Miss Bonser and Miss Press, as became a long experience of the chase,

had done their work with efficiency. The Sailor had not guessed that

this friendly and amusing and very agreeable lady--in spite of the

"Damn you"--was so very much in love with him. It was a wholly

unexpected issue, for which the young man was inclined to blame himself

bitterly.

"Well, Harry," said Miss Dobbs, breaking suddenly upon a whirl of

rather terrifying thoughts, "why didn't you come last Sunday?"

He was in a state of mental chaos, therefore to attempt to answer the

question was useless.

"Why didn't oo, Harry?" Miss Dobbs suddenly felt that it was a case

for _force majeure_. Very unexpectedly she flung her arms round his

neck. Risking the rickety cane chair she sat heavily upon his knee,

yet not so heavily as she might have done, and with a she-leopard's

tenderness drew his head to her ample bosom.

A thrill of repugnance passed through Henry Harper, yet he was so fully

engaged with a very pressing problem as hardly to know that it had.

"Kiss your Cora, Harry."

But his Cora kissed Harry instead. And as she did so, the unfailing

instinct given to woman told her that that kiss was a mistake.

In the next instant, the fat arms had disengaged themselves from the

young man's neck, and Miss Dobbs had slipped from his knee and was

standing looking at him.

Her gesture was striking and picturesque; also she had the air of a

tragedy queen.

"Harry," she said, with a catch in her voice, "you are breaking my

heart."

The Sailor had already been informed of that. He had tried not to

believe it, but facts were growing too strong for him. A superb tear

was in the eyes of Miss Dobbs. The sight of it thrilled and startled

him.

Twice before in his life had he seen tears in the eyes of a woman, and

with his abnormal power of memory he vividly recalled each occasion

now. The first time was in the eyes of Mother, the true woman he would

always reverence, when she took off his clothes after his first flight

from Blackhampton, and put him into a bath; the second time was in the

eyes of Miss Foldal, and she also was a true woman whose memory he

would always honor, when she said good-bye on the night of the second

departure from the city of his birth. But the tears in the eyes of

Mother and Miss Foldal were not as the superb and terrible tear in the

eye of Miss Cora Dobbs.

"Don't think I blame you, Harry," said that lady with a Jocasta-like

note, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "I'm only a

lonely and unprotected girl who will soon be on the shelf, but that's

no fault of yours. Yet, somehow, I thought you were different.

Somehow, I thought you was a gentleman."

Miss Dobbs had no illusions on that point, but she well knew where the

shoe was going to pinch.

"I'll be a mark and a laughing stock," said the tragic Cora, "as poor

Pussy was before Caradoc made up his mind to marry her. While he was

plain Bill Jackson nothing was good enough for Pussy. Used to take her

to the Coliseum and on the river in the summer, and used to come to her

flat a bit lower down the Avenue to take tea with her and her friends

every Sunday of his life. And then suddenly Bill came into the title,

and poor Pussy got a miss from my lord. We all thought at first she

would go out of her mind. She worshiped the ground that Bill walked

upon. Besides, she couldn't bear to be made a mark of by her friends;

and being nothing but a straight girl there was always her reputation

to consider. Poor Pussy had to take a sleeping draught every night for

months. But Caradoc played cricket in the end as he was bound to do,

being a gentleman by birth, and Pussy is now a countess with two

children, a boy and a girl, and only last summer she invited me to go

and spend a fortnight with her at her place in Ireland, but, of course,

I couldn't, because I hadn't the clothes. Still, I'm glad for Pussy's

sake. She was always one of the best, was Pussy. All's well that ends

well, isn't it?" And Miss Jocasta Dobbs very abruptly broke down.

It was a breakdown of the most nerve-shattering kind. The tears

streamed down her face. She struggled almost hysterically not to give

way, yet the more she struggled, the more she did give way.

"Miss Dobbs," he gasped, huskily--he had known her a long and crowded

year, but he had never ventured on Cora--"Miss Cora"--he had done it

now! "I didn't mean nothing."

Better had he held his peace.

"You didn't mean anything!" There was a change in the voice of

Jocasta. "You didn't mean anything, Mr. Harper? No, I suppose not."

The young man drew in his breath sharply. The tone of Miss Dobbs was

edged like a knife.

"It was only a poor and unprotected girl with whom you might play the

fool until you had made good. It was only a girl who valued her fair

name, a girl who would have died rather than be made a mark of by her

friends. I suppose now you are a big man and earning big money, you

will take up with somebody else. Well, I'm not the one to grudge any

girl her luck."

The sudden fall in the voice of Miss Dobbs and the half veiled look in

her eyes somehow took Henry Harper back to the Auntie of his childhood.

And it almost seemed that she also had in her hand a weapon which she

knew well how to use.

"I thought I had a gentleman to deal with," said Miss Dobbs, brushing

aside a tear, "but it was my mistake. However, it's never too late to

learn." Her laugh seemed to strike him.

"I didn't mean to mislead you," mumbled the young man, who felt like a

trapped and desperate animal. Yet when all was said, the emotion

uppermost was not for himself. This woman was hurting him horribly,

but it was the fact, as he thought, that he was hurting her still more

without any intention of evil towards her, which now took possession of

his mind. He would do anything to soften the pain he was unwittingly

causing. It was not in his nature to hurt a living thing.

"I beg pardon, Miss Cora," he said, faintly, "I didn't mean nothing

like that."

She turned upon him, a tigress, and rent him. Nor did he shrink from

the wounds she dealt. It was no more than he deserved. He should have

learned a little more about ladies and their fine feelings and their

social outlook, before daring to go to tea at their private flats and

to meet their friends; before daring to be seen with them at a public

place like the Coliseum or in a boat on the river. He was receiving a

much needed lesson. It was one he would never forget.

XIV

Henry Harper did not go to tea at King John's Mansions on the next

Sunday afternoon. And on the following Sunday he stayed away too.

Moreover, during the whole of that fortnight Miss Cora Dobbs did not

call once at No. 249, Charing Cross Road.

This was a relief to the young man. He would not have known how to

meet her had she come to the shop as usual. He was so shattered by the

bolt from the blue that he didn't know in the least what to do.

Happily there was his work to distract him. Mr. Ambrose had suggested

that he should write another tale for _Brown's Magazine_. He was to

take his own time over the new story, bearing ever in mind the advice

given him formerly, which he had turned to very good account; and in

the meantime, his fancy could expand in the happy knowledge that the

"Adventures of Dick Smith" were attracting attention in the magazine.

Mr. Ambrose had already arranged for the story to appear as a book when

its course had run in _Brown's_, and he was convinced--if prophecy was

ever safe in literary matters--that real success awaited it.

Could Henry Harper have put Miss Cora Dobbs out of his thoughts, he

might have been almost completely happy in planning and writing the

"Further Adventures of Dick Smith." Aladdin's wonderful lamp was

making his life a fairy tale. An incredible vista of fame and fortune

was spreading before his eyes. Even Mr. Rudge had been stricken with

awe by the check for three hundred pounds.

Yet, at the back of everything just now was a terrible feeling of

indecision. There could be no doubt that the great world of which he

knew so little, clearly looked to him "to act the gentleman." The

phrase was that of the elegant and refined Miss Bonser and the dashing

Miss Press, who mixed habitually with gentlemen, and therefore were in

a position to speak with authority on such a delicate matter. And so

plain was his duty that it had even percolated to Mrs. Greaves, who, in

ways subtle and mysterious, seemed to be continually unbosoming herself

to a similar tenor.

In the course of the third week of crisis, Mr. Harper's perplexities

were greatly increased by a brief but emotional note, written on

elegantly art-shaded notepaper, which had the name "Cora" with a ring

round it engraved in the left-hand corner. It said:

DEAR HARRY,

Why haven't you been or written? I am feeling so low and miserable

that unless you come to see me Sunday, the doctor says I shall have a

bad breakdown.

Yours, CORA.

Somehow, this letter, couched in such grimly pathetic terms, seemed to

leave the young man with no alternative. Therefore, on the following

Sunday afternoon, at the usual hour, he was just able to screw up

courage to knock at the door of No. 106, King John's Mansions.

He was rather surprised to find Cora in good health; certainly the tone

of her letter had implied that such was not the case. She had no

appearance of suffering. In tone and manner she was a little

chastened, but that was all.

Miss Bonser and Miss Press were also there when Mr. Harper arrived.

But their reception of him was so much more formal than was usual that

a feeling of tension was at once created. It was as if these

experienced ladies understood that some high issue was pending.

Each of them treated him in quite a different way from that which she

had used before. In her own style, each was lofty and _grande dame_.

It was no longer Harry, but Mr. Harper; and they shook hands with him

without cordiality, but with quiet dignity, and said, "How do you do?"

Strange to say, Mr. Harper found this reception more to his liking than

the less studied manner in which he was received as a rule. Now that

he had not to meet persiflage and chaff, he was fairly cool and

collected. The stately bow of Miss Press and the archly fashionable

handshake of Miss Bonser were much less embarrassing than their

habitual mode of attack.

This afternoon, Mr. Harper was treated as a chance acquaintance might

have been by three fashionable ladies who knew the world better than

they knew him. There was a subtle note of distance. This afternoon,

Miss Press talked books and theaters, and talked them very well,

although, to be sure, rather better about the latter than the former.

Yet in Mr. Harper's judgment, her conversation was more improving than

her usual mode of discourse. Had he not been in such a state of

turmoil it would have been quite a pleasure to sit and listen, she

talked so well about the things that were beginning to interest him

intensely; also her manner of speaking was extremely refined.

Miss Bonser talked mainly about the Royal Academy of Arts. She knew a

good deal about art, having studied it, although in what capacity she

didn't state, before she went to the Maison Perry. Nevertheless, she

had both fluency and point; she didn't like Leader so much as she liked

Sargent; she spoke of values, composition, brushwork, draughtmanship,

and it was really a pity that Mr. Harper was not easier in his mind,

otherwise he could not have failed to be edified. As it was, Miss

Press and Miss Bonser rose considerably in his estimation. He could

have wished that they always hoisted themselves on these high subjects.

Both ladies, wearing white gloves and looking very _comme il faut_,

went soon after five, as they had promised to go on to Lady Caradoc's.

Mr. Harper felt quite sorry. They had talked so well about the things

that interested him that somehow their distinguished departure left a

void. As they got up to go, Mr. Harper, remembering a hint he had

received from Miss Press, touching the behavior of a gentleman in such

circumstances, sprang to the door, and with less awkwardness than

usual, contrived to open it for them to pass out.

The ordeal he dreaded was now upon him. He was with Cora alone.

However, much to his relief, there was no sign at present of "a bad

breakdown."

For three weeks he had been living in a little private hell of

indecision. But now there was a chance of winning through. His duty

was not yet absolutely clear, but he was not without hope that it would

become so. In that time he had been thinking very hard and very deep.

And by some means, he had added a cubit to his stature since he stood

last on that tea-stained hearthrug in the quasi-comfort of that

overfurnished "boo-door." It was a new and enlarged Mr. Harper who now

confronted a more composed and dignified Miss Dobbs.

"Well, Harry," said Miss Dobbs, "it is nice to see you here again."

He was touched by such a tone of magnanimity. Somehow, he felt that it

was more than he deserved.

"How's the new story getting on?" There was not a sign of the

breakdown at present. "Will it be as good as the old one?" This was a

welcome return to her first phase of generous interest; to the Miss

Dobbs of whom he had memories not wholly unpleasant.

"I think it is going to be better," he said gravely. "Much better.

Anyway, I intend it to be."

"That's right. I like to hear that. Nothing like ambition. I suppose

you'll get another three hundred for this one?"

"Five," said the young man. "That's if the editor likes it."

