One of Mary Pridmore's first acts upon her return from Greylands was to

summon the sailorman to dine in Queen Street. She was a little

peremptory. That is to say, she could take no refusal; it seemed that

a certain Mr. Nixon, a Cabinet Minister, had expressed a wish to meet

the author of "Dick Smith."

Miss Pridmore was a little excited by this desire on the part of Mr.

Nixon. In her opinion, if you were a member of the Cabinet, it was

important you should be met; yet Henry Harper did not attach as much

significance to the matter as perhaps he ought to have done. In fact,

he was a little vague upon the subject. He knew that the newspapers

talked mysteriously about the Cabinet, and abused it fearfully every

morning with the most devoted and courageous persistency; also he

remembered that one of Auntie's temporary husbands was said to have

been a cabinetmaker when he was in work, but neither this fact, nor the

attitude of the public press, seemed to afford any reason why he must

in no circumstances disappoint the President of the Board of

Supererogation.

"Please don't be so cool to the Cabinet, Mr. Harper," Athena pleaded,

while the young man sought a way out of the impasse. "When such a man

as Mr. Nixon asks to meet you, it means that you have _really_ arrived.

Not that it matters. You have arrived without any help from Mr. Nixon.

But he is an old friend of mother's, and he is greatly interested in

your book."

The Sailor wanted very particularly, but as delicately as he could, to

escape the ordeal of dining in Queen Street, Mayfair. Instinct warned

him that this would prove a different matter from a party in Bury

Street. The truth was, he had not been able to overcome an

unreasonable awe of Lady Pridmore. Then, too, he had an uneasy feeling

that he was a little out of his depth with the Prince. Yet again, Miss

Silvia, friendly and amusing as she was, gave him a slight sense of

hidden, invisible barriers which he could never hope to surmount.

Mary, however, would take no denial. Her mother would be much

disappointed, and so would Mr. Nixon, and so would Uncle George, who

had also expressed a desire to be present. In Lady Pridmore's opinion

this really "ranged" Mr. Harper, and with such a person as Lady

Pridmore, that was an operation of the first magnitude, not, of course,

that her daughter confided that to the Sailor in so many words.

"I am talking nonsense," said Mary, with that sharp turn of frankness

which the Sailor adored in her. "If you don't want to meet people,

there is no reason why you should. I sometimes feel exactly the same

myself. Mr. Nixon is a bore, and Uncle George--well, he's Uncle

George. It will be a tiresome evening for you, but Edward is coming

and Jack Ellis, whom we both like, and his fiancee who is quite

amusing, and if you really decide to come, I am sure it will please

mother."

The Sailor saw, however, that it would please Mary. And that was

reason enough for him to accept the invitation after all.

When the day came, it was in fear and trembling that he put on his new

evening clothes, with which he had been provided by Edward Ambrose's

own tailor. Upon a delicate hint from his friend, he discarded his

first suit, which he now realized was a little too crude for a growing

reputation. Yet, rather oddly, he could hardly be brought to

understand that he had such a thing as a reputation. Indeed, it was

only in Queen Street, Mayfair, that a reputation seemed to matter.

A dinner party at No. 50 was a serious affair. He had to begin by

shaking hands with Lady Pridmore, who looked like a lady from the walls

of Burlington House. A week ago he had been with Mary to the Royal

Academy of Arts. Then, also, formidable looking strangers abounded.

Foremost of these was Uncle George.

Uncle George was an elderly admiral retired. Among the younger members

of the family he was known as "Old Blunderbore." His voice, once of

great use on the quarterdeck, was really a little too much for a

drawing-room of modest dimensions. Also, his opinions were many and

they were unqualified, his stories were long and quite pointless as a

rule, he was apt to indulge in a kind of ventriloquial entertainment

when he ate his soup, he drank a goodish deal, and was not always very

polite to the servants; yet being Uncle George, his sister-in-law

seemed to feel that he was a person of immense consequence, and he did

not disguise the fact that he considered her a sensible woman for

thinking so.

Uncle George seized the hand of the Sailor in marine style, and said,

in his loud voice, "Good book you wrote, young man. 'Adventures of

Paul Jones.' Good book. Some of it's true, I'm told, and, of course,

that makes it much better."

At this point, Mary the watchful led the Sailor gently but firmly out

of the range of Uncle George.

That warrior, baffled of his prey, fell like a sea leopard upon Edward

Ambrose, who, however, countered him quietly and with frank amusement.

"Never made a bigger mistake in your life, Ambrose, than to compare

'Paul Jones' with 'Robinson Crusoe.'"

Ambrose did not consider it necessary to point out that he had never

once mentioned "Paul Jones," and that he was too wise a man ever to

compare anything with "Robinson Crusoe." Instead, he laughed the note

that was quite peculiar to himself, and mildly asked Uncle George what

he thought of the latest performance of the First Lord of the Admiralty.

In the meantime, the Sailor was having to sustain the shock of a first

meeting with the President of the Board of Supererogation. His mentor

had already described this pillar of the Government as a bore. But the

Sailor was not yet sufficiently acquainted with things and men to

regard the Right Honorable Gregory Nixon with this measure of

detachment.

The impact, however, of the Front Bench manner was less severe than was

to have been expected. The voice of Mr. Nixon was nothing like so

formidable as his appearance.

"A great pleasure, a great pleasure." Mr. Nixon had a trick of

repeating his phrases. "Pray, how did you come to write it all?

Angrove thinks"--to the profound and morbid horror of the public press,

Mr. Angrove at that moment was the Prime Minister of the

realm--"Angrove thinks..."

Happily, the butler informed his mistress that dinner was served, and

for a time Mr. Nixon had to postpone what Mr. Angrove thought.

It was only for a time, however, that it was possible to do so. The

President of the Board of Supererogation did all his thinking

vicariously in terms of Mr. Angrove. But there was just one subject on

which Mr. Nixon had opinions of his own. That was the subject of

divorce, and it may have been for the reason that it was not a cabinet

matter. Before the evening was over, it was tolerably certain that the

President of the Board of Supererogation would identify himself

publicly and at length with the minority report.

This cheerless fact had to be taken for granted. Divorce in its

various aspects was a constant preoccupation of the right honorable

gentleman. He had never been married himself, and was never likely to

be. Had this not been the case Mr. Gregory Nixon must have felt bound

to defer to any opinion that Mr. Angrove might or might not have

expressed upon the matter.

"We are in for it now," whispered Mary to the Sailor, who was eating

the entree, sweetbreads with white sauce, and wishing he could use a

knife as well as a fork. "But it's Uncle George's fault. He's given

him a chance with his silly and pointless story, which is a mere

perversion of a very much better one. There, what did I say?"

It was tragically true, that Mr. Nixon was already in the saddle.

"If he would only say something sensible! He is like that character in

Dickens--but his King Charles's head is the minority report."

Still, this may have been a woman's thrust, because Mary did not happen

to be an admirer of Mr. Nixon's personality. Yet he was a very

agreeable man, and on the subject of divorce he talked extraordinarily

well, perhaps quite as well as it is possible for any human being to

talk on such a vexed and complicated subject.

Mr. Nixon knew that, no doubt. The fact was, that just as one man may

have a genius for playing chess, another for shooting clay pigeons, a

third for hitting a golf ball or casting a fly, so this eminent

politician had a genius for discussing divorce. He may have felt that

on that topic no human being could stand against him at a small dinner

party where the conversation was general. Lady Pridmore seemed grieved

when her hero began to expose this flaw in the armor of a Christian

gentleman, Uncle George became furious and was suddenly rude to the

butler, Mary and Silvia and the Prince looked the picture of misery,

and Edward Ambrose came within an ace of choking himself.

All the same, the discussion which followed was of breathless interest

to one person at that table. Henry Harper hung on every word of it.

Mary herself was the first to take up the gage of battle. And she took

it up gallantly. She didn't think for a moment that divorce ought to

be made more easy. In her opinion, it ought to be made more difficult.

"Why?" asked Mr. Nixon. He asked no more than that, but there was the

weight of several royal commissions in the inquiry.

But Mary had the flame of war in her eyes. She knew what Mr. Nixon's

opinions were, and she was heartily ashamed of them. On this subject

she could make a very good show for herself, because she happened to

feel strongly upon it.

Mr. Nixon was a latitudinarian. He would have divorce brought within

the reach of all classes of the community. It should be equally

accessible to the poor and the well-to-do. He would greatly amplify

the grounds for obtaining it, and even went the length of affirming

that the mutual consent of the contracting parties should alone

suffice. Moreover, he saw no reason why marriage should not be a

contract like any other for a period of years.

