

"Well," she said, smiling.

"You have taken me unawares. One moment you are a soberly clad person,

and the next a queenly blaze."

"The moonlight is really wonderful. Turn out the lamp and let me play

the 'Moonlight Sonata.'"

"No, smoke your cigarette instead," he suggested.

"You are afraid I might cause the good lady pleasant dreams instead of

pious ones. Thank you, dear."

He held her a light, and, after she had taken a puff or two, she

passed her cigarette to him.

"Your tribute, Morgan," she demanded.

He took a puff and passed it back to her. Then, when she had smoked a

little:

"It is delicious," she said. "Your lips have given it their sweetness

of honey, their fragrance of myrrh."

She leaned leisurely against the mantel, whilst he drew a chair for

himself to the opposite corner of the fire. The great emerald gleamed

through a dainty cloud of smoke.

"It is lovely here," she said at last. "Such moments as these are the

happiest of my life. One's nature must rebel sometimes against being

driven along the prescribed lines. There are sides to one's soul,

absolutely unallowed for in the ordinary scheme of civilized

existence. But instead of letting me moralise, you might be saying

some nice things."

"About what?"

"About me, of course."

"Oh! I am enjoying the spectacle you present."

"I built a palace in the air, and, lo and behold! it has proved to be

a real palace. I went up to my room to-night and was feeling fanciful

and sentimental, which means, of course, I was thinking about you. And

then I imagined this whole scene--only a little different; I in this

dress, and you at my feet, worshipping me and calling me all

sorts of sweet names. And I was coy and held back!"

She paused a moment and laughed merrily.

"Of course," she went on, "I could not resist putting on the costume

in order to get nearer the real feeling of such a scene, and it was so

delicious that I at once wrapped myself up and come here in a cab. The

maid told me you were not expected till late. It's very amusing, by

the way--that girl really believes I'm your sister! So I made a

descent on dear, stupid Laura--the admirer of your sweet-little-girl

poem--and whiled away an hour or so. All muffled up, of course. Her

heart's weak, you know. Then I strolled back here. And now my

imaginary scene is being enacted. Not exactly as I imagined it, but I

know the realities of existence and the usual tragic fate of

expectations, and so I have reason to feel ecstatic over the result.

Besides, I think I really do look very nice. The contractor for the

clay must accidentally have supplied a little of the first quality at

the time I was made. He must have torn his hair on finding out the

mistake. Come, Morgan, kiss me on the forehead."

She put the cigarette on the mantel, prettily blew away the smoke, and

held her two splendid arms towards him. But he did not move.

"I'll even put on the veil and keep my hands behind me, like a good

child."

"Helen! Please," he protested.

"Forgive me," she said, and there was a strain of pathos in her voice.

"For the moment I forgot my promise--I was fancying this was a mere

continuation of my vision. But I shall not do it again--I shall bite

out my tongue first."

He was moved, and awoke to the understanding that he had not yet

estimated, according to the ordinary reckoning of the world, the

pecuniary favour he had accepted from her. The fact that he felt shame

at the resource of which circumstances forced him to avail himself

could not affect his sense of her nobility, and it was a true instinct

of gratitude that made him rise in order to bestow what she had ceased

to demand. But, somewhat to his astonishment, she waved him back.

"No, Morgan; I really meant what I said, and you must not think I am

only tricky."

After which he felt forced to pin her to her request, protesting her

honesty was not in dispute.

"You know I am to be trusted," she whispered demurely. "I am so glad

you did not insist on the veil. I must really smoke another cigarette

to get calm; I am as agitated as a girl getting her first kiss."

"And I'll smoke another to keep you company," he said.

"Let us meet clandestinely somewhere on Thursday about ten o'clock,"

she said a little later. "It makes it ever so much more piquant to

proceed mysteriously. We shall lunch in those parts. I must be home

again by five, as I have a small dinner-party. I have an idea, Morgan.

One of my men writes he won't be able to turn up. You've never dined

at my house in state. Come and fill the vacant place."

He shook his head. His instinct was to refuse without considering. She

insisted a little, but, seeing his heart was against it, left the

subject, turning gaily to something else.

Soon he went out with her and saw her into a hansom. It was past two

when he bade her good-night, having agreed to a rendezvous for

Thursday in the heart of the city.

CHAPTER IX.

It was a little past mid-day, and Archibald Druce, who had returned an

hour before from an early morning professional appointment with

Medhurst, was feeling restless and lonely. Morgan was not due till

half-past one, and so the old man wandered disconsolately about the

hotel, seeking some congenial spirit with whom to hold converse. At

length, peering into the smoking-room, he discovered a white-haired,

stately gentleman, with a somewhat military air, whose grave

appearance was encouraging. With him Archibald began an exchange of

civilities, and very soon launched out into an account of his

interview of that morning.

"I assure you, my dear sir," said the banker, though the other had not

questioned the fact in any way, "I can see absolutely nothing. The

room is a perfect blur, and I fear I dare not venture out into these

crowded London thoroughfares for the rest of the day. The worst of it

is that the introduction of the cocaine into my eyes has been of no

avail. Of course my eminent friend could not know I was possessed of

such remarkable eyes, and as it was necessary for him to see into

them, no blame attaches to him for having adopted the usual means of

causing my extremely small pupils to expand. Now the curious point is

that my pupils were totally unaffected by the cocaine, and I fear my

eminent friend had to work on me under difficulties. The couple of

hours I spent with him in his wonderful workroom have, however, proved

exceedingly profitable to me. I assure you, my dear sir, they have

been most instructive."

"No doubt," said the military person, his fingers fidgetting uneasily

with his newspaper.

"Between ourselves," continued Archibald confidentially, "I rather

imagine that my friend enjoyed the time I spent with him. It is not

often he gets a really intelligent patient to work on--in fact, he

found me so appreciative that he exhibited especially some profoundly

interesting experiments. Amongst other things, he threw a gigantic

representation of my retinal system of blood vessels on to a white

screen merely by turning a strong light sideways into my eye. And the

explanation of it was quite simple. The retinal vessels stand out

slightly in relief, and thus a perfect shadow of the system is cast on

the retina. It was this shadow I saw, and the white screen was merely

a convenient background for it. I don't know if I make myself clear."

"Perfectly clear, perfectly," said the military person.

"Indeed, John Medhurst seemed quite loth to part with me. I quite

believe he enjoyed the experiments as much as I did. He brought out

his books and very kindly allowed me to inspect the plates--and

extraordinarily fine plates they are!--and thus acquire some idea of

the inner mechanism of the human eye. What a truly wonderful place the

universe is--wonderful!"

"That no intelligent man can deny," said the military person.

"My friend holds a most distinguished position in his profession, and

I esteem it a great honour and privilege to be on such intimate terms

with him," said Archibald, offering a cigar to the other and lighting

one himself. "Now you know," he went on, in a somewhat softened and

more intimate tone; "there's quite a little bit of a romance in the

story of our friendship."

"Indeed," said the military person more genially, his palate savouring

the exquisite aroma of the cigar.

Archibald smiled tenderly.

"His wife's an old flame of mine," he explained, veiling his emotion

with jocular phraseology. "An old flame, did I say? I'm still over

head and heels in love with her. But I was too late--she and John had

already made their little arrangements. And very soon after John and I

became friends, and friends we've remained to this day. Kate has two

of the loveliest girls, and I'm hanged if I'm not head over heels in

love with them as well. The younger one is a regular little

she-devil!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" guffawed the military person.

"Upon my honour she is," insisted Archibald. "Why, she flirts

outrageously with me. I'm sure I don't know how many heads the little

witch is going to turn when she grows up. And her sister, Margaret--I

couldn't tell you which of the two I like the better--has quite an

extraordinary talent for plastic art. I mean to give her a commission

before I return to my place. I'd like for one thing to have a bust of

her mother in my study--that would be so inspiring. And long ago I

took a fancy to have a nice sphinx. A thing of that kind, you know, is

good to remind one of man's intellectual limitations."

"I suppose so," said the military person, vaguely.

"Her figures are extremely lifelike. Just imagine, a thing cast in

dead bronze to have all the reality of life so that you would almost

expect it to move."

"She must be a highly-gifted young lady."

"You will scarcely credit it, my dear sir, but she is only

nineteen--on my word of honour," said Archibald with growing

enthusiasm. "Only the other day she sold two of her things for

twenty-five pounds apiece. Twenty-five pounds apiece!" he repeated

slowly, as if that represented to him a gigantic amount. "The examples

are to be strictly limited to sixty of each, after which the moulds

are to be destroyed. They are both magnificent pieces of work. Why,

you fancy you almost hear Chiron's voice and the twanging of his

harp."

"Indeed," said the military person.

"She is perfectly sweet and beautiful as well as clever," went on

Archibald. "Now my dog of a boy, between ourselves--ha! ha! ha!----"

"He's a bit smitten?" suggested the military person.

Archibald laughed gleefully. "And I fancy that a certain clever young

lady of nineteen who knows how to model is also a bit smitten. Only my

boy doesn't seem to come to the point. But then he's a poet."

"A what?" inquired the military person, startled.

"A poet," stoutly repeated Archibald. "And a very great poet, I

venture to assert, he will be one of these fine days. Naturally he is

not a man of action--he is a dreamer. But when I wanted Kate I wasn't

satisfied just to go on dreaming about her--ha! ha! Now if my boy

would only stop dreaming and just get married instead, I'd settle as

much on them as ever they'd want. You see, a genius like my son," he

went on, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, "must be exempt from

the sordid cares of money-earning, and my eminent friend, though his

position in life is an extremely honourable one, is not a man of

means. He may have put by a bit out of his hard-earned income, but, as

I always say to him, he wants that against a rainy day. But it's no

use my talking to him--he will keep on worrying about his girls having

no fortunes. 'And suppose they don't marry,' says he; and I have

positively to laugh him into a more cheerful mood. 'Don't be a fool,

John,' I say to him, 'those two girls are worth all the fortunes in

the world, and the man who didn't think as much wouldn't be worth

marrying.'"

"Your views are extremely generous," said the military person. "They

do you credit."

"Not at all, my dear sir," said Archibald, looking pleased; "my views

are simply rational. I consider the blind worship of mere money an

utter mistake. There are higher things in life. I may say I am in

entire sympathy with my son's aspirations. By the way, it occurs to me

that the extraordinary refusal of my pupils to expand under cocaine

may be but another manifestation of the remarkable nervous system that

characterises my family. It may be connected in some mysterious way

with my son's genius. But possibly, sir, you may know my son?"

"I fear I have not that honour. I know only one literary gentleman--he

is the editor of the 'Christian Bugle.' Might I suggest that we

exchange cards?"

"Willingly," said Archibald. "Very happy to make your acquaintance,

Major Hemming," he resumed, after the mutual self-introduction had

been effected. "My son is to be here shortly, when you will have the

opportunity of meeting him. Perhaps you will do us the honour of

lunching with us?"

"I should be delighted, but unfortunately I am lunching with a

friend."

"I am sorry we are not to have the pleasure," said Archibald. "But

perhaps you would like a copy of my son's book. It is but a small

volume, as you see." And Archibald pulled the parchment-bound,

deckle-edged booklet from his outer breast pocket. "Don't hesitate, my

dear sir, it will give me pleasure if you will accept it."

"You are most kind," said the Major. "I shall look forward to reading

it with the utmost pleasure."

"I am sure you will agree that only a genius could have written those

poems," said Archibald.

"I have no doubt but what I shall form a high opinion of your son's

gifts," said the Major.

"Being of a literary temperament myself," went on Archibald, "I

happily have been able to appreciate his. I do not want him to work

for money, and I have, therefore, put him on a sound financial basis.

So far, he appeals only to a very select section of the public. But he

has not written a line which he has not been inspired to write. As

regards the general public--I myself, in my humble way, have become

aware of the indifference and stupidity of the general public. When,

after thorough re-examination of every point of my mental position, I

try and speak plainly to such of my fellow-men as I have the

opportunity of addressing, I am met with an absolute want of

intelligent comprehension. However, I intend to say what I have to

say, and I am now at work on a volume, the nature of which you will

sufficiently gather from its title: 'Plain Thoughts of a Practical

Thinker--an attempt to investigate some questions of primary

importance that are usually shelved.'"

"An excellent idea, sir."

"To give you an example of the narrowness even of people who occupy a

high position in the social sphere, whenever I have ventured to assert

my sincere belief that children should be instructed in life by means

of competent handbooks instead of being allowed to pick up their

knowledge in a haphazard, more or less dangerous fashion, I have been

met with a frigid politeness, behind which the shocked disapproval was

but too manifest."

"Humph!" said the Major. "I must confess your proposition is certainly

a startling one."

"It is a common-sense one," said Archibald, curtly.

"Pardon me," said the Major, somewhat stiffly, "but I do think that in

the interests of morality and religion it would be exceedingly

unfortunate if your ideas were generally adopted."

"I am perfectly prepared to argue the point," said Archibald, drawing

himself up, whilst his eye flashed with the light of battle.

"I fear I have no time just now," said the Major, glancing at his

watch. "I must be off. I wish you a very good morning, sir."

"Morgan, my boy," cried the banker, when that gentleman at last

appeared, "I've spent the last hour tackling one of the most terrible

Philistines I have ever met."

END OF BOOK I.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I

"Which way do we go?" asked Lady Thisleton, as they stood hesitating

at a crossing-stage in Broad Street, City. "Wouldn't it be nice to

stay here and philosophise?"

She was dressed as plainly as possible in a dark brown coat and skirt,

and wore a small hat and veil, so that she was not in the least

conspicuous. Both she and Morgan, having entered on the day's

adventure, were determined to enjoy it, though his mood was far from

being whole-hearted. And, as they surveyed the slow medley of

omnibuses that moved between them and the pavement they were struck by

the scene in the same impersonal way. They did not feel that they

formed any part of it; they saw it as with the eyes of a floating,

invisible spirit. To them it was collective movement and

colour--movement in the hurrying streams pouring from every exit of

the giant stations, in the massed chaos of vehicles, in the sense of

bustle and business and purpose; colour in the crudities of blue,

green, yellow, red, that flared from omnibuses and shop windows, and

that yet were fused into the dun monochrome of town, to the

overwhelming sense of which asphalt and paving and street lamp and

stone buildings and sober costumes all contributed, and with which the

very hubbub seemed to blend.

A vague feeling of tragedy seemed to invade them as their eyes rested

on all this life; but it was the result of an intellectual

perception, not of a sympathetic realisation and comprehension of this

throbbing reality. As for Morgan, the scene made him remember he had

once tried to wrestle with political economy and had disliked it

tremendously, and the thought made him smile.

"Why do you smile?" said Lady Thiselton. "Certainly it is not gay

here. I feel quite overwhelmed. All these faces--pre-occupied,

cheerful, sad, worn, despairing, hopeful, starved, well-fed--suggest

such a whirl. I invent a whole biography for each one that catches my

eye. I wonder how far I am right--I who am only a woman of the world;

which means I know nothing of life outside of my own four walls and a

few other four walls that more or less resemble them. But it's all

really lovely, isn't it, Morgan? What suffering must be here! You

can't imagine how I'm enjoying everything. Of course I sympathise as

well. But mine is a sort of artistic sympathy. I'm not noble enough to

feel the real thing. Isn't it all interesting?"

"There's a policeman staring at us suspiciously."

"Then we'd better move on. The good policeman's dream of paradise must

be a place in which he is the one static soul and in which the blest

keep passing on to all eternity."

They crossed the road and moved along with the crowd. The bells of St.

Botolph's struck ten as they turned into Bishopsgate.

"I feel the mediaeval spirit coming on and begin to see visions of

highly-coloured Lord Mayors and aldermen and burghers and beef-eaters.

And somehow Dick Whittington and his cat are mixed up with it all, and

exhibitions with glass roofs and careful craftsmen and apprentices,

and Christopher Wren. Alas and alack! Where is old London?"

"I don't know," said Morgan. "But I do know where Whitechapel is. We

have to pass through Houndsditch. I looked it up on the map to refresh

my memory. I have always found Houndsditch a disappointment."

"So have I," said Lady Thiselton. "It is every bit as uninspiring as a

West End street. Some of the side alleys look interesting though, but

then such strange people seem to be in absolute possession, and you

feel you have no right to set foot within their territory. I am really

a fearful coward."

They walked on silently.

"Why don't you contradict me, Morgan, and tell me I'm brave? You never

voluntarily pay me a compliment. If I want compliments I have to put

them before you as so many propositions, to which, being a truthful

person, you are forced to give your assent."

"You are brave," said Morgan.

"Thank you. Every stone in this part of the city has its associations,

its traditions, its history. And then there are venerable churches

isolated amid the serried buildings of commerce, with charming bits of

hidden green and trees. I'm chattering away like a country cousin come

up to see the sights of London town and to carry back its fifteenth

century flavour. Let us forget history and tradition, and let us get

an unadulterated vision of the modern. Here is a nice place to stand."

They had turned into Aldgate and had gone some distance in the

direction of Whitechapel, and the new scene had a character of its

own. Both felt the spirit of toil here, where the grime of industry

struck a coarser and somberer note.

"I feel a million miles from home, which is just what I want to feel,"

declared Lady Thiselton. "And there is quite a market place opposite,

and bookstalls. This is just what Browning could have described. Why

did he not come here for inspiration? Here, too, he might have found a

square, old yellow book and paid eightpence for it, and tossed it in

the air and caught it again and twirled it about by the crumpled

vellum covers, and could have wandered on reading it through a

perilous path of fire-irons, tribes of tongs, shovels in sheaves,

skeleton bedsteads, wardrobe drawers agape, and cast clothes

a-sweetening in the sun. But the crowd is really too thick to walk

amongst. As we are on pleasure bent, let us be recklessly extravagant

and take a twopenny ride on top of a tram-car."

Morgan admitted he was beginning to find it unpleasant to be at such

close quarters with the crowd. Some of the people he was brushing up

against, he complained, were not too scrupulously clean.

"No doubt," he added, "I shall find them with their mysterious bundles

more picturesque from a distance."

"Why some of them are quite spick and span with their polished silk

hats, and there are any number of pretty girls. The shops, too, seem

quite attractive. I can even imagine myself living here for a time,

cannot you?"

"Let us get on our tram car. That may give my imagination the

necessary stimulus."

At first they had the top all to themselves, and were borne smoothly

onwards, cutting through the very centre of the turmoil. The red brick

church was the furthest point she had ever reached in the East of

London, Lady Thiselton informed Morgan. She had been in the

neighbourhood two or three times in company with her husband, who had

been interested in a sort of mission and dispensary combined, his idea

being not only to make wicked people religious, but to irritate the

devil by keeping their souls out of his clutch as long as possible.

"Now it is only like the High Street of a big provincial town," she

commented, after they had passed the London Hospital. "I think it's

getting monotonous."

Three begrimed, strapping youths came clambering up noisily and,

sitting immediately in front of them, continued a conversation about a

certain "she." Their vocabulary became so offensive that Lady

Thiselton whispered she thought it perfectly improper for a lady to

keep on looking at the backs of men's necks on the top of a car, in

full view of the whole world.

They descended and strolled on further. There was no crowd now to

hinder them, and they were curious to see what this far-stretching

thoroughfare led to.

"So far it seems a broad stretch of mean quaintness. I had no idea

London was so big. And what grimy side streets! I shudder to think of

the grimy network that lies on either hand. Morgan, I feel a very

immoral person."

"Your emotions are strangely unpredictable."

"What right have I to forty thousand a year when there are people

starving in these back streets?" asked Lady Thiselton indignantly. "I

am going to turn Socialist."

"You are not."

"I am."

"You'll never abandon individualism."

"Of course not. I'd never think of parting with that. But I really

don't see why I shouldn't be a Socialist as well. I pity those poor,

benighted beings that have room in their narrow souls for only one set

of opinions. I like to be everything, to hold every 'ism,' and to be

labelled all over with every 'ist,' like the window of that

'eating-house' yonder. Which reminds me of my dinner party to-night.

Isn't it terrible to eat in Belgrave Square when some people have to

eat in a place like that. It's positively wicked. I have an idea. I

think I can't do better than inaugurate my new 'ism' by lunching there

to-day. Suppose we do so on our way back."

"But _I_ never confessed to be converted to socialism," he protested.

"Why it's a dear little eating-house, a perfect love of a place."

"I take it for granted you wish to meet your guests to-night with a

smiling face," he warned her.

"The consciousness of having had the courage of my 'ism' will fill me

with such a glow of goodness that I cannot fail to appear a veritable

Madonna. Of course, you know I am counting on you."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"But I haven't filled up the place. I've been relying on nagging you

into coming."

"You know I don't want to," he grumbled yieldingly.

"But I want you to. Don't be angry, dear," she went on, coaxingly.

"Haven't I amused you the whole time?"

He ended by promising to come, if not incapacitated by the lunch, and

felt fairly secure of passing the evening at home.

After they had wandered about for some time longer and had paid

pennies to see a curious compound animal, a sort of ox, sheep, horse,

donkey and goat rolled into one, and an abnormally fat woman, more

decently clad than the life-size coloured picture of her in the window

had led them to imagine, they invaded the love of an eating-house.

They stepped within the threshold firmly enough, but then stood

hesitant. The place gave them a general sense of brownness. It was the

old-fashioned style of coffee-house, with a sanded pathway down the

middle and a row of stalls on either side, each separated from its

neighbours by tall partitions. Everything was of a dirty brown,

panelling, partitions, benches and the bare tables. A brown light came

through the dingy windows, and the very odours that hung in the dingy

atmosphere suggested the same tint.

A coatless, aproned waiter emerged from the back to greet the first

mid-day customers, and, in reply to their enquiry for lunch, invited

them to be seated within one of the stalls. After he had wiped their

table he disappeared, and he returned in a moment with a table cloth,

followed by a shorter and stouter man, also in shirt sleeves. They

began to see they had made an impression, and were to be served in

accordance with the host's sense of the fitness of things.

The proprietor--for such the stout man was--by way of special

civility, remarked that it was fine weather, and asked what he might

get them.

"The correct thing," said Lady Thiselton; and, on the man staring,

"what everybody usually has here," she added, in explanation.

"Boiled beef and suet to-day, or roast beef and Yorkshire, or chops

and steaks," enumerated the man.

So "boiled beef and suet" was ordered on the assumption it was the

correct thing, and, while the waiter was busy getting it, the

proprietor felt it his duty to entertain them till it came.

"His intentions were no doubt strictly honourable, but, Morgan, do you

think we shall have to talk to people like that when socialism is

established? My goodness!" she exclaimed, examining the slices of meat

closely. "What are those green streaks?"

"Perhaps that's perfectly right. The green streaks--like the boiled

carrot--may be just a little surprise by way of extra. Neither is

included in the description of the dish."

"Morgan, I really don't think I can eat this," she said faintly.

"Backsliding already?"

"Not at all. You forget I'm a bundle of 'isms,' and in practice one

can only be true to one at a time. When that one begins to make me

feel uncomfortable, I become true to another. Thus I am always true to

myself. All the mutually contradictory 'isms' unite in a higher

synthesis. Am I not the most lovely higher synthesis you ever saw?"

"All of which Hegelian dialectics mean that I'd better tell them to

take this stuff away."

"If you think they won't maltreat us. They look terribly fierce; and

they may have any number of myrmidons within call. That sort of

people, you know, doesn't like to have its cooking criticised."

"So long as we pay, we'll not find them too sensitive."

The matter was soon arranged, they adopting the man's suggestion of a

"nice, juicy steak." And when it arrived they felt compelled to

pronounce it excellent.

"I shouldn't be surprised if those green streaks were the proper thing

after all," said Lady Thiselton.

"Doubtless we have missed some extraordinary delicacy," said Morgan.

"But please tell me which particular 'ism' is in possession at the

moment. I am not quite clear on the point."

"That is just my state of mind. But I fancy that, at the present

moment, I am given over to emotion rather than to thought. This

interior is affecting me artistically. I was just thinking what a

lovely Dutch picture it would make. But I really am sincere about my

'isms.' The arguments in favour of any one 'ism' are unanswerable, and

I have to admit the truth of each, whenever I consider it. All human

thought ends in the blind alley of Paradox. Hegel was a word-juggler.

Nice phrases are pleasing, but let us not take them seriously."

And Lady Thiselton proceeded to utter a good many "nice phrases,"

which Morgan found pleasing, and did not take seriously. Customers

dropped in by ones and twos till at length all the other stalls were

filled, everybody instinctively avoiding the stall where a tablecloth

gleamed its white warning. When some men, having eaten, began smoking

their clays, Lady Thiselton's sharp ear detected some speculative

remarks about herself and Morgan, tinged with facetiousness and gore.

She thereupon suggested she was pining for something mystic and

spiritualistic, being quite tired of this realistic interior.

"I am trying to banish it by contemplating the Blessed Damozel," she

said, and quoted whisperingly:

"'The Blessed Damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.'"