"My!" said Miss Dobbs, with an involuntary flash of the wary eyes.

"And that's only for the serial."

"Yes."

"And, of course, you'll be able to bring it out as a book as well?"

"The editor has arranged for that already. For the present one, I

mean."

"But you'll get paid for it extra, of course!"

"Oh yes."

"How much?" Miss Dobbs spoke carelessly, but her eyes were by no means

careless.

"I'll get a shilling for every copy that's sold."

"And how many will they sell?"

"Nobody knows that," he said, and from his tone it seemed that aspect

of the matter was unimportant.

"No, I expect not." Her tone coincided readily with his. "But I

suppose a man like Stevenson or Bert Hobson would sell by the hundred

thousand?"

"No idea," said the young man.

"But you ought to have an idea, Harry. It's very important. What you

want is somebody with a head for business to look after your affairs."

He was inclined to accept this view of the matter, but there would be

time to think of that when he really was selling in thousands, which,

of course, could not be until the book was published.

"When will it be published?"

"Next week."

"Next week! And you are going to get a sure five hundred, apart from

the book, for the story you are writing now?"

"If Mr. Ambrose likes it."

"Of course he'll like it. You must make it so good that he can't help

liking it."

"I'll try, anyway."

Miss Dobbs grew thoughtful. She was inclined to believe, having regard

to all the circumstances, that she had a difficult hand to play.

Therefore, she began to arrange two or three of the leading cards in

her mind. To be perfectly candid with herself, she could not help

thinking, and her two friends had confirmed her in that view, that she

had shown lack of judgment in the cards she had played already. For

one thing, it was agreed that they might have a little underrated the

size and the weight of the fish that had to be landed.

Miss Dobbs was a trifle uncertain as to what her next move should be.

There was much at stake, and one blunder in tactics might be fatal.

However, she was about to receive assistance of a kind she had felt it

would no longer be wise to expect.

"Miss Dobbs ... Cora," said the young man, with an abruptness that

startled her. "There's something ... something particular I want to

say to you."

Cora was on guard at once. But she was able to make clear that

whatever he might have to say to her, she was prepared to listen.

"I've been thinking a goodish bit," said Henry Harper, with a quaint

stiffening of manner as the gruff words found a way out of him, "about

that talk we had the last time I come here."

Miss Dobbs listened with eyes half shut. Her face was a mask.

"I don't pretend to know much about what's due to ladies," he said,

after a pause so long and so trying that it seemed to hypnotize him.

"I've not mixed much in Society"--W. M. Thackeray, in whose works he

was now taking so much interest, had a great belief in Society--"but I

should like to do what's straight."

Silence still seemed the part of wisdom for Miss Dobbs.

"If I've done wrong, I'm sorry." There was another very awkward pause

to navigate. "But I didn't see no harm in what I've done, and that's

the truth."

A very slight sniff from Miss Dobbs ... a very slight sniff and nothing

more.

"If I never speak again, Miss Cora, it's a solemn fact."

The sniff grew slightly more pronounced.

"If I had known a bit more about Society, I might not have come here

quite so often."

"What's Society got to do with it, anyway?" suddenly asked Miss Dobbs,

who was getting a trifle bored by the word.

"I don't know," said the young man, "but I thought it had."

"Why should you think so?"

"Hasn't it, Miss Cora?"

At this point, it seemed necessary for Miss Dobbs to regard the

situation as a whole. A wrong move here might be fatal.

"Yes, I suppose it has," said she, trying very hard to keep from

laughing in his face. "If you put it that way."

Again there was a pause. Henry Harper seemed to be overawed by this

admission on the part of a lady of great experience.

"I make no claim"--Miss Dobbs felt that a little well-timed assistance

was called for--"if that's what you mean. My reputation's gone, but as

I am only a girl, without a shilling, who has to fight her own battle,

of course it's not of the slightest consequence."

"That's just what I want to talk to you about," he said, with a

simplicity that made her lip curl in spite of the strong will which

ruled it. Zoe was right, it was cruelty to children.

"Talk away, then," said Miss Dobbs, with dreary and tragic coldness.

"I just want to do right. I admit I've done wrong. But what I've

done, I've done in ignorance. I didn't know it would be against your

reputation for me to come here constant, and to take you on the river,

and go with you to the theater and the Coliseum."

"No, I don't suppose you did," said Cora, holding her hand very

carefully now that he had been such a fool as to put a weapon in it.

"No, I suppose not, Mr. Harper."

The "Mr." was stressed very slightly, but she felt him flinch a little.

"Well, Miss Cora," he said huskily, "it's like this. I just want to do

right by you as any other gentleman would."

"Oh, do you, Mr. Harper." She fixed him with the eye of a basilisk.

"Yes," he said, and the sweat broke out on his forehead. "Whatever

it's got to be."

She sensed the forehead rather than saw it. Every nerve in her was now

alert. Yet the desire uppermost was to spit in his face, or to dash

her fist in it with all the strength she had, but at such a moment she

could not afford to give rein to the woman within. She must bide her

time. The fish was hooked, but it still remained to land it.

"Well, Mr. Harper, I am sure you are most kind. But you know better

than I can tell you that there is only one thing you can do under the

circumstances." And Miss Dobbs suddenly laughed in Mr. Harper's face,

in order to show that she was not such a fool as to treat his heroics

seriously.

"What's that, Miss Cora?" he asked, huskily.

"What's that, Mr. Harper? What innocence! I wonder where you was

brought up?"

"Don't ask that, Miss Cora." He could have bitten out his tongue

almost before the words had slipped from it.

But Miss Cora was not going to be sidetracked at this critical moment

by a matter so trivial as Mr. Harper's upbringing.

"You take away a straight girl's reputation, you as good as ruin her,

and then you come and ask her what you should do about it. What ho,

she bumps!" And Miss Dobbs, with an irrelevance fully equal to her

final remark, suddenly flung herself down to the further detriment of

the broken-springed sofa.

Mr. Harper, however, was able to recognize this as a cry of the soul of

a lady in agony.

"If you think I ought to marry you," he said, with dry lips, "I'll do

it."

Miss Dobbs, flopping on the sofa, sat up suddenly with a complete

change of manner.

"It's not what I think, Mr. Harper," she said. "That don't matter.

It's what you think that matters. If a man is a gentleman, he don't

ask those sort of things."

"No, I suppose he doesn't," said Mr. Harper, who suddenly felt and saw

the great force of this. "Miss Dobbs ... Cora.... I ... I ... will you

marry me, Miss Cora?"

The answer of Miss Cora was to rise from the sofa in the stress of

feminine embarrassment. But she did not fall into his arms, as some

ladies might have done; she did not even change color. She merely said

in an extremely practical voice--

"Harry, you've done right, and I'm glad you've acted the toff. There

was those who said you wouldn't, but we'll not mention names. However,

all's well that ends well. And the sooner we get married the better."

He made no reply. But a slow, deadly feeling had begun to creep along

his spine.

"Do you mind where we are married, Harry?"

"No," he said, gently, with faraway eyes.

"I'm all for privacy," said Miss Dobbs, in her practical voice. "I

hope you are."

"Whatever's agreeable to you is agreeable to me." He seemed to feel

that that was good W. M. Thackeray.

"Very well, then, Harry, tomorrow morning at eleven I'll call for you,

and we'll toddle round to the Circus and see what the Registrar has to

say to us."

"If that's agreeable to you, it's agreeable to me," he said, sticking

doggedly to his conception of the man of the world and the English

gentleman.

"And now, Harry---" But Cora suddenly stopped in the very act of

advancing upon him. He had read her purpose, and she had read his

eyes; moreover, she had read the look which those eyes had been unable

to veil. With the sagacity upon which Miss Cora Dobbs prided

herself--if she happened to be perfectly sober--she decided to postpone

any oscular demonstration of regard for Harry until the next day.

XV

It was not until Tuesday evening that Henry Harper informed the old man

who had treated him with such kindness that he had decided to give up

his situation. Mr. Rudge was not surprised. Now that the young man's

time had become so valuable his master disinterestedly approved this

step, although he would regret the loss of such a trustworthy

assistant. Henry Harper then felt called upon to explain that he had

married Cora that afternoon, and that he was about to transfer his

belongings to No. 106, King John's Mansions.

"You don't mean to say you have gone and got married?" said Mr. Rudge.

"Yes, sir. But Cora wanted it to be kept very quiet, else I should

have told you before."

"Cora who?" asked his master, pushing up his spectacles on to his

forehead.

"Cora Dobbs."

"Do you mean that niece of Mrs. Greaves?"

"Yes, sir."

"Goodness gracious me!" Mr. Rudge was never moved to this objurgation

except under duress of very high emotion. "Goodness gracious me ...

why, she's not respectable!"

"Beg your pardon, sir, but there you are wrong." The young man

addressed his master with an independence and a dignity that

twenty-four hours ago would not have been possible. "Cora is quite

respectable and ... and Cora's a lady. If there's those who think

otherwise, it's my fault for ... for compromising her." To Mrs. Henry

Harper belonged the credit for the word "compromising," although it was

worthy of W. M. Thackeray himself.

"Goodness gracious me!" Mr. Rudge mopped his face with a profuse red

handkerchief. "Didn't I most strongly warn you against her when I

found her that morning in the shop?"

"You have never once mentioned Cora to me, sir," said Henry Harper

respectfully. "And I'm very glad you haven't, because a great wrong's

been done her."

"Didn't I tell you she was up to no good, and that you had better be

careful?"

"No, sir, you never said a single word to me."

"I certainly meant to do so ... but that's my unfortunate memory. I

remember I had Charles XII. of Sweden in my head at the time;

practically three hundred pages of Volume XXXIII. But it's no excuse.

I'll never be able to forgive myself for not having warned you. It's a

pity she's Mrs. Greaves' niece, but I'm as sure as Tilly sacked

Magdeburg that that girl Cora is not respectable."

"You are quite mistaken in that, sir," said Henry Harper, with a

dignity of an entirely new kind, "because she is now my wife."

"I beg your pardon, Henry." Mr. Rudge had begun to realize that he was

letting his tongue run away with him. "I'd forgotten that. I dare say

I have been misinformed."

"Yes, sir, I am quite sure of that. You have no idea how careful she

is in that way. It is because she is so careful that I've married her."

"Goodness gracious me!" said Mr. Rudge.

"She is most particular. And so are all her lady friends. And it's

because I've been going to her flat and getting her talked about and

going to the Coliseum with her, that I thought I ought to act the

gentleman."

"Goodness gracious me! I wouldn't have had this happen for a thousand

pounds."

"I wouldn't, either, sir," said Henry Harper.

XVI

When, at the instance of the lady who was now his wife, the young man

removed his few belongings to No. 106, King John's Mansions, his first

feeling was that he had entered quite a different world. He was very

sorry to leave Mr. Rudge, who had been a true friend and to whom he had

become deeply attached. Also he was sorry to leave that comfortable

sitting-room with all its associations of profitable labor which

embodied by far the best hours his life had known. As for the books in

the shop, he would miss them dreadfully.

It was a wrench to leave these things. But at the call of duty it had

to be. Cora regarded the change as inevitable, and she saw that it was

made at once. From the very hour of their marriage, she took absolute

charge of him. It was due to her infinitely greater knowledge of life

and of the world that one who was so much a child in these matters

should defer to her in everything. He was expected to do as he was

told, and for the most part he was perfectly willing to fulfil that

obligation.

Almost the first question she asked him, as soon as they were man and

wife, was what he had done with the check for three hundred pounds?

Her highly developed business instinct regarded it as more or less

satisfactory, that at the suggestion of Mr. Rudge he had opened an

account at a bank. It was a very sensible thing to have done, but it

would be even more sensible if the money was paid over to her. She

also felt that all sums he earned in the future should be banked in her

name. There were many advantages in such a course. In the first

place, only one banking account would be necessary, and she always

favored simplicity in matters of business. Again, their money would be

much safer with her: she understood its value far better than he.

