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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a718724 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55535 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55535) diff --git a/old/55535-8.txt b/old/55535-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2f3f3cf..0000000 --- a/old/55535-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11531 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Mightier than the Sword, by Alphonse Courlander - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Mightier than the Sword - -Author: Alphonse Courlander - -Release Date: September 13, 2017 [EBook #55535] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Lucia Rockaiova and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - -MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD - - - - -_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - -Crown 8vo, Cloth, 6/- - - - THE SACRIFICE. (Also a SIXPENNY EDITION.) - - EVE'S APPLE. - - HENRY IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. - - UNCLE POLPERRO. - - -LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN - - - - -MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD - - BY - ALPHONSE COURLANDER - - [Illustration] - - LONDON - T. FISHER UNWIN - ADELPHI TERRACE - 1913 - - - - - _First Edition_ _May 1912_ - _Second Impression_ _July 1912_ - _Third Impression_ _October 1913_ - - [_All Rights Reserved_] - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PART I - - EASTERHAM 9 - - - PART II - - LILIAN 71 - - - PART III - - ELIZABETH 199 - - - PART IV - - PARIS 281 - - - - -PART I - -EASTERHAM - - - - -MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD - - - - -I - - -If you had been standing on a certain cold night in January opposite -the great building where _The Day_ is jewelled in electric lights -across the dark sky, you would have seen a little, stout man run down -the steps of the entrance at the side, three at a time, land on the -pavement as if he were preparing to leap the roadway, with the sheer -impetus of the flight of steps behind him, and had suddenly thought -better of it, glance hurriedly at the big, lighted clock whose hands, -formed of the letters _T-H-E D-A-Y_, in red and green electric lights, -showed that it was nearly half-past twelve, and suddenly start off in a -terrible hurry towards Chancery Lane, as though pursued by some awful -thing. - -Considering the bulkiness of the little man, he ran remarkably well. He -dodged a light newspaper van that was coming recklessly round Fetter -Lane, for there was none of the crowded traffic of daylight to be -negotiated, and then, he turned the corner of Chancery Lane--and there -you would have seen the last of him. He would have vanished from your -life, a stumpy little man, with an umbrella popped under one arm, a -bundle of papers grasped in his hand, a hat jammed down on his head, -and the ends of a striped muffler floating in the breeze of his own -making. - -The sight of a man running, even in these days when life itself goes -with a rush, is sufficient to awaken comment in the mind of the -onlooker. It suggests pursuit, the recklessness of other days; it -impels, instinctively, the cry of "Stop, thief," for no man runs unless -he is hunted by a powerful motive. Therefore it may be assumed that -since I have sent a man bolting hard out of your sight up the lamp-lit -avenue of Chancery Lane, you are wondering why the devil he's in such a -hurry. - -Well, he was hurrying because the last train to Shepherd's Bush goes -at 12.35, and, as he had been away from home since ten o'clock that -morning, he was rather anxious to get back. He could not afford a cab -fare, though only a few hours ago he had been eating oysters, bisque -soup, turbot, pheasant, asparagus out of season and pêche Melba at the -Savoy Hotel with eighteenpence in his pocket--and the odd pence had -gone to the waiter and the cloakroom man. So that by the time he had -reached the top of Chancery Lane, dashed across the road and through -the door of the station, where a porter would have slammed the grille -in another second, and bought his ticket with an explosive, panting -"Bush," he had just tenpence left. - -The lift-man knew him, nodded affably and said: "Just in time, Mr -Pride." - -"A hard run," said Mr Pride; and then with a cheery smile, "never mind; -good for the liver." There were only a few people in the lift--four men -and a woman to be precise. He knew the men as casual acquaintances of -the last tube train. There was Denning, a sporting sub-editor on _The -Lantern_; another was a proof-reader on one of the afternoon papers, -who finished work in the evening but never went home before the last -tube; then there was Harlem, the librarian of _The Day_, an amazing -man who spoke all the European languages, and some of the Asiatic ones -after his fifth glass of beer; the fourth was a friend of Harlem, a -moody young man who wore his hair long, smoked an evil-looking pipe, -and seemed to be a little unsteady on his feet. As for the woman, Pride -knew her well by sight. She had hair that was of an unreal yellow, and -a latch-key dangled from her little finger as though it were a new kind -of ring. She always got out at Tottenham Court Road. - -As the lift went down, its high complaining noise falling to a low -buzzing sound seemed like the tired murmur of a weary human being glad -that rest had come at last. The sound of the approaching train came -rolling through the tunnel. They all rushed desperately down the short -flight of steps that led to the platform, as the train came in with a -rattle of doors opening and slamming, and scrambled for seats, while -the uniformed men, who appeared to be the only thoroughly wide-awake -people in the neighbourhood, said in the most contradictory fashion: -"Stand clear of the gates," "Hurry on, please," and "Passengers off -first." - -Pride found himself in the smoking carriage, opposite Harlem, with -his young friend at his side. It never occurred to him that there was -anything exceptional in his dash for the last train. He did it four -nights out of the week, as a matter of course. He was fifty years old, -though he pretended he was ten years younger, and shaved his face clean -to keep up the illusion. He used to explain to his friends that he came -of a family famous for baldness in early years. - -"Been busy?" asked Harlem, filling his pipe. - -"Nothing to speak of," said Pride. "Turned up at the office at eleven, -but there was nothing doing until after lunch. Then I had to go and see -Sir William Darton--they're going to start the Thames Steamboats again. -He wasn't at home, and he wasn't in his office, but I found him at six -o'clock in the Constitutional. Got back and found they'd sent home for -my dress clothes, and left a nice little