Mary bluntly considered these were abominable heresies, and several

other women, not to mention Mr. Ellis and Uncle George, shared her

opinion. Even Lady Pridmore, who in her heart was horrified by her

hero's fall, was moved to remark that it would be impossible to carry

on society on any such basis.

"Of course it would," said Mary, with a vehemence that was startling.

"For better for worse, for richer for poorer, that's my view. I dare

say it's old-fashioned, but I'm sure it's right."

"There I dissent," said Mr. Nixon. "It isn't right at all. Our

marriage laws are out of date. They can no longer meet the needs of

the community. They are as far behind the twentieth century as a stage

coach or a two-horse omnibus. Untold misery and hardship have been

inflicted upon the population, and it is high time there was practical

legislation upon the subject."

"Marriage," said Mary, with charming pugnacity, "is the most sacred

contract into which it is possible for any human being to enter. And

if it is not to be binding, I really don't know what contract is or can

hope to be. What is your view of the question, Mr. Harper?" she asked,

suddenly, of the young man at her side.

The Sailor had been listening with an attention almost painful. But he

felt quite unequal to taking a part in the argument. Therefore he

contented himself with the general statement that it ought to be easier

to get a divorce than it was at present.

"I am grieved to hear you say that," said Athena, with a note in her

voice which startled him. "I know I am rather a fanatic, but I really

don't see how there can be two opinions upon the matter."

Feeling very unhappy, Henry Harper did not try to contest the point.

But this was a subject upon which she felt so strongly that she could

not leave it in such a very unsatisfactory state.

"Those whom God hath joined let no man put asunder," said Athena. "How

is it possible to go beyond that! I would even abolish divorce

altogether."

The young man felt a sudden chill.

"Suppose a man had been divorced through no fault of his own?" he said

in a far-away voice.

"I don't think a divorced person ought ever to remarry."

"That might hit some people very hard," said Henry Harper, perhaps

without a full understanding of the words he used.

"There are bound to be cases in which it would work very cruelly. One

realizes that. But ought it to make a difference? There must always

be those who have to be sacrificed for the sake of the community."

Henry Harper appreciated the strength of that argument. At the moment,

in the strangeness of his surroundings, he was not able to grapple with

it. But he was dimly aware that almost unknown to himself he had come

to the border of another perilous country.

XII

As the June night was ablaze with stars Edward Ambrose and the Sailor

walked some of the way home together.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," said Ambrose.

Was it possible for a man to do otherwise with gray-eyed Athena sitting

beside him nearly the whole evening!

"I enjoyed myself very much," said the Sailor simply.

"The Pridmores are very old friends of mine. An interesting family, I

always think."

They walked on in silence for a little time, and then the Sailor said

suddenly:

"Mary seems to have strong ideas about divorce." As he spoke he felt a

curious tension.

"Surprisingly so," said Edward Ambrose, in his detached way, "for such

a modern girl. Somehow one doesn't quite expect it."

"No," said the Sailor.

"It is the measure of her genuineness." Edward Ambrose seemed at that

moment to be addressing his words less to the young man at his side

than to the stars of heaven. "But she is very complex to me. I've

known her all her life.... I've watched her grow up." A whimsical

sigh was certainly addressed to the stars of heaven. "It is rather

wonderful to see all that Pridmore and Colthurst crassness and

narrowness, that has somehow made England great in spite of itself--if

you know what I mean..."

The Sailor didn't know in the least, but that was of no consequence to

Edward Ambrose in the expression of his mood.

"... touched to finer issues."

The Sailor knew now, but his companion gave him no chance to say so.

"She's so strong and fine, so independent, so modern!" Edward Ambrose

laughed his rare note, yet for some reason it was without gaiety.

The truth was he had long been deeply in love with Mary Pridmore, but

it was only in certain moments that he realized it.

"I suppose you knew Klondyke?" said the Sailor, wistfully.

"Her brother Jack? Oh, yes. He's thrown back to some Viking strain.

One can hardly imagine his being the brother of Otto and the son of his

mother or the son of his father."

"I can imagine Mary being the sister of Klondyke," said the Sailor.

"Really! I never see her at quite that angle myself. He's a funny

chap." Edward Ambrose was really not thinking at all of any mere male

member of the Pridmore family. "Might have done well in diplomacy.

Son of his father. Ought to have gone far." Again Edward Ambrose

loosed his wonderful note, but it had nothing to do with Jack Pridmore.

"And what does he do? And yet, the odd thing is he may be right."

"Klondyke's a white man from way back," said the Sailor abruptly.

The phrase was new to Edward Ambrose, who, as became a man with a keen

literary sense, turned it over in his mind. And then he suddenly

remembered that he owed it to his friends, the Pridmores, to be a

little more guarded in his utterances concerning them.

"Good night, Henry," he said, offering his hand at the corner of

Albemarle Street.

In the same moment, a human derelict fastened upon the Sailor, who had

to send him away with the price of a bed before he could return his

friend's good night.

Thinking their thoughts they went their ways. Edward Ambrose crossed

in a black mood to St. James Street. For a reason he could not explain

a sudden depression had come upon him. A sharp sense of life's tragic

complexity had entered his mind. In order to correct its dire

influence he lit a pipe and started to read a manuscript which had come

to him that morning. It was called, "A Master Mariner," Book the First.

"Damn it all," he thought a few minutes later. "There can be no

possible doubt about that boy. If he can only put the whole thing

through in this style, what a book it will be!"

XIII

In the meantime, the Sailor was walking home to Brinkworth Street,

distributing largesse.

"Poor, broken mariners," he said, when his pockets were finally empty.

"Poor marooned sailormen. I expect all these have seen the Island of

San Pedro. I expect some of them are living on it now."

He went to bed, but not to sleep. He had begun to realize that he was

getting into very deep waters. The truth was, he was growing a little

afraid. He had been a little afraid ever since that magical Sunday in

the wilds of Surrey. And now tonight, as he lay tossing on his pillow,

a very definite sense of peril was slowly entering into him. If he was

not very careful, the tide of affairs would prove too much, and he

would find himself carried out to sea.

As he lay awake through the small hours, the sinister truth grew clear

that grim forces were closing upon him again. His will was in danger

of being overpowered, if it was not overpowered already. Mary Pridmore

had come to mean so much to him that it seemed quite impossible to hold

life on any terms without her. Yet it was morbidly weak to admit for a

single moment anything of the kind.

During the week that followed, Mary and "the sailorman" undertook

several harmless little excursions. One afternoon she called for him

with Silvia in her mother's car and drove by way of Richmond Park to

Hampton Court. For the Sailor that was a very memorable day. He had a

walk alone in the palace garden with Athena, while Silvia, with a keen

sense of the fitness of things, paid a call upon some friends of hers

in what she impudently called the Royal Workhouse.

This enchanted afternoon, Mary and the Sailor didn't talk divorce.

Many things in earth and heaven they talked about, but that subject was

not among them. They scaled the heights together, they roamed the

mountain places. She told him that the first book of "A Master

Mariner," which she had been allowed to read in manuscript, had carried

her completely away, and she most sincerely hoped that he would be able

to sustain a soaring eagle flight through the hundreds of pages of the

two books to follow.

"But you will," she said. "I am convinced of it. I have made up my

mind that you must."

As she spoke the words the look of her amidst a glory of color set his

soul on fire. It was as much as he could do to refrain from taking the

hand of Athena. He wanted to cry aloud his happiness. She looked

every inch of royal kin as thus she stood amid flowers, a high and

grave wisdom enfolding her. She was indeed a daughter of the gods,

tall, slender, virile, an aureole of purest poetry upon her brows that

only John Milton could have hymned in their serenity.

"Edward Ambrose thinks as I do about it," she said. "He dined with us

last night, and afterwards we had a long talk. I hardly dare tell what

hopes he has of you. And, of course, one oughtn't. But, somehow, I

can't help it ... I can't help it...."

She spoke to herself rather than to him. The words fell from her lips

involuntarily, as if she were in a dream.

"You are so far upon the road that last night Edward and I willed it

together that you should go to the end of your journey. We both feel,

somehow, that you must ... you must ... you must!"

Again the Sailor wanted to cry out as he looked at her. He thought he

could see the tears leap to her eyes. But that may have been because

they had leaped to his own.

He could not trust himself to speak. He dare not continue to look at

her.

"What a life you must have had!"

It was the first time that note had been on the lips of Athena. The

sound of it was more than music, it was sorcery.

"You must have had a wonderful life. And I suppose in some ways..."

The beautiful voice sank until it could not be heard, and then rose a

little. "In some ways, it must have been ... rather terrible."

He did not speak nor did he look at her. But had he been a strong man

armed, he would have fled that magician-haunted garden. He would have

left her then, he would never have looked on her again.

"... Rather terrible." In an odd crescendo those words fell again from

the lips of Athena. "Edward thinks so. But it's an impertinence,

isn't it? Except that some lives are the property of others ... of the

race. You are not offended?"

