It took me three years to win that handshake. For the first six months I remained in Deptford. There was excellent material to be found there for humorous articles, essays, stories; likewise for stories tragic1 and pathetic. But I owed a hundred and fifty pounds—a little over two hundred it reached to, I found, when I came to add up the actual figures. So I paid strict attention to business, left the tears to be garnered2 by others—better fitted maybe for the task; kept to my own patch, reaped and took to market only the laughter.
At the beginning I sent each manuscript to Norah; she had it copied out, debited3 me with the cost received payment, and sent me the balance. At first my earnings4 were small; but Norah was an excellent agent; rapidly they increased. Dan grew quite cross with her, wrote in pained surprise at her greed. The “matter” was fair, but in no way remarkable5. Any friend of hers, of course, he was anxious to assist; but business was business. In justice to his proprietors7, he could not and would not pay more than the market value. Miss Deleglise, replying curtly8 in the third person, found herself in perfect accord with Mr. Brian as to business being business. If Mr. Brian could not afford to pay her price for material so excellent, other editors with whom Miss Deleglise was equally well acquainted could and would. Answer by return would greatly oblige, pending9 which the manuscript then in her hands she retained. Mr. Brian, understanding he had found his match, grumbled11 but paid. Whether he had any suspicion who “Jack Homer” might be, he never confessed; but he would have played the game, pulled his end of the rope, in either case. Nor was he allowed to decide the question for himself. Competition was introduced into the argument. Of purpose a certain proportion of my work my agent sent elsewhere. “Jack Homer” grew to be a commodity in demand. For, seated at my rickety table, I laughed as I wrote, the fourth wall of the dismal12 room fading before my eyes revealing vistas13 beyond.
Still, it was slow work. Humour is not an industrious14 maid; declines to be bustled15, will work only when she feels inclined—does not often feel inclined; gives herself a good many unnecessary airs; if worried, packs up and goes off, Heaven knows where! comes back when she thinks she will: a somewhat unreliable young person. To my literary labours I found it necessary to add journalism16. I lacked Dan's magnificent assurance. Fate never befriends the nervous. Had I burst into the editorial sanctum, the editor most surely would have been out; if in, would have been a man of short ways, would have seen to it that I went out quickly. But the idea was not to be thought of; Robert Macaire himself in my one coat would have been diffident, apologetic. I joined the ranks of the penny-a-liners—to be literally17 exact, three halfpence a liners. In company with half a dozen other shabby outsiders—some of them young men like myself seeking to climb; others, older men who had sunk—I attended inquests, police courts; flew after fire engines; rejoiced in street accidents; yearned18 for murders. Somewhat vulture-like we lived precariously19 upon the misfortunes of others. We made occasional half crowns by providing the public with scandal, occasional crowns by keeping our information to ourselves.
“I think, gentlemen,” would explain our spokesman in a hoarse21 whisper, on returning to the table, “I think the corpse's brother-in-law is anxious that the affair, if possible, should be kept out of the papers.”
The closeness and attention with which we would follow that particular case, the fulness and completeness of our notes, would be quite remarkable. Our spokesman would rise, drift carelessly away, to return five minutes later, wiping his mouth.
“Not a very interesting case, gentlemen, I don't think. Shall we say five shillings apiece?” Sometimes a sense of the dignity of our calling would induce us to stand out for ten.
And here also my sense of humour came to my aid; gave me perhaps an undue22 advantage over my competitors. Twelve good men and true had been asked to say how a Lascar sailor had met his death. It was perfectly23 clear how he had met his death. A plumber24, working on the roof of a small two-storeyed house, had slipped and fallen on him. The plumber had escaped with a few bruises25; the unfortunate sailor had been picked up dead. Some blame attached to the plumber. His mate, an excellent witness, told us the whole story.
“I was fixing a gas-pipe on the first floor,” said the man. “The prisoner was on the roof.”
“We won't call him 'the prisoner,'” interrupted the coroner, “at least, not yet. Refer to him, if you please, as the 'last witness.'”
“The last witness,” corrected himself the man. “He shouts down the chimney to know if I was ready for him.”
“'Ready and waiting,' I says.
“'Right,' he says; 'I'm coming in through the window.'
“'Wait a bit,' I says; 'I'll go down and move the ladder for you.
“'It's all right,' he says; 'I can reach it.'