envelope with the ticket of -the Canadian Dinner.... That's why I'm so late to-night...." - -Pride filled his own pipe, and sighed. "The old days are over!" he -said. "They used to post our assignments overnight--'Dear Mr Pride, -kindly do a quarter of a column of the enclosed meeting.' Why, _The -Sentinel_ used to allow us five shillings every time we put on evening -dress." - -"Well, _The Sentinel_ was a pretty dull paper before the Kelmscotts -bought it and turned it into a halfpenny," said Harlem. "Look at it -now, a nice, bright paper--oh, by the way, do you know Cannock," he -jerked his head to the man at his side. "He's _The Sentinel's_ latest -acquisition. This is Tommy Pride, one of the ancient bulwarks of _The -Sentinel_, until they fired him. Now he's learning to be a halfpenny -journalist." - -Pride looked at the young man. - -"I don't know about being the latest acquisition," Cannock said. "As a -matter of fact, they've fired _me_ to-day." - -"It's a hobby of theirs now," Harlem remarked. "You'll get a job on -_The Day_ if you ask for one. There's always room with us, ain't there, -Tommy?" - -Pride looked wistfully at the clouds of blue smoke that rose from his -lips.... Yes, he thought, there was always room on _The Day_--at any -moment they might decide to make alterations in the staff. The fact -of Cannock's being sacked mattered nothing; he was a young man, and -for young men, knocking at the door of Fleet Street, there was always -an open pathway. Think of the papers there were left to work for--the -evenings and the dailies, and even when they were exhausted, perhaps a -job on a weekly paper, or the editorship of one of the scores of penny -and sixpenny magazines. And, after that, the provinces and the suburbs -had their papers. Pride knew: in his long experience he had wandered -from one paper to another, two years here, three years here, until the -halfpenny papers had brought a new type of journalist into the street. - -"Married?" asked Pride. - -"Not me!" replied Cannock, with a slight hiccough. - -"Well, you're all right. You can free-lance if you want to." - -"Oh, it's no good to me," Cannock said. "It's a dog's life anyhow, -and I've only had two months of it. I'm going back to my guv'nor's -business." - -"Ah," said Pride, "there's no use wasting sympathy on you. Why did you -ever leave it? What's his business?" - -"That," Cannock laughed gaily and pointed to a poster as the train -stopped at Tottenham Court Road Station. It was a great picture of -barrels and barrels of beer, piled one above the other, reaching away -into the far distance. Thousands of barrels under a vaulted roof. And -in the foreground were little figures of men in white aprons with red -jersey caps on their heads, rolling in more barrels, with their arms -bared to the elbows. Across the picture in large letters Pride could -read: "Cannock Brothers, Holloway. Cannock's Entire." - -"Why, your people are worth millions!" Pride said. "What on earth are -you doing in journalism." - -"I know they are. That's what I was thinking of yesterday. I wondered -how on earth they got anybody to do the work." - -"Well, you won't mind me, I'm sure," Pride said, leaning over to -Cannock. "I'm older than you, and I belong to what they call the old -school of journalism. This isn't the lovely life some people think it -must be, and it's going to get worse each year. We've got to fight for -our jobs every day of our life. 'Making good,' they call it. I'm used -to it," he said defiantly, looking at Harlem, "I like it.... I couldn't -do anything else. I'm not fit for anything else. It has its lazy -moments, too, and its moments of excitement and thrills. No, my son, -you go back to the brewery, there's more money in it for you and all -the glory you want with your name plastered over every bottle and on -all the walls. Ask five hundred men in the street if they've ever heard -of Tommy Pride. They've been reading things I've written every day, but -they don't know who's written them. Ask 'em who's Cannock? Why, they'll -turn mechanically into the nearest public-house and call for a bottle -of you." - -"I used to think it would be jolly to be on a newspaper," Cannock said. -"My guv'nor got me the job. He's something to do with the Kelmscotts." - -"So it is if you're meant to be on a newspaper. That's the trouble -of fellows like you. You come out of nowhere, or from the 'Varsity, -and get plunked right down in the heart of a London newspaper -office--probably someone's fired to make room for you. You're -friends of the editor and you think you're great men, until you find -you're expected to take your turn with the rest. Then you grouse, -because you're not meant for it. You've got appointments to keep at -dinner-time, and you must get your meals regularly. Or you want to -write fine stuff and be great star descriptive men at once, or go to -Persia and Timbuctoo, and live on flam and signed articles. But, if you -were meant to be a reporter, you'd hang round the news editor's room -for any job that came along, you'd take any old thing that was given -you, and do it without a murmur, and when you've done that for thirty -years you might meet success, and stay on until they shoved you out of -the office." - -He saw that Cannock was smiling, and seemed to read his thoughts. - -"Me?" he said. "Oh, you mustn't judge by me. I belong to the old -school, you know. I'm the son of my father--he was a Gallery man, and -died worth three hundred pounds, and that's more than I am. I'm one of -the products of the last generation, and all I want is £2 a week and -a cottage in the country." The little man relit his pipe, and puffed -contentedly. "Lord! I should like that!" he said. - -"You're always frightened of being fired, Tommy," said Harlem. "You -know well enough you're what we call a thoroughly reliable and -experienced man, and Ferrol wouldn't have you sacked." - -"There's always that bogy," Pride answered with a laugh. "You never -know what may happen. The only thing is to join the Newspaper Press -Fund and trust in the Lord. None of the youngsters do either of these -things to-day." - -Cannock and Harlem prepared to leave as the train slowed down before -Marble Arch. "It's a rotten game," said Cannock. "I'm glad I'm out of -it. Good-bye." - -Pride took his hand. "Good-bye." He saw them pass the window, and -wave to him as they went under the lighted "Way Out" sign, and then -he turned to his papers with a sigh. But somehow or other he did not -read. He always carried papers about with him, through sheer force of -habit, much as the under side of a tailor's coat lapel is bristling -with pins. He had been with news all day; he had written some of it; he -had read the same things in the different editions of the newspapers; -he had left the street when they were printing more news; and the first -thing he would