"No," he said. And then feeling that it might have the sound of yes,

he gathered defiantly all that remained of his will. "My life has not

been at all like what you and Mr. Ambrose think. It has been just

hell."

"That is exactly what we imagined it had been," said Athena, with

divine simplicity. "And perhaps that is why"--her eyes were strangely

magnetic--"Edward and I have willed it that your life to come..."

A surge of wild blood suddenly darkened the wonderful lamp of Aladdin

in the right-hand corner of his brain.

"... shall be crowned with more than thorns."

She seemed almost to shiver.

"I beg your pardon," she said, suddenly applying the curb of a powerful

will. "It is impertinence. But there is always something about this

old garden which seems to carry one beyond oneself. It was wrong to

come."

"Don't say that...." The Sailor hardly knew that he was speaking. "We

are running a risk ... but ... but it's worth it. Let us sit on that

seat a minute. Shall we?"

"Yes, and wait for Silvia." She was using the curb with a force that

was almost brutal, as many a Pridmore and many a Colthurst had used it

before her.

The Sailor was shattered. But new strength had come to Athena. All

the jealous, inherited forces of her being had rallied to the call of

her distress.

"By the way." It was not Athena who was speaking now, but Miss

Pridmore, whose local habitation was Queen Street, Mayfair. "I nearly

forgot to tell you"--it was a clear note of gaiety--"a great event has

happened. You shall have one guess."

There was not so much as half a guess in the sailorman.

"There's news of Klondyke. My mother had a letter from him this

morning. It's his first word for nearly a year. He sent a postcard

from Queenstown to say he will be home tomorrow, and that I must clean

out of his own particular bedroom. Whenever he turns up and wherever

he comes from, I have always to do that at a moment's notice."

"Where's he been this time?" asked the Sailor.

"Round the whole wide world, I believe."

"Working his passage?"

"Very likely. As soon as he arrives, you will have to come and see

him. We are going to keep you as a surprise. Your meeting will be

great fun, and you are to promise that Silvia and I will be allowed to

see it. And you are to behave as if you were aboard the brigantine

_Excelsior_--it will always be the brigantine _Excelsior_ to me--and

greet him in good round terms of the sea. Now promise, please ... and,

of course, no one will mind if you swear. It will hardly be as bad as

Uncle George in a temper."

XIV

"Here you are." It was the gay voice of the returning Silvia. "So

sorry I've been so long. But I've had to hunt for you. One might have

known you would choose the coolest and quietest spot in the whole

garden."

As the sailorman was handing them into the car, Silvia said:

"By the way, have you remembered to tell Mr. Harper about Klondyke?"

"Yes, I have," said Mary.

"It will be priceless to see you and Klondyke meet," said Silvia. "We

shall not say a word about you. You are to be kept a secret. You have

just got to come and be sprung on him, and then you've got to tell him

to stand by and go about like the sailormen in Stevenson."

Henry Harper tried very hard to laugh. It was so clearly expected of

him. But he failed rather lamentably.

"I don't suppose he'll remember me," was all he could say. "It's years

and years since we met. I was only half-grown and half-baked in those

days."

"Of course, he'll remember you," said Silvia, "if you really sailed

round the world together before the mast. But you _will_ let us hear

you talk? And it must be pure brigantine _Excelsior_, mustn't it,

Mary?"

"He's already promised."

In the Sailor's opinion, this was not strictly true; at least he had no

recollection of having gone so far as to make a promise. He could

hardly have been such a fool. Mary, in her enthusiasm, was taking a

little too much for granted.

"I beg your pardon," he said, desperately, "but I don't remember having

said so."

"Oh, but you did, surely, as we sat under the tree."

"No hedging now," said Silvia, with merry severity. "It will be

splendid. And the Prince wants to be in at it."

"I don't think we can have Otto," said Mary.

"But I've promised him, my dear. It's all arranged. Mr. Harper is to

come to dinner. And not a word is to be said to Klondyke."

"I dare say Mr. Harper won't want to come to dinner?" Mary looked

quizzically across at the sailorman through the dim light of a car

interior passing under a Hammersmith archway. "One dinner per annum

with the _famille_ Pridmore will be quite enough for him, I expect."

"That cuts off his retreat, anyway," said Silvia. "And I think, as the

Prince is going to be there, it will only be fair to have Edward

Ambrose. Of course, Mr. Harper, you fully realize what you have to do.

To begin with, you enter with a nautical roll, give the slack of your

trousers a hitch, and as soon as you see Klondyke, who, I dare say,

will be smoking a foul pipe and reading the _Pink Un_, you will strike

your hand on your knee and shout at the top of your voice, 'What ho, my

hearty!'"

"How absurd you are!" said Mary, with a rather wry smile. She had just

caught the look on the Sailor's face.

"Well, my dear, that's the program, as the Prince and I have arranged

it."

Henry Harper was literally forced into a promise to dine in Queen

Street on an appointed day in order to meet Klondyke. There was really

no escape. It would have been an act of sheer ungraciousness to have

held out. Besides, when all was said, the Sailor wanted very much to

see his hero.

Nevertheless, grave searchings of heart awaited him now. His sane

moments told him--alas! those in which he could look dispassionately

upon his predicament seemed to be few--that a wide gulf was fixed

between these people and himself. In all essentials they were as wide

asunder as the poles. Their place in the scheme of things was fixed,

they moved in a definite orbit, while at the best of it he was a mere

adventurer, a waif of the streets whom Klondyke had first taught to

read and write.

The fact itself was nothing to be ashamed of, he knew that. It was no

fault of his that life had never given him a chance. But a new and

growing sensitiveness had come upon him, which somehow made that

knowledge hard to bear. He did not wish to convey an impression of

being other than he was, but he knew it would be difficult to meet

Klondyke now.

This, however, was weakness, and he determined to lay it aside. Such

feelings were unworthy of Klondyke and of himself. The price to be

paid might be heavy--he somehow knew that far more was at stake than he

dared think--but let the cost be what it might, he must not be afraid

to meet his friend.

All too soon, the evening came when he was due at Queen Street. He

arrayed himself with a care almost cynical in his new and well cut

clothes, brushed his hair very thoroughly, and took great pains over

the set of his tie. Then giving himself doggedly to a task from which

there was no escape, he managed to arrive in Queen Street on the stroke

of the hour of eight.

An atmosphere of veiled amusement seemed to envelop him as soon as he

entered the drawing-room, but the hero was not there. The Sailor was

informed by Silvia in a gay aside that Klondyke always made a practice

of being absolutely last in any boiled-shirted assembly. The Prince,

however, was on the hearthrug, wearing his usual air of calm

proprietorship, and with an expression of countenance even more

quizzical than usual. Edward Ambrose was also there, looking a trifle

perplexed and a little anxious. Lady Pridmore in white satin and

really beautiful black lace had that air of regal composure she was

never without, but Mary and Silvia were consumed with frank amusement.

"Klondyke is still struggling," said Silvia, "but he won't be long."

It was easy to see that the hero and his boiled shirt were a standing

jest in the family circle. He was really a figure of legend.

Incredible stories were told of him, all of which had the merit of

being based upon truth. He would have been a source of pure joy for

the things he had done could he ever have been forgiven for the things

he hadn't done.

Dinner had been announced a full five minutes, and a frown was slowly

submerging the Prince, when Klondyke sauntered in, his hands deep in

his pockets, looking extremely brown and _soigne_ and altogether

handsome. By some miracle he was even better turned out than his

younger brother.

"Here he is!" cried Silvia.

But the Sailor had no need to be told it was he. This was a Klondyke

he had never known and hardly guessed at, but after a long and

miraculous nine years he was again to grasp his hand. Somehow, at the

sight of that gay and handsome face, the room and the people in it

passed away. He could only think of Klondyke on the quay at Honolulu

starting to walk across Asia, and here was his hero brown as a chestnut

and splendidly fit and cheerful.

Silvia, with a display of facetiousness, introduced Mr. Harper, the

famous author, while the others, amused yet strangely serious, watched

their greeting. The Sailor came forward shyly, once again the ship's

boy of the _Margaret Carey_. But in his eyes was a look which the eyes

of that boy had never known.

The first thing Klondyke did was to take his hands out of his pockets.

He then stood gazing in sheer astonishment.

"Why ... why, Sailor!"

For the moment, that was all.

The Sailor said nothing, but blind to all things else, stood looking at

his friend. It was the old note of the good comrade his ears had

cherished a long nine years. Yes, this was Klondyke right enough.

The hero was still gazing at him in sheer astonishment. He was taking

him in in detail: the well cut clothes, the air of neatness, order, and

well-being. And then a powerful fist had come out square to meet that

of Henry Harper. But not a word passed.