“'No, you can't,' I says. 'It's the other side of the chimney.'
“'I can get round,' he says.
“Well, before I knew what had happened, I hears him go, smack26! I rushes to the window and looks out: I see him on the pavement, sitting up like.
“'Hullo, Jim,' I says. 'Have you hurt yourself?'
“'I think I'm all right,' he says, 'as far as I can tell. But I wish you'd come down. This bloke I've fallen on looks a bit sick.'”
The others headed their flimsy “Sad Accident,” a title truthful27 but not alluring28. I altered mine to “Plumber in a Hurry—Fatal Result.” Saying as little as possible about the unfortunate sailor, I called the attention of plumbers29 generally to the coroner's very just remarks upon the folly30 of undue haste; pointed31 out to them, as a body, the trouble that would arise if somehow they could not cure themselves of this tendency to rush through their work without a moment's loss of time.
It established for me a useful reputation. The sub-editor of one evening paper condescended32 so far as to come out in his shirt-sleeves and shake hands with me.
“That's the sort of thing we want,” he told me; “a light touch, a bit of humour.”
I snatched fun from fires (I sincerely trust the insurance premiums33 were not overdue); culled34 quaintness35 from street rows; extracted merriment from catastrophes36 the most painful, and prospered37.
Though often within a stone's throw of the street, I unremittingly avoided the old house at Poplar. I was suffering inconvenience at this period by reason of finding myself two distinct individuals, contending with each other. My object was to encourage the new Paul—the sensible, practical, pushful Paul, whose career began to look promising38; to drive away from interfering39 with me his strangely unlike twin—the old childish Paul of the sad, far-seeing eyes. Sometimes out of the cracked looking-glass his wistful, yearning40 face would plead to me; but I would sternly shake my head. I knew well his cunning. Had I let him have his way, he would have led me through the maze41 of streets he knew so well, past the broken railings (outside which he would have left my body standing10), along the weedy pathway, through the cracked and dented42 door, up the creaking staircase to the dismal little chamber43 where we once—he and I together—had sat dreaming foolish dreams.
“Come,” he would whisper; “it is so near. Let us push aside the chest of drawers very quietly, softly raise the broken sash, prop6 it open with the Latin dictionary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the voices of the weary city, voices calling to us from the darkness.”
But I was too wary44 to be caught. “Later on,” I would reply to him; “when I have made my way, when I am stronger to withstand your wheedling45. Then I will go with you, if you are still in existence, my sentimental46 little friend. We will dream again the old impractical47, foolish dreams—and laugh at them.”
So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to me approvingly a businesslike-looking, wide-awake young fellow.
But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed48. My position was by now assured; there was no longer any reason for my hiding myself. I determined49 to move westward50. I had not intended to soar so high, but passing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-covered corner house that my father had once thought of taking recalled itself to me. A card was in the fanlight. I knocked and made enquiries. A bed-sitting-room upon the third floor was vacant. I remembered it well the moment the loquacious51 landlady52 opened its door.
“This shall be your room, Paul,” said my father. So clearly his voice sounded behind me that I turned, forgetting for the moment it was but a memory. “You will be quiet here, and we can shut out the bed and washstand with a screen.”
So my father had his way. It was a pleasant, sunny little room, overlooking the gardens of the hospital. I followed my father's suggestion, shut out the bed and washstand with a screen. And sometimes of an evening it would amuse me to hear my father turn the handle of the door.
“How are you getting on—all right?”
“Famously.”
Often there came back to me the words he had once used. “You must be the practical man, Paul, and get on. Myself, I have always been somewhat of a dreamer. I meant to do such great things in the world, and somehow I suppose I aimed too high. I wasn't—practical.”
“But ought not one to aim high?” I had asked.
My father had fidgeted in his chair. “It is very difficult to say. It is all so—so very ununderstandable. You aim high and you don't hit anything—at least, it seems as if you didn't. Perhaps, after all, it is better to aim at something low, and—and hit it. Yet it seems a pity—one's ideals, all the best part of one—I don't know why it is. Perhaps we do not understand.”