do on waking up in the morning would be to reach out for -a copy of _The Day_ which was brought with the morning tea. He did not -read news as the average man does--he regarded it objectively, reading -it without emotion. The march of the world, the daily happenings moved -him as much as a packet of loose diamonds moves the jeweller who -handles them daily, and weighs them to see their worth. - -He was thinking of Cannock, with his future all clear before him: -Cannock, with beer woven into the fibre of his being, as news was in -his. It must be rather fine to be independent like that.... Idly, he -wondered what Cannock's guv'nor was like: did he admire these pictures -of the vast hall crowded with beer barrels, enough to last London -for a whole Saturday night, and ready to be filled up again for all -the nights in the week.... He looked round the carriage at the faces -of those who were travelling with him. Five boisterous young people -were making themselves a noisy nuisance at one end of the carriage. -Opposite him, in the seat lately occupied by Harlem, a working man was -staring ahead of him with an empty wide stare as if, in a moment of -absent-mindedness, his actual self had slipped away, and left a hulk -of shabbily-clothed body, without a spark of intelligence. Others were -nodding, half asleep, and there was one man, with closed eyes, and -parted lips, breathing stertorously, whose head bobbled from side to -side with the rocking of the train.... He woke up, suddenly, as the -train stopped with a jerk, and the conductor called out "'Perd's Bush." - -Tommy Pride always gave his papers to the lift-man. They waited for -the last passenger, who came lurching round the corner with his head -still bobbling and his eyes half lost below the drooping eyelids. He -steadied himself against the wall--and his hand spread over another of -those glorious posters. What a picture for Cannock!... Somehow, Pride -rejoiced to think that he was not Cannock. - -He went past the Green to one of the small houses in a turning off the -Uxbridge Road. The moon shone out of the wintry sky, white and placid, -above his home. He let himself in, and turned out the flicker of gas -in the hall. He walked on tiptoe into the sitting-room, and having -taken off his boots went to the fireplace. Here on a trivet he found -a cup of cocoa, and his slippers warming before the fire. There were -three slices of thin bread and butter on the table. He never went to -bed without his bread and butter. During his meal he saw a copy of -_The Day_ on a chair, and he read bits of it mechanically, for he had -read it all before. The clock struck one, and he bolted the front door -and went softly upstairs. As he turned on the light his wife stirred -uneasily, and he came to the bedside. She opened her eyes at his kiss, -and smiled tenderly at him. - -"Is it very late, dear?" she asked. - -"One o'clock." - -"Poor sweetheart!" she murmured. "Did you have your cocoa?" - -"Yes," he said. - -"Tired?" - -He laughed. "Not very. I'm a bit cheerful, to tell you the truth. Tell -you about it in the morning. Ferrol spoke to me to-day. He's a fine -chap." - - - - -II - - -That was the magic of it! Ferrol had spoken to him. The conversation -had been quite ordinary. "Well, Pride, I hope things are going all -right?" And Ferrol had nodded cheerfully and smiled as he passed into -his room. Perhaps, he had asked Pride to come and see him.... It was -not what Ferrol said that mattered: it was the Idea behind it--that -Ferrol knew and remembered his men individually. - -Out of the insensate tangle of machines and lives, high above the -thunderous clamour of the printing-presses, the rolling of heavy vans -stacked high with cylinders of paper, the ringing of telephone bells, -the ticking and clicking and buzzing, floor above floor, of the great -grey building in which they all lived, Ferrol rises with his masterful -personality and calm voice, carving the chaos of it all into discipline -and order. He looms, in the imagination, powerful and omnipresent, -making his desires felt in the far corners of the continents. - -Ferrol whispered, and Berlin, Vienna or San Francisco gave him his -needs. He was the brain and the heart of the body he had created, and -his nerves and his arteries were spread over the earth. He placed his -fingers on the pulse of mankind, and knew what was ailing--knew what it -wanted, and found the specialist to attend to it. - -His influence lay over the narrow street of tall buildings, urging men -onwards and upwards with the gospel of great endeavour. Some men, as -their pagan ancestors worshipped the Sun as the God of Light, placed -him on a pedestal in their hearts, and bowed down to him as the God of -Success, for the energy of his spirit was everywhere. If you searched -behind the ponderous double octuple machines, rattling and thudding, -and driving the work of their world forward, you would have found it -there--the motive power of the whole. It lurked in the tap-tap of the -telegraph transmitter, in the quick click of the type in the slots of -the linotype machines as the aproned operators touched the keyboard; it -was in the heart of the reporter groping through the day for facts, and -writing them with the shadow of Ferrol falling across the paper. The -clerks in the counting-house, the advertising men, the grimy printers' -boys in the basement, the type-setters and the block-makers on the top -floors near the skylights, messengers, typists--they were all bricks -in the edifice which was built up for the men who wrote the paper--the -edifice of which Ferrol was the keystone. - -His enemies distorted the vision of him; they saw him, an inhuman, -incredible monster, with neither soul nor heart, grimly eager for -one end--the making of money. They wrote of him as an evil thing, -brooding over sensationalism.... One must see him as Tommy Pride and -all those who worked for him on _The Day_ saw him, eager, keen, and -large-hearted, a wonderful blend of sentiment and business, torn, -sometimes, between expediency and the hidden desires of his heart. One -must see him reckless and, since he was only human, making mistakes, -creating, destroying, living only for what the day brought forth.... - -The spirit of Fleet Street, itself. - - * * * * * - -Like a silver thread woven into the texture of his character, in which -good and evil were patterned as they are in most men, a streak of the -sentimental was there, shining untarnished, a survival of his days of -young romance. Very few people knew of this trait; Ferrol hugged it to -himself secretly, as though it were a weakness of which he was ashamed. -It came upon him at odd, unexpected moments when he was hemmed in by -the gross materialism of every day, this passionate, sudden yearning -for poetry and ideals. He would try to lift the latch of the door -that had locked the world of beauty and art from him. Swift desires -would seize him to be carried away in his motor-car, as if it were a -magic carpet, to some Arcadia of dreaming shadows, with the sunlight -splashing through the green roofs of the forests. - -The sentimental in him would, at such times, find expression in many -ways. He made extravagant gifts to people; he would take a sudden -interest in the career of one man, and bring all that man's longings -to realization by lifting him up and making his name. How glorious -that power was to Ferrol! The power of singling men out, finding the -spark of genius that he could raise to a steady flame, fanning it with -opportunity; he could make a man suddenly rich with a stroke of his -pen; pack him off to Arabia or South America and bid him write his -best. Sometimes they failed, because it was not in them to succeed, and -Ferrol was as merciless to failures as he was generous to those who won -through. - -The men he made!... - -Sometimes, when the waves of sentiment swept over him, he would try and -materialize his ideals for a time. He would commission a great poet to -contribute to _The Day_; he would open his columns to the cult of the -beautiful, and then a grisly murder or a railway disaster would happen, -crushing Ferrol's sentiment. Away with the ideal, for, after all, the -world does not want it! Three columns of the murder or the railway -disaster, with photographs, leaders, special articles, all turning -round the news itself. That was how it was done. - -And now the fit was on Ferrol as he sat in his room with the crimson -carpet and the dark red walls, hung with contents bills of _The -Day_. He had been going over the morning letters with his secretary, -listening to the applications for employment. He made a point of -hearing them, now and again. There was one letter there that suddenly -awoke his interest; the name touched a chord in his memory, a chord -that responded with a low, tender note.... And, his mind marched back -through the corridors of the past, until he came out upon the old, -quiet, cathedral town of the days of his youth. - -He saw himself, a slight, eager young man, long, long before his dreams -of greatness came to pass, yet feeling in his heart that the plans he -was making would be followed. A young Ferrol plotting within himself -to wrest spoils from the world, longing intolerably for power and the -wealth that could give it. Well did he know, even in those far-off -days, that destiny was holding out her hands, laden with roses and -prizes for him.... Those were the days of the young heart; the days -of nineteen and twenty, and the first love, scarce understood, that -comes to us, mysterious and beautiful. He saw a very different Ferrol -then. The lip unshaven, that was now hidden with a bushy moustache -turning grey; the hair, now also grey under the touch of Time, silky -and black. He saw this boy walking the lanes that led out of Easterham -town, in the spring-time, with a girl at his side. - -Over the abyss of the years the boy beckoned to him, and Ferrol looked -back on a yesterday of thirty years. Her name was Margaret, and she -was for him the beginning of things. From her he learned much of the -tenderness of life, and the love of Nature that had remained with him. -He was a clerk in an auctioneer's office then, with most of his dreams -still undreamt. He and Margaret had been children together. They were -children now, laughing, and walking over the fields with the spire of -the cathedral, pointing like a finger to the skies, in the distant haze -of the afternoon. - -There was more purity in that first romance of his than in anything he -had found in after years. Oh! wonderful days of young unsullied hearts, -and the white innocence of life. The memory of evenings came to him, of -kisses in the starlight, when incomprehensible emotions surged through -him, vague imaginings of what life must really be, and the torture of -unrest, of something that he did not understand. Her eyes were tearful, -and yet she smiled, and at her smile they both laughed. And so the -spell was broken, and they trudged, side by side, homeward in the -silent night. - -She inspired him, and in that, perhaps, she fulfilled her destiny. She -sowed the seeds of ambition in his soul: he would dare anything for -her, yea, reach his hand upwards, and pluck the very stars from Heaven -to lay at her feet. And, very gradually, a dreadful nausea of Easterham -came over him. His desk was by the window that looked upon the High -Street: he almost remembered, now, the day when it first dawned on him -that the place was no longer tolerable. It was mid-day and the heat -quivered above the cobble-stones: two dogs were fighting with jarring -yelps that could be heard all down the street; the baker's cart went by -with an empty rattle, and Miss Martin of Willow Hall drove in as usual -to the bank next door. An old man was herding a flock of sheep towards -the market-place, and the sheep-dog ran this way and that way, barking -as he ran. Three sandwich-men, grotesquely hidden in boards, slouched -past in frayed clothes and battered hats, with pipes in their mouths. -He read their boards mechanically.... "Sale at Wilcox's.... Ladies' -Undergarments.... Ribbons." He had read the same thing every day in the -week; he had looked out upon the same scene, every day, it seemed; the -dogs had been quarrelling eternally, the shepherd passed and repassed -like a never-ending silent dream; grocer, and baker, and banker, and -Hargrave, the farmer ... there he was again touching his hat to Miss -Martin as she stepped from her trap.... O God! the heavy monotony of it -all fell like a weight on his heart. - -The nostalgia grew. The chimes of the cathedral lost their music, the -stillness of the town became more unbearable than the turmoil and -clatter of cities. There was something to be wrought for and fought for -in the world outside. This was not life; this was a mausoleum! - -The arguments with his father--his mother was dead--and the long -time it took to persuade him.... The parting with Margaret, and the -whispered vows and promises, spoken breathlessly from their earnest -young hearts. It seemed they could never be broken. - -He came to London. It was in the late seventies, at the beginning of -the spread of education that has resulted in the amazing flood of -periodicals: it was a flood that led Ferrol on to fortune. His scope -widened; he grew in his outlook, and saw that here was a way to power -indeed. He shone like a new star over London, gathering lesser lights -around him, developing that marvellous power of organization, that -astonishing personality that drew men to him, until he seized his -opportunity and bought the moribund _Day_ when it was a penny paper on -its last legs. In ten years' time he had become wealthy