Again, it would be wise if she made all financial arrangements; a man

who had his head full of writing would naturally not want to be

bothered with such tiresome things, and he would have the more time to

use his pen.

These arguments were so logical that Harry felt their force. There was

no doubt that Cora's head was much better than his. Besides, as she

said, with a penetration which was flattering, he lived in a world of

his own, and she was quite sure he ought not to be worried by things of

that kind.

Up to a point, this was true. The world Henry Harper lived in at

present was largely of his own creation; and he was content that the

wife he had married should take these trite burdens from his shoulders.

Moreover, at first he did not regret Mr. Rudge and the old privacy as

much as he thought he would. Cora was by no means deficient in common

sense, and having had what she knew was a great stroke of luck, she

determined to show herself worthy of it by doing her best "to settle

down."

There was prudence and wisdom in this. Mrs. Henry Harper had been a

scholar in a very hard school, and she now hoped to profit by its

teaching. Therefore, she tried all she knew to make the young man

comfortable, not merely because she liked him as much as it was

possible for her to like any man, but also for the more practical

reason that he might begin to like her.

At first his work, which meant so much more to him than ever Cora

could, suffered far less than he had feared. To be sure, he missed the

books terribly. He had not realized the value of those serried rows in

the shop until the time had come to do without them. But Mr. Rudge, in

saying good-by to him with distress in his honest eyes, had promised

that the run of the shelves should always be his.

Now there was no longer the bookshop to look after, he had more time

for reading and writing, and for gaining general knowledge. Also Cora

had the wisdom to trouble him little. She stayed in bed most of the

morning, and as Royal Daylight had strict instructions to walk

delicately in going about her household duties, Henry Harper with his

habit of rising early was always able to count on a long and

uninterrupted morning's work.

In the afternoon, Cora generally went forth to visit her friends. And

as she showed no desire for Harry to accompany her, there were so many

more precious hours in which he could do as he liked, in which his

fancy could expand. In the evening, however, his trials began. After

the first few days of matrimony, Cora developed a passion for

restaurants, whither she expected him to accompany her. As a rule they

dined at the Roc at the bottom of the Avenue, where there was music and

company, and here they sometimes fell in with one or another of Cora's

circle. Then about twice a week they would go on to a theater or a

music hall, and have supper at another restaurant. The young man soon

grew aware that if Cora's attention was not fully occupied, she became

restless and irritable.

These evenings abroad gave Henry Harper a feeling of profound

discomfort. But he did not complain. It would not have been fair to

Cora, who, as she proudly said, gave him a free hand for the rest of

the day. And even the publicity of restaurant life, against his

deepest instinct as it was, had compensations quite apart from the

performance of duty. There was much to be learned from these places.

The Sailor had a remarkable faculty of minute observation. The genie

within never slept. Other worlds were swimming into his ken. Golden

hours were being stolen from his labors, but he was gaining first-hand

knowledge of men and things.

These early days of married life were in some respects the most

valuable the Sailor had yet known. He was no longer living entirely in

his dreams. So much was coming into his purview which he could not

grasp, to which he had hardly a clue, that he had an overmastering

desire for more exact information.

For example, the talk of Cora's numerous friends was almost a foreign

language, which left him as a rule with a sense of hopeless ignorance

and inferiority. But this merely increased the wish to catch up. Just

as a surprisingly brief four years ago he had been tormented with an

almost insane desire to read and write and to learn geography and

arithmetic, so now he had a terrible craving to enter a world in which

Cora moved with such ease and assurance.

The chief difficulty now was the multiplicity of worlds around him.

There was his own private world which none could enter but himself.

That was a thing apart. It was made up of the awful memories of his

youth: of Auntie, of the slushy streets of Blackhampton, of special

editions, of the police, of a December night on the railway, of Mother,

of Mr. Thompson, of the Old Man, of the half-deck of the _Margaret

Carey_, of the Island of San Pedro, of the Chinaman, of Klondyke, of

Ginger, of Auntie again, of Miss Foldal, of the final catastrophe; all

these memories lay at he back of the world he inhabited--these memories

and the wonderful books he was always studying. Yet enthroned above

them all was the Aladdin's lamp that glowed like a star in the

right-hand corner of his brain. But even that seemed to be related to

other strange, ineluctable forces which lay deep down at the root of

his being, in the center of which was the thing he called himself.

This private cosmos, however, wide as it was, was only an imperceptible

speck of the whole. Yet it was all important, because he felt it was

the only one he would ever really know. As for this world of Cora's,

it was quite outside his experience. Even the simplest objects in it

did not present themselves at the same angle of vision. They were man

and wife and went about together, but the worlds they inhabited were so

diverse that he soon felt it would never be possible to merge them in

one another.

Then, too, there was the cosmogony of Mr. Rudge. That was a vastly

different matter from his own and Cora's, and the great world of the

Roc and the Domino where there was continual music and people drank

things called liqueurs and wore evening clothes. Again, there was the

world of his friend Mr. Ambrose, and beyond this again was the world of

those wonderful people whom he used to watch with such solemn delight

and curiosity when he paid his Sunday morning pilgrimages to Hyde Park.

XVII

Early in November "The Adventures of Dick Smith on the High Seas" was

published by a firm with which Mr. Ambrose was connected. It was clear

from the first that it was going to succeed. The progress of the story

through the chaste pages of _Brown's_ had brought many new readers to

that old and respected periodical. The editor made no secret of the

fact that it was the best serial story the magazine had had for years,

and as soon as "Dick Smith" appeared as a book it had many friends.

The notices in the papers, which Mr. Ambrose took the trouble to send

to Henry Harper from time to time, were kind to the verge of

indiscretion. Almost without exception they summed up the modest and

unpretending story in the same way: it was a thing entirely new. The

writer saw and felt life with extraordinary intensity, and he had the

power of painting it with a vivid force that was astonishing. The

effect was heightened by a quaintness of style which seemed to give the

impression of a foreigner of great perception using a tongue with which

he was unfamiliar. Yet, allowing for every defect, there was a

wonderful power of narrative, not unworthy of a Bunyan or a Defoe. A

spell was cast upon the reader's mind, which made it very difficult for

those who began the book to lay it down until the last page had been

read.

Henry Harper was quite unconscious of the stir he had begun to make in

literary circles. One aspect only of a literary success had anything

to say to him at first, and that was purely monetary. Moreover, Edward

Ambrose, unaffectedly proud of being the sponsor of "the new

Stevenson"--a generalization so crude as to be very wide of the

mark--was wise enough to stand between the personality of this half

formed but rapidly developing man of genius and the curiosity of his

admirers.

The young man was more than content that Edward Ambrose should take

charge of his literary affairs and "dry nurse him" through these early

and in some ways very critical months of his fame. And child of nature

as the Sailor was, it was a task that could only have been carried

through by a man of tact and liberality of mind.

One day, at the beginning of December, when Henry Harper had been

married nearly six weeks--the visit to the Registrar round the corner

in the Circus had coincided almost exactly with the book publication of

the "Adventures of Dick Smith on the High Seas"--he received a letter

from his friend. It said:

Bury Street,

Tuesday.

MY DEAR HARPER,

If you are free, come and dine here on Friday next at eight. There

will be two or three men (no ladies!), old friends, and your humble

admirers, who would like very much to meet you. Do come if you can.

Yours ever,

EDWARD AMBROSE.

The Sailor's first instinct, in spite of his confidence in Mr. Ambrose

and a liking for him that now amounted to affection, was to decline

this invitation. He was well aware that he was not fitted by education

and by social opportunity to take his place as the equal of Mr. Ambrose

and his friends. Therefore, a summons even in these siren terms,

worried him a good deal. It seemed disloyal to deny such a friend for

such a reason; but he had learned that the genie who now accompanied

him day and night wherever he went, had one very sinister quality. It

had a power of making him morbidly sensitive in regard to his own

deficiencies.

In order to end the state of uncertainty into which the letter had

thrown him, he showed it to Cora. She advised him to accept the

invitation. This Mr. Ambrose, as she knew, had helped him very much,

and it would be wise, she thought, for Harry to meet these friends of

his, who no doubt would be literary men like Mr. Ambrose himself.

Cora having made his mind up for him, the young man determined to do

his best to lay his timidity aside. After all, there was nothing of

which to be ashamed. He was what he was; and it would be the part of

loyalty to a true friend to believe that no harm could come of dining

with him.

All the same, the evening of Friday, December 13, was in the nature of

a great ordeal for Henry Harper. Why he should have had this feeling

about it was more than he could say. But having duly written and

posted his acceptance, he knew no peace of mind until that ominous day

was through.

The evening itself, when it came, began badly. Cora, whom he left at

the door of the Roc at a little after half past seven, told him exactly

how to get to Bury Street. He would have plenty of time to walk as he

had not to be there until eight. But either he did not follow her

instructions as carefully as he ought to have done, or he was in a

chaotic state of mind, for things went hopelessly awry. He took

several wrong turnings, had twice to be put right by a policeman, began

to wish miserably, when it was too late, that he had taken a taxi, and

in the end arrived nearly twenty minutes after eight at Edward

Ambrose's door.

It was a flustered, guilty, generally discomposed Henry Harper who was

admitted by Mr. Ambrose's servant, whom he addressed as "Sir." The

host and his two other guests were waiting patiently to begin dinner.

"Here you are," said Edward Ambrose, coming forward to greet the young

man almost before he was announced. "I know what has happened, so

don't apologize. No good Londoner apologizes for being late, my dear

fellow." He then introduced Henry Harper to his two friends, and they

went in to dinner.

The young man was so much upset at first by the absence of a dinner

jacket, that he felt he must take an early opportunity of apologizing

for that also. This he accordingly did with the greatest simplicity,

and excused himself on the plea that he had no evening clothes at

present, but was intending to get some.

Before Edward Ambrose could make any remark, his servant, of whom Henry

Harper was really more in awe than of anyone else--he looked so much

more imposing than either his master or his master's guests--was asking

whether he would have sherry.

"No, thank you, I'm teetotal," he said to the servant in answer to the

invitation. "At least, I'm almost teetotal." For he suddenly

remembered that since his marriage he had rather fallen away from

grace, yet not to any great extent.

"Have just half a glass," said Ambrose. "I'm rather proud of this

sherry, although that's not a wise thing to say." The host laughed his

rich note, which in the ear of Henry Harper was even finer than

Klondyke's, if such an admission was not sacrilege; and his two

friends, to whom the latter part of his remark was addressed, echoed

his laugh with notes of their own that were almost equally musical.

"A simple beverage, warranted harmless," said the host as he raised his

glass, making a rather feeble attempt to secure his line of retreat.

"Plutocrat," said his friend Ellis, who was in the Foreign Office, and

who dignified his leisure with writing plays.

"It's very nice indeed, sir," said Henry Harper, speaking as he felt.

He was convinced that this was the nicest wine he had ever tasted--to

be sure, he had tasted little--and that it called for sincere

commendation.

This evening was a landmark in the Sailor's life. Nervously anxious as

he had been at the outset, the ease and the simplicity of his three

companions, their considered yet not too obviously considered kindness

towards him, the discreet pains they took to establish him on a basis

of equality, could hardly fail of their effect. Very soon Henry Harper

began to respond to this new and subtly delightful atmosphere as a

flower responds to the sun.

He had never imagined that any dinner could be so agreeable as this

one. He had never dreamed of food so choice or cooked so deliciously,

or wines of such an exquisite flavor. He had never seen a room like

that, or such beautiful silver, or such flowers as those in the bowl in

the center of the table. All these things addressed a clear call to

the soul of Henry Harper, a call it had never heard before.