For some months I had been writing over my own name. One day a letter was forwarded to me by an editor to whose care it had been addressed. It was a short, formal note from the maternal53 Sellars, inviting54 me to the wedding of her daughter with a Mr. Reginald Clapper. I had almost forgotten the incident of the Lady 'Ortensia, but it was not unsatisfactory to learn that it had terminated pleasantly. Also, I judged from an invitation having been sent me, that the lady wished me to be witness of the fact that my desertion had not left her disconsolate55. So much gratification I felt I owed her, and accordingly, purchasing a present as expensive as my means would permit, I made my way on the following Thursday, clad in frock coat and light grey trousers, to Kennington Church.
The ceremony was already in progress. Creeping on tiptoe up the aisle56, I was about to slip into an empty pew, when a hand was laid upon my sleeve.
“We're all here,” whispered the O'Kelly; “just room for ye.”
Squeezing his hand as I passed, I sat down between the Signora and Mrs. Peedles. Both ladies were weeping; the Signora silently, one tear at a time clinging fondly to her pretty face as though loath57 to fall from it; Mrs. Peedles copiously58, with explosive gurgles, as of water from a bottle.
“It is such a beautiful service,” murmured the Signora, pressing my hand as I settled myself down. “I should so—so love to be married.”
“Me darling,” whispered the O'Kelly, seizing her other hand and kissing it covertly60 behind his open Prayer Book, “perhaps ye will be—one day.”
The Signora through her tears smiled at him, but with a sigh shook her head.
Mrs. Peedles, clad, so far as the dim November light enabled me to judge, in the costume of Queen Elizabeth—nothing regal; the sort of thing one might assume to have been Her Majesty's second best, say third best, frock—explained that weddings always reminded her how fleeting61 a thing was love.
“The poor dears!” she sobbed62. “But there, there's no telling. Perhaps they'll be happy. I'm sure I hope they may be. He looks harmless.”
Jarman, stretching out a hand to me from the other side of Mrs. Peedles, urged me to cheer up. “Don't wear your 'eart upon your sleeve,” he advised. “Try and smile.”
In the vestry I met old friends. The maternal Sellars, stouter64 than ever, had been accommodated with a chair—at least, I assumed so, she being in a sitting posture65; the chair itself was not in evidence. She greeted me with more graciousness than I had expected, enquiring66 after my health with pointedness67 and an amount of tender solicitude68 that, until the explanation broke upon me, somewhat puzzled me.
Mr. Reginald Clapper was a small but energetic gentleman, much impressed, I was glad to notice, with a conviction of his own good fortune. He expressed the greatest delight at being introduced to me, shook me heartily69 by the hand, and hoped we should always be friends.
“Won't be my fault if we're not,” he added. “Come and see us whenever you like.” He repeated this three times. I gathered the general sentiment to be that he was acting70, if anything, with excess of generosity71.
Mrs. Reginald Clapper, as I was relieved to know she now was, received my salute72 to a subdued73 murmur59 of applause. She looked to my eyes handsomer than when I had last seen her, or maybe my taste was growing less exacting74. She also trusted she might always regard me as a friend. I replied that it would be my hope to deserve the honour; whereupon she kissed me of her own accord, and embracing her mother, shed some tears, explaining the reason to be that everybody was so good to her.
Brother George, less lank75 than formerly76, hampered77 by a pair of enormous white kid gloves, superintended my signing of the register, whispering to me sympathetically: “Better luck next time, old cock.”
The fat young lady—or, maybe, the lean young lady, grown stouter, I cannot say for certain—who feared I had forgotten her, a thing I assured her utterly78 impossible, was good enough to say that, in her opinion, I was worth all the others put together.
“And so I told her,” added the fat young lady—or the lean one grown stouter, “a dozen times if I told her once. But there!”
I murmured my obligations.
Cousin Joseph, 'whom I found no difficulty in recognising by reason of his watery79 eyes, appeared not so chirpy as of yore.
“You take my tip,” advised Cousin Joseph, drawing me aside, “and keep out of it.”
“You speak from experience?” I suggested.
“I'm as fond of a joke,” said the watery-eyed Joseph, “as any man. But when it comes to buckets of water—”
A reminder80 from the maternal Sellars that breakfast had been ordered for eleven o'clock caused a general movement and arrested Joseph's revelations.
“See you again, perhaps,” he murmured, and pushed past me.
What Mrs. Sellars, I suppose, would have alluded81 to as a cold col-la-shon had been arranged for at a restaurant near by. I walked there in company with Uncle and Aunt Gutton; not because I particularly desired their companionship, but because Uncle Gutton, seizing me by the arm, left me no alternative.