A moment later they stepped out into the afternoon light that nearly

blinded them with its mournful glare. But a heavy sadness had

descended on Morgan. The lines Lady Thiselton had whispered to him had

set him thinking of Margaret.

CHAPTER II.

The same evening, Morgan, not feeling any alarming symptoms, had to

carry out his promise to join Lady Thiselton's little dinner party.

She received him with a formality that made him laugh inwardly--and

almost outwardly. But the impulse died away as with a start he

perceived that Robert Ingram was in the drawing-room. He reflected,

however, that, though the encounter was an unexpected one, there was

nothing very astonishing about it. Helen had herself told him she had

made the novelist's acquaintance, and to find him dining at her house

was no matter for surprise. The position, nevertheless, was a most

curious one, especially when their hostess unsuspectingly introduced

the two men. Ingram's manner was a little bit bewildered, as if--from

his knowledge of Morgan--he feared the latter might make a scene by

dramatically cutting him.

However, nothing of the kind happened, Morgan behaving with perfect

gravity. He had to give his arm to Mrs. Blackstone--Helen's dear

friend, Laura, of whom she had spoken to him as the most stupid woman

she knew. He would have welcomed the opportunity of talking to

her--for he was sure her conception of Helen would be astonishingly

amusing, but he had a feeling that something important was going to

arise from his coming here to-night, and that there were possibilities

of explosion in the position. This gave him a general sense of

expectant excitement, so that at first he was a little bit impatient

of Mrs. Blackstone's remarks. He learnt that she admired intensely

that sweet little poem of his, and that she had been longing to meet

the writer; also that reading was a great blessing when one felt

miserable. Did he not admire Mr. Ingram? She herself adored his work.

He was constrained to reply that Ingram was one of his literary

heresies, whereupon she, with ready resource, supposed that tastes

differed, and then, as the result of a luminous thought, she added

that a poet would naturally not be so much interested in mere prose.

Of course poetry ranked the higher, but she was ashamed to

confess--she made the confession without any sign of shame--she

scarcely ever read any at all. She had several favourite novelists who

each published so many books a year that it took all the time she

could spare to keep pace with them.

"And indeed I'm glad they manage to write so much. They help to fight

against the flood of nasty realistic works we get nowadays. I should

like to see those all burnt."

Mrs. Blackstone went on to observe that she couldn't make out why

people went on writing such filth. She preferred books of a sound,

moral tone.

Morgan, feeling himself called upon to make common cause against the

Philistine, put in a tentative word of defence.

"That's true," admitted Mrs. Blackstone.

He soon drew further admissions from her, she never suspecting the

extent of the ground she was yielding till, just at the moment of

rising, she apparently gave up her whole position with the naive

statement:

"I always thought they had a reason for introducing that sort of

thing. Thank you so much, Mr. Druce, for explaining it to me."

He was not quite sure whether he had been bored or amused. All the

same he now felt glad he had come; he seemed to be so much more

actively interested in what was to follow. Instinctively he looked at

Ingram, and the novelist came to talk to him whilst the other men

discussed the hygienic aspects of smoking.

"Well, have you got over your temper yet?"

The phrasing was unfortunate, though its conciliatory intention was

obvious. Morgan felt he was being addressed as if he were a sulky

child, and his resentment leapt up afresh.

"I beg you will not interest yourself further in me," he said.

"Suppose we omit some of the conversation," suggested Ingram, "and

assume all that sort of thing to have been said. You are hurt because

I showed your letter to a friend. Aren't you taking a distorted view

of the matter? Recollect that at the time you were an utter stranger,

and your letter was a bolt from the blue. I cannot see that I

committed so very great a crime."

"It is as great or as little as you feel it to be."

"And how may it be purged?" asked Ingram ironically.

"Ponder over it till you perceive its enormity, then apologize to me

in the presence of the woman."

Morgan scarcely realised what he was saying till the words were out.

Apparently he had spoken without hesitating and without thinking, but

he knew that his utterance was the result of all that had occupied his

mind for many days past. He felt now he was on the road towards the

realisation of that fantastic future, that poem in life that was to

take the place of the poetry in words he had abandoned.

Ingram gave him a strange, piercing look. Morgan had never before seen

in his face such an expression as he saw in it now. There was a

pregnant pause before the reply came.

"Very well, then. We will go to her to-night. No doubt the others will

now be glad to hear our views on tobacco smoke."

Morgan was conscious of a strange glow of pleasure, of a strange

satisfaction. All his sense of romance and mystery was astir. How

charming was the promise of the phantasy to come! The smiling, scented

serpent-woman was holding her arms to him! And again those lines of

Browning echoed through him, and his whole being seemed invaded as by

a "faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine, worm-eaten shroud."

He defended moderate smoking with vivacity.

Afterwards, the guests being disposed for conversation in the

drawing-room, Helen managed to sit with Morgan a little apart.

"What do you think of Mr. Ingram?" she asked. "Did you talk to him at

all?"

"He seems fairly intelligent," replied Morgan; "more intelligent, in

fact, than his work would lead one to suppose. You told me the other

day, did you not, that you have known him some little time?"

"It is only during the last few months that I have cultivated him or

rather he me."

"I see Mrs. Blackstone has possession of him now. She must be very

happy."

"She is his greatest confidante. That I am _her_ greatest confidante,

you know already, _ergo_--well, I'll leave you to make the deduction.

She is really a good soul, and a marked success as an ear trumpet."

"But is Mr. Ingram aware of that?"

"Quite. That is why he speaks into her such a deal. He finds me

perfectly deaf otherwise."

All this was a revelation to Morgan.

"You seem to be hinting at something," he could not help exclaiming.

"Of course. Mr. Ingram is anxious to marry a title, and, since he does

not object to having a good-looking person attached to it, he has done

me the honour to pretend to be in love with me. He has been proposing

for the last six weeks, and has offered to purify his books still

further to suit my virginal soul."

"And you professed to be telling me everything interesting," he

reproached her.

"Why, I left off telling you about my wooers and proposals at your own

request. You insisted they would never make you jealous, and they

rather bored you. So I did not say a word about this one. Of course

Laura is anxious to further his cause. She thinks me a good woman and

somewhat of a prude. Poor soul! She doesn't suspect the wedding ring

with the diamond in it you've seen me sometimes wear! You know it's

the sort of thing wicked women affect when they want to be cynical

about the marriage tie. Well, Laura is doing her best to persuade me

to be the instrument of Mr. Ingram's reform. She thinks it such a pity

his life has not been so wholesome in tone as his novels. Her

admiration of him is so great that she wants him to live up to her

conception of the author of his novels, and I am to be sacrificed for

the purpose. She is ten years my senior, and you will observe her

interest in me is quite maternal. But I must tell you more about it

another time. The doctor's looking bored. I must go and amuse him."

CHAPTER III.

Shortly after midnight Morgan and Ingram were driving towards

Hampstead, in which vicinity, the latter explained, resided the lady

upon whom they were going to call. For a long time the two sat

silent--they seemed to have nothing to say to each other.

And even while Morgan was thrilled through and through with expectancy

of romance, he could not help his brain playing a little with the

general position, which, in face of what he had learnt to-night, was

far more complicated than he had imagined. He smiled as it occurred to

him how easily he could annoy Ingram by marrying Helen. Curious, he

thought, that Ingram had not the least suspicion of it!

"May I not ask who is the lady?" he said at last.

"She is nobody in particular," said Ingram. "I call her 'Cleo,' which

is sufficient for all practical purposes. There is really no reason

why I should not tell you now that Cleo, in fact, has been the

companion of my leisure for the past six years. I will leave you to

form your own impression of her."

Ingram spoke with an exaggerated air of bluntness, as if to indicate

his indifference to whatever effect his statement might produce on

Morgan. The latter, however, was not very much surprised. His active

feeling was rather one of bewilderment as to the part Ingram was

playing in this tangle of relations. The fact that Ingram had turned

up as a suitor for Helen's hand, when he himself had been all these

years in active relation with either unknown to the other, had

exhausted all the possibilities of astonishment in him. But he found

it strange that Ingram, in spite of his matrimonial intention, should

still continue on such terms with this 'Cleo' as to be able to bring a

friend to see her in the way he was doing now. Ingram's very readiness

to fall in with the suggestion struck him as bearing some significance

he could not yet fathom.

Yet, though his mind was thus occupied, Morgan cared little about

Ingram's private designs. It satisfied him to feel that Ingram was his

unconscious tool, and that he was at length drifting in the right

direction. On rattled the vehicle through empty, dark streets, where

the very street lamps looked lonely and subtly fostered his mood.

They drew up at length in a narrow street of stucco houses, and Morgan

followed Ingram through a wooden gate up a glass-covered stairway that

led to an ordinary front door. Ingram opened it with a latch-key, and

they stood in a square, little hall, prettily furnished and dimly

lighted by an antique hanging lamp.

"Cleo expects me," said Ingram, "but I must ascertain if she will

receive both of us."

He disappeared through a door at the back of the hall, and, returning

soon, led Morgan through a sort of anteroom into a large inner

apartment, on the threshold of which they were met by a waft of

strange perfume which Morgan recognised immediately, though for a

moment it somewhat overpowered him. The scene, too, was so bizarre

that his perception of it lacked sharpness, and his first impression

was a dreamy one of fusing colour.

The room itself was large and square, and more than half of the marble

inlaid floor was raised several inches above the other part--that on

which Morgan stood as he entered. In the centre of this lower part was

a small marble fountain, with two tiers of basins, beautifully carved.

The water played prettily, overflowing from the lower and larger basin

into a daintily-bordered square tank set in the floor. Against the

wall beyond the fountain was built a marble slab, supported by a

double arch, under which stood ewers and vases. And higher up in this

same wall were set two pairs of tiny windows, divided into little

coloured panes, with designs of flowers and peacocks.

The ceiling seemed a quaint, flat, immense tangle of gold, green, red

and blue thread work, each line of which could be followed till the

eye lost it in the maze; and three lamps, suspended by brass chains,

filled the room with a ruby light that came through the interstices of

fine brass and silver work. The walls were marked out in panelling and

covered with a strange, decorative pattern. The raised part of the

floor was spread with richly woven rugs of warm tints, and a few

stools of curious workmanship stood about. Books lay scattered here

and there, as if thrown carelessly on the ground after perusal. In the

centre was a gilded couch, upholstered in silk, and, as Ingram

mentioned his name, Morgan found himself bowing to the wonderful woman

who reclined on it.

She rose at his greeting, tall and of a gipsy-like brown, and clad in

a straight terra-cotta robe tied in front with a broad, gold girdle,

whose long ends fell floating to the ground. Her feet were sandalled.

Her hair was of a rich, golden red, and somehow showed up in contrast

to the blue grey of her eyes. Her lips were full and of a startling

scarlet, as though they bled. She smiled to Morgan, displaying two

rows of tiny white teeth, and held out to him a long, brown hand.

He took it in his, and the contact set vibrating every chord of his

nature that had been strung up during the past days. At last he was

face to face with the dream-woman who had haunted him, and she was

even as he had seen her! And with all his emotion at this sacred

moment there mingled a sense of pride that his poet's instinct had

divined true.

"I am happy to know you, Mr. Druce. Mr. Ingram has just explained to

me why he has brought you. I am so sorry to be the cause of your

anger."

Her voice was curiously soft, without the least ring or even

suggestion of firmness; warm and yielding as a summer wavelet.

Morgan was somewhat startled at her words; he had almost expected some

strange, rich, musical language to fall from her lips.

Ingram drew over a stool, and Cleo bade him be seated. There was

somewhat of an embarrassed silence. Morgan scarcely knew how to meet

the occasion. It struck him that perhaps he ought to be grateful to

Ingram, for he had now a conviction that the letter of his which Cleo

had had in her possession had really interested her in him--had

touched some sympathetic chord in her--and that the task of

cultivating her would not, for that very reason, prove a difficult

one. He was certain that her nature had much in common with his

own, and that the future which was now to be unrolled was to be a

series of tableaux as charming as this first one.

He felt it incumbent upon him to dispose of the matter for which

nominally he had come, and murmured that Ingram had now sufficiently

shown his good faith, and that he personally was quite satisfied. As

he spoke he looked at Cleo again, and her eyes and lips gleamed at him

strangely. He was aware she wished to say a good deal to him, but that

the presence of Ingram hindered. And as the same constrained silence

once more fell upon them, the elusive odour of her perfume seemed to

obtrude again, as though taking the opportunity to assert itself.

Ingram at length remarked that the hour was late, and that if Cleo

would excuse them he would escort Mr. Druce back. He was glad that

harmony had been re-established, and he expressed his thanks to Cleo

for so willingly receiving his friend and helping to heal the breach.

Morgan did not mind having this first interview with Cleo thus cut

short, especially as he could not talk with Ingram there to listen. He

was, moreover, uncomfortably aware that Ingram was watching him

closely the whole time, and he did not fail to detect the tinge of

irony in the novelist's last little speech. But he felt he had closed

his account with the man, and he would not trouble his brains any more

about his motives or meaning. He therefore rose to say good-night to

Cleo. She offered them wine, but both men refused, so she smilingly

gave her hand again without striving to detain them.

Outside, each seemed given up to his own thoughts. Morgan would make

no comment on what had been revealed to him, nor apparently did Ingram

want to hear any.

They separated at a cab rank, each taking a separate vehicle. And only

as they were about to part did Ingram break the silence:

"I need hardly tell you you have seen a hidden side of my life. I look

to you to forget."

CHAPTER IV.

The very rapidity of the glimpse that Morgan had had into that

Hampstead interior made it the more fascinating to dwell upon in

imagination, and, though the definite figure of Cleo now took the

place of the vague, smiling woman who had always been with him, it

seemed to him that he had discerned Cleo's every feature from the

beginning.

The general flow of his thoughts and moods were coloured by this

fantastic adventure on which, he now felt, he was fairly embarked.

Nevertheless his life was not proceeding precisely on the lines he had

conceived when he had resolved to transport his imaginative

combinations from the field of paper to the field of life, to weave

dreams from reality instead of from thought. That disattachment he had

decided on in order that he might abandon himself wholly to the urging

of his temperament was proving a much more gradual process than he had

supposed.

For as yet the old relations were being continued; the man in

him--which the poet was unable to suppress entirely--could not break

these off abruptly. Thus, when Margaret's pink note announcing the

studio-warming arrived, he could not possibly accept the notion of

ignoring it, for was he not her true and healthy lover? His

friendship, too, with Lady Thiselton, had even become strengthened in

spite of himself. He could not help telling himself again and again

that she was as firm and true as a rock. And the very man in him that

appreciated her sterling qualities had still a sense of shame at his

having taken money from her, forced though his hand had been. The

vagueness and nebulousness of the future that suited the poet made the

man with his healthy repugnance to debt extremely uncomfortable.

The flow of his existence had thus split up into two currents, but the

stronger by far was the poetic force in him that made for a desperate

playing with life.

Yet several days passed without his being impelled to go to Cleo

again. Even as he had been wont to wait for inspiration, so he waited

now for the spirit to move him to the next step in this life-fantasy.

His time got frittered away, he scarcely knew how. He replied to

several letters from his father, who wrote to him at great length on

particular points of ethics, for the banker had by now seriously set

to work on his _magnum opus_. Two or three times Helen ran in to see

him at tea-time, and did her best to amuse him. The mere reflection

that Ingram must suppose he was but the most casual acquaintance of

Helen's was sufficient for that; so that she had not a very difficult

task, and expressed herself highly pleased at the agreeable mood in

which she was now finding him. She chatted quite freely about Ingram

and the latest developments of his courtship of her. She had refused

him for the fifth time, but he didn't seem the least bit discouraged

yet.

"By the way," she went on, "I've just been reading his biography in a

magazine. Evidently he has not been as frank with his interviewer as

he has been with me. The way I made him confess was just lovely,

though now he makes that a grievance, much to my indignation. All I

said was I couldn't possibly begin to consider his case till I knew

all about him. I made no promise at all. At first, indeed, he was

foolish enough to insist his record was spotless. A man who writes

novels of such sound moral tone! If only he had written naturalistic

novels, I might have believed him."

Morgan wondered if Ingram had included Cleo in his "confession." He

was rather inclined to doubt it, because he felt sure that the very

strangeness of that _liaison_ would have made Helen want to tell him

about it.

"And what do you intend to do with him ultimately?" he asked.

"Well, if I thought it would make you the least bit jealous, I should

announce that I intended to accept him. But as there is no possible

advantage to be gained by such a falsehood, it would be very

extravagant of me to waste it. I've scattered so many of them in my

time that I must be economical for the rest of my life."

Though he had never for a moment believed there was any possibility of

her marrying Ingram, he was yet relieved to hear her state her

intentions so definitely. Such was his sense of Ingram's unworthiness

of her!

A couple of days later he went to Margaret's studio-warming. Both the

experience and the anticipation of it were emotionally exciting. But

as a good many of Margaret's particular friends were there, her

attention had to be spread out a great deal, and he did not have to

talk to her much at first. Certainly there was nothing between them

that could be called conversation.

He found it soothing to talk a little with Mrs. Medhurst, who was

always equable, nice, and apparently in a pleased mood. She also had

been receiving long confidential letters from his father, and she

expressed the fear that at the rate the latter was now going in the

direction of iconoclasm he was courting public suppression.

"He is very much in earnest," she added. "I have written him at length

about the bringing up of daughters--he insisted on having my views. He

is very modest, though--just ventures to hope for success. 'If I only

had Morgan's pen,' he once wrote, yearningly."

To be reminded now how completely his father had been won over to

belief in him was but to have all the bitterness of his failure again

concentrated in one moment.

During the rest of the time he found himself carrying on a

half-hearted conversation here and there, yet with all his attention

on Margaret. He followed her with his eyes, watching her every

movement and gesture, noting her every smile, catching her laughter

and the sound of her voice. Something that was light, that was

sunshine, seemed to detach itself from her and to fill the whole room;

something that brought a sense of happiness to mingle with his strange

mood.

He felt that happiness as a sick man feels a cool, soft caress on his

brow.

CHAPTER V.

One afternoon Morgan took a hansom and drove to Hampstead. He entered

the glass-covered way that led up to Cleo's door and knocked

unhesitatingly. The servant who responded to his summons stared at him

in undisguised astonishment.

"Is your mistress at home?" he asked, for he did not know by what name

to enquire for Cleo. He sent in his own, however, and was immediately

ushered into her presence. This gave him no elation, because he had

taken it for granted she would receive him.

"I had a sort of presentiment you would come to-day," said Cleo,

throwing on one side the novel she had been reading, and the cover of

which, illumined with seven mystic stars and a veiled floating figure,

just caught his eye.

"And I just felt that I _must_ come," he said as, at her invitation,

he took a seat on one of the quaint stools with somewhat of an air of

long habituation to this strange Egyptian chamber.

Cleo was lounging on her gilded settee, obviously arrayed to receive

him in the hope of his calling. A vague, mystic light that compelled

an almost religious emotion came through the tiny window panes. The

fountain played with a soft splash.

"Do you know I am what the vulgar call 'superstitious?'" she

continued. "I always knew you would come into my life."

As she spoke her eyes seemed to shine with a greater fire. The scarlet

of her lips to-day was somewhat concealed by the half shadows; her

hair, too, seemed silkier and more restrained in tone than his first

impression of it. Her gown was of a vague colour--a sort of blue-grey,

in which the element of blue was suggested as a light continuous

tinge. A crimson silk scarf, fastened with an opal buckle, formed a

pleasing sash, and fell to the knee. As before, her feet were

sandalled.

"That letter of yours Robert showed me--years ago now--made me love

you at once," she explained. "Only a man of genius could have written

it. How my heart bled for you when you said, 'I see no other end to

the comedy than fall. God knows what shape that fall will take, into

what mud my soul plunge in the fight for life. I could bear anything

if I were not so utterly alone and helpless.... If you could see me,

speak to me--help me in any way!' Yes, I wanted to see you--speak to

you--help you. It was I who made Robert respond to your appeal. I

remember how disgusted I was with him when he insisted on taking the

whole thing as a splendid joke, just because he found you had a rich

father."

Her strange, soft voice seemed almost informed with dramatic passion

as she quoted his letter. It was clear she knew the whole of it by

heart. So Ingram's violation of his confidence, he reflected, had been

responsible for this interweaving of his life with Cleo's, and his

presence here to-day was but the natural continuation of the beginning

then made. He confessed to having been angered with Ingram.

"My blundering vision could not see how the strands were being woven,"

he added.

"I was certain all along they _were_ being woven," she returned. "The

incident at the time made a great impression on me, and I knew that

one day we should come together."

It gave him a thrill of joy to learn that he had been occupying her

thoughts for years past; that, having once come within her

consciousness, he had remained in her vision as a never-fading image.

"I am encouraged to ask you about yourself," he said. "You know I love

you, too."

This last statement was not an insincere one, for he did not conceive

it as a real statement made to a real human being. Cleo was his

wonderful dream-woman, and he had no notion at all of getting any

insight into her as a real woman playing an actual role in actual

life. He did not think of her as an element of real life at all; she

was simply the heroine of the fantasy he was busy weaving. His

declaration represented exactly his sentiment towards her in that

role; it expressed his sense of the fitness of things at the moment,

was the requisite correct touch the position demanded--this position

which he had mentally isolated from the rest of reality, and in which

for the time being he had lost himself.

"I know, dear," she answered. "I will tell you gladly, for I want you

to understand and appreciate me. Like you I have always been conscious

of genius, but I have had to wait long, bitter years. 'Tis always so

with genius. I have ever felt myself a chosen spirit, and I am sure I

am destined to become the greatest actress that has yet charmed and

captivated the world. Am I not tall, surpassingly beautiful,

lithe and supple as a reed--graceful as a lily? But that is not all.

In me is reincarnated the spirit of the ancient East, and it is my

mission to interpret that spirit to the modern world. I will help you,

dear, to realize that same spirit, and then one day, in a grand burst

of inspiration you shall write the play of my life. Then shall I break

upon the civilized world as a revelation.

"I can remember no time at which I have not been conscious of my

mission. But six years ago, when I set out on my journey into the

world, I was scarcely more than a child. I had no influence--I knew

nobody; and so I had no chance of making a real appearance at once. I

had to begin by joining a touring company, and that only to play the

role of a servant girl. At the time I was glad of any beginning, for I

was confident I should make my way. But I soon found myself stranded.

Then what do you think I did?"

"You wrote a letter to Ingram--just as I did?" he exclaimed excitedly.

She laughed.

"That is very clever of you. It is exactly what I did. He had a

successful play running at one theatre and I read that he was at work

on a new play for another manager. I thought that, if I could only

induce him to see me, I might get a real chance. My letter produced

the desired effect, for in it I had told him exactly what my future

was to be. We had an interview and he perfectly agreed with everything

I had said about myself. But he swore he could do nothing for me. His

plays, he asserted, contained no fit part for me--it would be a

thousand pities if I let my strength and energies be dissipated

in playing minor parts that any intelligent school girl with a pair of

bright eyes could do ample justice to. Then he confided to me that he,

too, had plans and ambitions, but that he was not making nearly so

much money as he was said to be doing in the personal paragraphs of

the newspapers. He was putting aside, however, all he could spare, so

that he might have a vast theatre of his own; and if that came to pass

I was the one being on earth to be associated with him in such a

mighty undertaking. Would I stay with him and wait?

"So I stayed with him, and I have waited--six years! We have built our

vast theatre again and again--it was to be the vastest in the world,

so that my audience should be worthy of my great gifts. Time after

time have we gone together into every detail of the scheme, I always

believing that at last we were getting ready in earnest. You will

wonder, perhaps, how it is I have allowed myself to be deceived for so

long. It was because I believed in him during the first three years,

and during the second three I had already lost so much time that I

_dared_ not disbelieve in him. It was always: 'Just six months more,

Cleo, dear, and then we shall astonish the world.' And then the vision

of that vast theatre was too fascinating for me to abandon. His

excuses were always plausible. Now he had made some terribly bad

investment, now a publisher had gone bankrupt, now the sales of his

books had fallen tremendously. Besides, he kept complaining bitterly

that he was being forced to suppress his genius and individuality and

to work for money. Just as he was waiting patiently, so must I wait

patiently. He was to write me my great piece, and I was to interpret

it. He bought this house for me and had this room rebuilt to suit my

ideas, so that the spirit in me should be nourished by a congenial

environment. By sitting here each day and meditating, I have

ministered to my sacred moods and I have kept pure the essence of the

ages which I am to revive for the modern world. Thus the years have

not been wasted. I have matured. I am confident my powers have

increased, and I have never felt more eager to exercise them than now.

Let me but appear in a suitable role and both fame and fortune are

assured to me, for I shall easily eclipse every living actress.