and powerful, -and since then he had gone on and on until no triumph was denied him. - -And Margaret...? The years passed, and with the passing of time, they -both developed. That young love, once so irrefrangible, grew warped -and misshapen, until it finally snapped. There was no quarrel; neither -could reproach the other; they simply grew out of their love, as so -many young people do. There was a correspondence for a time, but it -slackened and presently ceased altogether. She must have felt her hold -loosening on Ferrol, as with a thousand new interests he came upon the -wide horizon of life. She must have noticed this in his letters, and -instead of seeking to bind him to her against his will, she just let -him go. And Ferrol must have weighed the impossibility of asking her -to marry him at this point of his career, when he was striving and -struggling upwards; not all men travel the fastest when they travel -alone, but Ferrol was one of those who could run no risk of being -delayed. They had none of the pang of parting ... but years afterwards, -when Ferrol was a childless widower (for he married when he was -thirty-five, and walked behind his wife's coffin two years afterwards), -he wondered what had become of Margaret, and always he cherished that -memory of his one romance that had tapered away out of his life. He -could never forget the sweet simplicity of Margaret's face, the tears -on her eyelashes, and the yielding softness of her youth when he -pressed her to his heart and lips with wonderful thoughts quivering -through his soul. - -He remembered one day in his life, a few years after the death of his -wife, when a wild desire had seized him to handle his past again, as -an antiquarian turns over his treasures and rejoices in some ancient -relic. It was a day in summer, when the heat was heavy over London, and -the city smelt of hot asphalt and tar: without a word to anybody he had -left his work and taken the train, back to Easterham and his youth. - -The old familiar landmarks rose up before him, bringing a strange -feeling of age to him. So much had happened in the interval that it -seemed that year upon year had piled up a wall before him, separating -him for evermore from this old world that had been. The ivy still clung -to the castellated walls of the Cathedral close; the clock chimed as he -went by, just as he had heard it chime in the long days that were gone. -The very rooks seemed unchanged as they clamoured huskily in the old -beeches. - -And yet, with it all, there was something different, and he knew that -the difference lay not so much with the place as with himself. His -entire perception had altered. He saw things through eyes that had -grown older. The High Street, with its brooding air of stillness, that -had once seemed so stale and intolerable to him, now appealed to him -with its wondrous peace, a magical spot far away from the turmoil of -things. There were the same names over the grocers' and the drapers' -and the ironmongers' shops, but old Matthew Bethell's quaint bookshop -had gone, and in its place there stood a large green, flat-fronted -establishment, with an open window stacked high with magazines and -newspapers, and a great poster above it, thus: - - The Day. - - ONE HALFPENNY - - HOWARD - SLANDER - CASE. - - FULL REPORT. - -The sentimental in him winced, but the material business man glowed -with pride as he saw the great poster, proclaiming _The Day_ paramount -over its rivals. There was always a conflict between the two men that -made up that complex personality known as Ferrol. He went to the house -where he had once lived; his father was dead now, and as he looked up -at the open window and saw a strange woman doing some needle-work, -it seemed to him as if the people that were living there had laid -sacrilegious hands upon the holy fragrance of the past; as if their -prying eyes had peered into all the hidden secrets that belonged to -him. He turned away resentfully towards the old inn, the Red Lion, -whose proprietor, old Hamblin, remembered him from other days when he -revealed himself, and was inclined to be overcome with the importance -of the visit, until Ferrol put him at his ease. They chatted together, -the old man, with his back to the fireplace, coat-tails lifted from -habit, for the grate was empty on this hot day, Ferrol sitting astride -a chair, watching the blue stream of smoke that came from Hamblin's -lips as he puffed at his long white churchwarden.... Hamblin must have -stood like that during all the years that Ferrol had been in London. -The only change that came to the people of Easterham was death. - -They talked of people they had known, and so the talk came naturally to -Margaret. He listened unmoved to the news of her marriage, and found -that nothing more than conventional phrases came from his lips when -Hamblin told him of her death. Somehow, it seemed to him so natural. He -had been away seventeen years, and Easterham had lost its hold upon him -now. The death of his father ... the new face at the window of their -house.... The death of Margaret seemed to come as a natural sequence to -things. - -Hamblin went on talking about people. "She married Mr Quain, one of the -College schoolmasters.... I expect he was after your time ... a good -deal older than you, Mr Ferrol.... They had one child, a boy ... living -with his aunt now. All her people left Easterham years ago...." And so -on. - -It was in the afternoon that Ferrol came back to London, feeling that -he had been prodding at wet moss-grown stones in some old decayed ruin, -turning them over to see what he could find, and having them crumble -apart in his hands. He never went back again. - - * * * * * - -That was thirteen years ago. Ferrol's memories ended abruptly. He -touched a button, and a young man, with a shiny, pink face and fair -hair parted in the middle, came in with a notebook and pencil in his -hand. He looked as if he spent every moment of his spare time in -washing his face. There was a quiet, nervous air about him--the air -of one who is never certain of what is going to happen next. Ferrol's -abrupt sentences always unnerved him. - -"Trinder," he said, "there was a letter among the lot to-day. Quain. -Written on _Easterham Gazette_ notepaper. Asking for editorial -employment." - -"Yes, sir." Trinder had long ceased to marvel at Ferrol's memory for -details. - -"Write to him the usual letter asking him to call. Wednesday at twelve." - -Trinder made a note and withdrew. - -Ferrol wondered what Margaret's boy was like. - - - - -III - - -At the age of twenty Humphrey Quain found himself on the threshold of -a world of promise. It seemed to him that if, out of all the years of -time, he could have chosen the period in which he would live, he would -have picked out the dawn of this twentieth century of grace. England -was