“Now then, young man,” commenced Uncle Gutton kindly82, but boisterously83 so soon as we were in the street, at some little distance behind the others, “if you want to pitch into me, you pitch away. I shan't mind, and maybe it'll do you good.”
I informed him that nothing was further from my desire.
“Oh, all right,” returned Uncle Gutton, seemingly disappointed. “If you're willing to forgive and forget, so am I. I never liked you, as I daresay you saw, and so I told Rosie. 'He may be cleverer than he looks,' I says, 'or he may be a bigger fool than I think him, though that's hardly likely. You take my advice and get a full-grown article, then you'll know what you're doing.'”
I told him I thought his advice had been admirable.
“I'm glad you think so,” he returned, somewhat puzzled; “though if you wanted to call me names I shouldn't have blamed you. Anyhow, you've took it like a sensible chap. You've got over it, as I always told her you would. Young men out of story-books don't die of broken hearts, even if for a month or two they do feel like standing on their head in the water-butt.”
“Why, I was in love myself three times,” explained Uncle Gutton, “before I married the old woman.”
Aunt Gutton sighed and said she was afraid gentlemen didn't feel these things as much as they ought to.
“They've got their living to earn,” retorted Uncle Gutton.
I agreed with Uncle Gutton that life could not be wasted in vain regret.
“As for the rest,” admitted Uncle Gutton, handsomely, “I was wrong. You've turned out better than I expected you would.”
I thanked him for his improved opinion, and as we entered the restaurant we shook hands.
Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained that having been able to obtain only limited leave of absence from business, he had concluded the time would be better employed at the restaurant than at the church. Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted, young sparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia in her professional capacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clapper, who was something in the City. Altogether we must have numbered a score.
Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. The wedding presents stood displayed upon a side-table. My own, with my card attached, had not been seen by Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She and her mother lingered, examining it.
“Real silver!” I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, “Must have paid a ten pound note for it.”
“I hope you'll find it useful,” I said.
The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered together at the opposite end of the room.
“I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were a gentleman,” said the Lady 'Ortensia.
“Don't let's talk about it,” I answered. “We were both foolish.”
“I don't want you to think it was merely that,” continued the Lady 'Ortensia. “I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you—at least, I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave me time.”
“Believe me, things are much better as they are,” I said.
“I suppose so,” she answered. “I was a fool.” She glanced round; we still had the corner to ourselves. “I told a rare pack of lies,” she said; “I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over. But I have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if you like.”
I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. “My dear girl,” I said, “you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go scot-free. It was generous of you.”
“You mean that?” she asked.
“The truth,” I answered, “would shift all the shame on to me. It was I who broke my word, acted shabbily from beginning to end.”
“I hadn't looked at it in that light,” she replied. “Very well, I'll hold my tongue.”
My place at breakfast was to the left of the maternal Sellars, the Signora next to me, and the O'Kelly opposite. Uncle Gutton faced the bride and bridegroom. The disillusioned85 Joseph was hidden from me by flowers, so that his voice, raised from time to time, fell upon my ears, embellished86 with the mysterious significance of the unseen oracle87.
For the first quarter of an hour or so the meal proceeded almost in silence. The maternal Sellars when not engaged in whispered argument with the perspiring88 waiter, was furtively89 occupied in working sums upon the table-cloth by aid of a blunt pencil. The Signora, strangely unlike her usual self, was not in talkative mood.
“It was so kind of them to invite me,” said the Signora, speaking low. “But I feel I ought not to have come.
“Why not?” I asked
“I'm not fit to be here,” murmured the Signora in a broken voice. “What right have I at wedding breakfasts? Of course, for dear Willie it is different. He has been married.”
The O'Kelly, who never when the Signora was present seemed to care much for conversation in which she was unable to participate, took advantage of his neighbour's being somewhat deaf to lapse90 into abstraction. Jarman essayed a few witticisms91 of a general character, of which nobody took any notice. The professional admirers of the Lady 'Ortensia, seated together at a corner of the table, appeared to be enjoying a small joke among themselves. Occasionally, one or another of them would laugh nervously92. But for the most part the only sounds to be heard were the clatter93 of the knives and forks, the energetic shuffling94 of the waiter, and a curious hissing95 noise as of escaping gas, caused by Uncle Gutton drinking champagne96.