"Of course, I have recognised now that Robert has been playing me

false, at least of late. I should not like to think that he did not

really have those ideas in the first years, but I realise now he has

abandoned them and hasn't the courage to confess the truth. Of course,

he says that his year's finances have all gone wrong again, and that

he had seriously underestimated the capital necessary for the

undertaking.

"I am not a prisoner, of course. I have always had perfect liberty,

and I engaged the maids myself. They are too well paid not to be

attached to me. Robert is supposed to be my husband. Of course, they

know he isn't. Altogether, I have not been so very unhappy here. This

room has been a great comfort to me, and Robert and I have always got

on well together. But now we must part. He will miss me after all this

time, but there is no reason why we should not part in peace."

She related all this with the greatest naivete, so that her absolute

faith in herself, her genius, and her mission, did not astonish him.

The words seemed to flow naturally from the personality.

He was aware she had scarcely given him a biography, but he liked to

take her as a mystical figure floating out of a sort of nebula. Such

personal details as might have been relatable of any other woman he

did not want to know; they would have interfered with this purely

artistic vision of her.

"I wish that I had a fortune to place at your disposal," he murmured.

"You should have your theatre at once."

"My vast theatre!" she sighed. "I fear I must dismiss that as a

hopeless dream. But I could take a theatre and make a less ambitious

beginning with very little money, indeed," she added, yearningly.

Then Morgan told her the condition of his finances; how he had

exhausted his own resources, and how "a friend"--he referred to Helen

in this highly general manner--had lent him five hundred pounds, of

which he had scarcely spent anything yet, but which he had not the

slightest idea how he was going to repay. Of course, he could not and

would not apply to his father again; on which point Cleo readily

expressed her sympathy with him.

Asked by him how much she thought would be sufficient to launch her on

her career, she could not say at once, but promised to think about it

and discuss the matter with him when he came again. She explained that

whatever the amount was, it would only be necessary to have it to draw

upon in case of need. Success being certain from the first, money

would come flowing in immediately, and, if they did decide to embark

on the adventure, he would certainly be able to repay his friend very

soon.

Her words to him were so many oracular statements, and he no more

thought of questioning them than a child thinks of questioning its

teacher about the names of the strange marks that constitute the

alphabet.

"You will be coming again, then, on Thursday," said Cleo, as he

stooped to kiss her hand in token of farewell.

CHAPTER VI.

"My dear," said Cleo, when Morgan came again, "I want to bind you to

me for always. Let us marry at once, or, at least, as soon as

possible. Then, since we shall have thrown in our lots for good and

always, we shall achieve together what we have been unable to do

separately. My spirit shall act on yours, and one day your genius

shall fashion the great masterpiece of my life. As soon as we are

married we shall take a theatre and I shall put on the most suitable

play I can find. As I have already told you, I have given up those

idle dreams of a vast theatre of my own, in which to make my debut.

But never before have I felt my powers to be so ripe. Let me but

appear for one evening in a part that will enable me to do justice to

my gifts and I shall bring the world to my feet. I look to you to help

me now, and, by making myself yours for always I shall at least be

showing my gratitude and my confidence in you. It is but right that

two geniuses should be mated. The fact that we both thought of the

same resource under similar conditions--for were you not as forlorn

and alone as I?--was prophetic, and clearly indicated it was fated

your life and mine were to be cast together."

Her masterful definiteness hypnotised him. Her will was strong enough

to do what his own had failed to complete, to draw him away from the

rest of the world and absorb his life in hers.

Cleo had entered into his spirit and had at length not only silenced

but won over the man in him. She had seized on his whole being,

appropriated his every thought, and had attuned to hers every chord of

his complex nature. Her perfume and colour, her exotic beauty, had

entwined themselves in his every fibre, had enslaved his senses, and

intoxicated the thinking part of him. Her genius, too, cast an added

glamour of enchantment over the new life that lay before him--a

dream-life into which this marriage would take him entirely, and by

contrast with which, apart from its anguish, the real life behind him

lay dull and leaden.

To link his life with hers! To launch Cleo as a great actress! To win

renown side by side! He yielded himself to the prospect with eager

enthusiasm!

The notion of taking a theatre that Cleo had put before him at their

last meeting had already led him to make a rough calculation of his

present resources, and he had estimated that a financial clearing-up

would leave him with but little more than three hundred pounds. He

mentioned this now somewhat hesitatingly, for he feared that sum might

be quite inadequate. He was relieved to hear Cleo say that she could

make it suffice; and with her clever management he would very soon be

able to discharge his debt to his friend. She knew exactly how to go

to work and would make all arrangements, but of course she would let

him help her as much as he could.

"We shall set to work the very day we marry, for we must not lose any

time. All I shall take away from here are my costumes. I have some

money that Robert has given me from time to time, but that I am going

to return to him. It would be a desecration for us to use a penny of

his in our new life. Of course we must make our home temporarily in

furnished rooms."

The next day Morgan paid all his odd, floating debts, and got his

particular possessions together; all of which did not occupy him very

long. When he saw Cleo again it was arranged that she should take the

requisite formal steps for their marriage before the registrar, and

that she should also begin negotiations for the renting of a Strand

theatre. She had had her final reckoning with Ingram, who had assumed

an air of indifference, and had not wanted to know anything about her

plans or future movements.

"'Since you have made up your mind,' he said, 'I have no option but to

bow to your wishes.' But I could see that his lips were drawn as if

his heart ached at having to lose me. I must have meant so much to him

all this time. Poor Robert!"

"Of course, I gave him back his money," she went on, when her emotion

had subsided. "He took that with the same indifference. He said he

could quite appreciate my feeling about it and he would not oppose my

wishes on the point."

As regards his family and friends, Morgan made up his mind to write to

his father, to Lady Thiselton, and to Mrs. Medhurst, simply announcing

the mere fact that he had married. He would not give any particulars

nor say a word as to the personality of Cleo. The rest of his

acquaintances he would simply ignore.

CHAPTER VII.

However, on the day before his marriage, Morgan happened to come

across Mrs. Medhurst's dance card amid a heap of papers he was about

to destroy, and somewhat to his surprise found it was for that very

evening. He had accepted the invitation verbally, when talking to Mrs.

Medhurst at the studio-warming. And now a strange notion seemed to

come whizzing at him and he arrested it with a clutch.

Why should he not go and dance with Margaret for the last time?

In a moment his mind was made up. And shortly after ten o'clock he

found himself being received by Mrs. Medhurst. A half-dizziness came

over him as he shook hands with her--the festal atmosphere that

pervaded the rooms seemed to blur his senses. He would have stumbled

had it not been that Margaret's voice fell upon his ear just then, and

he became aware that her hand was in his. He saw her, as she stood at

her mother's side, a clear and gracious figure against the mist of

things.

She was in white to-night with just a lily in her hair, and it showed

graciously in a dainty setting of green. An adorable tiny edge of arm

peeped between sleeve and glove. Morgan thought of the lines Helen had

whispered to him at the Whitechapel Coffee House:

"The Blessed Damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even."

He wrote his name on her programme. He was feeling timid and

self-distrustful, and having taken a dance near the beginning he

hesitated perceptibly before taking another lower down. She thanked

him gravely as he returned her the card and he thought he detected a

half-sorrowful expression in her face. No doubt she had been quick to

observe the constraint of his manner, and he felt she must be

suspecting something.

He was glad that the arriving guests were claiming her attention, and

he moved away and mingled with the crowd. But he was indifferent to

the scene, to the music and dancing, to all but Margaret. He could not

turn his eyes away from her. He took note of every man that asked a

dance of her. One of them kept writing on her programme for what

seemed to Morgan an unbearable time, Margaret looking on with a

tolerant half-smile. He knew the fellow well and hated him. Fledgling

at one or other of the learned professions, always aggressively smooth

and well-bred, a veritable paragon of polish without a single

redeeming mannerism, to Morgan he represented one large swagger. There

was something in the pose of the eye-glasses and in the clean-shaven

upper lip that told of boundless conceit and infinite self-assurance.

What right had he, was Morgan's indignant thought--and he made the

criticism as of a mere external fact from which he stood aloof--to be

so friendly with Margaret? How was it that she should show such

little insight as to be imposed upon by so specious a personality? No

doubt she thought him perfectly charming!

He was very angry and bitter, and already half-repented the impulse

that had driven him here. If the experience, in all its emotional

bearings, was a unique one, it was likewise a disagreeable one. When

the time came round for him to dance with Margaret he tried hard to

appear perfectly at his ease, and to make a show of good spirits.

Exercising the privilege of an old friend, he began to tease her about

the rapidity with which her programme had got filled.

"A girl must flirt a little," she asserted calmly, after a short

passage-at-arms. "You're not jealous, Morgan, are you?"

"I am only observant," he answered evasively.

"Your gift of observation must be truly wonderful--you manage to

exercise it at so great a distance, or perhaps you send out your

astral body to do the observing, which must be the reason why it's

invisible to me."

"I dare not speak at all. You turn my every word into a scourge

against me."

"Don't you feel you deserve the scourging?"

"I have had another melancholy fit," he urged, forced to defend

himself.

"Poor Morgan!" she said, pityingly. "I do believe you have some

trouble that you are keeping to yourself. Do you know, I've been

thinking so for some time now. You don't trust your friends

sufficiently. Come now, isn't my surmise near the truth?"

The tears almost welled up to his eyes. He did not answer her, for he

could not speak at all; but his silence was tantamount to an

admission.

"Poor Morgan!" she repeated softly, as if to herself, and the sympathy

in her voice troubled him still more. "And the trouble? Of course, you

are going to tell me first."

"Well, not to-night," he answered, closing his heart against her with

a superhuman effort. "I must not spoil your evening."

"Do you think I shall enjoy it, now that I know?"

"Why should you not?" he asked, and there was a shade of rebuff in his

tone. A half-savage impulse was urging him to pick a sort of quarrel

with her.

"You are unkind," she exclaimed in distress. "Is my friendship nothing

to you? Perhaps I am wrong to show you that I care about yours. I

ought not to have let you see I was so concerned about your trouble,

but I could not know that was going to vex you."

He did not answer, because her words disarmed him.

"Forgive me, Morgan," she went on gently. "Of course, you are

irritable and all unstrung, and I ought to be very much more patient

instead of flying at you. It would be wicked for us two to quarrel,

but I really do want you to be nice to me."

She was led away just then, and he felt glad to be relieved of the

responsibility of carrying on the conversation.

Dance after dance went by. It hurt him to see that eye-glassed

plausible young man dancing with Margaret. His mood grew hateful. The

hours at length became unendurable. He slipped away quietly and went

home.

But all through the evening he had been conscious in the back part of

his mind of the new life he had embarked upon. And even whilst he held

the sweet lily in his arms, his very love for her bringing him anguish

and bitterness, he was yet aware of scenes that sought to

obtrude--scenes in which figured the wonderful woman with whom he had

thrown in his lot, in which she stood in the glare of the footlights

with a dense packed theatre applauding to madness; scenes not outlined

clear and projected in space, but which were to him shapeless

silhouettes and dazzling formless patches of light flitting across the

extreme background of his consciousness.

* * * * *

About mid-day Morgan Druce and Selina Mary Kettering were united in

holy matrimony. She had given her true name for the occasion, but

Morgan, intent on signing his own, scarcely noticed hers. She was Cleo

to him, and Cleo she would remain. It was not till about an hour

later, when they were lunching at a West End restaurant, that his mind

began to play about the fact that he really was married now. Yet it

seemed incredible. For him marriage had always connoted something

large and elaborate, a substantial experience with which were involved

complicated preliminaries, a process so transforming that one almost

expected one's very chemical composition to be changed by it.

But all had been so astonishingly simple. The whole morning had been

singularly like other mornings. The visit to the registrar's office

had been short and unimpressive. His bone and tissue were perfectly

unaffected by it. Cleo and he had lunched here before. How then was

his relation to her so different from what it had been?

He argued with himself. He told himself he _was_ married, but he

refused to believe it. With all his knowledge and certainty of the

fact, he failed to convince himself. And yet that certainty set him

speculating as to what his father and mother would say when they read

the curt announcement he intended dispatching that afternoon. He

wondered what Helen would think, what Margaret. The fragrance and

beauty of the lily seemed suddenly to invade his spirit. He had a

sense of sweetness and light, followed by a reaction of pain. Perhaps

Margaret would be crushed by the news; perhaps--and he could not help

the thought, grotesque though it was--she would marry that smooth,

eye-glassed young man.

There was a strange ringing in his ears; he was conscious of his whole

being soaring far away, a floating, palpitating spirit amid great

spaces of mystery and dream. A universal music was swelling around

him, a mighty concerto bursting full upon him from the stillness of

infinite distances--the sobbing of violins, the blare of brazen

instruments, an orchestral clash and clang.

"You may smoke," said Cleo.

With a start he found himself amid the garish mirrors of the gilded

restaurant.

END OF BOOK II.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

Had the transition from bachelorhood to the married state been less

easy and less quickly achieved, Morgan might perhaps have realised

that the pattern of life he was weaving had not the same

undetachedness from the real as a pattern woven in dream, but that it

was a part and parcel of the real. As it was, he was not the man to

stop and think, once he had made his plunge into the strange, vague

future that had appealed to him. And now this theatrical enterprise,

with Cleo as the star, loomed ahead of him not only as the redemption

of his empty life, but wrapped in that seductive romance which his

mood and temperament demanded.

For the present, they had taken furnished rooms in Bloomsbury, where

they lived under an assumed name. Morgan did not leave his new address

at his old quarters, for he did not want any letters to follow him, no

matter from whom they came. He felt he had done all he could in

writing the three letters he had decided to write. And with the

sending of those letters, he seemed to be detaching himself from his

old life with one clean cut; his imagination left free to construct

the tableaux of what he believed--such was the impression Cleo's

personality had made on him--was going to be a gorgeous panoramic

future, a triumphant historic march through the civilised world. The

fact that Cleo now went about clothed like any other mortal did not

detract from his estimate of her genius, for the mere dispensation

with such extraneous splendour left untouched the splendour of the

woman herself.

And, from this mere moving from one London street to another, he had

all the feeling of having placed a thousand miles between himself and

everybody who knew him. In the theatrical enterprise he was to figure

under his present assumed name, though that was only likely to come

within the public cognizance as the name borne by Cleo's husband, a

personage none of his friends would think of associating with himself.

He thought he might thus fairly count on remaining undiscovered,

though, of course, he could not provide against chance encounters. But

he felt he would be very angry if any attempt were made to follow him

up and interfere in any way with the destiny he had chosen.

Meanwhile, with an exaggerated sense of his own helplessness, he

looked up to Cleo with an unshakable confidence, placing an oracular

value on her every word. She symbolised for him an all-conquering

power before which destiny itself could make no front. Had he been an

artist he would have painted her as the triumphant figure of allegory,

standing amid the stars with one foot planted on the terrestrial

globe. His attitude towards her was one of wondering admiration and

blind assent; with so much deliberateness did she turn her vision on

that seething world which she was preparing to conquer, and which had

always been to him such a whirling, giddy, incomprehensible chaos that

he had never been able to look steadily at it. Now, timidly peeping

from behind her skirts, he ventured to open his eyes on it. Alone, he

would never have known where to touch the heterogeneous, noisy mass,

but she, displaying a definite and intimate knowledge of its

constituents, at once began to establish relations with it here and

there. These efforts of hers seemed to him at first random and

isolated, and he watched with interested expectancy for the

light-giving result as a child might watch the preparations for an

elaborate conjuring trick. Eventually he began to see, with a pleased

sort of surprise, that the floating set of relations entered into by

Cleo was assuming recognisable shape as a theatrical enterprise.

The marvel she inspired in him deepened daily, so wonderful seemed her

purposefulness, her energy, her faith in herself. And though, beside

these qualities of hers, his diffidence compelled him to

self-effacement, he yet seemed to draw something from her very

superabundance.

From the beginning he had given up all the money to her, only too

pleased to be rid of the control of it. But when the arrangements were

fairly advanced, she insisted on his mastering the details of the

expenditure she was making and on going into the figures with him each

time she drew up what she considered a likely profit and loss account,

which she did at least once each evening. The result was always on the

right side and always large, and he was not quite clear that it did

not necessarily represent a sure fact, if a future one. Figures had

always irritated him, but, as she performed all the arithmetical

processes and he simply had to exert his intelligence to the extent of

grasping what each item stood for, he was pleased to find himself

equal to the effort.

Their three hundred pounds in the meantime had dwindled considerably,

but, as Cleo showed no signs of anxiety, it never occurred to Morgan

to feel uneasy. Cleo, who, for the sake of simplicity and also to

enhance her authority over the people she should employ, was making

every arrangement in her name only, had had to pay a large sum down

before she had been allowed to take possession of the theatre, for she

had been preceded by some other enterprising actress, with whom the

lessees had been less stringent, and who had come to grief, much to

their disgust. The costumers and the printers, too, were shy of

unknown dames with stage ambitions, and their co-operation was not to

be obtained without a show of bank notes.

Nor was Cleo unprepared in the all-important question of the play

itself. She had employed some of her past leisure at Hampstead in

translating many pieces from the French, and she now gave Morgan half

a dozen to read, saying she had already formed her own opinion as to

which one contained the best part for her and she wanted to see if his

judgment would tally with hers. Morgan was glad to have this quiet

task to keep him occupied for a few days. He took it, however, very

solemnly, for he wished to arrive at an honest decision, but he did

not wish it to be different from hers. However, he could not say he

liked any of the plays. Half of them were modern, half Oriental; all

artificial and stilted, and full of long-winded inanity. Eventually he

selected one of the Oriental, which he thought would at any rate give

Cleo an opportunity of displaying her dresses--to such Machiavellian

extent had she already influenced him. To his delight, she declared

that his choice was hers. He timidly ventured on a little criticism,

but she laughed and assured him that the play itself signified

nothing--plays were mere excuses for acting. This one provided a

part which, if not the ideal one for her, would at least enable her to

display herself and her genius to some advantage. Of course, she was

well aware she was not making the debut that befitted her genius, as

that would have involved a play written specially for her in which

every other part was artistically subordinated to her own, a vast

theatre such as the one she had dreamed of, and a lavish expenditure;

her brain, moreover, being entirely relieved of all material

considerations and her spirit left unfettered. Under the present

make-shift circumstances she must be content with such humble

beginning as the poor funds at her disposal would allow her. And

Morgan felt quite guilty at his inability to provide the ideal debut

she described, feeling she had quite a right to despise this mean and

unworthy beginning, and that it was really generous of her to face the

difficulties occasioned by their narrow means without complaint.

That there were difficulties he could not help knowing, for Cleo was

at no pains to conceal the fact. Rather was she intent on showing that

she was perfectly capable of vanquishing them. When the open-handed

policy she had been compelled to adopt had reduced their resources to

about fifty pounds, Cleo withdrew the money from the bank, saying it

would be safer in her pocket. But by this time her unhesitating

payments had begun to produce their effect, and it had got about that

she was no mere penniless adventuress, but a wealthy stage-struck

dame. As a mysterious personage, suddenly springing from nowhere into

the theatrical world, she began to arouse a good deal of interest, and

the flaneurs in those circles obtained kudos by pretending to precise

information about her. The rumour of riches spread. Tradespeople

became sweet and pliant--the plucking of a goose with golden feathers

was not an every-day event.

Cleo, who could afford to pay anything out of the profits of the huge

success to come, cleverly betrayed the rich amateur's ignorance of

charges, varying it by the occasional query: "Isn't that rather dear?"

Her delight at securing an abatement of a few shillings was so

undisguised that it caused much amusement to complaisant tradesmen.

The transaction of all this preliminary business afforded Cleo an

immense enjoyment. Her front to the world throughout had been the

perfection of boldness.

CHAPTER II.

And now Morgan found himself doing quite a deal of work, arranging

parts for typewriting, reading proofs and trying to understand

something of the--to him--intricate system of theatrical accounts. He

was proud when he succeeded in following business details, astonished

to find they were not beyond his intelligence. He passed to and from

the theatre several times a day, curiously glad to feel himself a

working part of all this complex machinery. But he was never quite

comfortable in the building, wandering uneasily about its corridors

and almost feeling as though he ought to explain his presence to one

or other of its scattered population he encountered in odd corners.

Everybody about the building seemed vaguely respectful to him, as

though possessed of some faint notion that he was attached to Cleo in

some incomprehensible way or other.

So far Cleo had behaved with perfect sang-froid. If at home she had

occasionally allowed her natural excitement to appear, it had been of

a pleasurable kind and fully sympathised with by Morgan. In the mere

commercial transactions that had relation to the enterprise, she had

shown herself as calm and unshakable as a rock, but as soon as the

actual fact of her chosen art began to be concerned, she commenced to

reveal other sides of her nature that disturbed Morgan's blind worship

in no little degree.

The first thing that began to stir his doubts was her method of

engaging the players, for she put on the airs of a grand patron, and

such pleasure did this part of the business give her that she

prolonged it unduly. She made actors and actresses wait upon her time

after time when she had not the slightest intention of engaging them.

She liked to have a crowd waiting in her anteroom at the theatre and

admitted to her august presence one at a time. It behoved her, she

explained to Morgan, to impress people from the beginning, and, though

this was the first time she had had a theatre of her own, she wanted

to appear as if to the manner born. Moreover, when he took the

opportunity, by way of expostulation, to express his sympathy with the

rejected applicants, who had been kept "hanging about" in vain, she

was able to make a show of justification, urging it had been necessary

for her to have the widest latitude of choice.

When the company was complete she laughingly admitted it was none of

the finest, but it would make an excellent foil for herself.

But it was only when the rehearsals began that Morgan discovered Cleo

possessed attributes, frequently associated with genius, it is true,

but by no means certain symptoms of it. Her patience was astonishingly

short and she possessed a temper that was perfectly ungovernable, once

it was roused. He likewise observed that there was a certain

domineering spirit in the whole control of the theatre.

His eyes were first opened to this state of affairs one day when he

had wandered on to the stage and stood surveying the desolate

emptiness of the house, in the vague spaces of which cleaners flitted

about or busied themselves amid the dim tiers of swathed seats.

Orchestra practice was proceeding in the band room, and Morgan stayed

to listen for awhile. A sudden high-pitched brutal comment gave him

the first inkling of the conductor's bullying methods.

The discovery soon followed that the stage manager was worse than the

conductor, and that, when Cleo once lost her head, which she did very

easily at rehearsals, she became almost hysteric. She was, however,

always ready to explain away her exhibitions of temper, saying that

the stupidity of the players and the worry of making things go right

were trying beyond human endurance. Which explanation he had perforce

to accept.

It was in apprehension of witnessing her outbreaks that he dared not

stay at the theatre during rehearsal hours for more than a few minutes

at a time. He could not help knowing, however, lounging about the

house as he did, that Cleo was disliked by all the company, she and

the stage manager being bracketed together as a pair of bullies. He

was aware he himself was better liked, for he got on very well indeed

with a couple of the men and thought them "very decent fellows."

Though their poverty forced them to borrow occasional half-crowns of

him, that only made him sympathise with them the more.

Morgan himself would have been puzzled to tell what difference the new

light in which Cleo was showing herself was making in his attitude

towards her. Her personality, taken as a whole, remained fully as

wonderful and impressive for him as before, and in the hours of her

calm he could scarcely believe he had ever seen her worked up into

such tense, nervous states. At such times there seemed possibilities

of indulgent explanation, for in all else she was living up to his

conception and to his expectations of her. His faith in her genius was

unshaken. Nothing had occurred to make him doubt the glorious

successes to come. Yet were the shortcomings she had so far displayed

distinct and tormenting drawbacks to the enthusiasm with which he had

begun.

CHAPTER III.

The frenzy of activity grew greater as the time of opening approached.

The three weeks allotted for the rehearsal swept by for Morgan in

tempestuous flight--an impression which he got from watching the

feverish evolutions of his Cleo. He found himself, too, drawn into

London night life, assisting at restaurant supper parties and sitting

down with men in evening dress who affected cloaks and crush hats, and

who were scarcely names to him. Cleo presided, sometimes as hostess,

sometimes as guest; Morgan, who figured as "my husband," having the

feeling that the others were just civilly tolerant to him. As for

himself, he was inclined to be taciturn, being little versed in the

matters on which the rest discoursed so racily. Cleo gave him to

understand that these men, and others he had stumbled against in the

corridors of the theatre and who seemed to have an easy entree to her,

were those whose good will it was necessary to secure--critics,

journalists and the like. She further confided to him that she

considered she had achieved a triumph in drawing them round her. Asked

if they were of the first importance, she had to confess most of them

were attached to various weekly papers, whose influence, however, she

thought must be considerable. The names of the sheets were but dimly

familiar to Morgan and had that equivocal ring about them that

suggested vagueness of circulation. He did not quite approve of this

fawning on critics and hinted as much, whereupon Cleo insisted the

critics were only too glad to fawn on her.