Mr. Ambrose was a delightful host, and not less delightful were his

friend Mr. Ellis and his other friend Mr. Barrington, yet perhaps Mr.

Portman, the servant, who bore himself with apostolic calm and dignity,

was really the most wonderful of all.

Somehow, these three gentlemen, Mr. Ambrose, Mr. Ellis, and Mr.

Barrington, continually recalled, by little things they said and the

way in which they said them, no less a person than Mr. Esme Horrobin.

And to recall that gentleman was to evoke the even more august shade of

the immortal Klondyke.

By an odd chance, Mr. Esme Horrobin was to be brought to the mind of

Henry Harper in a manner even more direct before dinner was over. By

the time they had come to the apples and pears and Mr. Ambrose had

persuaded him to have half a glass of port wine, they were all talking

freely and frankly together--Henry Harper a little less freely and

frankly than the others, no doubt, but yet having settled down to enjoy

himself more thoroughly than he could ever have thought to be

possible--when the name of Mr. Esme Horrobin was suddenly mentioned.

It was either Mr. Ellis or Mr. Barrington who mentioned it. The young

man was not sure which; indeed, throughout the evening he was not quite

sure which was Mr. Ellis and which was Mr. Barrington. Anyhow, after

the host had told an anecdote which made them laugh consumedly,

although the Sailor was not quite able to see the point of it, Mr.

Ellis-Barrington made the remark, "That story somehow reminds one of

Esme Horrobin."

"Alas, poor Esme!" sighed Mr. Ellis-Barrington with mock pathos. "It's

odd, but this story of Ned's, which really seems to handle facts rather

recklessly, recalls that distinguished shade. Alas, poor Horrobin!"

All three--Mr. Ellis, Mr. Barrington, and their host--laughed at the

mention of that name, but to the acute ear of Henry Harper it seemed

that their mirth had suddenly taken a new note.

"You never met Horrobin," said Mr. Ellis-Barrington to the Sailor. "We

were all at Gamaliel with him."

Mr. Ellis-Barrington was wrong to assume that Mr. Harper had never met

Mr. Esme Horrobin. Mr. Harper had not been with Mr. Horrobin at

Gamaliel, but he had been with him at Bowdon House.

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Harper, feeling honorably glad that he could play

this part in the conversation. "I have met a Mr. Horrobin of Gamaliel

College, Oxford." Somehow, the young man could not repress a thrill of

pride in his excellent memory for names and places.

"Not the great Esme?" cried Mr. Ellis-Barrington with serio-comic

incredulity.

"Yes, Mr. Esme Horrobin," said Henry Harper stoutly.

"Do tell us where you met the great man?" The voice of Edward Ambrose

was asking the question almost as if it felt that it ought not to do so.

"I met him, sir, when I was staying at Bowdon House. He was staying

there, too, and he used to talk to me about the 'Satyricon' of

Petronius Arbiter and the Feast of Trimalchio."

For one brief but deadly instant, there was a pause. The odd precision

with which the carefully treasured words were spoken was uncanny. But

the three friends who had been with the great Esme Horrobin at Gamaliel

somehow felt that an abyss had opened under their feet.

Edward Ambrose was the first to speak. But the laugh of gay charm was

no longer on his lips. There was a look almost of horror in those

honest eyes.

"That's very interesting, my dear fellow," he said, with a change of

tone so slight that it was hardly possible to detect it. "Interesting

and curious that you should have met Horrobin." And then with a return

to carelessness, as though no answer was required to a merely

conventional inquiry: "What's he doing now, do you know?"

The Sailor's almost uncanny power of memory was equal even to that

question.

"He's bear-leading the aristocracy," said the young man, with a proud

exactitude of phrase.

"Oh, really!"

But in spite of the adroitness of the host, the tact of Mr. Ellis, and

Mr. Barrington's feeling for the nuances, another pause followed. For

one dark instant it was by no means clear to all three of them that

their legs were not being pulled rather badly. This rare and strange

young sea monster with a primeval simplicity of speech and manner, who

had just absentmindedly quenched his thirst from his finger bowl, might

not be all that he appeared. It seemed hardly possible to doubt the

_bona fides_ of such a curiously charming child of nature, but....

For another brief and deadly moment, silence reigned. But in that

moment, Mr. Henry Harper, with his new and rather terrible

sensitiveness, was beginning to fear that he had committed a solecism.

He remembered with a pang that Marlow's Dictionary had been unable to

correlate "bear-leading" and "aristocracy." Clearly he had done wrong

to make use of a phrase whose significance he did not fully understand,

even though it was the phrase most certainly used by Mr. Esme Horrobin.

It was pretending to a knowledge you didn't possess, and these

gentlemen who had all been to college and to whom, therefore, pretence

of any kind was entirely hateful....

"It's so like him!" The rare laugh of Edward Ambrose had come suddenly

to the young man's aid. But the question for gods and men was: did Mr.

Ambrose mean it was so like Mr. Esme Horrobin to be bear-leading the

aristocracy, or so like Mr. Henry Harper to be using a phrase whose

meaning was beyond him?

"Alas, poor Esme!" sighed Mr. Ellis-Barrington.

The Sailor echoed that sigh. His relief was profound that after all a

pause so deadly had not been caused by himself.

XVIII

Henry Harper at this period of his life was in the grip of a single

passion; the passion to know. Already he had learned that books,

wonderful, enchanting as they were, formed only one avenue to the

realms of truth. He had now come to realize that there are many

secrets in earth and heaven which books, even the wisest of them, are

not able to disclose.

Of late, he had begun to reinforce the thousand and one volumes placed

at his disposal by Mr. Rudge with the daily and weekly newspapers, and

those contemporaries of _Brown's_ which came out once a month. He had

been quite confounded by the reception given to "Dick Smith" by the

public press. A thing so trivial seemed unrelated to the life of

incomprehensible complexity in which he lived. Besides, he was

convinced that the merit of the story had been exaggerated, as it no

doubt had, in accordance with a generous custom of giving a newcomer a

fair chance. Still, the author felt in his own mind that whatever the

reviewers found in "Dick Smith" to admire was to be laid to the door of

the friend who had made it possible for the story to reach the world.

One of the first fruits of this new craving for exact knowledge was to

prove bitterly embarrassing. The Sailor had been haunted for several

weeks by a report, which he had found among Mr. Rudge's miscellaneous

collection, of the royal commission which sat to inquire into the

terrible case of Adolf Beck. He became obsessed by the thought that

the apparatus of the criminal law in a free country could fasten bonds

on an entirely innocent person, could successfully resist all attempts

to cast them off, and when finally pinned down and exposed to public

censure could easily evoke a second line of defense, which, under

juridical forms, freed it of blame in the matter.

To such an extent did the affair react upon the Sailor's mind that when

he called one afternoon upon Edward Ambrose in Pall Mall, he had to

make a sad confession. He had been so much troubled by it that he had

not been able to work.

"Ah, but there we come to the core of official England," said Edward

Ambrose. "Such miscarriages of justice happen in every country in the

world, but the commission which solemnly justifies them on the ground

of indisputable common sense could only have happened in this land of

ours."

The young man was grateful for the tone of indignation. It was

something to know there was one man in the world who agreed in sum with

a certain trite formula which was all he had to work by. It had come

to him by accident on the _Margaret Carey_.... Right is right, and

wrong is no man's right.

"You should go to the Old Bailey one day and hear a trial," said Edward

Ambrose. "All things that are concerned with reality might help you

just now. I dare say it will hurt you horribly; but if you are not

unlucky in the judge, it may help to restore your faith in your

country."

"Yes, sir, I'll go there one day, as you advise me to," said Henry

Harper, as a boy in the fourth form who was young for his age might

have said it; and then with curious simplicity: "But I won't much fancy

going by myself."

"I'll come with you," said Edward Ambrose, "if that is how you feel

about it."

Thus it was that one evening, about a fortnight later, Henry Harper

received a postcard, which said:

Meet me outside O. B. 10.30 tomorrow. Murder trial: a strange and

terrible drama of passion for two students of the human comedy! E. A.

On the following morning, the Sailor had already mingled with the crowd

outside the Old Bailey when, punctual to the minute, he was joined by

his friend.

"It's brave of you to face it," was his greeting.

Mr. Ambrose little knew the things he had faced in the course of his

five and twenty years of life, was the thought that ran in the mind of

the Sailor.

They made their way in, and became witnesses of the drama that the law

was preparing to unfold.

The judge began the proceedings, or rather the proceedings began

themselves, with a kind of grotesque dignity. After the jury had been

sworn, the prisoner was brought into the dock. Henry Harper gazed at

him with an emotion of dull horror. In an instant, he had recognized

Mr. Thompson, the mate of the _Margaret Carey_.

There could be no doubt it was he. Alexander Thompson was the name

given in the indictment; besides, the Sailor would have known anywhere

that shaggy and hirsute man who had cast such a shadow across his

youth. There he was, that grim figure! He had changed, and yet he had

not changed. The long, lean, angular body was the same in every

awkward line, but the deadly pallor of the face was horrible to see.

It was Mr. Thompson right enough, and yet it was not Mr. Thompson at

all.

A surge of memories came upon Henry Harper as he sat in that court.

They were so terrible that he could hardly endure them. He did not

hear a word that was being spoken by the barrister who, in even and

impartial tones, was reciting the details of a savage but not ignoble

crime. The Sailor was thousands of miles away in the Pacific; the

groves of the Island of San Pedro were rising through the morning

mists; he could hear the plop-plop of the sharks in the water; he could

hear the Old Man coming up on deck.

"That man looks capable of anything," whispered Edward Ambrose.

The Sailor had always been clear upon that point. There was the drive

to the docks in a cab through the rain of the November night in his

mind. Again he was a helpless waif of the streets seated opposite Jack

the Ripper. He almost wanted to scream.

"Would you rather not stay?" whispered his friend.

"I'm not feeling very well," said Henry Harper; thereupon they left the

court and went out into the street.

They walked along Holborn in complete silence. To the Sailor the

fellowship, the security, the friendliness of that crowded street were

a great relief. His soul was in the grip of awful memories. Even the

man at his side could not dispel them. Mr. Ambrose was much farther

away just now than the Old Man, the Island of San Pedro, and the savage

and brutal murderer to whom he owed his life.

For days afterwards, the mind of the Sailor was dominated by Mr.

Thompson. He learned from the newspapers that the mate of the

_Margaret Carey_ was condemned to death, and that he awaited the last

office of the law in Dalston Prison. One day, an odd impulse came upon

him. He bought some grapes and took them to the prison, and with a

boldness far from his character at ordinary times, sought permission to

see the condemned man.

As Mr. Thompson had only one day more to live, and not one of his

friends had visited him for the simple reason that he had not a friend

in the world, the governor of the prison, a humane man, gave the Sailor

permission to see the mate of the _Margaret Carey_.

Behind iron bars and in the presence of a warder, Henry Harper was

allowed to look upon Mr. Thompson, to speak to him, and to offer the

grapes he had brought him. But a dreadful shock awaited the young man.

He saw at once that there was nothing human now in the man who was

ranging his cell like a caged beast.

"Don't you know me, Mr. Thompson?" cried Henry Harper feebly, through

the bars.

The mate of the _Margaret Carey_ paid no heed to his voice, but still

paced up and down.

"Don't you know me, Mr. Thompson? I'm Sailor."

For a fraction of time, the condemned man turned savage, unutterable

eyes upon him. They were those of a wild beast at bay.

"There's no God," he said.

He dashed his head against the wall of his cell.