With the cutting, or, rather, the smashing into a hundred fragments, of the wedding cake—a work that taxed the united strength of bride and bridegroom to the utmost—the atmosphere lost something of its sombreness. The company, warmed by food, displaying indications of being nearly done, commenced to simmer. The maternal Sellars, putting away with her blunt pencil considerations of material nature, embraced the table with a smile.
“But it is a sad thing,” sighed the maternal Sellars the next moment, with a shake of her huge head, “when your daughter marries, and goes away and leaves you.”
“Damned sight sadder,” commented Uncle Gutton, “when she don't go off, but hangs on at home year after year and expects you to keep her.”
I credit Uncle Gutton with intending this as an aside for the exclusive benefit of the maternal Sellars; but his voice was not of the timbre97 that lends itself to secrecy98. One of the bridesmaids, a plain, elderly girl, bending over her plate, flushed scarlet99. I concluded her to be Miss Gutton.
“It doesn't seem to me,” said Aunt Gutton from the other end of the table, “that gentlemen are as keen on marrying nowadays as they used to be.”
“To my thinking,” exclaimed a hatchet-faced gentleman, “one of the evils crying most loudly for redress101 at the present moment is the utterly needless and monstrous102 expense of legal proceedings103.” He spoke20 rapidly and with warmth. “Take divorce. At present, what is it? The rich man's luxury.”
Conversation appeared to be drifting in a direction unsuitable to the occasion; but Jarman was fortunately there to seize the helm.
“The plain fact of the matter is,” said Jarman, “girls have gone up in value. Time was, so I've heard, when they used to be given away with a useful bit of household linen104, maybe a chair or two. Nowadays—well, it's only chaps wallowing in wealth like Clapper there as can afford a really first-class article.”
Mr. Clapper, not a gentleman in other respects of exceptional brilliancy, possessed105 one quality that popularity-seekers might have envied him: the ability to explode on the slightest provocation106 into a laugh instinct with all the characteristics of genuine delight.
“Give and take,” observed the maternal Sellars, so soon as Mr. Clapper's roar had died away; “that's what you've got to do when you're married.”
“Give a deal more than you bargained for and take what you don't want—that sums it up,” came the bitter voice of the unseen.
“Oh, do be quiet, Joe,” advised the stout63 young lady, from which I concluded she had once been the lean young lady. “You talk enough for a man.”
“Can't I open my mouth?” demanded the indignant oracle.
“You look less foolish when you keep it shut,” returned the stout young lady.
“We'll show them how to get on,” observed the Lady 'Ortensia to her bridegroom, with a smile.
Mr. Clapper responded with a gurgle.
“When me and the old girl there fixed107 things up,” said Uncle Gutton, “we didn't talk no nonsense, and we didn't start with no misunderstandings. 'I'm not a duke,' I says—”
Mr. Clapper commented, not tactfully, but with appreciative109 laugh. I feared for a moment lest Uncle Gutton's little eyes should leave his head.
“Not being a natural-born, one-eyed fool,” replied Uncle Gutton, glaring at the unabashed Minikin, “she did not. 'I'm not a duke,' I says, and she had sense enough to know as I was talking sarcastic110 like. 'I'm not offering you a life of luxury and ease. I'm offering you myself, just what you see, and nothing more.'
“She accepted me, sir,” returned Uncle Gutton, in a voice that would have awed112 any one but Minikin. “Can you give me any good reason for her not doing so?”
“No need to get mad with me,” explained Minikin. “I'm not blaming the poor woman. We all have our moments of despair.”
The unfortunate Clapper again exploded. Uncle Gutton rose to his feet. The ready Jarman saved the situation.
“'Ear! 'ear!” cried Jarman, banging the table with the handles of two knives. “Silence for Uncle Gutton! 'E's going to propose a toast. 'Ear, 'ear!”
Mrs. Clapper, seconding his efforts, the whole table broke into applause.
“What, as a matter of fact, I did get up to say—” began Uncle Gutton.
“Good old Uncle Gutton!” persisted the determined Jarman. “Bride and bridegroom—long life to 'em!”
Uncle Sutton, evidently pleased, allowed his indignation against Minikin to evaporate.