It was rather tame, perhaps, for the lookers-on. It was part of the

Klondyke tradition never to take him seriously. An utterly comic

greeting had been expected between these two who had sailed before the

mast, a greeting absurdly nautical, immensely grotesque. It seemed odd

that there should have been nothing of this kind in it.

Those two commonplace words of Klondyke's were all that passed between

them--before they went down to dinner, at any rate. And throughout the

meal, the eyes of the two sailormen were continually straying to each

other to the exclusion of everything else. Somehow, to Henry Harper it

was like a fantastic dream that he should be seated in Elysium with the

goddess Athena by his side and the immortal Klondyke looking at him

continually from the head of the table.

All through dinner, Klondyke was unable to overcome a feeling of

astonishment that Henry Harper should be sitting there. He couldn't

help listening to all that he said, he couldn't help watching all that

he did. It was amazing to hear him talk to Mary and his mother about

books and plays and to watch his bearing, which was that of a man well

used to dining out. To be sure, Klondyke was not a close observer, but

as far as he could see there was not a single mistake in anything

Sailor said or did, yet nine years ago, when he left him in tears on

the quay at Honolulu, he was just a waif from the gutter who could

neither write nor read.

When the women had returned to the drawing-room and Klondyke and Edward

Ambrose and the Prince sat smoking their cigars, while Henry Harper was

content with his usual cigarette, it suddenly grew clear to one of the

four that these two sailormen very much desired to be left together.

"Prince," said Edward Ambrose, "let us go and talk Shakespeare and the

musical glasses."

As soon as the door had closed Klondyke said: "Now, Sailor, you must

have a little of this brandy. No refusal." He filled two liqueur

glasses with the fastidious care of one who knew the value of this

magic potion. "Sailor"--Klondyke had raised his own glass and was

looking at him as of old, with eyes that had traversed all the oceans

of the world as well as all its continents---"I'm very glad to see you

here."

As soon as the glass touched the lips of Henry Harper, something within

him seemed to beat thickly, and then an odd sort of phrase began to

roll through his brain. Somehow it brought with it all the sights and

the sounds and the odors of the _Margaret Carey_. It was a phrase he

had once heard a Yank make use of in the forecastle of that hell-ship,

and it was to the effect that Klondyke was a white man from way back.

That was quite true. Klondyke was a white man from way back. Not that

Sailor had ever doubted it for a moment.

XV

To the disappointment of the drawing-room, Klondyke and the sailorman

sat a long time together. They had much to say to one another.

It was Klondyke, however, who did most of the talking. He had not

changed in the least, and he was still the hero of old, yet the Sailor

felt very shy and embarrassed at first. But after a while, the magic

of the old intercourse returned, and Henry Harper was able to unlock a

little of his heart.

"Life is queer," said Klondyke. "And the more you see of it, the

queerer it seems. Take me. If I had been born you, I'd have been as

happy as a dead bird swabbing the main deck and shinning up the futtock

shrouds and hauling in the tops'ls. And if you had been born me, you'd

have been as happy as a dead bird going great guns and doing all sorts

of honor to the family. I wanted to go into the Navy, but my mother

and the old governor wouldn't stand for it. It must be diplomacy,

because the governor had influence, and I was the eldest son and I

ought to make use of it. What a job you would have made of that

billet! And how you hated the _Margaret Carey_. It was hell all the

time, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said the Sailor, "just hell."

"Still, it helped you to find yourself."

"Yes--if I was worth finding."

"Of course you were."

"Anyhow, I took the advice you gave me," said the Sailor, with his odd

simplicity.

"You'd have given it yourself in the end without any help of mine. But

it's strange that when I read your book I never guessed that you were

the author, and that you were writing about our old coffin ship and the

Old Man and the mate ... what was his name?"

"Mr. Thompson."

"Since deceased, I hear."

"Yes."

"One always felt he was a proper cutthroat."

"I'd not be sitting here now, but for Mr. Thompson. I'll tell you."

Klondyke's eyes began to shine.

In a few words and very simply, the Sailor told the story of the Island

of San Pedro.

"I've sometimes thought since," was his conclusion, "that they were

just guying me, knowing they could frighten me out of my wits."

"Of course they were," said Klondyke. "That's human nature. But you

had rotten luck ever to come to sea. However, you are in smooth waters

now. You'll never have to face the high seas again, my boy."

"I don't know that," said the Sailor, with a sudden sickness of the

heart.

"No fear. The wicket's going to roll out plumb. You are the most

wonderful chap I have ever met. Now I suppose we had better join the

others."

They went upstairs and had a gay reception.

"I wish you would dance a hornpipe or something," said Silvia, "or

cross talk as they did on the brigantine _Excelsior_, else we shall

none of us believe that either of you have ever been before the mast at

all."

"I tell you, Sailor, what we might do," said Klondyke. "If we can

remember the words, we might give 'em that old chantey that was always

so useful round the Horn. How does it go?"

Klondyke sat down at the piano and began to pick out the notes with one

finger of each hand.

"'Away for Rio!' I'll sing the solo, if I can remember it, and you

sing the chorus, Sailor!"

Such stern protests were raised by those who knew the capacity of

Klondyke's lung power that very reluctantly he gave up this project,

yet the very indifferent backing of his shipmate may have carried more

weight with him than the pressure of public opinion.

When Edward Ambrose and the Sailor had gone their ways and the others

apparently had gone to bed, Klondyke doffed the coat of civilization in

favor of a very faded and generally disreputable Ramblers' blazer, lit

his pipe, and then, in the most comfortable chair he could find, began

to read again "The Adventures of Dick Smith on the High Seas."

"Yes, he's a wonderful chap," he kept muttering at intervals. After he

had been moved to this observation several times, he was interrupted by

the reappearance of the Prince, who looked uncommonly serious, in an

elaborate quilted silk smoking jacket that he affected in his

postprandial hours.

"This chap Harper," suddenly opened the Prince. "I want to have a word

with you about him."

The look on the face of the elder and less reputable brother seemed

pretty clearly to show that this desire was not shared. But duty had

to be done, and the Prince seated himself doggedly on the high fender,

his back to the fire.

"Tell me," he said, "what you know about this chap Harper."

Somehow, Klondyke hardly felt inclined. For one thing, the slow but

sure growth of the Foreign Office manner, which he was able to detect

in his younger brother every time he returned from his wanderings,

always seemed to rattle him a bit. Of course Otto was a first-rate

chap according to his lights; still, Klondyke was the elder, and if

questions must be asked he did not feel bound to answer them.

A mild but concentrated gaze conveyed as much.

"Ted Ambrose brought him here," said the Prince, with a nice feeling

for these nuances. "A good chap, I dare say ... quite a good chap ...

but..."

The mild gaze was still concentrated, but if possible more limpid.

"... but somehow a little ... Mother thinks so, anyway."

"Oh, yes, I dare say," said Klondyke, with a casualness that rather

annoyed the Prince.

"Fact is ... I might as well tell you..." The tone of the Prince

implied nothing less than a taking of the bull by the horns. "We all

think Mary is inclined to ... to..."

With nice deliberation, Klondyke laid "The Adventures of Dick Smith" on

the hearthrug.

"Mother thinks," said the Prince plaintively, after a pause, "it would

be better if he didn't come to the house so much."

Klondyke frowned heavily and tapped his pipe on a fire-dog.

"How long's he been coming here?" he asked.

"Some little time now."

Klondyke still frowned.

"Mother thinks," said the plaintive Prince, "that Mary sees far too

much of him. And I rather agree with her."

"Why?" asked Klondyke stolidly.

"Why?" repeated his younger brother, looking at him with wary

amazement. "Well, to start with, he ain't a gentleman."

Klondyke tapped his pipe again.

"I don't mind telling you," said the Prince, "we all think she is

making a perfect idiot of herself."

"What's Ted Ambrose think?"

"I've not asked him, but I believe mother has mentioned the matter."

"What did he say?"

"She thought he seemed a good deal worried."

Klondyke's frown had assumed terrific dimensions.

"She's old enough to take care of herself, anyway," he said, beginning

abruptly to refill a foul briar from a small tin box that he

unexpectedly evolved from the pocket of his trousers.

"That's hardly the point, is it?" said the Prince, with a deference he

didn't feel.

"What is the point?" asked Klondyke, striking a wooden match on the

sole of his shoe.

"Mother has mentioned the matter to Uncle George, and he thinks the

chap ought not to come here."

"Oh, that's rot," said Klondyke coolly. "That's like the old fool."

"I'm afraid I agree ... with Uncle George, I mean ... and so does

Silvia."

"What's Ted Ambrose think about it? He generally knows the lie of a

country."