XIX

Henry Harper was now in a universe of infinite complexity. The genie

who lived in the wonderful lamp in his brain had taught him already

that he knew nothing about whole stellar spaces in this strange cosmos

that he, the thing he called himself, inhabited. Moreover, it

presented many problems. Of these the most instant and pressing was

Cora.

It was no use mincing the matter: Cora and he were not getting on.

There was no bond of sympathy between them. His work and all that went

with it were far more to him than the woman he had married. And when

this fact came home to her, she began to resent it in a contemptuous

way. It made it more difficult for both that his work only appealed to

her in one aspect, and that the one which least appealed to him. The

hard and continuous labor it involved meant nothing to her; the hopes

and the fears of an awakening artistic sense were things beyond her

power to grasp; if his work had not a definite commercial value, if it

could not be rendered in pounds and shillings, it was a waste of time

and worse than meaningless. Everything apart from that was a closed

book as far as she was concerned. She began to despise his timidity

and his ignorance, and the time soon came when she did not hesitate to

sneer at him before her friends.

For one thing, she was bitterly resentful. It was useless to disguise

that he was not merely indifferent to her physical charms, he

positively disliked and even dreaded that aspect of their life

together. Within a very short time after their marriage, he made the

discovery that she drank.

Even before that knowledge came he had discerned something unwholesome

about her. The blackened eyebrows, the rouged cheeks, the dyed hair,

the overfine presence, the stealthy, cloying color of scent she exuded,

the coarse mouth, the apathetic eyes, had always been things that he

dared not let his mind rest upon in detail even before he had taken

them unto himself. And now that he had done so at the call of duty,

and with even that to sustain him, he foresaw that he must come to

dislike them more and more. It hardly needed a pervading reek of

brandy in her bedroom to read the future.

Unluckily for Cora, the monotony of a "straight" life with such a

humdrum young man was more than she could stand for any length of time.

The old fatal habit was soon upon her again. Years of yielding had

weakened her will; and now she was beginning to grow contemptuous of

her husband--perhaps as a requital of his apathy towards her--she began

to assume a defiant carelessness, first of manner and then of conduct.

Disaster was foreshadowed by several quarrels. None of these were

serious, but they showed the inevitable end towards which matters had

begun to drift. Henry Harper was not the sort of man with whom it was

easy to quarrel; he had no aptitude for a form of reflex action quite

alien to his nature. All the same, there were times when he was almost

tempted to defend himself from Cora's perpetual sneers at his dullness,

not only in her company, which was bad enough, but in that of her

friends, which was worse.

Her chief complaint was his bearing in restaurants and public places.

He had not a word to say for himself; he let "the girls" and "the

boys"--Cora included her whole exceedingly numerous acquaintance in

these terms--"come it over him"; he took everything lying down; and she

couldn't understand why a man who was as clever as he was supposed to

be "didn't let himself out a bit now and again."

Harry's social maladroitness became a very sore subject. It annoyed

Cora intensely that the boys and the girls should so consistently "make

a mark of him." His inability to hit back seemed to be a grave

reflection upon her judgment and good taste in marrying him. The time

soon came when she told him that if he couldn't show himself a little

brighter in company, he could either stay at home of an evening or go

his way, and she would go hers.

As a fact, neither alternative was irksome to Henry Harper. But the

ultimatum hurt him very much. The odd thing was that in spite of the

nipping atmosphere to which his sensitiveness was exposed, it seemed to

grow more acute. He had a very real sense of inferiority in the

presence of others. Not only did he suffer from a lack of any kind of

social training, but even the few counters he was painfully acquiring

in a difficult game he had not the art of playing to advantage. Thus

he was only too glad to accept Cora's ukase. It was a merciful relief

to sit at home in the evening and eat the meager cold supper that Royal

Daylight provided, and then go on with his work to what hour he chose,

instead of being haled abroad at the heels of a superfashionable and

therefore hyperdisdainful Cora to public places, where he was always at

a miserable disadvantage.

She thus formed a habit of sallying forth alone in the evening.

Although she sometimes returned after midnight in a slightly elevated

condition, or in her own words, "inclined to be market merry," her

husband had too little knowledge of life to be really suspicious or

even deeply resentful.

Under the new arrangement, which suited the young man so well, he was

able to attend public lectures at various places, the Polytechnic in

Regent Street, the British Museum, the London Institution, the South

Kensington Museum, and other centers of light. These helped him in

certain ways. He was no dry-as-dust. Already his eyes were set

towards the mountain peaks, yet with a humility that was perhaps his

chief asset, he felt it to be in the power of all men to help him upon

his journey.

Twice a week, now, after an early supper, he would go to a lecture.

When it was over, he would often take a stroll about the streets in

order to observe the phantasmagoria around him of which he knew so

little. Yet his eager mind was looking forward to a time when all

should be made clear by the play of the light that shines in darkness.

As a rule, he would finish his evening's excursion with a cup of coffee

and a sandwich at Appenrodt's in Oxford Circus. And then thinking his

wonderful thoughts, he would take a final enchanted stroll homewards to

the Avenue, to No. 106, King John's Mansions, where his work and his

books awaited him. Sometimes, however, he was greatly troubled with

the thought of Cora. It was idle to disguise the ever growing sense of

antagonism that was arising between them. But she went her way and he

went his. The financial arrangement they had now come to was that he

should pay the rent of the flat and all household expenses, and as Cora

had apparently no money of her own, he also allowed her half of what

remained of his income.

One evening in the summer, as he was walking slowly down Regent Street,

a man and a woman passed him in an open taxi. The woman was Cora, and

the man, who was in evening dress, appeared to have his arm around her

waist. The sight was like a blow in the face. And yet it was a thing

so far outside his ken that it was impossible to know exactly what it

meant. For a moment he was dazed. He did not know how to regard it,

or in what way to deal with it. To begin with, and perhaps oddly, it

did not make him particularly angry. Why he was not more angry, he

didn't know. No doubt it was because he was growing to dislike Cora so

intensely. But as he walked slowly to King John's Mansions he still

had the curious feeling of being half stunned by a blow.

He went to bed without awaiting her return. She had recently taken to

coming home very late. Partly because of this, and partly in

consequence of the condition in which she often returned, he had

insisted for some little time past upon a bedroom of his own. This she

had been very unwilling to concede, but he had fought for it and had in

the end won; and tonight as he turned in and locked the door, he

determined that no power on earth should cause him to yield the spoils

of victory. He got into bed with hideous phantoms in his mind. But

the thought uppermost was that he had turned yet another page of

experience. And there suddenly in the midst of the flow and eddy of

his fancies, the awful face of Mr. Thompson emerged at the foot of the

bed. He could almost hear the mate of the _Margaret Carey_ dash his

head against the wall of his cell.

He put forth all his power of will in the hope of inducing sleep, but

before it showed signs of coming, he heard Cora's latchkey fumbling at

the front door of the flat. She opened it with a rattle, and closed it

with a bang; and then he heard her come stumbling along the passage,

her fuddled voice uplifted in the mirthless strain of a music hall

ditty.

With a sensation of physical nausea, he heard her try the handle of the

bedroom door. And then there came a knock.

"Let me in, ducky."

He didn't answer, but pulled the bedclothes over his head.

"Let me in, ducky. I want to kiss you good night."

In spite of the bedclothes, he could still hear her.

Receiving no answer, she beat upon the door again.

"Don't then"--he could still hear her--"You are no good, anyway."

She then stumbled to her own room singing "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay" with

cheerful defiance, and slammed the door.

XX

The next day Cora was not visible until about two o'clock, which was

now her invariable rule. They lunched together. He could hardly bring

himself to eat the comfortless meal with her. But, after all, he had

taken her for better or for worse. He must keep his part of the

contract, therefore it was no use being squeamish.

He waited until the meal was over and Royal Daylight had cleared the

table, and had also cleared away herself, before he mentioned the taxi.

And then very bluntly, and in a tone entirely new to her as well as to

himself, he demanded an explanation.

Cora, it seemed, was in a rather chastened mood. For one thing, she

was now sober, and when she was sober she was not exactly a fool. She

was not really repentant. He was too poor a thing to make a

self-respecting woman repent. But now she was again herself, she was

both shrewd and wary; after all, this double-adjectival idiot was the

goose that laid the golden eggs.

"I was a bit on last night," she said, with well-assumed humility.

[Illustration: "'I was a bit on last night,' she said, with

well-assumed humility."]

"Yes, I heard you was when you come home," he said, with the new note

in his voice that she didn't like.

"Oh, so you _did_ hear." She suddenly determined to carry the war into

the enemy's country. "Why didn't you open it, then?"

The cold impudence stung.

"I'd rather have died than have opened it to a cow like you." He

hardly knew the words he used. They had seemed to spring unbidden from

the back of beyond.

She half respected him for speaking to her in that way, and in such a

tone; there was perhaps a little more to the double-adjectival one than

she had guessed. And as the cards were dead against her now, she

decided on a strategic grovel of pathos and brandy.

"Call yourself a gentleman?" Tears sprang reluctantly to the raddled

cheek.

The sight of a lady in tears, even a lady who drank, was a little too

much for Henry Harper.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I oughtn't to have said that." He had

remembered that the word "cow" as applied to the female sex was a

Blackhampton expression and a favorite with Auntie.

The lady could only weep a little more profusely. This mug was as soft

as butter.

He stood looking at her with tight lips and with eyes of sorrowful

disgust.

"But you've no right to drink as much as you do," he said,

determinedly. "And you've no right to ride in taxis with gentlemen and

to let them put their arms round you."

"And you've no right to call your own lawful wife a cow," she said,

tearfully.

"I've apologized for that," he said. "But you've given me no

explanation of that gentleman."

"Didn't I say I was a bit on," she said aggrievedly.

"It's no excuse. It makes it worse."

"Yes, it does," said Mrs. Henry Harper, with a further grovel, "if it

happened. But it didn't happen. You was mistaken, Harry. I'm too

much the lady to let any gentleman, whether he was in evening dress or

whether he wasn't, put his arm around me in a taxi. I wouldn't think

of it now I'm married. Now, you kiss your Cora, Harry, for calling her

a name."

She approached him with pursed lips. In spite of the shame he felt for

such a lapse from his official duties, he retreated slowly before her.

"It's no use denying it," he said, as soon as the table had been placed

successfully between them. "I saw his arm round you."

"You are mistaken, Harry." She did not like the look or the sound of

him. She was beginning to be alarmed at her own folly. "I may have

been a bit on, but I was not as bad as that. Honest."

"I saw what I saw," he persisted; and then feeling no longer able to

cope with her or the situation, he slipped out of the room and out of

the flat.

He had now to look forward in a dim way to the time when he would have

to leave her. The time was not yet, but he was beginning to feel in

the very marrow of his bones that it was near. Now that her secret was

out and a hopeless deterioration had begun, there was something so

revolting in the whole thing that he foresaw already their life

together could have only one end. But in the meantime, he must be man

enough to keep with a stiff upper lip a contract he ought never to have

made.

Apart from his domestic relations, things were going very well indeed

with him. He had completed the "Further Adventures of Dick Smith" to

the satisfaction of Mr. Ambrose, and it was on the point of starting in

the magazine. Moreover, the first series had won fame on both sides of

the Atlantic. It was felt, so rare was its merits, that if Henry

Harper never wrote anything else his reputation was secure for twenty

years.

This, of course, was an amazing piece of fortune. Edward Ambrose, who

had had no small share in bringing it about, and whose discriminating

friendship had made it possible, compared it, in his own mind, with the

success of Dickens, who, after a life of poverty and hardship, gained

immortality at five and twenty. It was far too soon as yet to predict

such a crown for Henry Harper, but he had certainly burst upon the

world as a full-fledged literary curiosity. His name was coming to be

in the mouth of all who could appreciate real imagination.