“Well,” said Uncle Gutton, “if you think I'm the one to do it—”
The response was unmistakable. In our enthusiasm we broke two glasses and upset a cruet; a small, thin lady was unfortunate enough to shed her chignon. Thus encouraged, Uncle Sutton launched himself upon his task. Personally, I should have been better pleased had Fate not interposed to assign to him the duty.
Starting with a somewhat uninstructive history of his own career, he suddenly, and for no reason at all obvious, branched off into fierce censure113 of the Adulteration Act. Reminded of the time by the maternal Sellars, he got in his first sensible remark by observing that with such questions, he took it, the present company was not particularly interested, and directed himself to the main argument. To his, Uncle Gutton's, foresight114, wisdom and instinctive115 understanding of humanity, Mr. Clapper, it appeared, owed his present happiness. Uncle Gutton it was who had divined from the outset the sort of husband the fair Rosina would come eventually to desire—a plain, simple, hard-working, level-headed sort of chap, with no hity-tity nonsense about him: such an one, in short, as Mr. Clapper himself—(at this Mr. Clapper expressed approval by a lengthy116 laugh)—a gentleman who, so far as Uncle Gutton's knowledge went, had but one fault: a silly habit of laughing when there was nothing whatever to laugh at; of which, it was to be hoped, the cares and responsibilities of married life would cure him. (To the rest of the discourse117 Mr. Clapper listened with a gravity painfully maintained.) There had been moments, Uncle Gutton was compelled to admit, when the fair Rosina had shown inclination118 to make a fool of herself—to desire in place of honest worth mere84 painted baubles119. He used the term in no offensive sense. Speaking for himself, what a man wanted beyond his weekly newspaper, he, Uncle Gutton, was unable to understand; but if there were fools in the world who wanted to read rubbish written by other fools, then the other fools would of course write it; Uncle Gutton did not blame them. He mentioned no names, but what he would say was: a plain man for a sensible girl, and no painted baubles.
The waiter here entering with a message from the cabman to the effect that if he was to catch the twelve-forty-five from Charing120 Cross, it was about full time he started, Uncle Gutton was compelled to bring his speech to a premature121 conclusion. The bride and bridegroom were hustled122 into their clothes. There followed much female embracing and male hand-shaking. The rice having been forgotten, the waiter was almost thrown downstairs, with directions to at once procure123 some. There appearing danger of his not returning in time, the resourceful Jarman suggested cold semolina pudding as a substitute. But the idea was discouraged by the bride. A slipper124 of remarkable antiquity125, discovered on the floor and regarded as a gift from Providence126, was flung from the window by brother George, with admirable aim, and alighted on the roof of the cab. The waiter, on his return, not being able to find it, seemed surprised.
I walked back as far as the Obelisk127 with the O'Kelly and the Signora, who were then living together in Lambeth. Till that morning I had not seen the O'Kelly since my departure from London, nearly two years before, so that we had much to tell each other. For the third time now had the O'Kelly proved his utter unworthiness to be the husband of the lady to whom he still referred as his “dear good wife.”
“But, under the circumstances, would it not be better,” I suggested, “for her to obtain a divorce? Then you and the Signora could marry and there would be an end to the whole trouble.”
“From a strictly128 worldly point of view,” replied the O'Kelly, “it certainly would be; but Mrs. O'Kelly”—his voice took to itself unconsciously a tone of reverence—“is not an ordinary woman. You can have no conception, my dear Kelver, of her goodness. I had a letter from her only two months ago, a few weeks after the—the last occurrence. Not one word of reproach, only that if I trespassed129 against her even unto seven times seven she would still consider it her duty to forgive me; that the 'home' would always be there for me to return to and repent130.”
A tear stood in the O'Kelly's eye. “A beautiful nature,” he commented. “There are not many women like her.”
“Not one in a million!” added the Signora, with enthusiasm.
“Well, to me it seems like pure obstinacy,” I said.
The O'Kelly spoke quite angrily. “Don't ye say a word against her! I won't listen to it. Ye don't understand her. She never will despair of reforming me.”
“You see, Mr. Kelver,” explained the Signora, “the whole difficulty arises from my unfortunate profession. It is impossible for me to keep out of dear Willie's way. If I could earn my living by any other means, I would; but I can't. And when he sees my name upon the posters, it's all over with him.”