"Do you suppose they have no insight?" she asked, "that they are

incapable of recognising beauty and genius? They can read the future

in my face, and for the sake of their own reputation they dare not

overlook or ignore me at the outset."

The world seemed to hold its breath on the last day, and Morgan was

conscious of a strange hush that seemed to hang over the crowded,

grinding thoroughfares. The last of the money had been spent in

advertising, and every portable effect, including his own watch, had

gone to raise more. All day long he lounged about the theatre in

feverish suspense. From the box office man--an incommunicative

individual with an absurd mustache, who spoke with an air of

resentment at being accosted--he learned that the advance booking had

been very slight, that, so far, the announcements and the various odd

paragraphs from the pen of Bohemian acquaintances, who had spoken very

favourably of Cleo's beauty, had failed to attract more than seven or

eight pounds.

But never for a moment did Cleo lose faith in the venture--that would

have been to lose faith in herself. Of course she knew her name was

absolutely unfamiliar to the public, she explained, in anticipation of

unsatisfactory takings, and, therefore, she could not expect to draw a

full house the first night. She had, however, taken steps to secure

appearances by an extensive distribution of paper. But she expected

the effect of her performance to be magnetic. She alone would stand

forth and the play and the rest of the players would scarcely obtrude

on the consciousness of the spectators. After the first evening or two

they would certainly have to turn away business.

The near approach of the moment when the realisation of his panoramic

visions was at last to begin, freshened again in Morgan all his sense

of the romance of the situation. There had been times in the last few

days when he had suffered from despondency. There were sides to

theatrical life that were little to his taste. He had long since

known, for instance, that the stage manager was addicted to obscene

talk; and when, one day, just as in the middle of a rehearsal he was

about to step from the wings on to the stage, he was arrested by a

torrent of vileness that came from that same individual, he was not

very much surprised at the mere fact. But he was vexed and disgusted

that the fellow should not have restrained himself in the presence of

Cleo. What was worse, Cleo herself seemed to be perfectly unaware of

anything exceptionable, for she made not the least protest; from which

Morgan gathered that the sort of thing must be quite usual and that,

had he not shunned the rehearsals so persistently, he would have known

it before. Thus, there were moments when he felt utterly alone in this

strange life, when he longed for real, human sympathy. He yearned for

some other being who was not Cleo, to whom to turn, to whom to pour

out the human emotion that was in him; some being who belonged to the

life from which he had cut himself off, and to which he looked back

almost as from another world. Yet these were only momentary longings

that mastered him. His whole interest, his whole imagination, were

bound up with his present life; and the fascination exerted over him

by Cleo and the wonderful future he believed was to be hers sufficed

to attach him enthusiastically to her career.

Thus, as the rising of the curtain approached, so did the excitement

in him overcome every other emotion; so did he become absolutely a

creature of this region into which he had plunged, breathing its air

with avidity and entranced by the prospect.

"I've a surprise in store for you, dear," Cleo confided to him that

day at lunch. "I've arranged a special scene at the beginning of the

second act, in which I alone appear. No one has any suspicion of it,

but I tell you, dear, the effect will be wonderful. Coming after I

shall have charmed everybody with my acting in the first act, it will

carry the audience off its feet with enthusiasm."

CHAPTER IV.

Morgan, installed in a box, all by himself, was eagerly interested in

the audience as it came straggling into the house, which, thanks to

the paper distributed, ultimately presented a pretty compact

appearance. He himself was ignorant how much real business had been

done, but, so far as he could judge, the gallery and pit were being

fairly well patronised. No doubt a good many had been drawn by the

gorgeous poster representing Cleo, twice her natural size, and dressed

in a costume somewhat like the one she had worn when he had first made

her acquaintance. Appropriately huge ornamental letter-press declared

her to be "The Basha's Favourite;" and it was on the first act of "The

Basha's Favourite" that the audience was now waiting for the curtain

to rise.

And at this moment of culminating excitement the scene impressed

Morgan curiously. His mood was essentially one of romance. That the

play itself was full of inanities was forgotten; but its title and

Egyptian colour together with Cleo's personality had somehow got

inter-blent and interwoven with the enterprise itself, making even

its commercial and prosaic sides instinct with mystery and unreality.

He seemed to have wandered into an Arabian Nights' tale. The figures

that filled the stalls, pit, and galleries took on the aspect of a

crowd that might people a dream or the visions a child seeks in its

pillow. He was conscious of the shapeless totality of myriad

conversations--a blur of sound, mystic and bewildering.

Now, too, the front rows of stalls, which he knew were reserved for

the critics, began to fill, and a waft of unpleasantness came to him

as he recognised a few of the acquaintances he had made at recent

supper parties. The disturbance was fatal to his mood. He felt

suddenly unstrung. A strange sense of unhappiness invaded him--a

bitter, far-embracing uncertainty. He was uncertain of himself, of his

life, of all life. The solid scene faded from before his eyes. He

became self-centred. All his consciousness of living and having

lived--his consciousness of all he had ever felt and all he had ever

thought and all he had ever done--was with him as a vast bitterness

that gave him a sense as of an infinite nebula. And then, as in a

flash, this nebula concentred itself into a point--a point that was

his whole sense of life and consciousness. He was now as in a black

tomb, without past, without future, without sense of direction,

without an active thought; with only a mere awareness of existing,

with only the cognizance of the present time-point on the flowingness

of his consciousness.

The tuning of instruments began just then, and the rasping sound tore

at him, dragging him back to a consciousness of externals. Then, as

his eyes rested again on the stalls, he drew right back instinctively

into the shadow of his box. For he had caught sight of Lady Thiselton.

She was in the fourth row from the orchestra and by her side he

recognised Mrs. Blackstone. They could only have just entered, for he

was sure those two seats had been empty but the moment before. He felt

tolerably certain Helen had not yet seen him, and he intended to

take care she should not see him. Yet he had an intuition that she

knew all.

In his altered position in the box he was fairly safe from recognition

by her, even whilst he could watch her closely, noting the quick,

eager glances she cast about her from time to time as if she thought

it possible he might be seated amid the audience. Eventually, however,

she lapsed into a sort of listless immobility.

And even though he shrank from her, her advent brought back to him a

yearning wistfulness; it awakened and half-appeased a sense akin to

home-sickness. In that moment he would have liked to fly to her--how

much had she stood for in his life! She symbolized for him all that of

humanness which is comprised in the word "comradeship;" she

represented the truth, attachment and loyalty in human relations even

as Margaret represented the perfume, the sweetness, and the

perfection.

The rise of the curtain forced him to take his eyes off her. The

background of the scene on the stage was apparently the pillared

exterior of a palace, yet the foreground was a carpeted space in which

a many-coloured medley of yataghaned men with baggy breeches and

beautiful slave-girls in Oriental costumes kept re-forming in

ever-shifting kaleidoscopic grouping. And then the audience suddenly

were aware that the medley had divided into two harmonious

sub-medleys, whilst, in the chasm left towards the front, Cleo stood

majestically and addressed a verbose harangue to the Basha, her

relation to whom was known from the title of the play. In full view

and hearing of so heterogeneous a crowd did the Basha in return

reproach her with coldness and indifference to him, which she

vehemently denied, playing the _femme incomprise_ and by her perfect

self-assurance cloaking an intrigue, which Morgan knew she was

carrying on with a handsome Christian, because, having read the play,

he knew what was coming.

In the unfolding of the plot, Morgan was quite uninterested. In fact,

he had long since lost all grasp of its movement and meaning, and,

instead of taking in the dialogue, he contented himself with judging

effects and their impression on the audience.

Though he had seen a little of the rehearsals, he had not yet acquired

any notion of Cleo's abilities, for she had been busy directing and

criticising, simply reading her part as a "fill-in." He had all along

taken it for granted that she must be a great actress. At his most

despondent moments he had never doubted that, simply because it had

never occurred to him to doubt it. However, he was not without some

notion of what good acting should be, and he felt something like a

murderous bludgeon blow when, at the end of five minutes, it began to

be forced on him that she had not even the least glimmer of instinct

for her art.

Despite all her magnificence and the absence of any gaucherie in her

movements when off the stage, all natural grace disappeared the moment

she attempted to be somebody else. Her delivery was unnatural and

pompous; her motions were stiff, strained, ridiculous. The whole of

the first act was unsatisfying to the intelligence, but instead of

dominating it by the force of her personality, Cleo, by the

incompetence of her acting, set up its silliness in relief. If she had

not talked as much as all the other characters put together--for

every word that even the Basha managed to steal in elicited ten

against it--there would have been nothing to suggest she was the

leading character. At one point, indeed, her absurd strutting about

the stage drew a chuckle from somewhere among the ranks of the

critics. To watch her became so painful that Morgan at last turned

away his eyes.

All was over. His beautiful visions had gone. His eyes were suddenly

opened and he found himself transported from dreamland, not to

reality--for he could not yet believe this was reality--but into what

seemed a horrible nightmare.

The act ended at last and the curtain fell amid a frigid silence. Then

there was a little clapping in the gallery--the colour had no doubt

pleased a few of the spectators. But it died away immediately in

discouragement.

There were the usual noises of shuffling and disarrangement and

talking and exits. Morgan drew back as far as he could into the

shadow. He was glad to be thus isolated--he could overhear no

criticism or comments. Naturally his looks stole towards Helen. She

had not moved. He could see that a strange, sad expression had come

over her face. Then she seemed to smile as Mrs. Blackstone made some

remark to her and a reply fell languidly from her lips, after which a

desultory conversation sprang up between the two.

In that moment it seemed to Morgan that Helen had some wondrous power

against fate and he seemed to be wishing with the intensity of prayer

that she might raise her hand and release him from his nightmare.

But he knew that was only a yearning fancy!

And as the thought came to him that the curtain was to rise again in a

moment, it brought back to his memory the precious confidence Cleo had

whispered to him at lunch time.

"I've a surprise in store for you, dear"--the words surged up again in

his ears--"I've arranged a special scene at the beginning of the

second act, in which I alone appear. No one has any suspicion of it,

but I tell you, dear, that the effect will be wonderful. Coming after

I shall have charmed everybody with my acting in the first act, it

will carry the audience off its feet with enthusiasm."

As nobody had the air of having been charmed by the first act, he

wondered how the predicted effect would be altered in consequence.

CHAPTER V.

Morgan, of course, could not guess the nature of the new scene that

Cleo was now going to introduce. The stage during the second act was

to represent "a private apartment in the palace," and here the action

assumed some dramatic semblance, taking the following course: The

Christian lover manages to effect an entry into this same private

apartment and to hold a long, loving discourse with the Basha's

favourite, and when eventually the two are about to embrace, in comes

no less a personage than the Basha himself, and advances quietly on

tip-toe and listens for awhile. Suddenly he stamps his foot on the

ground and the room is filled, as by magic, with eunuchs and soldiers.

The audience once more get kaleidoscopic impressions, and Cleo and the

Christian are seized and bound, both spitting defiance and declaring

their mutual eternal love, on hearing which the Basha turns pale under

his Oriental skin. The curtain falls as he bids his myrmidons put her

into a sack and heave her into the Nile, and his favourite is carried

off, loudly bidding her lover take heart, for she loves him and will

love him always.

Morgan could not see what Cleo could possibly add to this, and his

curiosity gave him some little temporary spurt of interest as the

curtain rose. Up it went, slowly, slowly, and the apartment in the

palace stood revealed in all the glory of gilded pillars and mirrors

and rugs. In front of a huge stretch of mirror on the right was a

couch, on which sat Cleo, wrapped in a sort of yellow silk cloak which

fell about her in pleasing folds. Morgan was beginning to think that

she must have deemed it best to omit the innovation, when Cleo rose

languorously, took a step towards the great mirror, and, standing

erect, inspected herself therein. "Yes, I am worthy of him," she said

to herself proudly, then, with a brusque movement, she disengaged the

garment from her shoulders and it slipped to the ground and lay there

in a soft heap. The spectators then became aware that, save for a sort

of transparent web of floating serpentine drapery, it had been her

sole covering, and Cleo herself remained gazing into the mirror,

regarding her gleaming reflection with evident admiration, whilst the

other mirrors likewise gave back the sinuous grace and superb

modelling of her body.

The silence for a moment was profound and painful. Cleo's audacity had

caught the audience by the throat so that it could not breathe. Her

all-consuming egotism had driven her to this device for satisfying her

rage for the world's admiration. And as she stood there in statuesque

pose, her rich golden-red hair falling over her shoulders and the full

scarlet of her lips gleaming startlingly, awaiting a great storm of

charmed applause, for which the audience seemed to be gathering its

forces in the interval, again she sent that strange loose softness of

her voice floating through the theatre like a hot wind: "Yes, I am

worthy of him."

But she had scarcely got through the phrase when a piercing cat-call

shrilled through the house from the back of the pit. Almost

simultaneously a derisive howl came from the gallery; and then an

appalling hissing, hooting, and groaning broke on Cleo with the force

of a tempest that drove towards her from all points. She turned a

defiant face to it and gave the house a blazing look of contempt. But

a whole chorus of cat-calls now sprang up, dominating a sort of

see-saw of dissonant disapprobation. The stalls alone sat in solemn,

wondering silence, not unmixed with apprehension. And suddenly the

curtain began to descend, whereupon the uproar ceased abruptly in

favour of a mighty spontaneous outbreak of cheering, unmistakably

ironic.

Those behind the scenes had been as much astonished as those in front,

and the stage manager, as soon as he had collected his wits, had

adopted the only sensible alternative the situation afforded.

A silence fell again upon the theatre. Not a person stirred. An

obvious curiosity as to what was to follow possessed the house. In a

minute the curtain rose again--on the same apartment in the palace.

Cleo reclined on the same couch, robed in a terra-cotta gown which

Morgan recognised at once. And then there came a tapping at a little

window, and, after much appropriate dramatic business, this window was

opened by Cleo, and her lover leaped into the room, man-like and

adventurous.

But Cleo's audacious mistake had wrought a miracle on the audience,

destroying the stage-illusion, and rousing its dormant light of

intelligence. Its capacity for being profoundly played upon and

emotionally excited by the inartistic unrealities of absurd

characterisation and of absurd combinations of circumstance had been

rendered unresponsive. In vain did the play appeal to its ethical

sense, striving to enlist its hope for the ultimate triumph of the

Good, the True, and the Wronged. It had begun to view "The Basha's

Favourite" in an extremely critical mood, and to manifest its keen

sense of the utter impossibility of a play, which in years gone by had

enchanted and moved to tears average audiences, not only in its native

land, but in London as well, where it had been a sort of fountain-head

for multitudinous adaptation.

Cleo, however, went straight on with the performance, carrying it

through with an indomitable defiance, caring not at all that the

intensest passages, which otherwise would have thrilled, were received

with scorn and laughter and ironical cheers and cries of "Go it, old

girl!" Each time a servant made an entry he was received with an

enormous ovation. Single voices were heard again and again in

sarcastic comment, now from the top of the house, now from the back.

As the curtain fell at the end of each act, the disorder became

volcanic, but the stage manager knew better than to allow the curtain

to go up again in response to the continued applause.

Certain it was that the audience thoroughly enjoyed its evening, and,

when the curtain fell for the last time, surpassed itself in a great

demonstration of its frolicsome mood. It had been obvious throughout

that the house had been quite conscious of its own superior

intellectuality, of its immeasurable elevation above the fare offered.

But Morgan derived his sense of the ghastly failure of the whole

business, not so much from the demeanour of the audience as from that

of one of the critics, who somehow summed it up for him. This critic,

whose bald pate had fascinated his eye, had a curiously irritating,

spasmodic chuckle, and Morgan in vain tried to be unaware of him.

In the intervals of the acts he had remained numbed and dazed, only

gathering to himself a grain of sympathy from the piteous look in

Helen's face. Her demeanour confirmed his intuition, that she must

know everything. She had sat rigid and mournfully attentive in

contrast to Mrs. Blackstone, who had laughed with decorous unrestraint

the whole evening. But he could not prevail upon himself to let her

discover him, and at once plunged behind the scenes to get to Cleo.

He found her in her dressing-room with her maid, who had come to the

theatre to help her, and he had a thrill of disgust as he watched her

rub the cleansing grease over her painted cheeks. It now struck him as

horrible--this pollution of the human face night after night with

filthy cosmetics that could only be removed by a filthier grease. He

felt that all she had so far restrained was going to break forth and

he stood by with subdued mien. Such shattering as had befallen himself

he was strong enough not to consider for the moment. His immediate

feeling was one of pity for her. He fancied he saw her now, not as the

heroine of his fantasy, but just as she was. Sympathy in him there was

none, and he could not make a hypocritical show of any. But he soon

understood that she took it for granted his faith in her was as

unshaken as her own; that she really believed her performance had been

a great one. Her self-illusion was pitiable. She burst forth into

bitter invective against the public, he listening without being able

to find his tongue, but with the consciousness that, even if she had

behaved madly that evening, the audience deserved at least some of

her censure. Why had it sat there, so determined to have its evening's

fun out, cruelly hounding and torturing a creature who, from her very

temperament, must have found the punishment a hellish one? Why, if

people had really been shocked, had they not quietly left the theatre?

That surely would have been sufficient indication of their

disapproval. "I am not beaten yet!" cried Cleo, with frenzy. "The day

will come when these people will fight and trample over one another's

bodies to catch the least glimpse of me. To-day they have rejected me

with scorn, as they have always rejected the greatest. Read the early

careers of the actresses the world now worships! But I am a hundred

times more determined than before. The public shall treasure the dust

my feet have trod on. They shall look back on to-night as a blot on

their lives. My genius shall triumph! My genius shall force them to

submission!"

However, he induced her to come and have a little supper alone with

him. As they passed out through the stage door the man handed him a

twisted note, which Cleo was too absorbed to notice. A glance sufficed

to enable him to recognize Helen's writing, though it was but hastily

scrawled in lead. The fact that it was addressed to him in his

newly-assumed name was the final confirmation of her knowledge of his

fate. He put it away till he could read it, trying not to wonder at

its contents.

Meanwhile, he was shutting his eyes as to what was to follow. He knew

very well that even if he opened them he would equally see nothing,

but it gave him some comfort to imagine he was shutting out a view it

were better not to look at. He managed to get Cleo to eat and drink a

little, and when she was calmer she told him the theatre was to open

the next evening just as if they had scored a great success. He knew

better than to make any show of opposition or disapproval just then,

though his heart became still heavier at this announcement of hers. He

mentally vowed, however, he would take care to remain behind the

scenes. He did not venture to ask her whether she intended to repeat

"the innovation" that had done the mischief, because he feared her

pride might force her to defiant assertion that she would most

certainly repeat it; whereas, if no reference were made to it, she

would, in all probability, quietly omit it.

She ended by a great fit of hysteric weeping that lasted half the

night.

CHAPTER VI.

"My poor, dear Morgan," read Lady Thiselton's note. "My heart is

a-bleeding. The moment I saw her appear I understood everything.

Of course, I don't know how you came to meet her, but such a

creature was bound to be fatal to you. Your marriage to her can

only be considered as the veriest mockery. It would be a crime

against Heaven--observe that this crisis has made me

religious--to look upon it seriously at all. Won't you come to

see me, Morgan? You must need a friend and surely I have the

right to be that friend. Why not come to-morrow afternoon; or

when you will, if you will send me a message. H. T."

"P. S.--I hope she'll see this so that she quarrels with you and

casts you off."

He knew he must go to her, but he shrank from doing so as yet, though

he did not try to explain to himself the shrinking. So he sent her a

line saying he would come one afternoon when he felt he had the

courage. After posting the letter he had a great longing to cry.

He realised the ugliness of the position now, his terrible relation to

this strange, hysteric woman, and the thought kept darting through his

mind like a whizzing shaft of flame: "I am married to her, I am

married to her!"

To weave poetry out of life! That was simply to attempt what poets and

philosophers and even imaginative men of affairs, seduced by the

apparent novelty of the notion, had attempted before him. At a certain

point of existence, such men find it easy to tell themselves--as if in

unsuspecting answer to some dim foresight of what the experiment might

lead to--that it does not matter much what happens to one in life, so

long as it is a series of interesting happenings; interesting, that

is, to each according to his temperament. But poems woven of reality

are not the same detached products as poems written on paper. They are

an integral part of life, and, as such, related to its great forward

sweep. All the consequences that attach to human action must attach to

the particular weaving, however fantastic and pleasing the immediate

pattern.

Morgan was now face to face with the consequences of this attitude he

had taken towards existence, though it had been forced on him by his

temperament. And they were consequences that were not goodly to look

upon.

Cleo had gone early to the theatre to go into the accounts and to show

everybody she was not in the least disconcerted. When he himself

arrived some time later she informed him that last night's takings

were about twenty-five pounds, but she had already paid away the bulk

of it for fresh advertising. She was once more calm and business-like,

despite that their funds were exhausted, and besides various

liabilities there were the salaries and wages to be paid at the end of

the week. As yet, however, nobody about the house had any suspicion of

the emptiness of the treasury.

The newspapers, he was glad to find, had dealt with Cleo very gently.

The notices were short and cold, just giving an outline of the play,

which, they said, was indifferently acted and practically a failure.

No mention was made of her indiscretion and it was perfectly obvious

from the tone of these notices that the writers had felt she had been

sufficiently punished, and that, for the rest, she was not to be taken

seriously. There came, too, a message from the censor, to whom,

somehow, last night's occurrence had got known, to the effect that the

beginning of the second act must be omitted, else he must forbid the

play to be repeated. From his letter it was clear the censor was

taking the same charitable view as the critics, and that he foresaw

the piece would very soon die a natural death. Cleo shrugged her

shoulders and wrote the necessary undertaking. Morgan understood that

her "innovation" might have got her into serious trouble, had not the

entire hopelessness of her acting proclaimed her as a person to be

pitied.

That same day Morgan could not help broaching the subject of the

finances. The money side of the enterprise had by now got stamped on

his brain. He had a grasp of the various items of their liabilities,

and he felt the responsibility for them to rest upon him. No longer

might he repose at ease in the secure shade of her mighty presence.

She, however, refused to bow her head under the weight of business

difficulties.

"We have till the week's end," she said. "There is nothing to worry

about now."

He did not find this reply reassuring and felt impelled to make out

for himself a list of the debts, including the salaries and wages that

would have to be provided for by the Saturday. The total amount was

about three hundred pounds, the same as the sum already expended. He

carefully put the list away in his pocket-book, with what end he knew

not.

In the evening the house presented a rather more than half-filled

appearance, a result which had been mainly achieved by paper. At the

box office the takings were only about seven pounds. It was quite

clear that Cleo, whatever gossip she might have caused in professional

circles, had created no profound sensation in the town, so that not

even a _succes de scandale_ was decreed to her. The play itself went

very fairly indeed this second time, though it was acted scarcely a

whit better than the evening before. Cleo perhaps put a trifle more

ornamentation into her part, but the audience showed no critical

tendencies.

On the third evening the theatre was two-thirds empty, and two pounds

four and sixpence represented the seats actually paid for. On the

fourth evening they played almost to empty benches, the takings

amounting to seventeen shillings and sixpence. This ended the

experiment.

The fifth day--Friday--was an eventful one, for duns began to arrive

early in the morning. The creditors had suddenly become assailed with

doubts, which were now deepened by the return of their emissaries, who

not only had been unable to obtain access to Cleo, but who had

furtively been warned by the traitorous stage manager "to look sharp

after their money." The _camaraderie_ that had hitherto subsisted

between that gentleman and Cleo had come to an abrupt end, she cutting

him short impatiently in the course of some discussion and bidding him

not to argue. In further token of his annoyance he had worded a

notice she had told him to put up as follows:

"The curtain will not rise to-night. Treasury to-morrow at mid-day,

if possible."

The actors and actresses looked very sad, indeed, as their eye

stumbled on the last two words. Cleo, in ignorance that the stage

manager had exceeded her directions, for he had inserted the

"treasury" part of the announcement on his own responsibility, was

invaded by the company in a body. Being pressed by the ladies and

gentlemen for some definite statement about their salaries--for

several of them were in great need, having long been out of an

engagement--she turned on them in towering fury and asked how they

dared insult her by questioning her _bona fides_ in that way. But as

soon as she learned what had dictated their action, she at once sent

for the stage manager and, in presence of all assembled, curtly

ordered him to leave "her theatre" immediately. At first he stood

dumfounded, and, on her repeating her injunction more vehemently, he

began to bluster back at her. A pretty scene ensued, he, with much

Billingsgate, lustily demanding his money, she insisting he must come

for it at the right time and place. In the end, she sent for the

police, and the astonished stage manager found himself forcibly

ejected. She next proceeded to tear down the offensive notice, and

soon afterwards the company departed, leaving Cleo and Morgan in sole

possession.

"What's going to happen to-morrow?" he could not help saying, when

Cleo had at length finished telling him her estimate of the stage

manager's character.