One of the first fruits of this success was his election to the

Stylists' Club. This distinguished and esoteric body met on the

afternoon of the first Tuesday of the autumn and winter months at

Paradine's Hotel in Upper Brook Street, Berkeley Square, to discuss

Style. Literary style only was within the scope of its reference; at

the same time, the members of the club carried Style into all the

appurtenances of their daily lives. Not only were they stylists on

paper, they were stylists in manner, in dress, in speech, in mental

outlook. The club was so select that it was limited to two hundred

members, as it was felt there was never likely to be more than that

number of persons in the metropolis at any one time who could be

expected to possess an authentic voice upon the subject. Happily,

these were not all confined to one sex. The club included ladies.

That the Stylists' Club, of all human institutions, should have sought

out Henry Harper for the signal honor of membership, seemed a rare bit

of byplay on the part of Providence. For a reason which he could not

explain, Edward Ambrose gave a hoot of delight when the young man

brought to him the club's invitation, countersigned by its president,

the supremely distinguished Mr. Herbert Gracious, whose charmingly

urbane "Appreciations," issued biennially, were known wherever the

English language was in use. Mr. Herbert Gracious was not merely a

stylist himself, he was a cause of style in others.

Henry Harper had been a little troubled at first by the hoot of Mr.

Ambrose, and the feeling of doubt it inspired was not made less by a

rather lame defense. All the same, Mr. Ambrose so frankly respected

the young man's intense desire to improve himself that he urged him to

join the club, and to attend the first meeting, at any rate, of the new

session, if he felt he would get the least good out of it.

In response to a basely utilitarian suggestion, Henry Harper said he

would do so. He was not in a frame of mind to face such an ordeal.

But he must not let go of himself. Miserable as he was, he felt he

must take such advice if only to prove his courage. He would attend

the first meeting of the Stylists' Club on the ground of its being good

for the character, if on no higher.

"I suppose you'll be there, sir?"

"No," laughed Mr. Ambrose. "I'm not a member. It's a very

distinguished body."

Henry Harper looked incredulous. It did not occur to him that anybody

could be so distinguished as to exclude such a man as Edward Ambrose.

"I don't think I'll go, then," said Henry Harper. "It will be a bit

lonesome-like."

"Please do. And then come and tell me about it. Your personal

impression will be valuable."

It was for this reason that the Sailor finally decided not to show the

white feather.

XXI

Henry Harper found the Stylists' Club of far greater interest than he

thought it would be. To one as simple as he it was a very stimulating

body. Moving precariously towards fresh standards of life, he knew at

once that he was in a strange new world. He knew even before a

powdered footman had led him across the parqueted floors of Paradine's

Hotel, and a personage hardly less gorgeous had announced him to the

congeries of stylists who had assembled to the number of about sixty.

"It is such a pleasure, Mr. Harper," said a large, florid, benign and

beaming gentleman, seizing him by the hand. "You will find us all at

your feet."

Mr. Harper was overawed not a little by the size and the distinction of

the company, but the benign and beaming gentleman, who was no less a

person than Mr. Herbert Gracious himself, took him in charge and

introduced him to several other gentlemen, most of whom were benign but

not beaming, being rather obviously preoccupied with a sense of Style.

Indeed, Mr. Herbert Gracious was the only one of its members who did

beam really. The others were far too deeply engaged with the momentous

matters they had met to consider.

When Mr. Henry Harper had been allowed to subside into a vacant chair

in the midst of six stylists, four of whom were female and two of whom

were male, he was able to pull himself together a little. He knew

already that he was in very deep waters indeed: Mr. Esme Horrobins and

Mr. Edward Ambroses were all around him. And these ladies ... these

ladies who waved eyeglasses stuck on sticks were not of the Cora and

the Miss Press and the Miss Bonser breed; they were of the sort that

Klondyke put on a high hat and a swallowtail to walk with in Hyde Park.

Yes, even for a sailor, he was in very deep waters just now, and he was

obliged to tell himself once again, as he always did in such

circumstances, that having sailed six years before the mast there was

nothing in the world to fear.

All the same, at first he was very far from being happy. A dozen

separate yet correlated discussions upon Style had been interrupted by

his entrance. The announcement, "Mr. Henry Harper," had suspended

every conversation. For a moment all the Mr. Esme Horrobins were mute

and inglorious. But then, having glutted their gaze upon one whom Mr.

Herbert Gracious himself had already crowned in the Literary Supplement

of the _Daily Age and Lyre_, the Mr. Esme Horrobins and the Mrs. Esme

Horrobins--the mere male was not allowed to have it all his own way in

this discussion upon Style--took up the theme.

It was the part of Mr. Henry Harper to listen. The public press of

England and America had compared his own style to that of Stevenson,

Bunyan, Defoe, the Bible, Shakespeare, Laetitia Longborn Gentle, Memphis

Mortmain Mimpriss, finally Dostoievsky, and then Stevenson again. In a

true analysis Stevenson would have defeated all the other competitors

together, leaving out Dostoievsky, who was a bad second, and excluding

the Bible, Shakespeare, and Memphis Mortmain Mimpriss, who, to their

great discredit, were an equally bad third. Stevenson was first and

the rest nowhere. And there that glorious reincarnation sat, in a

modest blue suit, but looking very neat and clean, listening to every

word that fell in his vicinity from the lips of the elect. At least,

that was, as far as it was possible for one human pair of ears to do so.

"Tell me, Mr. Harper," said Miss Carinthia Small, with all Kensington

upon her eyebrows, imperiously attacking with a stick eyeglass, which

she wobbled ferociously, this very obvious young genius who didn't know

how to dress properly, as soon as Mr. Marmaduke Buzzard--M.B. of the

_Stylists' Review_--had allowed her, much against his will and for

purely physical reasons, to get in a word. "Tell me, Mr. Harper,

exactly how you feel about Dostoievsky? Where do you place him?

Before Meredith and after Cuthbert Rampant, or before Cuthbert Rampant

and after Thomas Hardy?"

It was a dismal moment for Mr. Henry Harper. Fortunately he hesitated

for a fraction of an instant, and he was saved. That infinitesimal

period of time had given Mr. Marmaduke Buzzard his chance to get in

again. And stung by the public acclamation of Mr. Cuthbert Rampant, a

well-nourished young man in a checked cravat, who was curving

gracefully over Miss Carinthia Small, he proceeded to show with some

little violence, yet without loss of temper, that in any discussion of

style _qua_ style, Turgenieff alone of the Russians could possibly

count.

"But everybody knows," breathed the defiant Miss Carinthia in the

charmed ear of Mr. Cuthbert Rampant, "that had it not been for

Dostoievsky, the 'Adventures of Dick Smith' could never have been

written at all."

The considered reply of Mr. Cuthbert Rampant was lost in the boom and

the rattle of Mr. Marmaduke Buzzard's heavy artillery.

Henry Harper might have sailed six years upon the high seas, but a

flood of deep and perplexing waters was all around him now. Stylists

to right of him, stylists to left of him, all discoursing _ex cathedra_

upon that supreme quality. Never, since the grim days of the _Margaret

Carey_ had he felt a sterner need to keep cool and hold his wits about

him. But with the native shrewdness that always stood to him in a

crisis, he had grasped already a very important fact. It must be the

task just now of the new Stevenson to sit tight and say nothing.

To this resolve he kept honorably. And it was less difficult than it

might have been had not Style alone been the theme of their discourse,

had not this been an authentic body of its practitioners, and had not

"The Adventures of Dick Smith" been acclaimed as the finest example of

pure narrative seen for many a year. All through the period of tea and

cake, which Mr. Henry Harper contrived to hand about with the best of

them, being honestly determined not to mind his inferior clothes and

absence of manner, because, after all, these things were less important

than they seemed at the moment, he kept perfectly mute.

Nevertheless he had one brief lapse. It was after he had drunk a cup

of tea and the undefeated Miss Carinthia Small had drunk several, and

Mr. Marmaduke Buzzard had retired in gallant pursuit of some watercress

sandwiches, that the dauntless lady felt it to be her duty to draw him

out.

"Tell me, Mr. Harper," said she, "what really led you to Stevenson?"

So much was the novice troubled by the form of the question that she

decided to restate it in a simpler one, although heaven knew it was

simple enough already!

"What is your favorite Stevenson?" she asked, looking Mr. Cuthbert

Rampant full in the eye with an air of the complete Amazon.

The author of "The Adventures of Dick Smith" was bound to speak then.

Unfortunately he spoke to his own undoing.

"I've only read one book by Stevisson," he said, in a voice of curious

penetration which nervousness had rendered loud and strident.

"Pray, which is that?" asked Miss Carinthia Small in icy tones.

"It's the one called 'Virginibus Puerisk,'" said Mr. Henry Harper.

Miss Carinthia Small felt that a pin might have been heard to fall in

Upper Brook Street, Berkeley Square. Mr. Cuthbert Rampant shared her

emotion. Yet the area of the fatal silence did not extend beyond Mr.

Marmaduke Buzzard, who had already reopened fire a short distance away,

and was again doing immense execution.

Miss Carinthia Small and Mr. Cuthbert Rampant risked no further

discussion of Stevisson with this strange young Visigoth from the back

of beyond. Neither of them could have believed it to be possible.

When he had been first ushered into the room by the benign Herbert, and

had modestly sat down, he had looked so clean and neat, and anxious to

efface himself that he might have been a product of some

self-respecting modern university who was on a reconnaissance from a

garden suburb. But how could that have been their thought! This was a

cruel trick that somebody had played upon Herbert. There was malice in

it, too. Dear Herbert, England's only critic, the British Sainte

Beuve, had had his leg pulled in a really wicked manner! He had always

prided himself upon being democratic and inclusive, but there was a

limit to everything.

Happily the Sailor did not stay much longer. Many stylists were going

already. It had been an interesting experience for the young man. If

he had gained nothing beyond a cup of lukewarm tea and a cucumber

sandwich, he certainly felt very glad that he had had the courage to

face it.

"Good-by, ma'am," he said, squeezing a delicate white glove in a broad

and powerful grip. "I'm very proud to have met you. What else ought I

to read of Stevisson?"

Miss Carintha Small felt an inclination to laugh. But yet there was

something that saved him. What it was she didn't know. She only knew

it was something that Winchester and New College in the person of Mr.

Cuthbert Rampant did not possess.

"Good-by." There was really very little of the stylist in her voice,

although she was not aware of it, and would have been quite mortified

had such been the case. "And you _must_ read 'Treasure Island.' It is

exactly your style, although 'Dick Smith' is very much deeper and truer

and to my mind altogether more sincere."

Miss Carinthia Small had not meant to say a word of this. She had not

meant to say anything. She had intended to efface this young man

altogether.

The Sailor threaded his way through a perfect maze of stylists with

almost a sense of rapture. It had been a delightful adventure to

converse on equal terms with a real Hyde Park Lady: a brilliant

creature who had neither chaffed him nor hit him in the back, nor

addressed him as "Greased Lightning," nor had rebuked him with "Damn

you." He walked out on air.

As the author of "The Adventures of Dick Smith" was retrieving his hat

from the hotel cloak room, he was suddenly brought to earth. Two

really imperial stylists were being assisted into elaborate fur coats

by two stylists among footman.

"My dear Herbert." An abnormally quick ear caught the half humorous,

half indignant remark, in spite of the fact that it was uttered in a

very low tone. "This man Harper ... I assure you the fellow hasn't an

aitch to his name."

XXII

It was not until Henry Harper had escaped from Paradine's Hotel and had

managed to find a way into Regent Street that the words he had

overheard seemed to hit him between the eyes. His mind had been thrown

back years, to Klondyke and the waterlogged bunk in the half-deck of

the _Margaret Carey_. He recalled as in a dream the great argument he

had dared to maintain as to the true manner of spelling his name, and

how, finally, he had been compelled to give in. Ever since that time,

he had always put in the aitch in deference to his friend's superior

artillery, which included Greek and Latin and other surprising things.