“I do wish, Willie, dear,” added the Signora in tones of gentle reproof131, “that you were not quite so weak.”
“Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, “ye don't know how attractive ye are or ye wouldn't blame me.”
I laughed. “Why don't you be firm,” I suggested to the Signora, “send him packing about his business?”
“I ought to,” admitted the Signora. “I always mean to, until I see him. Then I don't seem able to say anything—not anything I ought to.”
“Ye do say it,” contradicted the O'Kelly. “Ye're an angel, only I won't listen to ye.”
“I don't say it as if I meant it,” persisted the Signora. “It's evident I don't.”
“I still think it a pity,” I said, “someone does not explain to Mrs. O'Kelly that a divorce would be the truer kindness.”
“It is difficult to decide,” argued the Signora. “If ever you should want to leave me—”
“Me darling!” exclaimed the O'Kelly.
“But you may,” insisted the Signora. “Something may happen to help you, to show you how wicked it all is. I shall be glad then to think that you will go back to her. Because she is a good woman, Willie, you know she is.”
“She's a saint,” agreed Willie.
At the Obelisk I shook hands with them, and alone pursued my way towards Fleet Street.
The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was Dan. He occupied chambers132 in the Temple, and one evening a week or two after the 'Ortensia marriage, I called upon him. Nothing in his manner of greeting me suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never demanded anything of his friends beyond their need of him. Shaking hands with me, he pushed me down into the easy-chair, and standing with his back to the fire, filled and lighted his pipe.
“I left you alone,” he said. “You had to go through it, your slough133 of despond. It lies across every path—that leads to anywhere. Clear of it?”
“I think so,” I replied, smiling.
“You are on the high road,” he continued. “You have only to walk steadily134. Sure you have left nothing behind you—in the slough?”
“Nothing worth bringing out of it,” I said. “Why do you ask so seriously?”
“Don't leave him behind you,” he said; “the little boy Paul—Paul the dreamer.”
I laughed. “Oh, he! He was only in my way.”
“Yes, here,” answered Dan. “This is not his world. He is of no use to you here; won't help you to bread and cheese—no, nor kisses either. But keep him near you. Later, you will find, perhaps, that all along he has been the real Paul—the living, growing Paul; the other—the active, worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams are made of, his fretful life a troubled night rounded by a sleep.”
“I have been driving him away,” I said. “He is so—so impracticable.”
Dan shook his head gravely. “It is not his world,” he repeated. “We must eat, drink—be husbands, fathers. He does not understand. Here he is the child. Take care of him.”
We sat in silence for a little while—for longer, perhaps, than it seemed to us—Dan in the chair opposite to me, each of us occupied with his own thoughts.
“You have an excellent agent,” said Dan; “retain her services as long as you can. She possesses the great advantage of having no conscience, as regards your affairs. Women never have where they—”
He broke off to stir the fire.
“You like her?” I asked. The words sounded feeble. It is only the writer who fits the language to the emotion; the living man more often selects by contrast.
“She is my ideal woman,” returned Dan; “true and strong and tender; clear as crystal, pure as dawn. Like her!”
He knocked the ashes from his pipe. “We do not marry our ideals,” he went on. “We love with our hearts, not with our souls. The woman I shall marry”—he sat gazing into the fire, a smile upon his face—“she will be some sweet, clinging, childish woman, David Copperfield's Dora. Only I am not Doady, who always seems to me to have been somewhat of a—He reminds me of you, Paul, a little. Dickens was right; her helplessness, as time went on, would have bored him more and more instead of appealing to him.”
“And the women,” I suggested, “do they marry their ideals?”
He laughed. “Ask them.”
“The difference between men and women,” he continued, “is very slight; we exaggerate it for purposes of art. What sort of man do you suppose he is, Norah's ideal? Can't you imagine him?—But I can tell you the type of man she will marry, ay, and love with all her heart.”
“A nice enough fellow—clever, perhaps, but someone—well, someone who will want looking after, taking care of, managing; someone who will appeal to the mother side of her—not her ideal man, but the man for whom nature intended her.”
“Perhaps with her help,” I said, “he may in time become her ideal.”