"When mid-day comes, the salaries shall be paid without fail,"

replied Cleo unhesitatingly. "You just don't trouble your mind," she

added. "Leave me to arrange everything."

He pressed her for details. But beyond a general assurance, conveyed

with an air of mystery that on the morrow he would find their coffers

quite replete, she would tell him nothing. They went to lunch

together, for there was always some small silver at the bottom of

Cleo's purse, and she then gave him to understand she had business to

transact here and there during the afternoon, and that he must amuse

himself alone as best he could.

Vaguely supposing that this secret business had reference to the

raising of funds, Morgan separated from her and went back to their

rooms, where, at least, he felt he was hidden away from the world. A

little later he had an idea. He would go and see Helen.

CHAPTER VII.

Helen looked wonderfully sweet to-day and an atmosphere of quiet calm

seemed to pervade the room. It seemed to Morgan as if he had entered

into a haven. Helen wore a simple grey gown that went well with her

subdued demeanour. The sanity and soundness that underlay her

occasional frolicsomeness and high spirits became in that moment

accentuated for him; and the almost superstitious feeling he had

experienced at seeing her at the theatre now returned to him, the

feeling that she was possessed of some magic power to redeem him.

"I have been too shame-faced to come before," he began. "I knew I did

not deserve to see you again."

"Don't, please," said Helen. "If you make speeches of that kind you

will force me to be flippant, quite against my sense of the fitness of

things at this moment. Not that I want to be too tragic, but my state

of mind is rather a complex one. What's yours?"

"Mine is a very simple one. I am just conscious of mere existence and

of a heavy weight on my head."

"I don't like your symptoms, Morgan. If I diagnose correctly, they

mean nascent 'desperation.' Now, so long as I am in the world, you

ought never to develop that disease."

"But I omitted one important factor of my state of mind," he

confessed; "and that is the knowledge that you _are_ in the world."

"And does it take your attention off the weight of the load--just a

little?"

"It is the one pleasant fact I have to dwell upon. But please talk a

little about yourself. It will do me good."

She, however, had little to tell him. His letter had dealt her a heavy

blow. His silence about the details of his sudden action had made her

the prey of her imagination, which had created frightful

possibilities. Her favourite theory had been--an indiscretion

committed by him in some moment of depression and a remorse that had

resulted in a marriage with some vile person. But she had been

somewhat reassured at seeing him go into the theatre one day in

company with Cleo. That had been a pure accident, of course, but it

had enabled her to divine a good deal. Cleo's appearance--she had

taken particular notice of her face--had at least narrowed that vast

dreadfulness which had till then tortured her. But it was a face that

by no means pleased her.

"However," continued Helen, "it seems I've been talking about you

instead of about myself. I have been living, I suppose, in the usual

conventional routine. My conduct has been really most exemplary and

the austerest chaperon would have patted me on the head approvingly.

Oh, no, I forget. There's one little matter over which I should have

got lectured and that is my rejection of so eligible a bachelor as Mr.

Ingram, on the mere ground that I couldn't overlook his past life.

Anyhow, he hasn't committed suicide, though I fancy he has done

something worse."

"You mean he has followed my example?" suggested Morgan.

"Not anything as bad as that. You know I'm only the daughter of a

country gentleman and the widow of a baronet. Well, he has consoled

himself by marrying the genuine brand of aristocracy, though she's a

_divorcee_. Her income's double mine; her intelligence one-tenth of

mine."

"She must be a very brilliant woman, indeed."

"You have developed courtly qualities, I perceive. But I am quite

ready to concede, on re-consideration, that her intellect is only the

hundredth part of mine. You know I am frightfully conceited about my

brains. But now tell me how everything came to happen? Where did you

meet her?"

He recollected that Ingram was implicated in the recital and could not

be kept out. But he was in a mood when he could no longer keep back

anything. He hungered for every crumb of sympathy he could get, and,

besides, he looked upon things now with such changed eyes that such

reservations relating to his personal life as he had before set up

seemed futile and meaningless. Very soon Helen had learned how his

connection with Ingram had begun and developed, by what strange chance

the letter he had written to him had spun the first thread of the web

in which he was now floundering, and how he had sought to lose himself

in the apparent dreamland before him. Helen's eyes were fixed on him

as her quick brain seized on every point. The narration came to her as

a complete revelation.

"And if I hadn't insisted on your dining that evening," she cried,

"you would never have got into this purgatory of a dreamland."

"I think I should have got there all the same," he answered, smiling,

conscious of how much good it was doing him to talk to his dear friend

again. "I must have met Ingram sooner or later and then the same thing

would have happened."

"Ingram is a blackguard!" said Helen severely. "With all his

thick-headed cleverness, he had yet insight enough to know that you

would be taken with that creature. Probably he knew already how your

letter had impressed her and that she was curious about you. And so he

reckoned to play on your temperament, hoping that might prove an easy

method of ending his connection with her. Why, he must have jumped at

the idea of taking you to her."

Morgan was rather apologetic on Ingram's behalf, pleading that he must

have yielded to the sudden temptation and was not really such a

Machiavellian fellow.

"There have been times when, I feel sure, he spoke to me from his

heart. But I do not feel revengeful against him, so let him be dead

and buried, so far as we are concerned."

"With all my heart," said Helen. "But I confess," she went on

laughingly, "it annoys me to think you saw more of the game than I

that evening. That is a fact that wounds my vanity. And now about this

theatre business. You must be in a terrible plight. Was there ever

such a man as you, Morgan, for getting into scrapes?"

"When a man is born into the wrong world--" he began.

"He must be a very interesting sort of person to know," concluded

Helen.

When Morgan went on to relate the history of the enterprise he

seemed to get a saner adjustment of his mental focus. In the telling

he had sight of the whole business as a lamentable, real piece of his

personal life, even perceiving as he described the stormy incidents of

that morning--more dramatic than anything in "The Basha's

Favourite"--that it had not been without its humorous elements. He

understood quite well, of course, that unless Cleo now found the

requisite money, she would be hopelessly bankrupt.

"And so she's confident of finding it," observed Helen.

"I am quite in the dark," said Morgan.

"Perhaps she intends opening the theatre again."

"Heaven forbid!"

"You don't expect she'd take any notice of the prohibition! Now

Morgan, dear, I think you've treated her handsomely and she has cause

to be grateful to you. You offered her the incense of a profound faith

in her genius and a profound admiration of her person. Not content

with that, she needs must have the same incense--compounded of the

same two essentials, observe you--from the world at large. For this

purpose you made her a nice little money present and enabled her to

realise her dreams of a theatre. You gave her the greatest joy of her

life. In return--what has she given you? A few kisses, a pretence of

love, and a heavy burden on your poor head! If the madcap hadn't tied

you to her, the worst criticism to be made would have been that you

could have got the kisses and the rest very much cheaper. But as it

is--well, I think you'd better say good-bye to her."

Morgan shook his head. "Impossible!" he said.

"She wouldn't grieve very much," insisted Helen. "She certainly

couldn't go on doing anything for long except thinking of herself. You

may be sure that once she realises your present estimate of her, she

will not wish to keep you longer. She is not wicked--as I am, you

know--she is simply an exaggerated incarnation of the most

unsatisfactory sides of feminine nature. All women have something of

her in them, but the less of her they have the more charming you'll

find them. In the sham, tawdry world of the footlights she feels

something akin to her whole being. It calls to such a woman almost

from her very cradle, and fly to it she must. It is true that, in her

case, this stage-infatuation was a real misfortune, for in some other

walk she might have made a furore. That nude scene, in fact, was

symbolic of the temperament, and, had she taken to writing, would have

come out as an autobiographic novel. There are women who cannot make

themselves interesting to men without the confidence-trick, who cannot

even talk to a man for the first time without laying bare their whole

souls. Should a woman you scarcely know try the trick on you--shun

her. She also is afflicted with the same disease as your Cleo, with

the same rage for displaying her interesting self; though it may find

a more refined--and certainly a more decent--expression. I am giving

you so long a lecture because you sadly need it. I am giving away my

sisters to you, because you must be protected against them. If I had

given you a few such sermons in the past, you would not have had to

undergo the punishment of listening to this one now. Now, having well

lectured you, let us proceed to be practical. I am going to pay the

debts she has incurred and after that she ought to leave you free."

"No, Helen!" exclaimed Morgan. "You have paid enough already. I feel

utterly contemptible when I think of the use to which I have put your

money."

"Why will you persist in taking such unphilosophic views? For a poet,

you have a singular grip on the world. To me money is not such a

reality. And if it were, what is it between you and me? If the

position were reversed, Morgan--it may be a shocking admission to

make--I should not hesitate to take money from you, you conventional

Philistine. I thought you were above such petty considerations--to say

nothing of their coarseness."

"It's unkind of you to overload me with debt and employ specious

arguments to persuade me the load doesn't weigh."

"How can there be such a thing as a debt between us? I don't really

believe you're going to punish me by not behaving sensibly."

And so the battle continued, each fighting doggedly. He kept dragging

in the five hundred pounds he had already had, and she insisting that

mustn't count, even if regarded from a strict business point of view.

For she claimed that he had caused her unspeakable torture of late, at

least as great as that of a lady plaintiff in a breach of promise

case, and she was, therefore, entitled to damages. The pleasure he

would give her by his agreeing to the cancelling of the old debt would

only be fair compensation. Then, since this old debt had been wiped

out, there was no reason why she should not help now.

He ended by compromising on both points. The repayment of the five

hundred pounds was to be deferred indefinitely, the debt itself being

absolutely cancelled in the meanwhile, but it was to revive if he

should ever have the means to satisfy it. And also Helen was to be

allowed to pay the theatrical liabilities, provided Cleo agreed to her

doing so, though her identity was not to be divulged.

"And now that we have at last come to an understanding, I think we

deserve some tea after our exertions," she declared, rising to ring

for it. "Practically I have gained my points, though not verbally. I

have profound faith in woman's dogged persistence. It can achieve

anything--even win your love, Morgan. Let me see. How far had we got?

You were to kiss me on the forehead once each time? And this stage has

four months to run before any advance can be made."

Her reference to her love for him chilled him. Somehow he now believed

in it as real, though he had always taken it as a toying pretence. He

had come to her to-day as to a comrade--to feel himself in shelter for

a little while, and for the luxury of opening his heart to her. And

now there came upon him a great sense of guilt towards Helen, perhaps

accentuated at that moment when his consciousness of her worth had

arrived at its fullest and had endeared her to him more than ever

before. He was filled with remorse as he remembered he had taken

pleasure in keeping from her the knowledge of Margaret's very

existence, when Margaret was for him all that Helen aspired to be.

His habit of keeping the various threads of his life distinct had led

him to omit the consideration of what might be involved in their

subtle relation, for they were all necessarily related since they were

merged in the wholeness of his life; and it seemed to him now, all

a-thrill as he was with Helen's sympathy, he had behaved abominably in

not telling her that his spirit vibrated only for Margaret, that the

thought of Margaret brought him all the magic emotion that floats and

palpitates, like some wondrous sweet perfume, and that the elect who

love true alone may know.

He had already told her to-day much of what he had hidden from her.

Let him complete the confession and reveal even what was most sacred

to him. Even now he was conscious of certain instincts that made for

reservation, but he fought against them.

"Helen," he called, "I wonder whether you would care to listen to the

sentimental chapters."

She had been watching his face whilst he had hesitated and she now

grew white.

"You know we used to talk quite a deal about those sentimental

chapters," he went on. "There was a sweet little girl, too, whose

existence you suspected."

"I remember," said Helen faintly. "We did talk about those chapters,

but you would never let me get a glimpse of what was inside them. And

then I could never really learn whether they were real or imaginary.

As a woman of the world, I believed there must be such chapters in the

biography of a young man who had lived twenty-eight whole years; as a

woman in love with the young man of twenty-eight, I longed to

disbelieve in them. Which shows that the real nature of the individual

is finer than life is. Life would make us all cynics if the noble in

some of us did not find truth too plebeian a fellow to keep company

with. I have long since suspected that truth is not that beautiful

nude young person one sees rising out of wells at Academy Exhibitions.

Illusion, at any rate, is every whit as real a factor of the universe,

and it is far more agreeable to live with. So, naturally, Morgan, I

chose it to live with, hoping, of course, it was not illusion.

However, there _was_ a sweet, little girl?"

"Your inference from my poem was perfectly correct."

"Farewell, my fine dreams," said Helen, in mock-heroic declamation,

which did not blind him to the pain beneath. "But you'll introduce me

to her, won't you?"

"It's the sweet little girl's sister," he corrected; "but I can't

introduce you to her, because I shall never see her again."

"You _shall_ see her again," said Helen. "Don't be such a faint

heart."

"Even if I were free, I am not fit even to look at her."

"The sooner you get a more appreciative conception of yourself, the

better."

"Truth has too great a hold over me for that."

"How fine it must be to be loved by you," half-mused Helen. "With you

it is first love and everlasting."

"Yes, it is everlasting. It is a quality of my fibre, divinely inwoven

like mind in matter. It is something immortal, so that even if

Margaret change and forget me wholly, she can never take away the

living fragrance that came to me in the first times. I have loved her

and shall love her always."

"What nice things you say. If they could only have been inspired by

me! But all that is over now. So her name's Margaret. I am sure she

will never change, nor even begin to forget you, Morgan. But won't you

begin to read those chapters now? I do so want to hear them."

He placed them before her unreservedly and she at length had his life

complete. But when he had finished he was alarmed at her pallor.

"You are not well, Helen," he cried impulsively.

"'Tis nothing. I shall be all right in a moment." She drew her breath

heavily. "It feels like pins and needles," she added. "I want to get

the transition over now, though it is rather an abrupt one."

"The transition!" he repeated, only half-comprehending.

"Yes. It is attended with queer sensations. Pins and needles,

thousands of them--and something feels tight. But I shall emerge all

the better for it. So far I have only loved you; henceforth I want to

love you and Margaret as well."

"How I have made you suffer!" he murmured brokenly. His hand sought

hers. "My good angel!"

She drew her hand back.

"No--not angel, but only a simple prophet; and as a prophet I tell you

you were born to be happy."

He shook his head, bethinking himself he must go back to his Cleo.

"Now I hope you won't make me miserable again," said Helen, as he rose

to go, "by leaving me in the dark about you. And mind you let me know

at once if you have need of me to-morrow. A special messenger will be

sure to find me, as I shall not be leaving the house till four

o'clock. Keep a stout heart and let the light of hope vanquish the

vapours and fogs. Above all, bear my prophecy in mind."

CHAPTER VIII.

When Morgan got back to their lodgings he had the sensation of

entering the atmosphere of a charnel house. Cleo had not come home

yet, and he had leisure to ponder on Helen's attitude towards him and

her bearing when she had learned all. Of course, he told himself, he

must not take any notice of her wild suggestion that he and Cleo must

part and that their marriage didn't count; nor did he permit himself

to be allured by her optimistic pre-perception of the future. Noble

heart that she was, she had been striving to lessen his pain. He felt

he understood what had prompted her every word. And the readiness with

which she had bowed her head in acceptance of the emotional position

as soon as she knew about Margaret compelled his admiration. Not a

word of rebellion, but only a quick gasp of breath; and then he was

conscious he had won a sturdy ally.

Ally! When there was to be no battle, was not the word an empty one?

Yet no; surely it was a blessed thing to know of a ready and willing

heart, even if its services could not avail one! That which signified

naught in practical light signified much humanly.

He was awake now, could see the exact bearings of things, and he felt

a desperate courage to stand his ground. All his sense of suffering,

of the shipwreck he had made, and of what he might have to face in the

next few days, had become fused into one large poignant emotion. It

was an extra poignancy to be aware that Helen would continue to suffer

because of his determination to face the consequences. But he was

married to Cleo, and, unless she expressly left him, he must stand by

her.

Cleo returned about half-past five and ordered some tea. She said she

was just a little tired, but her face was jubilant as she handed him

two weekly papers that had appeared that day containing laudatory

notices of "The Basha's Favourite," In spite of her attempting to

appear calm, he could see she was very much excited about them, and

when he had read the strings of unblushing falsehood and handed them

back to her in silence, she lovingly let her eye run over them again.

Over the tea, she grew eloquent once more, especially drawing his

attention to the truth of particular phrases and to the admirable

insight and appreciation of the writers. But she volunteered no

information about the business which had occupied her afternoon.

Morgan was somewhat puzzled. He was still inclined to hold to his

belief that she had gone on some harum-scarum chase after money, but

as she did not manifest the least sign of disappointment or dejection,

it was hard to think that her pockets were as empty as before. He

refrained from questioning her, however, for in a grim way he had

begun to derive entertainment from watching her, and he, therefore,

did not wish to interfere with her. He preferred to wait and see what

coup it was she was now preparing.

After tea, Cleo suggested it would be a good idea if she had her

effects removed from the theatre. Her costumes, in particular, she was

eager to have safe at home. So Morgan accompanied her to the theatre.

She had already packed everything in a large trunk, which she now had

carried down. But in the corridor the two commissionaires attached to

the house sternly blocked the way. They were very sorry, but the

lessees' orders were that nothing was to be allowed to pass out,

having regard to the amount still due under the contract for the

theatre.

Cleo passionately ordered them to stand aside. The men insisted that

though the obligation of paying their wages rested on her, they were

still the lessees' servants, and had to obey their orders. Morgan

argued with them quietly, but found them obdurate. He did not know if

this action of the lessees was legal or not, but anyhow money was

owing to them and there seemed to be a show of justice on their side.

He took Cleo aside and besought her to let the matter rest for the

moment, pointing out that, as the men were so determined, there was

nothing else to be done, short of a physical set-to. "Besides," he

added, "if you are quite confident of settling everything to-morrow,

the trunk may just as well stay here over night."

To this Cleo ultimately agreed, won over by Morgan's last argument.

But none the less did she give loud expression to all that was in her

mind anent the lessees and the commissionaires. She went home again

with Morgan in the worst of humours at having been thus baffled. But

later in the evening she attired herself gaily and carried him off to

a little restaurant supper party, given by a gentleman he had met

before, but about whose occupation he possessed no information, though

he had gathered that the theatre was his chief interest. There was one

other lady, plentifully powdered, and two other men of the party, but

the host was the most garrulous of all, pouring out the most fulsome

flattery of Cleo's acting and assuring her the critics hadn't treated

her fairly and that all artistic aspiration was wasted on the British

public. The same ground was traversed again and again, the bulk of the

conversation centering round Cleo.

To Morgan it seemed that Cleo had made an enormous number of

acquaintances in the few weeks that had elapsed since their marriage,

and with many of them she appeared to be on terms of easy

_camaraderie_. Every day during the week scores of visitors had

dropped in to see her and to chat familiarly--all sorts of strange men

and women that seemed to flock round her, anomalous citizens of

Bohemia, vague hangers-on of the theatrical cosmos; all that strange

melange of the happy-go-lucky, the eccentric, the ill-balanced, the

blackguardly, the unprincipled, the hapless, the shiftless, the

unclassed, the sensual and the besotted that shoulder and hustle one

another in the world of the theatre; all the riff-raff recruited from

the greater world without by the fascinating glare of the footlights.

The supper was a gay one, and Cleo, drawing new life from the stream

of adulation, strolled home on Morgan's arm, overflowing with the

wonder of her own personality, was it in regard to her genius as an

actress, or was it in regard to the magnetism of her beauty. Her step

seemed to have recovered all its old springiness; her defeat was as if

it had not been. She was very optimistic about her career and again

spoke of Morgan one day writing the play of her life. That would be,

of course, after they had travelled in Egypt and the East. He was

sufficiently taken off his guard by her demeanour to begin to think it

was impossible she should not have some mysterious financial resource

to fall back upon for the morrow.

"We shall not want to be very long at the theatre," were her last

words to him that night. "Let us try and get there by ten. I shall pay

the salaries at twelve o'clock and we can leave the house soon

after."

CHAPTER IX.

Morgan's attitude in the morning was one of interested expectancy.

Cleo was as full of vitality as ever. Perhaps it was that, as she

entered the theatre, the sight of her trunk, waiting in the corridor

for redemption, stimulated her masterfulness afresh, for she found

pretext for asserting her authority over everybody on the premises. Up

to the last moment she revelled in the enjoyment of all the powers and

privileges that one acquires over other human beings by engaging to

pay them a wage.

As the time went by and Morgan saw no sign of the appearance of the

requisite cash, he ventured at last to broach the subject to her, and

she replied firmly and clearly:

"At twelve o'clock the salaries shall be paid."

But at the time specified, Cleo, who was sitting with him in her

private room, hid her face in her hands and began to sob hysterically.

Then he was able to elicit the truth. She had passed the last

afternoon interviewing moneylenders, but they had all laughed in her

face--which had simply called forth her contempt for them. As a matter

of fact, she had been expecting a miracle to happen!

A conviction had come to her that, when the moment for making payment

arrived, she would have the necessary money. How or whence it was to

come she had not considered; her belief was simply a blind one.

Though she had not found it waiting for her on her arrival at the

theatre, her faith that the powers that worked the universe could not

possibly allow her to undergo the great humiliation of being a

defaulter towards those she had employed, was still unshaken. In her

the sense of the Ego was so great that, if rightly interpreted, her

feeling about the world would have been found to be that it was

created specially for her and carefully shaped and subordinated to

suit the needs of her existence. She could not understand her being so

utterly beaten as she really was. Her half-crazy, superstitious notion

could only have been combatted by its non-realisation. At her

hesitating confession that she had been expecting the money to come

somehow, Morgan had at once grasped the whole working of her mind, for

he understood now what manner of woman it was that he had made his

wife.

He knew that the company and employes were assembled, expecting to be

called momentarily.

"Cleo," he said, "I have had the offer of enough money to pay all that

is owing. You must decide whether I am to avail myself of it. If you

say 'yes,' it shall be here within an hour."

But she scarcely heeded, for in that moment she rose as if following

up some train of thought, and pulled out every drawer of the bureau,

looking carefully into each as though in search of something. When at

last the perception was forced on her that the miracle had still not

happened, she sat down again with a sigh.

He repeated his statement and she wanted to know from whom the offer

came.

"A friend," he answered.

"It is some woman who loves you," she flashed at him.

He could not repress a start.

"It is! It is!" she exclaimed excitedly, her eyes ablaze. "Do not

attempt to deny it; I can read it in your face. Ah, I understand now;

it is the same friend who helped you before. And you led me to believe

it was a man."

"I made no mention of the sex."

"But you knew I was deceived all the same. How dared you conceal from

me that you had had the money from a woman you had loved? Did I not

return Mr. Ingram all he had given me, because I felt it would be a

desecration to use a penny of it? And I thought you were fine, Morgan,

I thought you were fine."

Scorn rang in her tones, but he did not answer, because he wished to

avoid a scene. It were better, he thought, to let the storm exhaust

itself. The unassuming introduction of the "woman you had loved," in

place of the reverse, did not, however, escape him.

"Had I suspected the truth," she went on, admirably dramatic now that

she was not on the stage, "I should rather have taken some deadly

poison than have touched this filthy money of hers. Did you take me

for some vile creature? I shall pay back every farthing. Oh, to throw

it all in her face! No, no! this is my affair. How dare you suggest

that I, your wife, should accept more of her money! As if I could fall

so low! These debts are mine. You are not to interfere."

He could only bow to her will. In the first moment of disillusion he

had not been without a certain apprehension that she might wish to

take advantage of the fact that he belonged to a wealthy family. But

he saw now the thought had done her an injustice. Creature of rich,

luscious sentiment, of gorgeous emotions, she scorned to be untrue to

the equatorial magnificence of her nature. Nor had she yet finished

expressing her resentment. All the untamable tiger in her had been

roused, all the fiery, indomitable pride that was as essentially a

part of her as her fixed conception of her genius. She was not to be

browbeaten by adverse fortune into whining and accepting charity from

her husband's mistresses--she had slipped into using the plural now.

She turned at bay against the whole situation. Let these people go

unpaid for the present--she would pay them when she could. She wanted

to go out at once and make a speech to them, but Morgan, fearful of

some great uproar, managed to prevail on her to let him make the

announcement that money engagements could not be kept.

Very much to his astonishment, everybody took the news quietly enough.

"Is there no chance of getting anything?" he was asked, and sad indeed

were all faces when he assured them every penny had been lost, and

that, though his wife had been confident of raising some more

money--he mentioned this possibly with the idea of softening the

bitterness against Cleo--her hope had been quite disappointed. Morgan

himself almost trembled with emotion, for he knew how eagerly some of

them had sought the engagement. Three weeks of rehearsal and a week of

acting under most trying and disheartening circumstances, and then to

receive nothing! And all that time they had submitted to be bullied

and blustered at. If the whole affair had not been so piteous it

would have seemed grotesque.

The stage manager, arriving just then, was less tractable, and Morgan

feared his vehemence would excite the others.

"And she had the----impudence to chuck me out of her----theatre," he

screamed; "and now I can't get a----penny out of her!"