"He'd give no opinion to mother. But he was certainly worried."

Klondyke resumed his frown. He felt rather at sea. He was, in spite

of birth and training, a man of primal instincts; he looked at things

in an elemental way. Either a man was a good chap or he was not. If

he was a good chap, no matter where he may have started from in the

race of life, he was fitted by nature to marry his sister. If he was

not a good chap, no matter what else he was or might be, he didn't

count anyway.

"You see"--the plaintive voice of the Prince broke in upon Klondyke's

unsubtle analysis of the situation--"no one knows anything about him.

Ambrose sprang him on us from nowhere, as you might say. Of course,

he's a man with a sort of reputation ... in his own line ... but he's

not one of us ... and it wouldn't have so much mattered if he had been

a gentleman."

"There I don't altogether agree," said Klondyke with conviction, but

without vehemence. "I always think with Ted Ambrose on that point.

Gentlemen are not made. They are born, like poets and cricketers."

"That's rot," said the Prince, with a sudden deepening of his tone of

courtesy which made it seem excessive. "You are mixing, I

think--aren't you--two entirely different things?"

"No, I don't think so," said Klondyke. "Harper is not a chap who would

ever go back on a pal, and that's all that matters."

The Prince suddenly became so deeply angry that he decided to go to bed

at once, and accordingly did so.

XVI

For a number of people there followed anxious days. Mary's friends

made no secret of their belief that she was losing her head. They were

much troubled. She was a universal favorite, one of those charming

people who seem to have an almost poetic faculty of common sense. But

she was thought to be far too wise ever to be carried away by anything.

The Pridmores, at heart, were conventional. They were abreast of the

times, were lively and intelligent, and could be at ease in Bohemia,

but up till now Bohemia had known the deference due to Queen Street,

Mayfair.

Lady Pridmore had always thought--and Silvia, Uncle George, and the

Prince had agreed with her--that Mary was predestined for Edward

Ambrose. For one thing, Edward, when his father died, would be very

well off--not that the Pridmores were in the least mercenary. They

simply knew what money means to such a being as man in such a world as

the present. Then Edward was liked by them all. It had long been a

mystery why Mary had not married him. He was always her faithful

cavalier, and a rather exceptional man. And now she had suddenly gone

off at half cock, as Uncle George expressed it.

During this period, tribulation was rife at other places also. Edward

Ambrose was in no enviable frame of mind. The woman he loved and the

friend he served were cutting deeply into his life. But of one thing

he was convinced--neither of them realized their danger.

He was a sufficient judge of his kind to know that Henry Harper was not

a man willfully to practice deceit. Ambrose was aware of the skeleton

in the cupboard. It was ever present to his mind. And his position

was rendered painfully difficult by the fact that he was under a pledge

not to reveal it. The root of the matter, as far as Harper was

concerned, was that his inexperience of the world might cause him to

drift into a relationship which he did not intend and could not foresee.

Ambrose was tormented by a desire to tell Mary Pridmore all he knew.

Surely it was his duty. Her ignorance of certain facts, which Harper

most unwisely withheld, was a very real and grave danger. Ambrose

realized how quickly such a woman, almost unknown to herself, could

sweep a man off his feet. He also felt that Henry Harper, with his

atmosphere of mystery, and his remarkable powers which needed the help

of a strong and stable intelligence, might make an irresistible appeal

to a girl like Mary Pridmore.

Ambrose felt that he alone knew the peril which beset his friends. Yet

he could not warn one without treason to the other. His regard for

both seemed to preclude all interference. He had a sincere affection

for a brave-spirited man; for Mary he had long cherished something more

than affection; yet in circumstances such as these an untimely word

might do mischief untold.

For the present, therefore, he had better remain silent. In the

meantime, the Sailor had descended once more into the pit. He had been

cast again, by that grim destiny which had never failed to dog him from

the outset of his life, into the vortex of overmastering forces. He

felt the time was near when without the help of Mary Pridmore he could

not keep on.

One day, worn out with anxiety, he called at Spring Gardens and had an

interview with Mr. Daniel Mortimer. That gentleman could give little

solace. The woman drew her allowance every week. There was reason to

believe that she had bad bouts of drinking, but Mr. Mortimer was still

unable to advise a petition for divorce. The whole matter was full of

difficulty, there was the question of expense, also it would be wise

not to ignore the consequences to a rising reputation.

Henry Harper felt the force of this reasoning. It was no use

attempting to gainsay the view of an expert in the law. Moreover, he

had a clear knowledge of Mary's opinion on the subject of divorce. In

any event she would never consent to marry him.

The young man took leave of the kindly and wise Mr. Mortimer, and with

despair in his heart walked slowly back to Brinkworth Street. Every

yard of the way he wondered what he should do now. He felt like an

animal caught in a trap. For more than a week he had not been able to

think of his work.

He had not seen Mary for some days. He was trying to keep her out of

his thoughts. But the more he denied himself the sight of her, the

less power he had to fight the demon in whose grip he was now held. He

was unable to work, he slept little, he had no appetite for food; for

the most part, he could only walk up and down this wonderful and

terrible city of London which had now begun to appall him.

He had outgrown his present strength. And, as only a woman can, she

realized where and how she might help him. This deep-sea mariner

should not call to her in vain. Athena, in her high maternal sanity,

was ready to yield all.

Three days ago, when he had seen her last, and had sat with her in the

shade of the park, her eyes, her voice had told him that. They had

told him that, even when it had not been his to ask. It was this

implicit declaration which had so gravely frightened him. The truth

struck home that he was not treading the path of honor.

By the time he had returned to Brinkworth Street, he knew the necessity

of a definite course of action. It was madness to go on in their

present way. They had come to mean too much to each other; besides, a

perception keenly sensitive had told him that her friends were

beginning to regard him with a tacit hostility. It had not found

expression in word or deed; he was always received with kindness; but

except on the part of Klondyke, there was no real warmth of sympathy.

Circumstances had placed him in a terribly false position, and he must

be man enough to break his fetters. He knew that there was still one

way of doing that. The course was extreme, but honor demanded it.

He had been invited to tea the next day at the house of a friend they

had in common. It was to be a large party, and he knew that if he

carried out his original intention of going, he would see Mary and no

doubt have a chance of talking to her. Much painful reflection that

evening finally decided him. He would go prepared to tell everything.

It must be their last meeting, for she would surely see how hopeless

was the intimacy into which they had drifted.

Having quite definitely made up his mind, he was able to snatch a

little more sleep that night than for some weeks past. Moreover, he

got up the next day with his resolution strong upon him. Let the cost

be what it might, he must accept a bitter and humiliating situation.

At half past four that afternoon he was one of many more or less

distinguished persons filling the spacious rooms of a house in a

fashionable square. The hostess, a quick-witted adroit woman, was very

much a friend of both. She had a real regard for Mary, also a genuine

weakness for a man of genius.

Athena was there already when the Sailor arrived. And as she sat on a

distant sofa, nursing her teacup, with several members of her court

around her, the young man was struck yet again, as he always was, by

her look of vital power. She had in a very high degree that curious

air of distinction which comes of an old race and seems to strike from

a distance. The features were neither decisive nor regular, but the

modeling of the whole face and the poise of the head no artist could

see without desiring to render on canvas.

The Sailor had to steel his will. The thought was almost intolerable

that at one blow he was about to sever his friendship with her. She

was so strong and fine, she was a sacred part of his life, she was the

key of those central forces that now seemed bent on his destruction.

Presently, amid the slow eddy of an ever changing crowd they came

together. Her greeting was of a peculiarly simple friendliness. She

seemed grave, with something almost beyond gravity. There was a shadow

upon a face that hardly seemed to have known one in all its years of

shelter and security.

"Is there anywhere we can talk?" he managed to say after a little while.

She rose from her sofa with the decision he had always lacked.

"Let us try the library," she said.

And with the assured skill of an experienced navigator of social

waters, she led him there and found it empty.

XVII

Henry Harper's decision had been taken finally. But as soon as he

entered this large and dull room, he felt the chill of its emptiness in

an almost symbolical way. It was what his whole life was going to be,

and the thought nearly wrung a groan out of him.

She was puzzled by a certain oddness in his manner, a feeling which of

late had been growing upon her. It was hard to understand. She knew

his need of help, his craving for it, yet now the time had come when he

had only to ask in order to receive it he seemed at the mercy of a

painful indecision which had the power to wound.

Here and now a subtle withdrawal of the highest part of himself seemed

more than ever apparent. It was even in his face this afternoon, in

the wonderful face of Ulysses that had all the oceans of the world in

it. What did it portend? Was it that he was afraid?

What had he to fear? How could such a person as herself repel him?

She had all to give if only he would demand it of her.

Of that he must be aware. The haunted eyes of the sailorman too

clearly proclaimed his knowledge.