It was Norah herself who broke to me the news of Barbara's elopement with Hal. I had seen neither of them since my return to London. Old Hasluck a month or so before I had met in the City one day by chance, and he had insisted on my lunching with him. I had found him greatly changed. His buoyant self-assurance had deserted138 him; in its place a fretful eagerness had become his motive139 force. At first he had talked boastingly: Had I seen the Post for last Monday, the Court Circular for the week before? Had I read that Barbara had danced with the Crown Prince, that the Count and Countess Huescar had been entertaining a Grand Duke? What did I think of that! and such like. Was not money master of the world? Ay, and the nobs should be made to acknowledge it!
“No children,” he had whispered to me across the table; “that's what I can't understand. Nearly four years and no children! What'll be the good of it all? Where do I come in? What do I get? Damn these rotten popinjays! What do they think we buy them for?”
It was in the studio on a Monday morning that Norah told me. It was the talk of the town for the next day—and the following eight. She had heard it the evening before at supper, and had written to me to come and see her.
“I thought you would rather hear it quietly,” said Norah, “than learn it from a newspaper paragraph. Besides, I wanted to tell you this. She did wrong when she married, putting aside love for position. Now she has done right. She has put aside her shame with all the advantages she derived142 from it. She has proved herself a woman: I respect her.”
Norah would not have said that to please me had she not really thought it. I could see it from that light; but it brought me no comfort. My goddess had a heart, passions, was a mere human creature like myself. From her cold throne she had stepped down to mingle143 with the world. So some youthful page of Arthur's court may have felt, learning the Great Queen was but a woman.
I never spoke with her again but once. That was an evening three years later in Brussels. Strolling idly after dinner the bright lights of a theatre invited me to enter. It was somewhat late; the second act had commenced. I slipped quietly into my seat, the only one vacant at the extreme end of the front row of the first range; then, looking down upon the stage, met her eyes. A little later an attendant whispered to me that Madame G—— would like to see me; so at the fall of the curtain I went round. Two men were in the dressing-room smoking, and on the table were some bottles of champagne. She was standing before her glass, a loose shawl about her shoulders.
“Excuse my shaking hands,” she said. “This damned hole is like a furnace; I have to make up fresh after each act.”
The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little man. “Delighted to meet Mr. Kelver,” he said, speaking in excellent English. “Any friend of my wife's is always a friend of mine.”
He held out his fat, perspiring hand. I was not in the mood to attach much importance to ceremony. I bowed and turned away, careless whether he was offended or not.
“I am glad I saw you,” she continued. “Do you remember a girl called Barbara? You and she were rather chums, years ago.
“Yes,” I answered, “I remember her.”
“Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago.” She was rubbing paint into her cheeks as she spoke. “She asked me if ever I saw you to give you this. I have been carrying it about with me ever since.”
She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring Barbara had worn as a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a band of gold. I had noticed it upon her hand the first time I had seen her, sitting in my father's office framed by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into my outstretched palm.
“Quite a pretty little romance,” laughed the Baron.
“That's all,” added the woman at the glass. “She said you would understand.”
From under her painted lashes147 she flashed a glance at me. I hope never to see again that look upon a woman's face.
“Thank you,” I said. “Yes, I understand. It was very kind of you. I shall always wear it.”
Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room.
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1
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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debited
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| v.记入（账户）的借方( debit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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27
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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30
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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33
premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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34
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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40
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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42
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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44
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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45
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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46
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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47
impractical
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| adj.不现实的，不实用的，不切实际的 | |
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48
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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49
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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50
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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51
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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52
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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53
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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54
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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55
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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56
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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57
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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58
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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59
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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60
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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61
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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62
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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64
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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65
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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66
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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67
pointedness
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| n.尖角，尖锐；棱角 | |
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68
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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69
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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70
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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71
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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72
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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73
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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75
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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76
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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77
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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79
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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80
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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81
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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83
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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84
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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85
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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86
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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87
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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88
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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89
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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90
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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91
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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92
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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93
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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94
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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95
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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96
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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97
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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98
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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99
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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100
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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101
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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102
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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103
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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104
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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107
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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108
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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109
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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110
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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111
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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112
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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114
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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115
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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116
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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117
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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118
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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119
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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120
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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121
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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122
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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124
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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125
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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126
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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127
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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128
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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129
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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131
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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132
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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133
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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134
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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135
rumpling
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的现在分词 ) | |
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136
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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137
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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138
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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139
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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140
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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141
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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142
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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143
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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144
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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145
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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146
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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147
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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