He announced his intention of breaking her head forthwith, and

threatened "to do for" Morgan, who barred his way.

Cleo left the theatre a little later, followed by abuse from the stage

manager, who was forcibly held back by some of the company. She looked

longingly at the trunk in the hall, but had apparently resigned

herself to the loss of her costumes, for she passed by in silence.

In the afternoon, Morgan was astonished at being served at their rooms

with a writ, which concerned both him and Cleo, and which had been

taken out on behalf of one of the creditors. Though Cleo had run the

theatre on her own responsibility only, it had been thought possible

that he might possess resources, with the result that he had been made

co-defendant.

Cleo seized the paper and calmly tore it up.

Then followed a long consultation, Cleo manifesting some signs of

depression at the sum total of the results of her efforts, beside

which her unshaken belief in the future contrasted curiously.

Everything had been against her. She had had a bad company and a

stupid first-night audience, and had from the first been crippled by

want of money. She recapitulated all her disadvantages, dwelling on

each and making the most of it. But this was only by way of beginning

a long wail of lament. The undisguised coldness of his demeanour

towards her ever since the night of her debut had wounded her deeply,

though she had been too proud to say anything. Her indictment against

him was bitter and severe. The discontinuance of his slavish

admiration for her and of his blind belief in her genius was in her

eyes an unpardonable sin. As soon as the public had turned against

her, she averred, he sheep-like, had followed their example. And he

was the one human being in the whole world whom she had trusted and

believed in, the one she would have looked to for sympathy and

comfort. She had shown her trust in him by marrying him--a privilege

she would not lightly have accorded to another--and he should have

stood by her in her misfortunes. Why, so-and-so had told her her

acting had never been surpassed on the English stage; and he had seen

every piece played in London during the last thirty years. She

repeated the flattery and fawning that had been bestowed upon her by

the men who had been fluttering around her, accepting all as the

natural outpour of their sincerity; she quoted with unction the lying

notices she had shown him the day before.

Morgan knew better than to expect her to have one thought of sympathy

for him, to utter one word of sorrow for the plight into which her

stage-madness had brought him. She seemed to think that his dominating

sentiment should be, throughout all and despite all, one of gratitude

to her for having married him. In proof of which she now mentioned

that she had won the admiration of millionaires, of foreign counts by

the score, of Indian princes and Eastern potentates, all of whom had

written her letters of sympathy at her shameful treatment by the

public, had declared their love for her, and had offered to place

their whole fortunes at her disposal. She had indignantly destroyed

these letters without showing them to him, and would not have thought

of claiming any credit for this had he not forced her to do so by his

brutality towards her. The Indian prince, in particular, had proved

persistent, and even now it was open to her to become mistress of a

gorgeous palace and a regiment of servants.

By way of contrasting the fineness of her own conduct with the

coarseness of his, she did her best to exasperate him about Helen,

applying terrible epithets to her and vowing, in a burst of tiger-like

tragedy, she would destroy the beauty of this woman he had loved with

vitriol, should their paths ever cross. In addition to Helen, there

were general allusions to his mistresses, for Cleo, having begun by

converting singular into plural, now retained both singular and

plural. Lastly, quieting down somewhat amid a flood of tears, she

claimed that Ingram would not have acted in so dastardly a

fashion--he, at least, had always valued her at her true worth. It was

his misfortune, not his fault, that his money affairs had not turned

out well and that he had been unable to build for her the promised

theatre. It was his very sense of the dignity of her genius that made

him object to giving her a less impressive debut. Ingram, too, had had

no thought but for her, and he had been undoubtedly heartbroken at her

leaving him.

And when, in the end, he prevailed upon her to say what she purposed

doing, she informed him that to mark her sense of the degradation that

would be involved in the acceptance of the aid offered by her rival,

she had preferred to borrow five pounds of her maid, who was at least

an old and faithful servant--she had taken her with her from

Hampstead--and who stood by her loyally. Out of these five pounds she

intended to pay the landlady's bill for the week, and the balance

would bring them within the shelter of her parents' home.

Whatever feeling of humiliation Morgan might have had at the

confession of this loan was all but lost in his surprise at her sudden

mention of parents. He had never thought of her at all in relation to

parents or in relation to other human beings whose blood flowed in her

veins. She had pre-eminently struck him as a figure to be taken as

"detached"; his feeling about her, though he had never precisely

formulated it, was that she had not come into existence as other

people, but that, in her case, there had been a special act of

creation. Her parents had got impasted into the vagueness of that

background, out of which she had come floating into his life.

The position, however, was a difficult one for him. He could scarcely

chide her for borrowing, grotesque as the borrowing was. The maid, he

learnt, was leaving her that same afternoon and was to be married

soon. What helped him to decide was the great curiosity that had come

upon him to make the acquaintance of the people who had given her to

the world. Something of his old attitude came back to him. The desire

to see what strange thing was to follow next stirred in him again. But

this time a greater bitterness was mixed with it, a better grip on the

wholeness of life, an active consciousness that, though he might now

derive a grim sort of enjoyment from watching the unfolding of

circumstance, the experience would be nevertheless real, would

represent so much of his personal life. No longer would it be a mere

desperate submission to idle drifting amid the scenes of a dreamland;

though the same temperament as before was at the back of his decision.

Of course, his general determination to face the full responsibility

of his relation to Cleo likewise counted for a good deal in his

assenting to accompany her on this visit she purposed to her parents.

He questioned her about her family, and she told him that her father

was a printer at Dover; that her mother was simply her mother; that

she had a brother and two sisters, all unmarried, all living at home.

She was barely eighteen when she had left Dover, but she had ceased

communicating with her family as soon as she had made Ingram's

acquaintance. However, in anticipation of a great success, she had

written to them again a few weeks back, informing them of her marriage

and of the theatre of her own which she was to have immediately. Her

father, in reply, had written her a cordial letter, and had, in fact,

suggested she should bring her husband to see them if she should ever

find a suitable opportunity. They would therefore be likely to meet

with a warm welcome, and they could stay at Dover till her plans were

mature, which would be very shortly. What these plans were likely to

be he could not elicit, though he gathered some vague millionaire was

connected with them, and that they would enable her to clear off all

the debts almost immediately. But since, at the moment, they were

entirely without resources, it would be useless, she pointed out, for

them to take any notice of the writ that had been served. Creditors

would obviously be putting themselves to vain expense in suing them

now, and it was therefore best for them to go for a little while where

at least they would be free from being worried.

During the evening Morgan managed to find an opportunity of writing to

Helen a brief account of the day, saying he would look for her answer

at the Dover post-office.

And he and Cleo left London by an early train in the morning.

END OF BOOK III.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

The son and daughters of the Kettering family were out taking the air,

as the Sunday morning was a fine one, and Morgan sat talking with his

father-in-law in a front room, that was depressing with horse-hair

upholstery and wax fruit under glass shades and a series of prints

representing certain emotional moments in the life of a young

blue-jacket. Cleo was in some distant region of the house with her

mother, who had beamed on Morgan with a most unaccountable

friendliness.

Mr. Simon Kettering himself was a mild-featured little man, whose

Sunday broad-cloth was but a thin disguise of the fact that all the

week he worked amid his journeymen in apron and shirt-sleeves. He wore

spectacles with light steel frames that seemed to cut deep into his

flesh; his hair was fast greying and his face was much lined, which,

however, interfered little with the benevolence of his expression. His

hands were large and coarse-grained and of a tint that no longer

yields to ablutions.

On their arrival, about a quarter of an hour previously, Cleo had left

Morgan in the hall and had gone up to see her parents, returning for

him some five minutes later and introducing him to them in the room in

which he now sat. As he was not present at the actual meeting of Cleo

and the old people, he now asked Mr. Kettering if the sudden

appearance of his daughter after all these years hadn't startled him.

"Me!" exclaimed his father-in-law. "Why, not a bit! When she was only

that big, I soon found out it wasn't any use taking notice of her

goings and comings. The missus has been worrying about her a good

deal. But I always said to her: 'Selina's a girl who can take care of

herself, and sure enough she'll turn up all right one of these fine

days.' It was very wrong of her, though, not to let us have a line

from her for nigh on six years. But I fancy she was always a bit

ashamed of us. Her notions were always so grand, and plain,

hard-working people weren't good enough for her. I'm very sorry indeed

that things have turned out so disastrously. My Selina, to tell the

truth, is a queer creature, sir, and, if I may take the liberty of

saying so, I think you were a fool to marry her."

Cleo, at her first interview with her parents, had made a clean breast

of the fact that her theatre had been a failure and that they had lost

all their money, though she did not omit to mention she was conducting

negotiations which would soon put them on their feet again. Morgan

smiled at Mr. Kettering's bluntness, and he somehow divined that there

was a shrewd pair of eyes behind those spectacles that took in far

more than they appeared to do.

"I'm hanged if _I'd_ ever have married her," pursued the

master-printer, "and that's telling you the plain truth, sir. You see

what she has done for you already. Why did you give her all that

money? You should have let her go on acting and drawing a regular

salary, instead of risking all that capital in that monstrously

foolish way. You'll excuse my freedom, I know, sir."

From which Morgan deduced that Cleo's version of the whole affair had

not been entirely coloured by truth. From the way Mr. Kettering

dropped his voice and looked reverential as he mentioned "all that

money," it was quite clear Cleo's imagination had magnified the loss

to accord with her sense of the fitness of things. A great loss of

money was the next glorious thing to a great success.

Mr. Kettering proceeded to lay it down as a general maxim that there

was nothing in life like drawing a regular salary. Ever since he had

been a master-printer on his own account, he had been regretting the

fact. A workman knew exactly how much he had to spend and how to spend

it. But in these days when competition was so severe and trade so

uncertain, the master had much to be thankful for if he could pay his

way at all. Not that he himself was not perfectly able to earn a

living at all times, he added in some haste, as if to reassure his

son-in-law; and certainly his daughter and her husband were quite

welcome to be his guests as long as they chose to stay under his roof.

Morgan felt drawn towards the old man, though he perceived that Simon

Kettering's soul could not take wing out of the atmosphere of his

workshop, and that whosoever wished to commune with him must descend

into it. But it was from this very atmosphere that Cleo had

emerged--Cleo, with her vitriolic notions and her pretentious scents!

This, then, was that mystic past against which her figure had stood

out!

Cleo and her mother returned a few minutes later, interrupting Mr.

Kettering's account of the many vexations that preyed on him--his

troubles with his men, the heavy expense of constantly renewing the

composition on his machine rollers, the idleness and wantonness of

the apprentice, the perpetual ordering of "sorts" from the

type-founder, the inconsiderateness of customers who kept his type

locked up, and the carelessness of everybody but himself in the

handling of his material.

"We've been getting along capitally, Mr. Druce and I," he broke off to

explain to the two women. "It's well on towards dinner-time, and the

children ought to be coming in soon."

Cleo seemed relieved to find that Morgan hadn't been bored. Her

mother, in whose strange, deep-cut features was suggested something of

the spirit of Cleo's face, was a brisk-looking, homely matron of

fifty.

"So Cleo is really married!" she repeated for the tenth time, her face

aglow with satisfaction. And her eyes rested wonderingly on Morgan

till he almost fancied he could hear her mental exclamation: "A real

live husband!"

Soon the other members of the family arrived, Mary and Alice and their

brother Mark, a young man of thirty, who looked hard-working and

reticent, and had large moustachios. They stopped almost on the

threshold as they perceived there were strangers in the parlour, then

they recognised their long-lost sister; but, embarrassed by the

presence of the strange gentleman, as well as by the startling fact of

her presence, they stood hesitant and rather shame-faced. Cleo smiled

at them encouragingly, whereupon her sisters came tripping over and

smothered her with kisses. Their expressions of love were so loud and

so flowery that Morgan began to recognise the family blood. When, a

moment later, he was introduced to them as Cleo's husband, their faces

became of a fiery red, as though there were something discreditable

in the fact of matrimony, and they exhibited a stiff shyness that was

almost stupid. The introduction completed, they stood looking at him,

giggling and giggling. But Mark now came forward with outstretched

hand, saying quietly: "I am glad to know you, sir."

"Let us go in to dinner, children," said Mr. Kettering.

They dined in the back room on the same floor, for the ground floor

and the basement were devoted to the trade. It was a long, narrow

room, lighted by one window at the end, and almost filled by the

table. Morgan found himself between Alice and Mark, whilst Mary sat

opposite him. Both the girls were young, Mary about twenty, whilst

Alice did not seem more than seventeen. In appearance they struck him

as inferior imitations of their sister. They were much shorter and far

less well-proportioned than Cleo, their red hair was coarser than

hers, and their features were duller. Their voices, too, were

reminiscent of hers. Altogether, though it was abundantly evident that

they were Cleo's sisters, they were perfectly unarrestive. Nature had

made a success of Cleo, but had egregiously failed to repeat the

performance.

The one servant of the house waited at table, prim, sedate, formal. A

corresponding air of restraint seemed to prevail during the whole

meal. It was not till afterwards that he realised that they were

somewhat in awe of him as being obviously a "fine gentleman," and that

they were feeling they had to live up to him. Cleo showed no

inclination to speak, and the other women would not venture to begin.

Mr. Kettering, on whom lay the onus of entertaining, at length strove

to face his responsibilities, and, addressing himself to Morgan,

discussed the comparative fineness of the weather at London and Dover.

Morgan, in return, asked questions about the town and the harbour and

the boats, managing to keep up some sort of a conversation with him.

Eventually the situation began to depress him, so terribly stiff were

they all in their attempt to be genteel. Besides, his appetite was of

the poorest, though he was somewhat astonished to find the fare so

plentiful. Mrs. Kettering kept pressing him to eat more and more, and

apparently found it hard to understand that his refusals were final.

"Are you sure?" she asked him each time; and once she plucked up

courage to assure him he must not stand on ceremony with them, and

that he need not hesitate to eat his fill. Morgan thought it

extraordinary she should so persistently refuse to believe in the

sincerity of his small consumption of food, but, attributing her

solicitude to sheer good-nature, he was sorry to cause her such

evident dissatisfaction.

He was glad when the meal was over, for he was beginning to feel

stifled. The family did not disperse, coffee now being served, of so

curious a flavour that Morgan could not get further than the first

sip.

"Don't you like coffee, sir?" asked Mrs. Kettering.

He began to feel a little bit persecuted. He did not hesitate to reply

in the negative, since the question was put from Mrs. Kettering's

point of view and the answer had only to apply to her conception of

the beverage.

At length Cleo said she was going to take him for a stroll, and he

willingly fell in with the idea. But they did not go far, taking

possession of a seat as soon as they arrived on the sea-front. They

seemed to have nothing to say to each other. Cleo appeared lost in

thought, and he, after gazing idly at the few promenaders and the

children playing on the shingle and at the white cliffs of France

gleaming across the straits, relapsed into a half reverie. He had

somewhat of a sense of physical relief at being able to breathe here

at his ease; of temporary respite and security from being hunted by

creditors. But he was intensely miserable all the same, the one

immediate gleam of light being the hope of a letter from Helen.

As yet the Kettering family was a new experience to him, and though

the stiff gentility and aggressive hospitality so far exhibited had

made him somewhat uncomfortable, his judgment of these people was

favourable enough. Still, he was possessed of the idea that he was not

going to stay in that house more than a few days. Not that he had the

least conception of what else he was going to do, but events had been

following each other in such quick succession that he could not

believe in a cessation of them. The last two days, in particular, had

seemed very crowded. Yesterday all those dramatic events in the

theatre--though not on its stage; to-day their departure from London

and their incursion into the reality of that poetic nebulousness from

which Cleo had originally emerged.

He was glad that Kettering had not addressed to him any personal

questions, for he wished to tell neither truth nor falsehood about

himself. The anticipation of the topic arising was not an agreeable

one, and it was likewise unpleasant to dwell upon the possibility of

embarrassment arising from Cleo's habit of embellishment. He wondered

what her schemes were, though he could not take them seriously. And

this train of thought ultimately brought back to him the fear that

perhaps after all pressure might be brought to bear on him to make him

avail himself of his father's purse. The thought of his father gave

him now--as it had given him throughout all this time of trial--an

uncontrollable emotion, but he would not let his mind speculate about

the grief and attitude of his family, forcibly interposing a veil

between himself and them. Tired out at length, he let his reverie

merge into mere uncritical perception. He was conscious of afternoon

sunshine, of a great stretch of sky, with a continent of white cloud

containing big blue lakes; his eye took in the expanse of sea,

glistening, streaked, patched, lined, and shaded, with the pier in his

centre of vision, a mass of kiosks, pole-lamps, and conventional

iron-work. And in the foreground parasols dotted here and there made

spots of black, brown, green, and red against the yellowish shingle.

Commonplace as the scene was, he found it restful to dwell upon in a

lazy fashion. He forgot for a while that Cleo was by his side, and

when he awoke again to the consciousness of her presence he found she

had been engaged in reading again the two favourable notices of her

performance, which she had carefully carried about with her.

Soon Alice and Mary appeared, and all four went home together. Tea was

laid in the same room, the table being set out as for a heavy meal.

"Did you enjoy your walk, sir?" asked Mr. Kettering, while the trim

servant, waiting at table with the same solemn gravity as before, put

before him a huge cup of very strong tea, of which no milk or sugar

could alleviate the astringency. He now found he was expected to eat

large quantities of boiled fish, plum-cake and sweets; and Mrs.

Kettering, perceiving that he didn't do justice to the fare,

enumerated to him other things that were in the larder, with the

suggestion that he might perhaps prefer a choice of them. Some of the

stiffness that had characterised the former meal had vanished--Morgan

could see now that had been due to shyness at his presence--and,

though Mark still showed little willingness to converse, the girls

were evidently beginning to find themselves again, occasional

gigglings heralding their return to normality. But the concentration

of the united attention of the family for Morgan's benefit was

somewhat disconcerting. The girls vied with each other in pressing

plum-cake upon him, and seemed to view his refusal as a personal

rebuff. He did not understand just then that each considered a bit of

her own niceness went into the cake when held towards him with her own

hand, and that it was this niceness he was rejecting. As for the cake,

they took it for granted that there could be no difficulty about

disposing of that. Before the end, Morgan got the sensation of having

the food rammed down his throat with a pole.

They tried to flirt with him, too, but here again he unconsciously

annoyed them by his unresponsiveness. In fact, being entirely

unacquainted with the game as they were in the habit of playing it, he

set down the strange attempts of Cleo's sisters to provoke him to

banter as rather silly. He did not know that they had thrown off their

first unquestioning acceptance of his impressiveness and were now

subjecting him to sharp criticism. They had their own notion--and a

very definite one it was--of what a perfect gentleman should be, and

they were not disposed lightly to accept a substitute. What, however,

struck him particularly was their unbounded affection for their father

and mother, for Cleo and Mark, and last, though not least, for each

other.

During the evening Mary grew so bold as to offer to show him the

harbour by night, and he welcomed the suggestion as likely to afford

him a little quiet distraction. He had sat amid the family for several

hours, and it had not occurred to anybody he might like to be just

alone. The day had seemed interminable, and as they had been behaving

more freely among themselves, once the restraint had worn off, he had

begun to get a somewhat revised perception of them. Their peculiar

atmosphere was beginning to enter into his being, and his vision of

them, therefore, to lose its first impersonality.

Though the sky was clear, there was no moon that evening, which

elicited the remark from Mary that it was a pity. Morgan presumed that

moonlight made the harbour look much more poetic, whereupon Mary

admitted that she wasn't thinking of the harbour, but of the fact that

it made walking with a girl much more poetic. She wanted him to say

that walking with her was so heavenly, absence of moonlight

notwithstanding, that he couldn't possibly imagine any improvement.

But he didn't say it. He only just gave the faintest indication of a

laugh.

When he happened to admire the far-stretching, soft shadow of the sea,

with its gentle, irregular line of white where it met the shore, she

asked him if he wouldn't like to be rowing just then with a girl on a

lovely lake. She wanted him to say--yes, if the girl were she. But he

did not say it, and he had no idea that she was getting angry.

They walked on a little in silence, passing a girl talking to a man

under the full light of a lamp. Mary remarked that the girl was

exquisitely pretty. She wanted him to say that she herself was a

thousandfold prettier. But he did not say it; and she led him off the

front rather sulkily, taking him over a drawbridge and on to the quay

that bisected the harbour. They strolled about amid the piles of

timber and along more quays and drawbridges, now and again

encountering other promenaders in the soft darkness. For awhile Morgan

found the stillness delicious, almost forgetting the existence of his

companion. But very soon she recommenced her tactics, making

statements that credited him--by implication--with flirtations galore,

and hinting at vast experience on her own part and lovers by the

score. Certainly she laid pitfalls by the score, but she was so

invariably unsuccessful that she could not help at last giving

expression to her vexation.

"You're the first man I've ever known," she said frankly, "who didn't

think me beautiful."

He recognised he had got a whiff of his Cleo there, but, just as he

was about to deliver the polite reply to which she had forced him,

they happened to turn round the side of a great wood-stack and, at the

same moment, an impressive chorus of voices floated softly across the

night. They were now on a quay that ran across the harbour, parallel

with the cliffs that rose at the back of it. To right and left were

the massed silhouettes of shipping and small craft, of odd

superannuated sailing vessels and huge-funnelled steamers, and in the

intervening waters were moored half a dozen Russian gun-boats. On the

largest of these a sailors' service was being held. They could hear

the priest's sweet voice raised in exhortation, and then again rose

the sailors' chant.

Morgan listened enraptured. The velvety surface of the water,

traversed here and there by glistering bars, the subdued stars above,

the profound silence of the night, the strange whiteness of the cliff

beyond, rising in marked contrast to the dark line of dwellings at its

foot, save where the patches of green on its face showed as grey

stains in the darkness, the looming hulls and intertangled masts and

rigging, the mystic scattered lights of the harbour--the enchantment

of all entered into his spirit, attuned to this beautiful singing of

the vespers.

And then, of a sudden, a bugle-call rang out, clear and far-reaching,

from the great barracks of the Western heights; instinct in its rhythm

with discipline, valour, and martial fire; thrilling into the spaces

of the night in strange contrast to the spirit of peace that breathed

in the sweet concord of the sailors' chanting of evening hymns.

"What a funny lingo!" said Alice, as the chaplain's voice was again

heard in prayer. Her laugh rang out, loud and scornful, insulting the

solemnity and beauty of the scene. Morgan instinctively began to move

on, pained to think that these sojourners in English waters might deem

they were being scoffed at.

"It wasn't at them I was laughing," she explained, as if aware she had

offended him. "Something came into my mind that happened just at that

spot. It's so funny that I can't help laughing every time I think of

it. If you're very, very good, perhaps I may tell you."

She looked up at him, wagging her head about to indicate her last

sentence had been intended playfully. Morgan expressed a desire to

hear it, in a sort of indifferent murmur.

"Well, there was a fellow I let dance with me three or four times, and

I went for a walk with him twice or so. Then he began to get a bit

cheeky, and so I thought I'd put him in his place. I wouldn't take any

notice of him for a long time, and when we passed him in the street I

pretended not to know him. At last one day he comes up to me and he

says: 'Mary, I can't stand it any longer. If you won't speak to me

again I'll go and drown myself.' And then he begged so hard that at

last I promised to go for a walk with him in the evening. Well, I kept

my promise, and we strolled along here. And just at that very spot we

stood still to look at the harbour. 'John,' said I, 'there's the

water; now drown yourself.'"

Again she laughed immoderately at the recollection of this brilliant

_jeu d'esprit_ and her admirer's discomfiture.

But the _jeu d'esprit_ kept echoing oddly through Morgan's brain.

"There's the water. Now drown yourself!"

CHAPTER II.

Morgan found the Monday infinitely easier to get through. For the

members of the family were absorbed in the duties of life, so that he

was left much to himself. Alice and Mary kept the accounts and served

behind the counter in the stationery shop. In a workshop at the back

Simon Kettering, Mark, four journeymen and one apprentice stood "at

case," whilst in the basement two antiquated printing machines rumbled

on, worked by a small gas-engine. There was also a Columbian press for

pulling posters and a platen machine for small work. Mr. Kettering

devoted a few odd minutes to showing Morgan over the establishment. As

he observed, it was not a magnificent concern; but he had it all under

his eye and by hard work made it yield him a living. Still, times were

hard and--and Mr. Kettering, having once begun to enlarge on the

subject of his disadvantages, proceeded to pour forth all the

accumulated vexations of his spirit.

Cleo remained in the parlour during the morning writing letters, but

she did not offer to enlighten Morgan as to their nature. He was

rather glad of this incommunicativeness of hers, for he felt in too

restless a mood to talk to her. Impatiently as he was awaiting Helen's

letter, he would not inquire at the post-office till the evening. He

could not bear the idea of coming away empty-handed.