just then in the throes of casting from herself the burden of -old traditions. The closing years of the nineties had been years of -preparation and development--years of broadening minds and new ideas, -until quite suddenly, it seemed, the century turned the corner, and -yesterday became old-fashioned in a day, and all eyes were fixed on the -glorious sunrise of the twentieth century--the wonderful century. - -People, you remember, played with the fantasy of beginning a brand-new -century as if it were a new toy. Nobody who was living could remember -the birth of the last century. It was a new emotion for everyone. -There was the oddity of writing dates, discarding for ever the 189-- -and beginning with 19--; old phrases, such as _fin-de-siècle_, became -suddenly obsolete; new phrases were coined, among which "Twencent" -(an abbreviation for twentieth century, and a tribute to the snap -and hustle with which the world was now expected to go) survived -the longest; songs were sung at music-halls; there was a burst of -cartoons on the subject; people referred jokingly to the last century, -parodying the recollections of boresome centenarians; while the -unhappy _Nineteenth Century_, as though the calendar had taken a mean -advantage of its mid-Victorian dignity, determined never again to risk -being so hopelessly out of date, and added to its title the words -"and After," thereby enabling future centuries to go for ever without -ruffling its title. - -In the midst of this change, when the death of Queen Victoria seemed -to snap the present from the past irrevocably, and the novelty of -a king came to England again; when the first of the tubes that now -honeycomb London was a twopenny wonder, and people were talking of -Shepherd's Bush, and Notting Hill Gate, and marvelling curiously why -they had never talked of them before; when Socialism was burrowing -and gnawing like a rat at the old, worn fabric of Society, urging the -working-man to stand equal in Parliament with the noblest lords in -the land. In the midst of all this there arose suddenly, born with -the twentieth century, the Young Man. He had already come, answering -the call of the country in the dark disillusioning days of the Boer -War. People had seen the young clerks and workmen of England marching -shoulder to shoulder down the streets of London, like the train-bands -of Elizabethan days. When the country was in peril the flower and the -youth of England came to its aid, and the older men could do nothing -but stay at home and look on. - -The young man, scorned by his elders in all the periods of the -nineteenth century except those last years of development, found -himself suddenly caught up on the high wave that was sweeping away -the rubbish and the sentiment and the lumber of the old customs, and -borne above them all. He was set on a pinnacle, as the new type; the -future of the world was said to be in the hands of the young men; the -old men--even forty was too old, you remember--had had their day. -They were now like so much old furniture, shabby and undesirable, -second-hand goods, better replaced by strong, well-made, up-to-date -things. - -It really was a wonderful time for the Young Man. In the old days it -had been customary for him to show respect to his elders, to call them -"sir," to stand up when they came into a room, or raise his hat if they -met in the streets, to offer his seat to them if there was none vacant, -and generally to treat them as old ladies, with polite reverence -mingled with awe. - -The worship of age had become a fetish; it was improper to criticize -the opinions of a man older than yourself; it was heresy to think that -you were as capable as the old men; youth had to wait and grow old for -its chances in life; youth was ridiculed, snubbed and held in the leash. - -And then, quite suddenly it seemed, though Ibsen had heard it knocking -at the door long before, the younger generation burst upon us with an -astonishing vigour, taking possession of the new century, trampling -down the false gods of age and bringing in its train, like boys -trooping from a nursery, hosts of new toys and new ideas in everything. - -It was, I think, _The Day_ that finally discovered the Young Man. -Ferrol had known the bitter opposition which he had fought in his own -twenties and thirties, and he shone as the apostle of youth. The Young -Man, from a neglected embryo, became a national asset; all hands were -uplifted to him in the dawn of the new century. He was enthroned in the -seats from which his elders were deposed. - -People seeking for a symbol of the new life that was beginning, looked -westwards and found a whole nation that typified the Young Man who -was to be their salvation. They found America, eager, with strident -voice, forceful and straining its muscles to the game of life--a whole -nation of young men. It became the fashion to take America as a model. -There was an invasion of boots and bicycles and cameras. "Look," every -one cried, "see how they do things better than we do. Look at their -magazines--how wonderful they are." Phonographs, kinetoscopes, the -first jumpy cinematographs, photo-buttons, chewing-gum, they came to -the country, and were hailed gladly as from the land of Young Men. - -Presently the young men themselves came. They came with their -hair parted in the middle, and keen, clean-shaven faces with very -predominant chins. They were mere boys, and they had a bounce and -a boisterous assurance that took one's breath away. With them came -loudly-striped shirts, multi-coloured socks, felt hats and lounge -suits in city offices, and, later, soft-fronted shirts and black silk -bows for evening wear. They opened London offices for New York firms, -and showed us card-indexing systems, roll-top desks, dictaphones and -loose-leaf ledgers. All letters were typewritten, and the firm who -sent out a letter in the crabbed handwriting of its senior clerk was -accounted disgracefully behind the times. - -The Young Man set the pace with a vengeance, and it was a panting -business to keep abreast of him. - -Cock-tails and quick-lunch restaurants appeared next; griddle-cakes, -clam-chowder and club sandwiches were shown to us; and finally, as -though having absorbed their nutriment, we had assimilated their -habits, a fierce desire to speak with a nasal accent took hold of us. - -The man who wanted to get a job spoke with as much American accent -as he could muster up; he looked American, and he affected American -ways; his affirmative was "sure," and he wore his hair long and -sleek, divided evenly in the middle. He was the Young Man, cocksure, -enthusiastic and determined--the most remarkable product of his time. - -Ferrol found him, a year or so before he arrived, with that instinct of -his, almost second-sight, which never failed. He boomed him as a Type; -he glorified