"How is 'A Master Mariner'?" she asked, in order to end the silence

which had intervened as soon as they entered the room.

"It doesn't get on," he said, in a voice that did not seem to be his

own.

"I'm very sorry." The deep note was sincerity itself.

"I don't know why," said the Sailor, "but it's too much for me now."

"Of course, it is all immensely difficult. The latter part

particularly. Somehow, one always felt it would be."

"It's not that," said the Sailor. "Not the difficulty, I mean. That

was always there, and I was never afraid of it. But I think I am

losing grip."

She looked at him, a little disquieted. There was a note in his voice

she heard then for the first time.

"That must not be," she said. "There's no reason for it."

"Ah, you don't know. I begin to feel now that I'll never be able to

put it through."

"Why should you feel that? What reason can you have, a man of your

wonderful powers, a man with all his life before him?"

"I just haven't the strength," he said in his quaint speech, "and

that's all there is to it."

To her surprise, to her horror almost, he suddenly covered his face

with his hands. Somehow, the sight of a weakness so palpable in a

thing so strong and fine was unnerving.

"I'll never be able to put it through by myself."

As she stood facing him, she felt the truth of that.

"Is it necessary?" The words seemed to shape themselves in despite of

her.

"Yes." Involuntarily, he drew away from her. A sure feminine instinct

waited for the words that should follow. She read in those strange

eyes that he must now speak. She could almost feel, as she stood so

near him, a slow and grim gathering of the will. She could almost hear

the surge of speech to his lips. But no words came, and the moment

passed.

Now that he had to strike the knife into his heart, it could not be

done. It was not cowardice, it was not a failure of the will, it was

not even a momentary weakness of the soul. He was in the grip of

ineluctable forces, of a power beyond himself. As he stood not three

yards from her with the table supporting him, his whole nature seemed

wrenched and shaken to the roots of being.

She couldn't help pitying him profoundly. There was something that had

crept into his eyes which harrowed her. Poor mariner! For the first

time in her life, she felt a curious sudden tightening of the throat.

She could have shrieked, almost, at the sight of this tragic pain it

was not to be hers to ease.

A moment later, she had regained control.

"You must keep on," said Athena. "You must keep on."

But he knew that he was down, and that the ineluctable forces were

killing him.

She may have known it, too. No longer able to bear the look upon his

face, she drew back, an intense pity striking her.

Was she upon the verge of some great tragedy? She did not dare to

frame the question.

"Mary." ... She awoke to the sound of the Sailor's voice and of her own

name on his lips.... "I've made up my mind to--to go away for a bit."

In the midst of these throes, an inspiration had come to him. It was

no more than a miserable subterfuge, but it was all he could do.

"I somehow feel I'm on the rocks. I think I'll go a voyage. I'm

losing myself. I'll perhaps be able to..."

A stifling sense of pity kept her silent.

"... to persuade Klondyke to come along with me."

"I wish I could have helped you." The words were wrung from her.

"You can't," he said, and he spoke with a gust of passion as one half

maddened. "No one can help me."

She saw his wildness, and somehow her strength went out to him.

"You can't think what I've been through," he said, with something worse

than rage entering his voice.

She knew she couldn't even guess, and was too wise to try. But again

she was hurt by the sight of a suffering it could never be hers to heal.

"Henry," she said, "I would like you always to feel and always to

remember that whatever happens to you, and wherever you are, I am your

friend, if only I may be."

To this high and rare simplicity of Athena the goddess, he could make

no response.

"And now I must go," she said, gathering the whole force of her

resolution.

"Suppose I walk with you a little of the way?" he said.

She almost guessed that he meant it for their last stroll together.

It was a long step from the scene of the tea party to Mary's door, but

no finer evening for a walk could have been desired. Neither knew why

they chose to take it. For both it was a mere prolongation of misery.

Perhaps it was that he still hoped, against hope itself, for the moment

to return in which it would be possible to tell the secret that locked

his lips.

Humiliated as he was, there may still have been that thought in his

mind. But it was vain in any case. There could be no real intention

now of telling her. By the time they had crossed the park, he had cast

it entirely away. And now they fell to talking of other matters.

Unwilling to let her go, cleaving to her in his weakness to the very

last second of the very last hour, he persuaded her to sit a few

minutes on an empty bench under the trees ... under the trees within

whose shade he had sat when he had seen her first. And there he had

from her lips a definite expression of her faith.

It was with that they parted--finally, as he believed. He dared not

put it to himself in a way so explicit, it was not a thing he could

face in such bare, set terms, but in his brain the Aladdin's lamp was

burning fitfully, and it was this that flashed the cruel light of truth.

"... If ever you want help!"

Those were the words of their parting, as the pressure of his fingers

met the last touch of hers. And then she was gone, and he was gone ...

and then a bleak, dull blindness came over him and he knew that more

than life had gone with her.

XVIII

A rudderless ship in mid-ocean, he wandered long and aimlessly about

the byways of the city. It was past midnight when he found himself

back in Brinkworth Street. Without taking off his clothes, he flung

himself face down on his bed.

After a while, he tried very hard to pull himself together. He must be

a man, that was the whole substance of his thoughts. As ever, he knew

that to be his simple duty. Throughout his overdriven life, he had

always had to tell himself, and other people had always made a point of

telling him, to be a man. Auntie had been the first to ask it of him

when she had dragged him upstairs and tied him to the bed. "Enry

Arper"--he had heard that shrill snigger above the roar of

Knightsbridge--"what I shall do to you is going to hurt, but you must

be a man and bear it." A jolly looking policeman had told him to be a

man at the police station. Mr. Thompson had told him to be a man the

night he carried him to sea. The Old Man had given him equally sound

advice when he had gravely told him of the Island of San Pedro.

All his life, it seemed, he had not lacked good advice, and hell only

knew he had always done his best to follow it. But as now he lay on

his bed in Brinkworth Street in a cold summer dawn, he felt that he was

done.

The plain fact was he was coming to believe that he had not had a

square deal. Life was tolerable for some, no doubt; for people like

the Pridmores, for instance, and his friend Edward Ambrose--he was not

envying them meanly, nor was he merely pitying himself--for those who

had been born right, who had had a fair start, who had been given a

reasonably plumb wicket to play on, as Klondyke expressed it. But for

gutter breeds such as himself, there was not one chance in a million of

ever winning through. He had done all it was possible for a man to do,

and now with a feeling of more than impotence, he realized that he was

out.

He had learned a trick of praying this last year or two, but in this

cold summer dawn he had no longer a use for it. What was the good?

Somebody--it was not for him to say Who--had not played fair. Henry

Harper, you must be a man and bear it! A sudden gust of rage swept

through him as he lay. The voice of Auntie was coming back to him out

of the years. And she was exhorting him to an inhuman stoicism in

order that she might serve her private ends.

Some time between six and seven, in a state of awful dejection, he

undressed and got into bed. He did not want Mr. Paley to find him like

that when he brought the water for his bath at eight o'clock. It would

not be right to wound the feelings of a good man. But if Henry Harper

had had the courage to take a razor, well.... Mr. Paley would not have

found him in bed. Since that night on the railway, now many years ago,

he had lost the nerve for anything of that kind. He had always thought

that on that night something had snapped in the center of himself.

At eight o'clock, when the punctual Mr. Paley came with the water can,

Henry Harper told him that he was not going to get up at present, and

that he would not be in need of breakfast.

"Aren't you well, sir?" asked Mr. Paley, in his discreet voice.

"No, I'm not very well."

"I'm sorry, sir." Mr. Paley had the gift of expressing true sympathy

in his tone and bearing. "You have been a little run down some days

now, have you not, sir?"

"Longer than that," said the Sailor. "Ever since I've been born, I've

been a poor sort of brute."

"Robust health is an untold blessing. I'm glad to say I've always

enjoyed it myself, and so has Mrs. Paley. Would you like to see a

doctor, sir? I'll go along at once to Dr. Gibb at the end of the

street."

"A doctor is no use for my complaint."

Mr. Paley was grieved, but he wisely withdrew without further comment.

The Sailor turned his face to the wall with a vague sort of prayer that

he might be allowed to die. But it was not to heaven; the deadly

pressure of events had forced him in spite of a lifetime's hard and

bitter fighting to accept Mr. Thompson's theory. The troll of Auntie,

who was exuding gin and wickedness around his pillow, had been now

reinforced by the mate of the _Margaret Carey_.

A pleasant pair they made, these trolls from his youth. And there were

others. If only that delicate spring had not snapped, he must have

jumped out of bed and settled the business out of hand. "Be a man,"

said the voice of Auntie. "There's the case on the dressing table

straight before your eyes. Be a man, Enry Arper, and set about it."