Meanwhile he amused himself rummaging leisurely amid the contents of

an old mahogany book-case. He found rather a medley of worn

school-books--old-fashioned geographies and histories and foreign

conversation grammars; of mouldy novels, many in French and Italian;

of illustrated lives of actresses, prime donne, and celebrated

courtezans. Most of the novels and non-scholastic books were of a

shoddy, sensational type. Here, then, he had evidently stumbled across

the source of Cleo's early mental nourishment; this was the literature

with which her nature had found affinity. In nearly every book he took

down he came across passages underlined, with occasionally a note in

the margin in her own handwriting. The rich manner and false, pompous

sublimity of these passages brought a smile to his lips, though making

his heart contract painfully. He called to mind the books he had seen

lying about on the occasion of his memorable visit to her in company

with Ingram, and he now had an intuition that the slumbering of her

fierce activity for so many years had been facilitated by a plentiful

provision of literature of the same kind. Her imagination had found

some compensating stimulation and satisfaction in the luscious scenes

amid which it had wandered.

And suddenly he had a startled flash of memory anent a paper-covered

novel he was holding in his hands. The lithographed wrapper, with its

illuminated veiled figure and its seven mystic stars, he had seen

before; and he now recognised the book as an older copy of the very

one he had found her reading the first time he had ventured to call on

her by himself. It was the work of a lurid lady novelist, popular some

ten years before. He turned its pages with bitter interest. Passage

after passage was marked and underlined. And at length he lighted on

one that seemed to jump from the page and strike him in the face. It

was doubly underlined in red ink, as well as thickly marked down the

margin.

"_In me is reincarnated the spirit of the ancient East, and it

is my mission to interpret that spirit to the modern world._"

And lower down on the same page, indicated with the like emphasis:

"_By sitting in this temple each day and meditating herein I have

ministered to my sacred moods, and I have kept pure the essence

of the ages, which I am to revive for the modern world._"

Morgan remembered only too well by whom and on what occasion such

words had been addressed to him. He put back the volume and shut the

book-case.

At the one o'clock dinner they all came together again. There was the

same profuse solidity of fare as on the previous day, and the same

insistence that Morgan must do justice to it. The girls seemed in high

spirits, mysterious signs and words passing between them, accompanied

by much laughter, of which Morgan dimly suspected he was the cause.

When the clerk at the post-office, looking through a little heap of

letters, picked out one and put it aside, Morgan could scarcely

restrain his emotion. He chafed at having to wait whilst the man

satisfied himself there were no others for him, and the quiet way he

took the letter revealed little of his almost overmastering impulse

to snatch at it as a wild beast might snatch at meat. Blessed writing

on the envelope! Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he stepped

again into the street! And when at last he began to read, all that he

had suppressed surged up and almost choked him.

"My very dear friend," said Helen, "I want to write to you such a

great deal because I know how welcome a long letter will be, and

yet I fear that I cannot make this one very long for the simple

reason that I am feeling serious. Moods are like dresses. Some of

them do not suit me at all. Seriousness not only spoils me, it

makes me absolutely idiotic. Most people I know, however, prefer

me like that because then I express my agreement with their

opinions so very readily. But to be serious. I don't quite

understand what you are going to do at Dover. Still, I am glad

you've gone, for I'm dying to know what her sisters are like. By

the way, I mean to make the acquaintance of the Medhursts. I have

an idea I shan't find that a very difficult task. Then perhaps my

letters may be more agreeable reading for you, for of course we

shall continue corresponding unless you are back in town before

long. Morgan, don't lose faith! I told you I was a prophet--or

should it be prophetess? When I looked you in the face last I

read therein that you were born to be happy.

"In the meanwhile I don't want you to be uncomfortable. And I now

come to a point I hate to mention because I am afraid of you. You

fly at one so savagely. I don't think you ought to allow a

question of mere money to poison such sweet human relation as

ours. Won't you look at it in the right spirit? I implore you,

do. I want you to believe that I understand and sympathise with

your feelings, but recollect now I am writing to you as your best

friend, without any admixture of anything else, and it is as my

best friend I want you to respond to me. Forget that I am only a

woman. Let my purse be yours. Take only a trifle if you will, but

still take it. It will make me happy, for I want to feel sure

that you are bearing up. Meanwhile I am in dreadful suspense to

hear from you.

"Yours affectionately,

"HELEN.

"P. S. In the name of Heaven, write me quickly to tell me what

the sisters are like. I have bought a map of London in sections,

and I spend hours wandering with you in some of the strange

places. What funny shapes the Thames has in some of the sections,

and how nicely the pieces underneath it fit into it. Alas! the

days, the days that are no more! What a sob re-echoes from those

simple words!"

Blessed writing! In what an impasse were his life without it!

CHAPTER III.

Though in his reply to Helen he promised to accept her money in case

of need, he could not prevail on himself to begin just then. His

instinct was against that course as strongly as ever, and he was

precisely like a proud, obstinate child that continues in its fixed

attitude long after being convinced. He gave her an account of the

Kettering family in as gay a note as he could strike from his leaden

mood, for he wished to allay her anxiety about him. He had read in her

letter far more than the mere words; her heart beat through every

line.

There were still five shillings in his pocket--enough to pay the

postage on sixty letters, he grimly reflected. So far he had had no

occasion to spend money for anything else, and no beggar had crossed

his path to tempt from him the little he had. He needed nothing beyond

his food, and of that the Ketterings' hospitality provided a

sufficiency, though by the third day the over-profusion of plain

dishes was no longer maintained.

Cleo seemed to be getting mysterious letters from town, and she gave

him to understand she would be able to put her new scheme before him

very soon now, but in the meantime he must be patient. The memory of

her defeat had already almost gone from her mind, as did all things

which were disagreeable to it and which, therefore, it could not

assimilate; and, if she conversed with him at all, it was only on the

subject of her genius, her imagination making, if possible, still

more gorgeous flights than in the first days he had known her.

But this bluster about her genius only made him smile bitterly now,

for he knew but too well that the foundations of any scheme of hers

could not be laid in the good, solid earth. He could not guess the

nature of the negotiations she had apparently begun, though he had a

suspicion she was offering her genius to moneylenders as a security

for some gigantic advance. The thought made him feel some impatience.

She could not expect him, interested as he might be in her evolutions,

to stay here indefinitely, eating the bread of hard-working Simon

Kettering, even if that were not becoming daily unpleasanter. He was

already thinking that, in his next letter to Helen, he must tell her

to send him a little money, so that, even if he did not leave the

town, he could either live elsewhere or arrange to pay Kettering for

his board and lodging, thus giving Cleo a fair time in which to reveal

her hand. He would be as patient as possible with her, so that she

should not have any real ground for the least reproach to him.

By the fourth day a fuller comprehension of the family had come to

Morgan, and a growing unhappiness at living with it. His perception of

the Ketterings, at first of the same nature as a traveller's

perception of people among whom he is sojourning for the first time,

had ceased to be art. Their spirit had begun to act on his, and he now

not only saw them as a full reality, but he likewise felt them as a

full reality. His first impression of them had merged gradually into

his present one, though there had been well-marked stages on the

route.

At the beginning, the Ketterings' interpretation of hospitality had

been indicated by the quantity of food provided; the incessant

pressing him to eat had been a special attention to him, and his

refusal had been taken first as mere ceremony--natural on the part of

a gentleman--and next as somewhat of a slight. And in proportion as he

became less of a novelty to them, so did they resume their normal mode

of life. By the time the fact of his being their guest had ceased to

occupy the centre of their consciousness breakfast had become reduced

to coffee--of the same curious flavour--and thick bread and butter,

tea to the same astringent beverage as before and thin bread and

butter, the two other repasts of the day being likewise administered

with a due regard for economy. Mrs. Kettering, too, no longer

enumerated the contents of the larder in the hope of tempting him with

some delicacy that was not on the table. The trim servant girl who had

waited so staidly and respectfully at table had now developed into a

perfect slattern who had the habit of answering her mistress back,

sometimes in a way that almost amounted to bullying, and who seemed to

have as much to say in the concerns of the family as any one of its

members. The kitchen, too, obtruded and occupied the foreground of

life.

Morgan did not, on account of this change, which he knew did not

signify any falling off in hospitable feeling, and which, indeed, he

rather appreciated so far as the reduced fare was concerned, reverse

his judgment that he had fallen among kind-hearted folk. It had been a

strain on them to maintain an appearance of gentility, and their

recoil had been merely that of a stretched piece of elastic. He had

lost his importance as a special person, and was now only just one of

them. He understood that the family was exactly what it had to

be, that its temperament and mode of life were perfectly attuned; yet,

for him, there were a thousand unseizable roughnesses that depressed

his spirit. Though the Ketterings and he spoke the same mother-tongue,

words bore different values for him, and full communion was

impossible.

But his estimation of them was more of the nature of passive mental

apprehension than of active criticism. He himself, however, had been

criticised and he knew it, for Alice and Mary had at length made him

feel that he did not satisfy their conception of a gentleman. The

simplicity of his manners did not convince them. They seemed to hold

by some complicated code of etiquette for ladies and gentlemen--Heaven

knew how they had become possessed of it--of which he fell sadly

short. He did not understand in the least their shibboleth of

flirtation, their particular methods of banter, the precise shade of

significance of their facial expressions and movements, the exact

values of their phrases and catch-words; all of which was knowledge

that, according to their notion, was the common stock-in-trade of

breeding. Their atmosphere of coquetry did not appeal to him; and, as

a rule, he remained supremely ignorant of the fact that they _were_

coquetting with him. Thus it was they giggled and laughed and made fun

of him, having attained to a vast feeling of superiority over him, and

a not less vast pity for their poor, dear sister, who had married him!

He could see that nature had made precisely the same failure with

their personalities as with their bodies. Each was a bundle of traits

that individually made "Cleo" echo through his brain, yet the total

effect lacked convincingness. In Cleo all such characteristics were

fused into her general magnificence; in Mary and Alice they seemed to

exist at random, failing to give any sense of harmony, but only one of

irritation. The airs and graces they assumed did but emphasise their

crudity. It was, indeed, an illumining perception when it struck

Morgan that their absurd movements and struttings and the queen-like

way in which they tried to hold their heads bore a singular

resemblance to the stage-gestures of "The Basha's Favourite." At the

same time they possessed a large fund of animal spirits. They talked a

good deal about dancing and sitting with young men in hidden corners,

or going a-rowing with them; though when or where they did any of

these things he could not quite make out.

Then again, the ostentatious love for the rest of the family and for

each other they had exhibited the first day turned out to be a

dependent variable that often approached vanishing-point. If the girls

showed a certain uncouth good-humour in their calm moments, they

certainly had violent tempers which they made no effort to restrain.

If Alice, attempting to pass along the narrow dining-room, caught her

dress on Mary's chair: "If anybody else were to sit like that----" she

would commence angrily, and then a nice quarrel would ensue. Quarrels,

indeed, seemed to be evolved from incredible beginnings, and the

evenings bristled with them. Mrs. Kettering was easily drawn into

these disagreements and took a leading part in no few of them. Simon

and Mark, however, would remain impassive, the first reading his paper

and uttering now and again a facetious, mild protest, the second

smoking his eternal pipe in unyielding taciturnity. Mrs. Kettering

likewise annoyed her daughters by constantly talking to Morgan in

their presence of the difficulty of finding husbands for them.

One morning Cleo, who was down early, pounced upon a letter for him

and wanted to read it. But as he recognised his father's writing--the

envelope had had much redirection in varying scripts--and as her

letters were always sealed to him, he refused to open it in her

presence. He was not in the mood for a squabble with her. The fact

that his father had managed to pierce his inaccessibility had unnerved

him, the mere sight of the letter almost making him tremble. He put it

in his pocket; it was imperative he should be alone when reading it.

Cleo grew sulky and looked it. Alice and Mary, being in a particularly

affectionate mood that morning, came hovering round her, entwining her

waist with their long arms, pressing their faces gently against hers,

and kissing her with ostentatious sympathy. "What has the naughty man

been doing to our darling?" they asked in a sort of playful, mincing

lisp. "Has he made our dear, dear sister miserable? Naughty, naughty

man!"

That made a beginning. As a continuation Mrs. Kettering took it into

her head once more to lament the scarcity of possible husbands for

Alice and Mary over the breakfast table. They retorted that no doubt

there were plenty of husbands to be picked up without a penny, who'd

be glad to come and stay at the house and idle about and eat their

fill. Evidently they had overheard talk between their parents, for it

had been represented to them that Cleo and her husband were only in

Dover on a friendly visit to the family.

Before the others had realised it Morgan had risen and left the house.

His every nerve was a-tingle with pain. He was finished with the

Ketterings, he told himself; it was impossible for him ever to set

foot in that house again.

CHAPTER IV.

The sense that a final rupture had occurred between him and the

Ketterings was so strong in Morgan that for the moment he omitted to

consider the difficulties that might arise as regards Cleo. He saw now

that by becoming their guest under circumstances such as his he had

exposed himself to the possibility of insult from the first. But he

did not condemn them; he simply felt he could not live in contact with

them.

He was too unstrung to read his father's letter yet, though, as he

thought of it again, the reflection occurred to him that old relations

were intruding into the new life that had begun with Cleo. First Helen

and then his father had overtaken him!

He started to walk briskly through the town, which he soon cleared.

The movement helped to calm his excitement, though it did not diminish

his bitterness. All the morning he tramped through the country,

deriving some little comfort from the feeling that he was all alone.

He lunched on bread and cheese at a wayside inn, partaking of the

meal in an old room with rough tables and benches. Near him lay four

huge potatoes, newly broiled in their skins. Through the window he

looked out on to a yard where poultry strutted about amid straw, dung,

and rubbish, in the shadow of a hay-rick. Not till then had he the

heart to take the letter from his pocket. An examination of the

redirections proved interesting. It had been first sent to the address

where he had lived with Cleo, whence it had been redirected care of

Cleo's maid, who, in turn, had forwarded it to Dover. He understood

now how those first mysterious letters had come for Cleo so quickly,

though he did not quite see why she should have concealed from him

this arrangement with the maid.

As he broke the envelope a labourer in corduroys came into the room,

and seemed taken aback at finding a gentleman there. He was the owner

of the broiled potatoes, but apologised for taking possession of them.

Morgan bade him sit down and have his meal, but the man, his face

shining with good-humour, insisted he must not disturb him, but would

go and stand at the bar. He took only two of the potatoes, his

good-nature impelling him to leave the other two for Morgan, with the

hearty, encouraging remark: "Pull into them, sir!"

"My Dear Son:

"I am writing this only with the faintest hope of its ever

reaching you. If by any chance it does, I beg of you to inform me

of your whereabouts at once. Your letter came upon us like a

bombshell. I do not wish to reproach you for the hurt we have

suffered. I only want you to believe now in my desire to stand by

you, however terrible the mistake you have made.

"Of course, we put the worst interpretation on your silence about

the person you had made your wife. I hurried up to town at once,

but you had gone from your old rooms and left not a trace. I

learnt, however, that you had a sister who used to come to see

you sometimes. I suppose that is your wife. Naturally I assumed

you had acted towards me as you had because you thought I should

reproach you for having spoilt your life. How little you seem to

know me, Morgan! _That_ is what I have to reproach you with. Why

was I so little in your confidence? Did you think me incapable of

sympathising with you because you are a young man and I an old?

How little you seem to know me, Morgan, I must repeat again.

"I do not want to indulge in useless retrospect. I do not want to

exercise my imagination and yours in tracing out some more

desirable course of events that might have resulted from your

acting otherwise. But I cannot help giving expression to my deep

sorrow at the plight in which you now must be. I do not know how

the whole thing came about--what led to your acquaintance with

the lady who is now your wife; but I do wish that, instead of

writing me that curt letter, you had had sufficient belief in my

love and sympathy to come to me despite all. My pen is powerless

to express all that is in my heart. I can only just tell you that

this is the worst heart-ache I have had in my life.

"If this reaches you, dear Morgan, don't be too proud to let me

hear from you at once. I am an old man now, remember, and this

suspense is killing. Especially as I have come so near to finding

you and have only just missed you by a day or two. On coming up

to town I at once called at Mr. Ingram's flat, and then I learnt

for the first time he had married a great society lady. The

commissionaire gave me his new address in Grosvenor Gardens, and

there I was fortunate enough to find him. He seemed astonished to

hear you had got married and disappeared. I asked him about your

quarrel with him, and then he told me what he knew--that you had

run through all the six thousand pounds, had been afraid to tell

me, and had behaved abominably rudely to him because he made to

you certain suggestions for your own benefit. He was sorry he

could not help me to find you. He seemed, indeed, quite

distressed about you and sympathised with me in my trouble.

"My poor Morgan! How could a genius like you be bothered with

having to manage money? What is the use of a man like you having

a rich father if his riches are not for you to enjoy! If you had

only said a word! It was hopelessly foolish of me to imagine you

had suddenly developed the ability to husband your resources. But

you seemed so comfortable and cheerful when I last saw you that I

did not suspect anything. And then my attention was so

concentrated on my book that I scarcely had a thought for

anything else.

"You must forgive me for having called a private detective to my

aid. What else could I do? The anxiety was terrible, and I hadn't

slept for nights. He was a long time about it, and he ought to

have done it sooner, for I gave him a very good photo of you to

work with. But he assumed you had gone further afield, and sought

to find you in the provinces. So your wife is an actress! The

detective assures me she stood naked on the stage before a whole

theatre full of people. That isn't true, I hope.

"As I have already said, I was too late when I called at your

address, and the landlady said she couldn't forward letters, as

no new address had been left with her. But it struck me that

perhaps she had her reasons for making that statement, and so now

I write in the hope that my letter may be forwarded after all. If

it is, then write at once to your dear father, who, if you have

made a mistake, will help you to live it down. I implore you not

to keep away from me any longer.

"Of course, I have seen the Medhursts several times. John and

Kate feel the blow quite as much as I do, though they have done

their best to console me. Margaret, too, poor girl, is very pale.

She shuts herself up in her studio and pretends to be working.

But I'm hanged if I can make out what she's at. There is just a

mass of blackfish wax, and, though I always find her shaping it

with her fingers, it always seems to look the same. The

composition of my book has progressed fairly well, but I am

looking forward to your helping me with it a tremendous lot."

Though he was twenty-eight, Morgan felt he still had in him a child's

fresh spring of emotion, and he had no more than a child's strength to

struggle against it. He hurried from the inn, suppressing his sobs for

a moment with one grand effort.

He walked back to the town and found an expected letter from Helen

awaiting him at the post-office. He had asked for ten pounds, and she

had sent him a bank-note. She had written him only just a few lines to

accompany it, but promised to make amends as regards length next time.

She said he had made her happy by giving her so practical a proof of

his belief in her friendship, and added she was very glad indeed he

was thinking of lodging elsewhere, instead of staying with that horrid

and amusing family. She hoped he would make up his mind on the point

very soon; and the sooner he had a terrific quarrel with his Cleo the

better. As soon as she should hear of it she would execute a

war-dance, adequately complicated for the occasion.

How good to him were those he had fled from! How endless was the

morass into which he had floundered!

And yet the very touch of the bank-note stung him. It represented the

fact of his degradation; it summed up the hopelessness of his

position. The sympathy poured upon him, welcome though it was, but

emphasised his sense of the pitiable failure of his existence. He

still burned under the terrible insult of the morning; he smarted from

the friction of living amid the petty, squabbling vulgarity of the

Kettering household. He remembered, too, he must come to some

understanding with Cleo; he must give her an opportunity of joining

him wherever he should be staying. And, of course, he must also write

to thank Mr. and Mrs. Kettering for their hospitality.

The afternoon passed by. He dined modestly at a sort of coffee-house

at the back of the harbour and arranged for a bed-room there. Later in

the evening he found himself forced to go out again, for it suffocated

him to stay within four walls. And even as he walked at random, the

blackest fit of his life came upon him. He thought of those first

years of enthusiastic striving, and those following years of

half-hearted striving; he thought of the long stretches of time

dissipated in mental lounging, in lethargic inaction he had been

unable to combat, so paralysing had been his sense of the futility of

effort. Looking back now, his whole inner life seemed to have been a

long, increasing bitterness. But he did not pity himself; his attitude

was one of cruel self-criticism. If only he had been an isolated soul

he would not have felt so keenly. But the course of his life had

reacted on others and embittered their existence. It seemed as if he

could not take a step without wounding those who loved him. He was not

fit to breathe the same air with them, he told himself.

Of Margaret he scarce dared think, so great was his sense of his

unworthiness; but the light of her face, as it swam up before him,

thrilled him with the consciousness that his love for her was abiding,

that this affair on which he had embarked was a grotesque nightmare in

which his true being had not been concerned at all, though it had

become irredeemably involved in it. Once or twice it had given him

pleasure to imagine that it was in Helen's power to do more than just

sympathise with him, but then he had never forgotten that was only a

wistful fancy. It brought the tears to his eyes to think of her

attempt to cheer him with her prophecy of happiness for him. Happiness

for him! Dream as vain as his Cleo's lust for glory!

It was past ten o'clock, and the sea-front was already deserted. He

strolled eastward, following the roadway to where the houses ended,

when it swept round the foot of the cliff, on whose top rose the

ancient castle, and eventually degenerated into an ascending foot-path

protected by a wooden rail. He stayed awhile at the bend, gazing into

the immense darkness, in which, here and there, glimmered a light from

a passing vessel, and listening to the swish of the water lapping the

foot of the sea-wall. A fisherman preparing his bait hailed him

"Good-night!" from the glooms of a small, primitive jetty. He returned

the salute civilly, but, as he was not in the mood for human

intercourse, he sang out and wished the man a good haul and then

moved on. Up, up the incline he went, the rugged cliff-front towering

above him, clothed with great grey patches. The path narrowed as it

wound its way up the side and at length ran into the cliff, through

which a long gallery had been hewn. But the solid blackness that faced

him at its mouth did not give him pause. He felt his way along,

stumbling up the rough incline, and turned down another gallery which

intersected this one at right angles, and which led to the face of the

cliff where its opening, high above the water, was barred by a tall

iron rail. Here he stood and looked out to sea.

The nocturne was beautiful in its largeness and silence. The sublimity

of the great spaces emphasised his own existence just then as petty,

crabbed, and sordid. The discords within him were so harsh that he

could not respond to the sweet mystery of the night, or to the music

that called from sea and sky, from the shadows and the spaces.

Again that bitter sense of his whole life became concentred in one

moment. And then, as the sound of the soft-flowing tide came up to him

again, it seemed to bring with it words that echoed strangely through

his being. And his being seized upon them and gripped them. The voice

of Mary Kettering seemed to be commanding him, as if her hostile

spirit were hovering near, and he could hear her vulgar laugh

disgracing the solitudes.

"There's the water. Now drown yourself!"

The consciousness of his personal unimportance to the world was

accentuated against the free vastness on which he gazed. The mission

that alone had had power to stir his blood, of being a voice to the

spell of which all men should yield, had been decreed against. His

hope of winning the right to live amid and breathe an atmosphere in

harmony with his being, an atmosphere in which his individuality, as

he conceived it, should ripen and expand and yield all the fragrance

that was in it, was utterly dead.

He could not detach his dead hope from his life; its rotting carcass

weighed it down and poisoned it. The love, too, that Margaret had

inspired in him but remained as an exquisite bitterness. And as for

those who loved him, better they should bear the blow at once than

that he should torture them constantly. Let them mourn for him now;

let them, in the years that were to come, sometimes feel his presence

with them and think of him as one who had had good in him, but whose

life had proved piteously futile. For them much pain now and an

occasional pang in the future; for him, the sweetness of unending

rest, for was there not sweetness in death?

He looked again out to sea, striving to pierce the darkness that

floated over the world like a spirit, and divining the far-off line

where the sky touched the water.

One last, glorious swim to reach it! And out there, in the

infinitudes, amid the silence and the loneness, with all the still

music of the universe lulling him to sleep, should his being gently

merge into the all-pervasive essence; there, in the large freedom of

the airs, under the full spread of Heaven's stars, and in the soft

embrace of the velvet waters, should he feel his blood beat to an end;

there, in the heart of those mysterious spaces, were fitting place for

a poet to die!

CHAPTER V.

He turned to go back and descend to the shore below, but just then he

heard a strange whispering that reechoed through the passages. A flash

of light seemed to fly down the long gallery, driving the darkness

before it, and then a young man and a girl passed by, the former

holding a lighted match. He waited a moment, half-startled,

half-annoyed at their intrusion, then groped his way after them,

eventually stumbling out of the tunnel's mouth. And, as he descended

the incline again, he became aware of other couples standing about in

the shadows, within alcoves of the cliff, or seated on the grassy

slope just outside the wooden hand-rail. In his first abstraction he

had overlooked these.

He could not begin his swim here with the consciousness of all these

human beings so near at hand. He wanted the complete sense of

isolation from his fellow-creatures, the feeling that he and the

infinite were alone face to face. An idea came to him. On the other

side of the town stretched some miles of shingle at the foot of the

cliffs. Here he would seek the aloneness he felt to be imperative.