It was clear, however, that it was not a bit of use putting the letter

aitch in your name unless you included it in your speech as well. It

was amazing that he had not grasped such a simple truth until that

moment. He had known, of course, for some little time now, in fact,

ever since he had met Mr. Esme Horrobin at Bowdon House that his manner

of speaking only very faintly resembled that in vogue in college and

society circles.

On the edge of the curb at Piccadilly Circus, waiting to make the

perilous crossing to the Avenue, the crushing force of the remark he

had overheard seemed to come right home to him. Moreover, as he stood

there he saw in an almost fantastically objective way that the letter

aitch should be attended to at once. He must not be content merely to

improve his mind, he must improve himself in every possible manner.

It was here, as he stood in deep thought, that his old friend

Providence came rather officiously to his aid. A derelict walked past

him in the gutter, and on the back of the human wreck was fixed a

sandwich board bearing the legend:

Madame Sadleir gives lessons daily by appointment in voice production,

elocution, correct speaking, and deportment. Apply for terms at 12,

Portugal Place, W.

This was very friendly of Providence. The young man knew that two

minutes ago he had passed Portugal Place. He was strung up to the

point of adventure. This too long neglected matter was so vital to one

who desired to mix with stylists on equal terms, that it would be the

part of wisdom to see about it now.

At this moment thought was action with Henry Harper. Therefore he

turned almost at once and retraced his steps into Regent Street.

Within a very short time he was assailing the bell pull of 12, Portugal

Place, W., third floor.

Providence had arranged that Madame Sadleir should be at home. She was

alone, moreover, in her professional chamber, and fully prepared to

enter into the matter of the letter aitch.

Madame Sadleir was stout and elderly, she wore an auburn wig, she was

calm and efficient, yet she also had an indefinable quality of style.

In spite of a certain genial grotesqueness she had an air of

superiority. Henry Harper, his vibrant sensibilities still astretch

from an afternoon of stylists, perceived at once that this was a lady

with more or less of a capital letter.

Experience of Cora and her friends had by this time taught the Sailor

that there were "common or garden" ladies, to use a favorite expression

of Miss Press, and there were also those he defined as real or Hyde

Park ladies. He had little first-hand knowledge, at present, of the

latter; he merely watched them from afar and marked their deportment in

public places. But there was a subtle quality in the greeting of

Madame Sadleir, almost a caricature to look at as she was, which

suggested the presence of a lady with a capital letter, at least with

more or less of a capital letter, a sort of Hyde Park lady relapsed.

Henry Harper was aware, almost before Madame Sadleir spoke a word, that

she had been born to better things than 12, Portugal Place, W., third

floor.

Completely disarmed by the calm but forthcoming manner of Madame

Sadleir, Mr. Henry Harper stated his modest need with extreme

simplicity. He just wanted to be taught in as few lessons as possible

to speak like a real college gentleman that went regular--regularly

(remembering his grammar in time)--into Society.

Madame Sadleir's smile was maternal.

"Why, certainly," she said in the voice of a dove. "Nothing easier."

The young man felt reassured. He had not thought, even in his moments

of optimism, that there would be anything easy in the process of making

a Mr. Edward Ambrose or a Mr. Esme Horrobin.

"It will be necessary," said Madame Sadleir, "to pay very particular

attention to the course of instruction, and also to practice

assiduously. But first you must learn to take breath and to assemble

and control the voice. Do you desire the Oxford manner?"

Mr. Henry Harper, with recollections of Mr. Edward Ambrose and Mr. Esme

Horrobin, said modestly that he did desire the Oxford manner if it

could be acquired in a few lessons, which was yet more than he dared to

hope.

"The number of lessons depends entirely upon your diligence and, may I

add"--and Madame Sadleir did add--"your intelligence and natural

aptitude. But, of course, to remove all misunderstanding, the Oxford

manner is an extra."

Somehow he felt that such would be the case.

"Personally, one doesn't recommend it," said Mtdame Sadleir, "for

general use."

Mr. Harper was a little disappointed.

"It is not quite so popular as it was," said Madame Sadleir, "unless

one is going into the Church. In the Church it is always in vogue, in

fact one might say a _sine qua non_ in its higher branches. Do you

propose to take Orders?"

Mr. Harper had no thoughts of a commercial life.

"Personally," said Madame Sadleir, speaking with the most engaging

freedom and ease, "one is inclined to favor a good Service manner for

all round general use. There is the A manner for the army subaltern,

the B manner for the company officer, either of which you will find

admirable for general purposes. There is also the Naval manner, but

excellent as it is, I am afraid it is hardly to be recommended for

social life. The Civil Service manner, which combines utility with a

reasonable amount of ornament, might suit you perhaps. I am

recommending it quite a good deal just now. And, of course, there is

the Diplomatic or Foreign Office manner for advanced pupils, but it may

be early days to talk of that at present. One does not like to raise

false hopes or to promise more than one can perform. Now, Mr. Harper,

kindly let me hear you read this leading article in the Times on 'What

is Wrong with the Nation?' paying particular attention to the vowel

sounds."

With grave deliberation, Mr. Henry Harper did as he was asked. Having

painfully completed his task, Madame Sadleir, in a remarkably benign

way, which somehow brought Mr. Herbert Gracious vividly to his mind,

proceeded to deal with him with the utmost fidelity.

Said she: "It is my duty to tell you that for the present a good sound

No. 3 Commercial manner is earnestly recommended. If you are diligent,

it may be possible to graft a modified Oxford upon it, but I am afraid

it would be premature to promise even that."

This was disappointing. But, after all, it was to be foreseen. Mr.

Edward Ambroses and Mr. Esme Horrobins were not made in a day. And

when he came to think the matter over at his leisure he was sincerely

glad that they were not. It would have taken a mystery and a glamour

from the world.

XXIII

About this time, Henry Harper became a member of a society which met

once a week at Crosbie's in the Strand. This step was the outcome of a

course of lectures he had attended at the London Ethical Institution,

in Bloomsbury Square. They had been delivered by the very able

Professor Wynne Davies, on that most fascinating of all subjects to the

truly imaginative mind, the Idea of God.

During these lectures, and quite by chance, Henry Harper had made the

acquaintance of a certain Arthur Reeves, a young journalist, who

suggested that he should join the Social Debating Society, which met at

Crosbie's every Tuesday. This he accordingly did; and being under no

obligation to take an active part in the proceedings until he felt he

could do so with reasonable credit, he was able to enjoy them

thoroughly. Moreover, he was in full sympathy with these alert minds

which for the most part were owned by young and struggling men.

Some of the discussions Henry Harper heard at Crosbie's made a deep

impression upon him. All the members seemed to have a turn for

speculative inquiry. The majority of those who took an active part in

the debates spoke very well. Now and again, it is true, the pride of

intellect raised its head. Some of its members were young enough to

know everything, but there was also a leaven of older minds which saw

life more steadily, and in as rounded a shape as it is possible for the

eye of man to perceive it.

There was one man in particular who attracted Henry Harper. His name

was James Thorneycroft, and he was in his way a rare bird, a bank

manager with a strong ethical and sociological bias. He was one of the

graybeards of the society, a man of sixty, who had the worn look of one

who had been fighting devils, more or less unsuccessfully, all his

life. For Henry Harper there was fascination and inspiration in James

Thorneycroft. His was a mind capable of delving deep into spiritual

experience, and of rendering it in terms which all could understand.

At the third meeting which Henry Harper attended at Crosbie's, his

friend and introducer, Arthur Reeves, under the spell cast by the

brilliant Professor Wynne Davies, ventured to combat a certain

skepticism in regard to the scope and function of the Deity, which some

of the advanced members had put into words at the previous meeting.

The performance of Arthur Reeves was crude and rather unphilosophical,

and yet it was stimulating enough to bring James Thorneycroft on to his

legs.

"My own view about God is this," he began in that curiously

unpremeditated and abrupt way which made an effect of absolute

sincerity. "There is a form of inherited belief that will overthrow

the most fearless and independent mind if it ventures to disregard it.

I suppose most men who think at all are up against this particular

problem some time in their lives. But it all comes back to this: it is

absolutely impossible for any man to banish the idea of God and

continue as a reasoning entity. Of the First Cause we know nothing, of

the Ultimate Issue we know even less, but my own faith is that as long

as the idea of God persists, Man himself will not perish. I know there

are many who will say that science is against me. They will say that

there is nothing inherent in the mere idea of God which will or can

prevent an earthquake banishing all forms of organic life from this

planet in sixty seconds. Well, it is my faith that if that came to

pass Man would still persist in some other form. Science would at once

rejoin that he would cease to be Man, but to my own psychic experience

that is not at all a clear proposition. Science is based upon reason

which states as an absolute fact that two and two make four. The idea

of God is based upon the fact that two and two plus One make five, and

all the science and all the clear and exact thinking in the world can't

alter it. Man is only a reasoning animal up to a point. He has only

to keep exclusively to reason to bring about his own defeat. Every

thinking mind, I assume, must oscillate at some period of its

development between Reason on the one hand (two and two make four) and

Experience (two and two make five) on the other. Well, if it won't

bore you" ... "Go on, go on!" cried the meeting, not out of politeness

merely, since all felt the fascination of the unconventional and

childlike personality of James Thorneycroft.... "I will give you in as

few words as I can the experience that happened to me nearly thirty

years ago, which laid at rest all doubts I might ever have had on this

point.

"At that time I was a clerk in a bank at Blackhampton. Employed at the

bank was a young porter." ...

For a reason he could never explain, a strange thrill suddenly ran

through Henry Harper.

"... And this young chap was one of the best and most promising fellows

I ever met. He belonged to the working class, but he was tremendously

keen to improve himself. When I met him first he couldn't even

read--it makes one smile to hear people talk about the good old

days!--but he very soon learned, and then he began to worry things out

for himself. I lent him one or two books myself ... John Stuart Mill,

I remember, and that old fool Carlyle, who ruled the roast at that

time."--Here a bearded gentleman at the back had to be called to

order.--"Then we both began to get into deeper waters, and with

assistance from Germany, soon found ourselves in a flood of isms,

although I am bound to say without being able to make very much of them.

"The time came, however, when this young man, who was really a very

fine fellow, took the wrong turning. He somehow got entangled with a

woman, a thoroughly bad lot I afterwards found out, a person of a type

much below his own. He was an extraordinarily simple chap, he had the

heart of a child. From a mistaken, an utterly mistaken sense of

chivalry, he finally married her.

"If ever a man was imposed upon and entrapped it was this poor fellow.

Of course he didn't know that at first. But from the hour of his

marriage deterioration set in. Ambition and all desire for

self-improvement began to go. Then he lost his mental poise, and he

became cynical, and no wonder, because that woman made his life a hell.

Even when the truth came to him he stuck to her, really I think out of

some quixotic notion he had of reforming her. Certainly he stuck to

her long after he ought to have, because slowly but surely she began to

drag him down. At last, when the full truth came home to him, he

killed her in a sudden fit of madness.

"Now, there was no real evil in that man. There were one or two soft

places in him, no doubt, as there are in most of us, but it is my firm

belief that had he married the right woman he would one day have been a

credit to his country. He was in every way a very fine fellow--in

fact, he was too fine a fellow. It was the vein of quixotic chivalry

in his nature that undid him. That was the cruelest part of the whole

thing. And I am bound to say that the doubts the higher criticism had

put into my mind were very much assisted by the fact that it was this

poor chap's real nobility of soul which destroyed him.