him, and gave him high posts in the office of _The Day_. -With the exception of Neckinger, the editor, who came straight from New -York, he was the native product, and Ferrol was always on the look-out -for more of him. - -And so, in the midst of all this, when the cry for the Young Man was -at its hungriest, when "hustle" and "strenuous" were added to the -vocabulary, we see Humphrey Quain, waiting on the outskirts, watching -his opportunity, and meanwhile bending over the counter of the -_Easterham Gazette_ office, coat off and shirt sleeves turned back to -the elbow, folding up copies of the _Easterham Gazette_ as they came -damp, with the ink wet on them, from the printing-press in the basement. - - * * * * * - -The _Easterham Gazette_ was, unhesitatingly, the worst paper in -Easterham. It was an eight-page weekly journal, with a staff of one -editor, one reporter and Humphrey Quain. When things were slack in the -reporting line, the reporter (an extraordinarily shaggy person called -Beaver, whose thumbs were always covered with ink) was expected to -"fill up time at case"--which means that he was to assist in setting -up the paper in type. The editor, whose name was Worthing, walked -about in a knickerbocker suit and a soft grey hat, and it was part of -his business to obtain advertisements for the _Gazette_. The leading -articles he wrote were always composed with one eye on the advertiser. -In praising the laudable action of Councillor Bilson in opposing the -introduction of trams into the town, there was a pleasant parenthesis, -something in this manner: "It needs no words of ours to echo the praise -bestowed on that gallant champion of our town, our much-respected -Councillor Bilson (in whose windows, by the way, there is a remarkable -exhibit of Oriental coffee-making) ..." and so on. - -It was Beaver's duty to make the "calls" during the week. How he -managed them all, I don't know; but in the intervals of attending -the police-court, the council meetings, and all the meetings of -local organizations, he would call at the hospital, at the mayor's -parlour, on the town clerk, on the churches and cathedrals, snapping -up unconsidered trifles in the shape of accidents, civic news, church -services, and all the other activities of Easterham life. Sometimes -during the week Beaver would swing himself astride a bicycle, as -frayed and as shabby as himself, and pedal to Wimberly, or Pooleham, -or further afield to Great Huxton for local meetings, all of which -were of vast interest to the _Easterham Gazette_, since its copies -went weekly--or were supposed to go--over the whole of the county, -and it had annexed to its title the names of all the best villages. -Its full title, by the way, was: _Easterham Gazette, and Wimberly, -Pooleham, Great Huxton, Middle Huxton and Little Huxton Chronicle; -Coomber, Melsdom and Upper Thornton Journal_, largest circulation in -any district, weekly one penny. It was nigh upon sixty years of age, -and therefore its tottering infirmity may be excused. - -Humphrey Quain came into the office ostensibly as a clerk. In the -beginning he thought it was a fascinating game seeing the things that -one wrote in print. Therefore, all unconsciously, he started to write. -He began with "Cycle Notes" and "Theatre Notes," and presently he found -himself with sufficient interest to fill a whole column, which dealt -mainly with local gossip, and was called "The Easterham Letter." It was -addressed always to the editor and was signed "P and Q." When he was -not writing, he was addressing wrappers or making out the weekly bills -for the newsagents; and every Friday evening he stood by the counter, -folding up the papers as they came to him, and handing them to grubby -little children who were sent by the newsagents, or sold the papers for -themselves in the streets. - -It really was a remarkable paper for the twentieth century. Its -advertisement space was one shilling an inch, or less if you promised -not to tell any one; three men, of course, could not fill the whole of -these eight great sheets, and therefore the carrier's wagon delivered -every Thursday to the _Easterham Gazette_ office, mysterious thin brown -parcels the size of a column, and rather heavy. Simultaneously, all -over the country, like parcels were being delivered, and, if by chance -you compared an issue of the _Easterham Gazette_ with any thirty local -papers in the North, South, or East of England, you would have been -amazed at the remarkable similarity of their contents. They had the -same serial story of thrilling adventure, the same "Cookery Notes and -Kitchen Recipes," the same "Home Hints to Household Happiness," word -for word, and the same column of jokes. - -For these long parcels that arrived every Thursday at the _Easterham -Gazette_ office were columns of type cast from moulds, sent down from -a London Agency which has made a mighty business of supplying general -matter, from foreign intelligence to fashion notes, ready for the -printing-press, at so much a column. They call it "stereo." - -Humphrey Quain had been in the office for three years. His aunt was -a friend of Mr Worthing, the editor, and his father thought it would -be a good thing for the boy to have some association with the world of -letters, however distant. Shortly afterwards, Quain senior had taken -a master's appointment in a private boarding-school at Southsea, and -Humphrey remained with his aunt. A year later his father died. - -He parted with his father with a straining heart, for Daniel Quain was -a tremendous success as a father, though he was a failure as a man. Of -course this was only Humphrey's point of view: what more could a boy -want than a father who could fashion any kind of toy, from whistles -to steamboats, out of a block of wood; who knew enough of elementary -science to make a pin sail on water, by letting it rest on a cigarette -paper which soaked and sank away, leaving the pin afloat; who could -blow a halfpenny from one wine-glass to another, and produce whooing -sounds from a hollow tube by placing it over a gas flame. Wonderful -father! - -It was Daniel who fostered in Humphrey's heart the love of reading: -those early books were adventure stories by Fenimore Cooper, Kingston -and Ballantyne. He read Harrison Ainsworth, too, and Henty, and took -in the _Boy's Own Paper_, and, in short, did everything in the way of -reading that a normal, happy, healthy-minded boy should do. "Keep clear -of philosophy until you are thirty," Daniel said one day, as he was -showing him how three matches can be made to stand upright; "then you -won't understand enough of life to be miserable." - -Later, he came to the Dickens and Thackeray stage, but he was pained to -find he could not enjoy Scott. He confided his distaste to his father, -as though it were a guilty failing of which to be