Auntie was right. He got out of bed. He took up the case and stood an

instant holding it in his hand.

"Lay holt on it, bye." That was Mr. Thompson's gruff tone, and it was

followed immediately by Auntie's shrill and peculiar snigger.

There was one other thing, however, on the dressing table: a

comfortable, green-backed edition of the "Poems of John Milton." The

Sailor didn't know why, but he took up the now familiar volume with his

unoccupied hand. It may have been mere blind chance, it may have been

one last cunning effort on the part of the genie, for by some means the

book came open at a certain place in the middle. Suddenly the brown

case fell to the carpet with a thud.

In spite of the trolls besieging him, the Sailor crept back to his bed

with the book in his hands. What wonderful, wonderful worlds were

these! And he was little more than twenty-eight. And the sun of

Brinkworth Street had entered his chamber to tell him that this was a

gorgeous morning of midsummer.

The battle was not over yet, however. Auntie and Mr. Thompson in the

hour of their necessity had summoned to their aid the Old Man and Cora

Dobbs. It was now all hell let loose.

"Chuck it, ducky." It was Cora's voice now. "You are not a man, you

know, and never will be. You are no use, anyway. Get out of your

little bed, now, and cut off the gas at the meter."

Time went on, but he made no attempt to reckon how much of it. He was

too fiercely occupied in fighting the damned. Once or twice it seemed

that they must surely down him. Their insane laughter hovered round

his pillow continually, even in the broad light of a very glorious day.

Sooner or later, he feared, there could only be one end to it all.

John Milton or no John Milton, they almost had him out of bed again,

when Mr. Paley came quite unexpectedly into the room.

"Mr. Pridmore, sir, has called. Shall I ask him up?"

Klondyke, however, had come up without waiting to be invited.

"Mary told me you were a bit below the weather," he said, "so I thought

I'd come and see you. What's the matter?"

The Sailor could not answer the question. He could only gaze with wild

eyes at his friend.

"You've been working too hard, I expect," said Klondyke, looking at him

shrewdly. "Overdriving the buzz-box, my boy, with this new book that

Ted Ambrose thinks is going to be great. You'll have to have rest and

a change."

Klondyke perched on the edge of the bed, as if it had been Sailor's

bunk in the half-deck of the _Margaret Carey_.

"Mary said you talked of going away for a bit, and she thought you

might like me to come with you. Now what do you say to a little trip

as far as Frisco, for the sake of old times? You can put me down

there. I'm just beginning to feel, after a month here, that I shall be

none the worse for another trek to Nowhere and back. And then you can

come home by the next boat and finish your job, or go on a bit further

round the coast, if you fancy it. What do you say, old friend?"

The Sailor, supine in his bed, was unable to say anything. But the

trolls had no use for Klondyke. Hissing and snarling they had flown

already to distant corners of the room.

"Shall we fix that? I'll go now to Cockspur Street and see if I can

book a couple of saloon berths for tomorrow--there's a boat for Frisco

most Wednesdays, and you are not up to roughing it at present.

Besides, there's no reason why you should. Now, Sailor, what do you

say?"

In spite of all the trolls there were in the universe, Klondyke was

still Klondyke, it seemed. Perhaps he alone could have conquered them.

"That fixes it," he said. "Just get your gear together. You won't

want much. And mine's ready any time. I'll go along at once, and come

back and report."

Two minutes later, Klondyke was away on his errand, only too happy at

the prospect of being in harness again.

For the time being, the trolls were overthrown. The battle was not yet

won, but a staunch friend had given the Sailor new fighting power. He

was by no means his own man; he felt he never could be again; all the

same, when Klondyke returned about an hour later with the news that he

had been able to secure two berths for the following day, Henry Harper

was dressed, he was bathed and shaved, he was clothed in his right mind

more or less.

XIX

On the following night, the Sailor put once more to sea. But it was

very different faring from any he had known before. A craft of this

kind was another new world to him. Indeed, so little did it resemble

the _Margaret Carey_, that it was hard to realize at first that he was

once more ocean bound. Even the tang of salt in the air and the wash

of the waves against the sides of the great ship were scarcely enough

to assure him that he was again afloat.

It was the presence of Klondyke which really convinced him.

"I never thought we should come to this," said his friend as they

lingered in boiled shirts over an excellent dinner and a band the

second day out. "It's better than having to turn out on deck at eight

bells with your oilskins soaked and the nose of the Horn in front of

you. You think so, Sailor, I know."

Henry Harper confessed that he did.

"How you stuck it all those years, I can't think," said Klondyke. "How

any chap sticks it who doesn't really take to the sea passes me. But

you were always a nailer for keeping on keeping on."

The case might be even as Klondyke said, but the Sailor had about

reached his limit.

Klondyke himself, who was not a close observer, was struck by the

change. He couldn't quite make him out. In his peculiar way, he had a

great regard for the Sailor. He considered him to be a white man all

through; and knowing so much of the facts of his life, he felt his grit

was quite extraordinary. But now it had begun to seem that this

gallant fighter was losing tenacity. There was something about him

which suggested a boxer who has been knocked to the boards, who is

trying to rise before he is counted out and sickly realizes that he

can't.

What had happened? It was clear that he had had an awful facer. How

had he come by it? Klondyke belonged to a type which strictly

preferred its own business to that of anyone else, but it was

impossible not to ask these questions, knowing as much of Henry Harper

as he did.

Was Mary the cause? Had the blow been dealt by her? Somehow, he did

not think that could be the case. And yet there was a doubt in his

mind. He knew, at least, that Mary was fearfully upset. It was she

who had come to him with a particular look in her eyes and had proposed

a voyage for the Sailor on the plea that he had been working too hard.

That certainly did not suggest any unkindness on her part. All the

same, he knew that his family strongly disapproved of her intimacy with

Henry Harper.

Putting two and two together, he was half inclined to believe that the

Sailor had proposed to Mary, and that against her own wish she had

refused him. But even that hypothesis did not account for the morbid

and rudderless state he was in now.

Nevertheless, the Sailor had still a little fight left in him. About

the third or fourth day out, he had begun to make an effort to pull

himself together, and then it became clear that the voyage was doing

him good. In a week he was a new man. He was still deeply mysterious,

he was not keen and alert as he used to be, but to the unsubtle mind of

Klondyke that implied a case of overwork.

Indeed, as far as he was concerned, that must always be the primary

fact in regard to the Sailor. How the chap must have sapped in the

nine years since last they had put to sea. It was almost incredible

that a man who had made a reputation with his pen, who in speech and

bearing could pass muster anywhere, should have been picked out of the

gutter unable to write his own name, and set aboard the _Margaret

Carey_.

Yes, this chap had enormous fighting power. There was not one man in a

million who could have overcome such a start as that. It would be a

tragic pity if he went under just as he was coming into his own.

When they reached Frisco the Sailor was so much more himself that

Klondyke, who at one time had been disinclined to leave him, felt that

now he might do so without any fear for his safety. In every way he

seemed very much better. He was brighter, less silent. There was

still a mysterious something about him which he could not account for,

but he felt the worst was past and that there was no reason why Henry

Harper should not go home alone.

Therefore, when they came to Frisco, Klondyke carried out his plan of

trekking to nowhere and back, where boiled shirts would cease to

trouble him, and where, with a rifle and a few cartridges, and one or

two odds and ends in a makeshift carry-all which had accompanied him to

the uttermost places of the earth, he would really feel that he was

alive. He invited the Sailor to come with him, yet he knew that such a

mode of life was not for Henry Harper. And the Sailor knew that, too.

For one thing, he would be wasting precious time he could not afford to

lose; again, now that fighting power was coming back to him, he must

run his rede, must prepare to outface destiny.

Still, in taking leave of his friend, he was trying himself beyond his

present strength.

The fact struck him with cruel force at the moment of parting on the

waterfront at Frisco. Klondyke, wearing a fur cap the replica of one

that would ever be the magic possession of Henry Harper, was on the

point of going his way, and the Sailor had booked a return passage to

Liverpool. It came upon him as they said good-by that it was more than

he could bear.

"You'll win out," were the last words spoken in the familiar way.

"You've not got so far along the course to be downed in the straight.

Keep on keeping on, and you'll get through."

That was their farewell. But as soon as the Sailor was alone, the

awaiting trolls were on him. He was in better shape now than in those

hours in Brinkworth Street, but the conflict was grim. Every ounce of

will was needed.

He went aboard feeling dazed. Even yet he had not grasped the worst.

He did not know until the next day that England and Brinkworth Street

were not yet possible, and that perhaps they never would be.

Therefore, when they touched at the port of Boston he changed ship and

put about, having suddenly determined to make the grand tour as a

saloon passenger.