"From the point of view of reason, any man was wrong to marry such a

woman, even allowing for the fact that he was ignorant of her real

character and vocation when he married her. From the point of view of

ethics he was wrong; that is to say, he had not even infringed the code

of conventional morality, and was therefore under no obligation to do

so. And where he was doubly wrong in the sight of reason and ethics,

and where, in the sight of the Saviour of mankind, he was so

magnificently right, was in sticking to her in the way he did.

"And yet that man came to the gallows. For years afterwards I could

never think of him without a feeling of inward rage that almost

amounted to blasphemy. But to return to Reason _v._ Experience, I am

merely telling this story for the sake of what I am going to say now.

I went to see that poor man in prison after his trial, when he had only

one day to live, and I shall never forget the look of him. He was like

a saint. He looked into my eyes and took my hand and he said, and I

can hear his words now, 'Mr. Thorneycroft, you can take it from me,

there is a God.'

"I have never forgotten those words. And many times since they were

spoken I firmly believe it has only been the words of my poor friend,

Henry Harper, spoken on the brink of a shameful grave, which have saved

me." The name fell unconsciously from the lips of James Thorneycroft.

XXIV

The Sailor never went again to the meetings of the Social Debating

Society at Crosbie's in the Strand, Somehow he had not the courage.

The simple unadorned story of James Thorneycroft had taken complete

possession of his mind.

Without making any researches into the subject, some instinct which

transcended reason, which transcended experience itself, told him that

the Henry Harper of the story was his own father. Moreover, he was

prepared to affirm that it was his own presence in that room--unknown

as he was to James Thorneycroft to whom he had never spoken a word in

his life--which had been responsible for the story's telling.

This clear conviction brought no shame to Henry Harper. No man could

have been more amply vindicated in the sight of others than his father

had been by him who had given his story with a poignancy which had

silenced all criticism of the deductions he had ventured to draw from

it.

The feeling uppermost in the mind of Henry Harper was that one world

more had been revealed. At various times in his life he had had

intimations of the Unseen. There was something beyond himself with

which he had been in familiar contact. But up till now he had never

thought about it much.

The story he had heard seemed to alter everything. In a subtle way his

whole outlook was changed. The fact that his father had died such a

death brought with it no sense of ignominy. It was too remote, too far

beyond him; besides, the man who had told the story had been careful to

show his father's true character.

It was almost inconceivable that he did not apply the logic of this

terrible event to his own case. By now it should have been clear that

he was literally treading the same path. Perhaps the voice of reason

could not argue with the overwhelming forces which now had Henry Harper

in their grip. Once they had driven him into an identical position

they forced him to act in a similar way. Just as the father had made

the disastrous error of setting himself to reform his wife when he had

found out what she was, the son was now preparing to repeat it.

He determined upon a great effort to win Cora from drink.

Since the quarrel over the man in the taxi, which had occurred nearly

two months ago, they had drifted further apart. Cora had behaved with

great unwisdom and she was aware of the fact. But she was not going to

risk the loss of the golden eggs if she could possibly help it. She

had been shaken more than a little by her own folly, and if Harry had

not been a dead-beat fool it must have meant a pretty decisive nail in

her coffin. Even as it was, and in spite of the softness for which she

despised him, his tone had hardened perceptibly since the incident.

Not that she cared very much for that. She did not believe he had it

in him to go to extremities. And yet now he had taken this new tone

she was not quite sure. Perhaps he was not quite so "soppy" as her

friends always declared him to be.

Be that as it may, Cora accepted it in good part when Harry took upon

himself to beg her earnestly to check her habit of drinking more than

she ought. She was even a little touched; she had not expected a

solicitude which she knew she didn't deserve. Instead of "telling him

off," as she felt she ought to have done, she promised to do her best

to meet his wishes.

He was so grateful that he tried to find a way of helping her. He must

let her see that he was ready to assist any effort she might make by

every means in his power. Therefore, several evenings a week he

accompanied her to the Roc and sometimes they went on, as formerly, to

a play or a music hall.

When, after an absence of many months, Henry Harper reappeared in these

haunts of fashion, he had to run the gantlet of the girls and the boys.

But Cora was secretly gratified to find that he was much better able to

take care of himself now. Those months of sequestration, unknown to

her, had been a period of very remarkable development. He had been

mixing on terms of equality with a class much above hers, he had been

enlarging the scope of his observation, he had been deepening his

experience. Moreover, he had discovered the letter aitch, and with the

help of the indefatigable Madame Sadleir, who was a skillful and

conscientious teacher, was now making use of the new knowledge.

Yes, there was a great improvement in Harry. In the opinion of his

critics he was much more a man of the world; callow youths and insipid

ladies of the town could no longer "come it over him" in the way that

had formerly delighted them. Even Miss Bonser and Miss Press had to

use discretion. The new knowledge did not make him a prig, but it

seemed to give his character an independence and a depth which called

for respectful treatment.

He disliked these evenings as much as ever. The Roc and Cora's friends

could never have any sort of attraction for Henry Harper. But there

was now the sense of duty to sustain him. He was making a heroic

effort to save Cora from herself, yet he sometimes felt in his heart

that such a woman was hardly worth the saving.

The fact was, it was no use disguising it now, she jarred every nerve

in his soul. The more he developed the more hopeless she grew. He

knew now that she was very common, sordid clay. It was not in her to

rise or to respond. She was crass, heavy-witted, coarse-fibered; his

effort had to be made against fearful, and as it seemed with the new

perceptions that were coming upon him, ever increasing odds.

By this he had learned from the new and finer world into which his

talent had brought him that Cora had but a thin veneer of spurious

refinement after all. He knew enough now to see how hopelessly wrong

she was in everything, from the heart outwards. It began to hurt him

more and more to be in her company in public places. Sometimes he

could hardly bear to sit at the same table with her, so alien she was

from the people he was meeting now on terms approximating to equality.

Edward Ambrose, realizing how the young man was striving to rise with

his fortunes, was doing all that lay in his power to help him. At this

time, the name of Mrs. Henry Harper had not been mentioned to him.

Several times the Sailor had been at the point of revealing that

sinister figure in the background of his life. More than once he had

felt that it was the due of this judicious friend that he should know

at least of the existence of Cora. But each time he had tried to screw

his courage to the task a kind of nausea had overwhelmed him. The

truth was Edward Ambrose and Cora stood at opposite poles, and whenever

he tried to speak of her it became impossible to do so.

Henry Harper had been present at several of the very agreeable bachelor

dinner parties in Bury Street, and on each occasion his host had noted

an honorable and increasing effort on the part of the neophyte to rise

to the measure of his opportunity. There could be no doubt he was

coming on amazingly. The rough edges were being smoothed down and he

was always so simple and unaffected that it was hardly possible for

liberal-minded men whom fortune had given a place in the stalls at the

human comedy to refrain from liking him.

"Henry," said his friend when the young man looked in one afternoon in

Pall Mall, "what are you doing tomorrow week, Friday, the twenty-third?"

Henry was doing nothing in particular.

"Then you must come and dine with me," said Edward Ambrose.

"I'll be delighted."

"Wait a minute. That's not the important part. You'll have to take

somebody in to dinner. And she's about the nicest girl I know, and she

wants very much to meet the author of 'Dick Smith,' and I promised that

she should. There will be two or three others ... Ellis and his

fiancee ... I told you Ellis had just got engaged ... but we shall not

be more than ten all told. Will you face it, Henry, just to oblige a

friend?"

A dinner party of ten with ladies was rather a facer for Mr. Henry

Harper, in spite of the fact that his social laurels were clustering

thicker upon him.

"I suppose I'll have to if you've promised her," he said with not

ungracious reluctance.

"I'm sure you'll like her as much as she'll like you," said Edward

Ambrose.

That remains to be seen was the mental reservation in the mind of the

Sailor.

XXV

Friday week soon came, but very unfortunately it found Cora "in one of

her moods."

The first intimation she had of the dinner party was the arrival of a

parcel of evening clothes, which Harry had purchased that morning in

the Strand. As ladies were to be present, his sense of the fitness of

things had led him at last to incur this long-promised expense.

Indeed, Cora herself had said that sooner or later this would have to

be. But now that the clothes had actually arrived and she insisted

upon being told for what purpose they were required, she flew into a

tantrum.

In Cora's opinion, there had been too much dining already with this Mr.

Ambrose, and now that Harry was being invited to meet ladies, had Mr.

Ambrose been a true gentleman she would have been invited as well. It

did not occur to her that he was not aware of her existence. But in

any case Harry ought not to be going to meet other women without his

wife.

Cora became very sulky. And she mingled unamiability with abuse. The

sad truth was, and her husband realized it with intense bitterness in

the course of that afternoon, she had begun drinking heavily again in

spite of all that he could do to check her. It was a failure of the

will. There was no doubt life bored her. The restraints she had

recently put upon herself, not in regard to drink alone, had become

more than she could bear. For a week past she had known that another

"break-out" was imminent.

She was now inclined to make this dinner party to which she was not

invited a pretext for it.

"I see what it is," she said with ugly eyes. "Your lawful wife is not

good enough for my lord Ambrose and his lady friends."

This stung, it was so exactly the truth.

"But don't think for a moment I am going to take it lying down. If you

go to this party I'm coming too."

"You can't," said her husband quietly--so quietly that it made her

furious.

"Oh, can't I!"

"No, you can't," he said with a finality that offered no salve. He was

angry with his own weakness. He knew that it had caused him to drift

into a false position. And yet what could he do--with such a wife as

that?

"You're ashamed of me," she said, with baffled rage in her voice.

"You've no right to say that." It was a feeble rejoinder, but silence

would have been worse.

"I am going to give you fair warning, Harry. If you go to this party

and meet other women while I am left at home, I shall...."

"You'll what?" he said, recoiling from her heavy breathing ugliness.

"I shall go a good old blind tonight, I warn you."

She spoke with full knowledge of the effort he had made to help her and

all that it had cost him.

"It won't be half a blind, I'm telling you," she said, reading his

eyes. "I've done my best for weeks and weeks to please you. I've

hardly touched a drop--and this is all the thanks I get. I'm flesh and

blood like other people."

She saw with malicious triumph that she had him cornered.

"Look here, Cora," he said, "it's too late to get out of this now. It

wouldn't be fair or right for me to break my word to Mr. Ambrose. But

I'll promise this. If you will only keep sober tonight, I'll never go

to another party without ... without your permission."

"Without my permission!"

"Without you, then, if that's what you want me to say."

"Oh, yes! I don't think!"

"I don't ever break my word," he said simply. "You know that. If I

say a thing I try my best to act up to it."

"Well, it's not good enough for me, anyhow," she said, with a sudden

and jealous knowledge of her own inferiority. "If you leave me

tonight, so help me God, I'll get absolutely blind."

She saw the horror in his eyes and was glad. It gave her a sense of

power. But it brought its own Nemesis. She forgot just then that he

alone stood between her and the gutter.

"Be reasonable, Cora," he said weakly. There did not seem to be

anything else he could say.

"I've warned you," she said savagely. "Leave me tonight and you'll

see. I'll not be made a mark of by no one, not if I know it."

In great distress he retired to his bedroom in order to think things

out. He felt that he was much in the wrong. Somehow he did not seem

to be keeping to the terms of the bargain. Up to a point Cora had

reason and justice on her side. Yet beyond that point was the duty to

his friends.

In a miserable state of mind he sat on the bed. He was desperately

unwilling to undo all the good work of the past six weeks, but it was

certain that if he left Cora in her present mood something would

happen. Twice he almost made up his mind not to go, but each time he

was over-powered by the thought of his friend. It was really

impossible to leave him in the lurch without a shadow of excuse.

At last, with a sense of acute misery, he came to a decision, or rather

the swift passage of time forced it upon him. Suddenly he got off the

bed, opened the parcel and spread out the new clothes.