He started to walk briskly the length of the town, and his way took

him through the harbour again. Here again he caught glimpses of

isolated couples, leaning against the stacks of wood or half-lost in

the shade of some black hull rising high alongside the footways.

His perception of externals seemed to have grown keener; his glance

seemed to pierce where the shadows were thickest.

And all these couples gave him just then a sense of the vast, futile

movement of life on the planet, of the infinite succession of human

generations, each appearing and blossoming and mating and dying. He

seemed in that moment to feel a hideous meaninglessness in this tidal

wave of life travelling through the ages.

He crossed the railway line and passed on to the broad shingle that

sloped to the water's edge. The air was almost still, the water was

smooth and gentle. He set his face westward and trudged along, seeking

the place where his foot should stand on the solid shore for the last

time. He calculated to go about a mile, so as to be free from any

sense of the proximity of the town; but he was somewhat dismayed to

pass another couple after he had gone about a hundred yards.

Couples--couples everywhere! Should he never escape from them? How

crude seemed all this love-making when one caught a glimpse of it from

the outside as a large, collective fact!

That, however, proved to be the last encounter, but as he tramped on

over the grey shingle, amid which shone the white sprinkling of chalky

pebbles, a sudden screech pierced the night and a train came rushing

along the track that ran alongside the beach, its engine vomiting a

lurid smoke that showed ghastly in the dark and that disappeared

within the tunnel under the cliff like a giant flame snuffed out. And

soon he had ceased to hear its roaring.

The incident seemed to him symbolic. His flame, too, was to be snuffed

out; but he had the thought, with a grim smile, that he wasn't going

to make so much noise about it.

Now and again he floundered into a puddle or rivulet that flowed

seaward across the expanse of shelving shore, but he felt his sense of

aloneness amid nature increase at each step gained. The pieces of

chalk, scattered on all hands, grew larger and larger, evidently

fallen from above and rounded by the wash of the waves. The patched

whiteness of the cliffs rose high on his right; a tiny, solitary light

shone far out at sea. Clouds were beginning to gather, and some of the

stars were hidden. The night grew darker; the stillness disturbed by

his footsteps alone and the low melody of the gently-breaking waters.

The sea itself stretched before him, a vast, soft shadow, but the eye

had to look at it determinedly to separate it from the sky. And now

"Shakespeare's Cliff" towered up, its side gashed and scarred as by a

giant's axe. The fallen masses lay heaped at its foot, grotesque yet

solemn. Then there were larger masses, piles of enormous boulders on

his right, as if a whole cliff had crashed to fragments; and a great

expanse of them, mossy and weed-covered, stretching on his left to the

water's edge. He was aware of them, too, ahead of him, extending in

the gloom indefinitely. And soon he had to pick out a tortuous way

between the mighty heaps on one hand and the far-spread belt of rock

on the other.

On and on he passed, and stayed at length by a chalk rock, tall as

himself, wrought by the tides into the semblance of a head, a

veritable giant's head, with masses of long, intertangled weeds on its

top and sides, like the strange, wild unkempt locks of a sea-god; its

front showing blurred features like a carven face eaten away by the

slow gnaw of a thousand centuries.

"If you had but a tongue, what secrets of the deep you could tell!" he

could not help saying aloud.

And then, as he stood listening, his wish seemed to be answered. The

face before him seemed to glow with a light as of life in the mystic

gloom that wrapped it. And it spoke to him through the silence with a

voice that was as a golden bell sounding from the heart of the

universe. It spoke a language that his being comprehended; it sang to

him a song of peace and sweetness and wonders. And he knew that the

melody that beat through it was but a murmur of the great essence

calling to him; the essence that was fragrance, that was light, that

was music; the essence that sometimes showed through the grossness of

things and that he himself had striven to capture as it flashed here

and there for those in whom burned an intenser spark of itself than

was allotted to the generality of men--for the bard, the painter, the

seer--towards whom it leapt as flame leaps to flame, yet who saw it

but as the seekers of visions see an elusive gleam flash and half die

within the blur of a magic crystal.

Here, then, was the spot!

CHAPTER VI.

He proceeded to disrobe himself, for he wished to feel the embrace of

the waters on his bare flesh. But he was not so absorbed in his self

and his purpose as to extrude all thoughts of those who were dear to

him. Nay, such thoughts, perhaps, were part of his very self. Eyes

that till now were dry became blinded with tears, so that the shaded,

floating night-world seemed to palpitate before him in a strange blur

that was like a despairing mood externalised. It were best so, he

reassured himself again; better that he should now plunge into the

sweet mystery, of which the little he knew was by a dim, exquisite

divination, better that he should live only as a sad memory than as an

evil-causing reality.

Then, too, it occurred to him, it was right that his clothes should be

left on shore. He would put them out of the reach of the tide, and the

weight of a boulder should defy the wind. The letters of his father

and Helen would serve to identify the owner of the clothes; he would

not destroy them, since there was nothing in them save what the

writers might be proud of having written. They would then know the

worst at once, instead of having to endure the long-drawn, vain hope

that is worse than despair. Even if his body were not washed ashore

there could be no mistaking his fate.

He picked his way to the water's edge and strode in unhesitatingly.

The tide was just on the turn, and the touch of the light-swelling

waves was at first cold and gentle. But soon he was breasting them

with steady stroke, moving out to some indefinite point where should

be the full mystery of the night and the spaces, and whence the shore

should be swallowed up in the darkness. His sense of the world passed

into a large vagueness; the blood pulsed through his veins

exquisitely; the kiss of the water was warm and sweet. Steadily,

steadily his hands cleft it, the activity of his brain dwindling and

dwindling and lapsing at length into a mere self-abandonment to the

sensuousness of the motion. He was scarcely conscious of controlling

his muscles; his arms seemed to work of themselves in rhythmical

sweep. Onward, onward! with only a fused feeling of warmth and

exhilaration and a drowsy sense of vague far-spreadingness.

The consciousness of time had passed away, and that of space was a

mere intensity of feeling. Once or twice he was dreamily aware of a

strange halo of light haunting his universe.

But at last the vibrating hoot of some great passing steamship drove

suddenly across the waters, a keen note that thrilled through him

startlingly, dispelling the delicious languor that possessed him. He

had a sense as of awakening from slumber, and then he knew that the

vague halo was a long beam, flying round at some distance from him,

that came from the light-house at the end of the great stone pier. His

mind leapt again to full activity, shaking off the medley of sensation

that had been flowing against his passive consciousness with such dull

uniformity.

His blood glowed with the full glory of the sea; he was conscious of

a clear sanity, for the brooding mists had vanished from his spirit.

And even as he heard and felt the throb of mighty engines that came to

him from afar, and considered what mastery over the deeps they

represented, the thought occurred to him that he, too, was master of

the boundless water, buoyant at his will. An exaltation sprang up in

him as he realised throughout all his fibre its sensuous vastness, its

elastic massiveness.

And with this exultant sense of mastery, with this feeling of the good

red blood coursing through him, there seemed to have awakened in him

an invincible something that held him to existence with a grip that

could know no loosening, that made his whole being cohere with a

strength that not all the forces of dissolution could relax.

On and on he swam; on and on. What an ecstacy it was to live!

CHAPTER VII.

Once more a vision of his life passed before him as a single flash,

and this time it drew from him a scornful anger.

Fool! Should he who rode abreast the ocean in absolute mastery not be

master of his own existence? Fool! The universe before had sung to him

of life, not of death; its essence had called to him not to take him

into itself, but to remind him that within him was some of its own

glorious fire that might yet make his life glorious. That, too, had

now leapt up, had burnt away all the vapours and purged his spirit;

that, too, sang and joined in the universal chant. He recognised its

clear melody, inspiring him to place faith in it and to be true to

himself.

Action must be the key to the redemption of his life; a flourishing,

masterful Will-To-Live the force behind it. He had made mistakes; it

was for him to convert them into a good, to make of them a solid

pedestal on which his manhood should stand firm.

Back to the shore again! Back to human beings and human love and human

duties!

And just then an odd thought intruded on him, grotesque yet touching;

one of those incongruous memories that invade one's solemnest moments.

He had a vision of a labourer in soiled corduroys leaving him half his

dinner at the wayside inn that morning.

He turned on his back to rest awhile, but he found he could not endure

the changed position. For the reality of the world was lost to him

again, and he had a sense of floating alone in the immensity of

strange, dark places; the cloud-stained sky seeming to rest on his

face. The night, too, had grown darker, and the throb of the

steam-vessel came to him now more faintly. He was conscious of being

left behind. A momentary fear invaded him.

And in that moment he seemed to see the shapes of those who loved him

imploring him with streaming eyes, now beckoning him, now holding

their arms to him.

He set his face landwards and thrust all uncertainty from him. He

could just distinguish the softly-gleaming cliffs, but he felt strong

and pure and stout-hearted. Back! Back! Back to land, to work, to

love! A rougher tide rolling in helped him. He knew the spot whence he

had started; it was just beyond the point where the cliff rose to its

highest. The sense of distance annihilated gave him new strength, and

at last he stood again amid the fallen boulders and shook the water

from him. He sacrificed an undergarment as a towel, then dressed

himself quickly; and, suffused by the new, living spirit, he turned

his steps townward again.

But he could not go home to his lodgings and sleep. It was a small

confined bed-room he had taken, whereas he felt the need of breathing

deep of the full wind that had by now sprung up. He felt that the open

night brought inspiration, and he wished, too, to yield to all the

activity that urged within him. He passed again by the harbour,

plunged into the town and through the streets that ran up the

hill-side to the castle.

Action, action, action! He had come through the crisis with miraculous

strength, with inexhaustible energy. On, on, through the grey night,

exulting in the wind even as he had exulted in the sea!

Meanwhile his plans were coming to him.

He had often, in his bitter moments, envied the bricklayer and the

cobbler. Why should _he_ not begin to learn a trade even now?

He was conscious of intelligence, of patience, of the desire to

labour. Why should not Kettering give him a chance in his workshop?

The old man had shown him real kindness and was evidently

well-disposed towards him. He felt sure he could enlist his sympathy,

for, despite the apparent limitation of his interests, Simon Kettering

had impressed him as having, in a general way, a keen understanding of

things. The vulgarity of life in that household was but a small

consideration to him now. His vow never to return to it had been made

when he had taken the old vision of things. His new and saner vision

made him see that vow was a mistake. Was he not strong enough to defy

the corrosiveness of a mean, vulgar atmosphere? Nay, his life, by its

own inner force, would flow impervious to such influence.

To labour, and by the work of his own hands to pay those whom Cleo had

wronged!

Not till he had done this would he feel true to himself; not till then

would he deem himself worthy of the love of those who were dear to

him.

It were easy to fall back on his father's generosity, to live an empty

life of indolence; but that would not give him that respect of self

which alone could keep him attuned to the harmonies of being, and thus

bring him the longed-for peace of spirit. For his sense of life was

the sum of his inner moods, and no mere superficial remedy could

inform them with that pure flowingness that constitutes happiness.

To go though the discipline he had set himself, to labour hard and

achieve a fixed, worthy end by his own unaided efforts, no matter what

stretch of his life it consumed, were to vindicate himself, were to

vindicate his Will-To-Live!

He had arrived at a culminating point in existence. The understanding

of what his life had lacked had come to him at last, and with it a

recognition of that by which it was to be guided in future. Life, to

be true, must involve all the functions of the soul--thought, emotion

and will; must be lived with a healthy fulness. He had not so lived

it. His error had lain in detachment, which had well-nigh brought him

to the verge of destruction. And now it was with him a time of

reconstruction.

He desired to face that full actuality of things from which he had

always shrunk as from a terrifying chaos, wilfully shutting out from

his vision all but its superficial forms and tones. He wished to open

his spirit to the feeling and throb of the living world.

Discipline, self-discipline! On that basis alone could the human soul

develop and attain to Individuality and Freedom.

He seemed to recognise some Force working in him like a Redeemer; he

fancied he saw some strange Necessity in his life, working through all

its dark moments, its action eventually forcing upon him a true

estimation of existence, of his relation to things.

His being should assimilate from the living world all that should

serve to build it up; even as a plant wonderfully drew from the earth

just that which its fibre needed. But for that end he must move

through the living world--not shun it. More and more of its essence

would he take into himself, more and more would he defy the mean, the

ugly, the evil; till at last he should be strong enough to walk

unscathed even through the fire.

That thought which had come to him a short time before about the

meaninglessness of life, and of the perpetual mating that carried it

on, now recurred to him again; but this time he had an accompanying

sense of its utter falsity. He had been wrong in his thought, he told

himself, because to view life in that large way from an apparently

outside point of view was in reality to lose all sight of the meaning

under quest. It was the point of view which was unsuitable, not the

meaning which was absent! The error was the same fatal one of

detachment. If man projected a critical mind, a mere isolated bit of

himself, to which adhered nothing of his essential nature, into a

boundless space and bade it look from thence on the march of humanity

and deliver judgment thereon, surely that judgment could not be a true

one.

The true judgment of life was only to be made by the help of the full

humanness of the observer. Life had to be felt within; not viewed from

without from an imagined cosmic standpoint.

Not then in the long parade of history must the meaning of life be

sought, nor in its massed manifestations, the sum total resulting from

its activities; not amid the buried relics in geologic strata, not in

the large sweep of scientific law. But each human being might find it

for himself in his own limited span; for the individual life, lived

true with the fulness of the human spirit, was its own end, its own

meaning. And whosoever lived true to himself felt and knew the meaning

of life. Living and mating might be foreshortened to mere dry facts in

the great stretch of a cosmic outlook; by the emotion of the

individual they were touched to divinity.

Let him, then, since he wished to live true, not seek to escape from

himself, but to accept his own human outlook and be true to the

fulness of his being. Let him recognise the eternal principles of

humanness underlying man's varying attempts to express them in binding

rules of conduct, and let him take his place in man's world--a world,

both of facts and relations, selected by man's innate nature from the

swirling, chaotic continuity of which man was a part--facing the

fulness of life with the fulness of character.

He had climbed the long, ascending road. Above him sat the dark castle

on the top of a grey slope; and, looking downwards on his left, he saw

the town sleeping in its valley, its many points of light gleaming

through a palpitating mist. He could just discern the other hill

beyond as a tone that was lost in the dark sky, a faint luminous spot

showing here and there on the top.

He stayed a moment to admire the nocturne and was glad that he had

lived to see all this beauty. Yes, everything called to him for life,

not for death. He continued his wandering, heedless whither; and, when

at last he became conscious of fatigue, he had covered many miles and

had strayed through many by-paths. The first frenzy of restlessness

had worn itself out, and he sat for awhile on a barred gate, previous

to turning back to the town.

His only guide now was the general sense that he must keep the sea on

his left. He was but a few hundred feet from it. Once or twice he

divined the water, almost indistinguishable from cloud, when a great

indentation in the cliff made its edge sweep in towards him; and once

a ship's light flashed out of it for half a second. He swung along

steadily, and after a time found himself traversing a great, dusky

stretch of land. He had the feeling of crawling over it like an

insect, so vast was his sense of this flat earth; he seemed just a bit

of it moving on it and thinking about it, as if it had attained

through him to consciousness of itself!

He fell into a slow saunter, philosophic fancies coming to interweave

themselves with his thoughts; and, when he awoke again from a long

reverie, the road had grown narrow, rough and stony. He stumbled along

till at length he again made out the castle in the distance, perched

on its sombre eminence, just a flat silhouette against a lighter

greyish sky.

The road dipped between two slopes that cut off the view, and, when he

had passed them, the battlemented silhouette seemed to show deeper and

the sky lighter. The morn was approaching.

Imperceptibly the darkness thinned. A quiet feeling of holiness was in

the air. The stretch of common on either hand began to take on a shade

of brown, though the rare clumps of scattered bushes still showed dark

and solid. A fresh morning breeze came to him, scent-laden.

In some parts the clouds were lightening, melting, and as he came

again into full view of the sea, he saw its whole surface glistening

and of an indefinite colour. Sometimes it struck him as a sort of

steely grey, sometimes it flashed upon him as a vague, elusive green.

It was almost light now, and he could see the landscape distinct and

wonderfully sharp-cut. A minute later he was almost sure that the sea

was green, and, to his surprise, he became aware of luminous blue bars

among the clouds. There was a lovely piece of green, too, with orange

streaks in it. Then there came a full flood of mystic pink, and the

water was one laughing sparkle. He drew deep breaths of the air and

gloried in the dawn.

The pure, sweet dawn, to him symbolic of Resurrection and Life!

Though tired now, he still lingered, strolling at ease down to the

town again and lounging on the beach and in the harbour. When, in the

end, he arrived at the coffee-house where he had taken his lodging he

found it already open, and porters and sailors were taking their

early-morning coffee.

He threw himself across his bed and slept soundly till mid-day.

END OF BOOK IV.

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

Morgan waited till half-past one before calling again at the

Ketterings, for by then, as he knew, the printer had about finished

his lunch, and usually had some few minutes to spare.

He did not ring at the side entrance, but walked through the shop,

where only a boy was in charge at this hour, and into the workshop at

the back. Here, to his satisfaction, he found Mr. Kettering himself

busy measuring up galleys with a long piece of string. The old man was

startled to see him, but said he was glad he had come, as he had been

anxious about him and had wanted to talk to him. Morgan noticed that

he seemed a little excited. His face, too, seemed a trifle more worn

and lined than usual behind his spectacles, and his beard had a

scraggy appearance.

"I'm afraid, sir, my daughters were very rude to you yesterday

morning," he continued, "and I want you to accept my sincere apology

for their conduct. They are hard-working girls enough, but they

haven't much sense, and I'm afraid not much consideration for other

folks' feelings. I only hope you'll overlook it this time. However,

there's something else I must tell you at once. Selina has gone away."

"Gone away!" echoed Morgan.

"Yes," said Mr. Kettering, sadly. "Altogether we've had a nice upset.

Mother's ill in bed to-day. It was this way: Of course I spoke a bit

sharply to those scatter-brained girls, and they answered me back in a

way it makes my blood boil to think about. Women-folk are all a bit

crazy. That's the opinion I've been forced to, sir, and if I had my

days over again, I'd never so much as look at one of them. Then

Selina--she joined in and said it stifled her to live here. It was

worse than living in a mud-hovel. Then the mother said she'd better go

and live in a mud-hovel. And after that they all four fell a-screaming

and I couldn't do anything to stop them. As soon as I could get a word

in edgeways I begged them to be quiet, but Selina was excited and

disowned us all. She said she never believed she was our child; she

could never possibly have come from such filth as us, and then she

lost her head and cursed us--I never heard the like in my life. My

heart bled for you, sir, for I said to myself: this can't be the first

exhibition she has made of herself since her marriage, especially as

things went wrong. However, business had to be attended to, which put

an end to the scene. But when I went up to dinner, Selina told me she

had packed up and was going away that afternoon, and that we needn't

expect ever to see her again. Of course I tried to talk her over, and

asked her not to be foolish, but to stop till she had her arrangements

properly made. Then she told me sharply not to mind about _her_

arrangements, and that she had no need of my charity. She pulled out

and showed me fifty pounds in bank-notes. They came the day before, she

said, and she had any number of thousands waiting for her. 'But what

about your husband?' I asked. 'My husband?' she snorted. 'I'll make

you a present of him if you like. There's another woman in love with

him, who's ready to give him as much money as he cares to take from

her. And he has any number of mistresses besides. So you don't expect

I'm going to trouble my head about him. Besides, he hasn't said six

words to me since we've been here. If he had cared about me he'd have

shown it.' And, sure enough, she went off by the afternoon train.

'Tell him he's rid of me now, as soon as he gets over his fit of the

sulks and comes back,' was the last she said. Yes, women-folk are all

crazy. You'll excuse me repeating the remark, I know, sir; but you

remember what I told you when you came on Sunday. I don't mean any

disrespect by it, but I can't help thinking you were a fool to marry

her."

And Kettering took up his cord again as if to continue his measuring.

Morgan's brain was for an instant full of a whirling mass of thought.

He could not hide from himself that he had not the slightest sense of

sorrow or regret. He knew perfectly well that Cleo esteemed him no

more than a dead twig, that, by his abstention from offering up to her

daily an incense and a sweet savour of gross flattery, he had

destroyed all possibility of her continuing to imagine he counted for

something in her life. And, of course, she was not the kind of woman

to stay in so sordid and narrow a household with a penniless man, who

was nothing to her beyond her husband--she with her gorgeous demands

upon life! No doubt her departure had been already arranged with the

person who had sent her the money she had shown her father and she had

been glad to seize upon any pretext. However, he thought it right to

assure Mr. Kettering that Cleo's accusations against him were

entirely false and that, as regards his conduct towards her, no

reproach could be made to him.

"You've no need to tell me that," said Mr. Kettering, "I never for a

moment doubted you. You know, sir," he added, "you're quite welcome to

make my home yours so long as it suits your convenience."

Morgan replied that, as Kettering was probably aware, he had no money,

but that he was anxious to earn some, however little. Could he not do

so by learning to set up type?

Kettering looked hard at him, and Morgan bore the gaze without

flinching.

"I can see you mean it," he said, "so we won't waste time discussing

whether you're serious. Now, Mr. Druce, I don't know who you are, and

I'm not going to ask you any questions. I flatter myself I've got some

little skill in reading faces, and I knew from the first that you were

a gentleman, and one with his heart in the right place. Now don't

think I'm taking liberties, sir, but I should like you to think the

matter over again and see whether you would not do better to

communicate with your family and friends. I don't want to know how you

came to have the misfortune to marry my girl, but I feel that as a

fellow-man I ought to ask you to reconsider your position. Maybe your

folk are fretting and anxious about you. I'm only a plain man, but I

think I can lay some claim to common sense, and believe me I only

venture to speak to you like this because I respect you."

"I do intend communicating with my people," said Morgan, touched by

the old man's sincerity and thoughtfulness, "but I want to earn my

bread all the same. That is essential."

"I understand," said Kettering. "You want to feel yourself stand on

your own legs. Yes, that's a fine thing to feel. Well, as I said, I

like your face and I trust you. I hope you're not vexed at what I

ventured to say."

"On the contrary," said Morgan, "I am sincerely grateful to you for

having said it."

Kettering's face beamed, and its benevolent quality grew more marked.

"A boy apprentice is supposed to take seven years learning the trade,

sir, but we needn't get discouraged about that. A man anxious to

learn, with his wits about him--"

"I am anxious, and I have my wits about me," put in Morgan.

"Well, after three months he could make himself deuced handy."

Kettering's mild oath was simply intended by way of encouragement.

"You see," he went on, "once you'd learnt the lay of the case, you'd

soon get your hand in for straightforward setting, and then if you

didn't mind exercising your muscles, you could do a bit of pulling at

press. And a man of your education, sir, might turn his knowledge to

account in proof-reading. Not that there's much scope for that sort of

thing, sir, in my little business. But it's just an idea we might keep

in mind. There's no knowing what might come of it. Now I'm not going

to omit the business part, sir. I know you must be wanting to hear

about that, and I know you'd prefer to make a bargain on a strict

business basis. Perhaps you care to make a suggestion."

"I am too ignorant for that. I want you to give me just what I am

worth and no more. Of course, I know that I shall not be worth

anything for some time."

In a few minutes they had arranged everything in such a way that there

should be no obligation on either side. Morgan was to live in the

house. A wage was to be put to his credit from the beginning for all

work done by him that was of use, at the regular "piece rates," and

such work as "pulling at press" and "clearing," which could only be

estimated by time, was to be entered at time rates. Of course his

earnings at first would be very small, but they would increase from

week to week. On the other hand, an agreed weekly value was put on his

board and lodging, which from the first would be charged against his

earnings. And when eventually the wages due to him had overtaken the

amount thus due by him, he should get the weekly balance in cash, or

he might then, if he preferred, board and lodge where it pleased him.

Morgan was touched by old Kettering's sympathetic comprehension of his

needs, but when he sought to give expression to his thanks, the old

man would not listen.

Mark entered just then, and, the situation having been made clear to

him in a few words, readily agreed to have Morgan by his side in the

workshop, and to make of him a sort of protege.

The whole interview had consumed barely half an hour, and Morgan went

out just as the journeymen were returning for their afternoon's work.

He had arranged to begin in the morning, since they had a heavy job

to get finished that afternoon, and could not spare a moment to

initiate him. Mark, however, said he would teach him the lay of the

case that evening from a diagram. Kettering, before he left, said he

would make it his business to give the girls to understand that they

must treat him with respect, but begged him to ignore them in case

they should misbehave, winding up with his oft-expressed conviction

that all women-folk were crazy, and it was a mistake to take them

seriously.

However, Morgan troubled himself little about the girls; they had no

terrors for him now. An exquisite peace came upon him. It was many

years since he had had the feeling.