He was well off for money. Popularity had come to him as well as

technical success. He could afford to sail round the world first

class. And having reached this wise decision, he began in earnest to

fight destiny.

He had made a pledge that he would not write to Mary, also, if his will

endured, he would never see her again. It seemed the only course after

that last failure.

John Milton was with him, also the Bible and Shakespeare and Shelton's

"Don Quixote" and Boswell's "Life of Johnson," and a translation of

Montaigne. Moreover, he had the Iliad and the Odyssey in English, also

a Greek Lexicon. With the aid of this, he spent many an hour in

quarrying painfully, but with a certain amount of success, in the

original. This royal company did much to hold the trolls at bay. But

in the evening they would hover round the lamp in the saloon; and

during the night, when he awoke to the wash of the sea, expecting to

hear eight bells struck and half wishing he was dead in consequence,

because he would have to tumble out of his bunk and ascend shivering to

the deck of the _Margaret Carey_, then was a time for the foe. But

with John Milton and a greater than John by his elbow, and with

Aladdin's wonderful lamp still burning fitfully through the night,

although of late the genie had apparently forgotten to trim it, the

demons for all their hissing and snarling were never really able to

fasten their fangs upon him as they had done that morning in Brinkworth

Street.

Weeks went by. He saw strange sights and many familiar ones, he

touched at some unknown and some half remembered ports, he watched the

sun gild many majestic cities. Once again he saw on the starboard bow

the trees of the Island of San Pedro. Once again he saw the sharks

with their dead-white bellies and heard their continual plop-plop in

the water. Once again he heard the Old Man come up the cabin stairs.

This time the heavens did not open, perhaps for the reason that there

was no heaven to open for Henry Harper now.

About the third day out from Auckland on the homeward tack, he put

forth a great effort to come to grips with "A Master Mariner," Book

Three. But after a week of futile struggling he discovered that

Aladdin's lamp was extinguished altogether.

The knowledge was bitter, but it must be accepted. Hope was the magic

fuel with which the lamp was fed. If that priceless stuff should fail,

the lamp could burn no more. Whatever he did now it seemed as clear as

the glorious sun of the Antipodes that the mariner would never come

into port.

Several times he changed ship. Mind and will steadily developed, but

he was never captain of his soul. The demons of the past no longer

besieged him, but Book Three was still becalmed. The hour was not yet

in which he could return.

Months went by, but the future remained an abyss.

In the end, Ulysses came back to the shores of his native Ithaca for a

prosaic but sufficient reason. It was merely that he was in need of

money. After eleven months of wandering on the face of the waters, the

liberal store he carried had almost disappeared. Quite suddenly one

night, in the Mediterranean, he took the decision to return to London.

XX

The Sailor knew as soon as he stepped on the platform at Charing Cross

that he had no wish to see again that city which had treated him with

such unkindness. He left his gear in the station cloak room, and then

by the time he had gone a few yards he regretted bitterly that he had

ever come back at all. The mere sight of the omnibuses, of the names

on the hoardings, of the grotesquely miscellaneous throngs in the

Strand, told him that eleven months of ceaseless wandering had done

nothing, or at the best very little, to heal the wound he bore.

These streets brought an ache that, steel his will as he might, he

could hardly bear. There to the right was the National Gallery. It

was on just such a morning as this that she had led him to the Turners.

Farther along were Pall Mall and Edward Ambrose.

Five minutes he stood on the curb at the top of Northumberland Avenue,

trying to decide whether he should cross Trafalgar Square. Once more

the old sense of disintegration was upon him. Once more he was asking

himself what he ought to do.

Eleven months had passed, but things were as they were. In that time

not a line had been added to the work he was trying to do. Yet he felt

that his first duty was to go to see Edward Ambrose. Let him go now.

It was no use shirking it. But a curious instinct was holding him

back. It was illogical, he knew, but every moment that he stood there

seemed to make the task more difficult.

In a state of irresolution he crossed the road as far as an island in

the middle. The sense of familiarity was growing at every step.

Within a very few yards was Spring Gardens. He could see two doors up

the street the brass plate of Messrs. Mortimer mocking him through a

weird substitute for the light of day.

In spite of all the months that had passed, the sight of that brass

plate was like a knife in his body. He turned from the island to dash

across a very dangerous road, and came within an ace of the death that

would have been so welcome. A taxi avoided him by an almost miraculous

swerve, for which, when he realized it, he did not thank the driver.

All at sea he crossed the Square and entered Pall Mall. In the process

of time he came to the home of _Brown's Magazine_. Edward Ambrose gave

him a welcome that nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"My dear boy!" he said. "Not one word in all these months! Anyhow you

have come back to us."

It was impossible to doubt the friendship and the affection of this

greeting. The Sailor felt a pang of shame. As a fact, he had been too

modest to expect such loyalty.

"I'm ... I'm sorry."

"You had no right to forget your friends," said Edward Ambrose, a

little resentfully. He knew the workings of this childishly open mind,

and it hurt him that a sincere emotion should have been underrated.

"Yes," said the Sailor queerly. "It was rotten."

"You are looking splendidly brown and well," said Edward Ambrose as

soon as it seemed the part of wisdom to speak. "You don't mean to say

that Dick Smith has been sailing the high seas all these long months?"

"Not Dick Smith. Ulysses."

Ambrose gave a little start of pure pleasure.

"Then," he said, "a master mariner has really come into port?"

"No." He stifled a groan. "And never will, I'm thinking. That poor

sailor man is still becalmed east by west of Nowhere, and never a sign

of land on either bow."

"But you _must_ put it through somehow. Tell me ... is there anything

I can do to help you?"

The Sailor shook his head miserably.

"I can't accept that as final," said Edward Ambrose. "It's--it's--I

hesitate to say what it may be if only you carry it out as you have

conceived it. If you don't do that I some how feel the high gods will

never forgive you ... or me."

If anything could have rekindled Aladdin's lamp in the Sailor's soul it

would have been the enthusiasm of this friend. But it was not to be;

the trolls had him captive.

"I'm sorry," he said gently, knowing the stab he dealt. "It is no

fault of yours. It's you that's made me all I am ... and if any man

could have helped me here you would have been that man. But I'm just a

broken mariner. It's no use mincing it--I'm done."

The stark simplicity of the confession made Edward Ambrose gasp. He

could say nothing. In the honest eyes was a look of consternation.

"A mariner has got to have a star to work by. Even old Ulysses had to

have that. But there's not one for Henry Harper in all the firmament."

He fell into a sudden, odd, and queer kind of rage. "It's a black

shame. If only I'd had a fair chance I'd have put this thing through.

You might say"--the harsh laugh jarred worse than the baffled

anger--"I'm a chap who has been handicapped out of the race.

However..." The Sailor became silent.

Ambrose felt himself to be shaken. The impotent fury of this elemental

soul was something beyond his experience. He hardened his heart. It

must be his task to anchor this derelict adrift in uncharted seas until

such time as help could come to him.

"Henry," he said suddenly, "does Mary Pridmore know you have returned?"

"No."

Edward Ambrose mustered his courage.

"If you don't bring the mariner into port it will be a heavy blow for

her."

"What has it to do with her?" was the almost savage reply.

"She believes in you."

"Why should she?" There was almost a note of menace.

"She is your friend. We are both your friends."

The quiet tone somehow prevailed.

"Of course," he said queerly, "you are both my friends. And I'm not

worthy of either."

"Suppose we leave her to be the judge of that."

The Sailor shook his head.

"She can't judge anything until ... until I've told her ... about Cora."

"She has not been told?" Ambrose spoke casually, impassively. Somehow

he had allowed himself to guess that the Sailor had told her, and that

she had sent him away. Why he should have come to that rather

fantastic conclusion he didn't know, except that she had not had a line

from Henry Harper in eleven months. But he saw at once that he was

wrong.

He felt that he must use great care. The ice was even thinner than he

had suspected. Moreover an acute perception told him that nothing

would be easier than for ill informed well-meaningness to commit a

tragic blunder.

"You don't mean to say you thought I had?" The Sailor put his question

oddly, disconnectedly.

"The fact is," said Edward Ambrose jesuitically, "I have never been

impertinent enough to think the matter out. I know nothing beyond the

fact that Mary Pridmore is very much your friend."

"There's no use in saying that when I can never be hers."

"Ah, there I don't agree," said Edward Ambrose calmly.

"Why not look the facts in the face?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Friendship between us is impossible. That's why I went away. We ...

we played it up too high. Friendship between a man and a woman is no

use ... at least not to her and me ... although..."

"I'm not talking merely of friendship," said Edward Ambrose, very

deliberately. "I'm talking of something else."

So charged with meaning were the words that the Sailor recoiled as if

he had received a blow.

"What ... what are you saying!" he cried with a sudden blind rage in

his face.