ashamed. - -"Form your own likes and dislikes in reading as in everything else," -said Daniel. "Don't be a literary snob, and pretend you enjoy the -acquaintance of books merely because they belong so to speak to the -'upper ten' of the book-world." - -When his father died, Humphrey was first brought face to face with the -stern things of life. It was a chance remark of his aunt that gave -him the first glimpse. "You'll have to do something for yourself, -Humphrey," she said one day. "That father of yours did nothing for -you." She always spoke bitterly of his father. - -Humphrey had never thought of it before. It had seemed to him that -things came naturally to people from father to son: that, in some -mysterious, unthought-of way, when he was about twenty or so, he would -find himself with an income of sorts, or some settled employment. - -"You must Get On," said his aunt, looking at him through her -spectacles. "Young men Get On quickly to-day. You must grasp your -opportunities." - -So here came a new and delightful interest into Humphrey's existence. -He perceived something fine in it all. From that day he had one creed -in life: the creed of Getting On. This determination swamped every -other interest in life. It was as if his aunt had suddenly touched upon -some internal button that had started off a driving-wheel within him, -and set all the machinery of energy into movement. How did one "Get On" -in the world? He began to take an enormous interest in everything, to -follow the doings of men and cities outside Easterham; his knowledge -widened slowly, for he had no brothers and was singularly innocent in -the everyday sense of the word. - -And all the time, during those Easterham days, he was beginning to -understand things. He saw that Beaver and Worthing, with their small -salaries and narrow capacities, had not "Got On"--would never "Get On." -He realized too, that his father, well through life, had been little -better than a man in the beginning of it. On the other hand, Bilson, -with his large, shining shop, might be said to have "Got On," and just -when he was half deciding that Bilson held the secret, Bilson suddenly -went bankrupt, owing to the failure of some coffee plantations in -Ceylon. It seemed a perplexing business, this getting on. Easier to -talk about than to do. And, after all, the getting on-ness of Bilson -had been circumscribed by the narrow area of Easterham. The real -success meant power, and the ability to use it: wide power over the -affairs of other people. - -These were not the thoughts of a moment: they were lingering thoughts -that spread over three years, from seventeen to twenty, those three -years when he was at the _Easterham Gazette_ office, with only Beaver -and Worthing for his models in life. - -They were thoughts in the intervals of writing "notes" on local -subjects--indeed, the notes were the outcome of the thoughts--of -reading, and of cycling, and going to the theatre. And then one day a -most amazing thing happened. - -Beaver Got On! - -Yes, it was really incredible, but the fact was there indisputable and -glaring. Beaver, shaggy and unkempt, who seemed to have settled down -for ever to the meetings and the calls and the police-courts ("Harriet -Higgins, 30, no fixed abode, charged with being drunk and disorderly, -etc."), broke through the cobwebs that had settled on him, in an -unexpected and definite manner. - -He came to Humphrey one day and remarked quite casually, "I've given -old Worthing the push." - -Humphrey looked at him: he wore a Norfolk jacket, with old trousers, -and a tweed hat of no shape at all. Beaver took his pipe out of his -mouth, and Humphrey noticed the short nails on his stumpy, fat fingers. -Beaver always bit his nails. - -"I've given old Worthing the push," said Beaver. "Look at this." He -showed a letter to Humphrey, who saw that it was from the "Special News -Agency" of London, employing Beaver in their service at £2, 10s. a week. - -"How did you get it?" Humphrey asked. - -"Wrote in," said Beaver, gnawing a finger-tip. "Been writing in on the -quiet for the last year. Fed up with old Worthing and filling up time -at case." - -"I thought you had to know how to write well if you wanted to work in -London," Humphrey said. There were no illusions about Beaver's style. - -"Oh! the Agency doesn't want writing--it wants a man who can take down -shorthand verbatim.... I'm off next week," said Beaver. - -Humphrey looked longingly at him and his letter, and then round at -the whitewashed walls of the office, with its Calendars and local -Directories for years past on the shelf, and the pile of _Gazettes_ -on the corner of the counter. Mr Worthing passed through the office, -stopped, and scowled at Beaver. - -"Kindly remove your head-gear in the front office," he said, and -Beaver, with the unmurmuring discipline of years which nothing could -break, took off the crumpled tweed thing he called a hat. - -"Nice pig, isn't he?" Beaver said to Humphrey, as Worthing went out. -"We had an awful row. Said I ought to have given him a month's notice. -A week would have been good enough for me if he was doing the sacking. -Pig in knickers, that's what he is," said Beaver, defiantly. "This is a -Hole." - -"Oh, Beaver!" cried Humphrey, hopelessly. "It is a Hole. He _is_ a -Pig.... But what's going to happen to me?" - -"You'll do my work," Beaver remarked. - -"I can't write shorthand. Besides, I don't want to. How old are you, -Beaver?" - -"Just turned thirty. Why?" - -"Thirty!" thought Humphrey; fancy Beaver having wasted all these years -in doing nothing but local reporting. Would he have to work ten years -more and still achieve nothing further than Beaver. There must be some -way out of it. Beaver had found it, and surely he could. - -"It's fine for you," Humphrey said, admiringly now, for, in the -blankness of Beaver leaving the office where they had worked, he had -forgotten to congratulate him. "The Special News Agency is the biggest -in London, isn't it." - -"Rather," said Beaver, comfortably. "It's a life job." That was -his ambition. "Look here, young Quain, I think you're too good for -Easterham, too. Those notes of yours, you know.... I used to read -'em every week. Not at all bad.... You take my tip, and do a turn at -reporting for a while, and then when you've got the hang of things -write in. Write in to all the London papers. Say you've had good -provincial experience--'provincial' sounds better than local. You'll -see. You're bound to get replies. Say you're a good all-round man. -Enclose a stamped envelope." Beaver sauntered to and fro, nibbling at a -nail between excited sentences. "Oh, and don't you forget it. Write on -_Easterham Gazette_ notepaper." - -And when, a week later, Beaver left, Worthing asked Humphrey to try his -hand at the police-court, Humphrey accepted the inevitable, and tried -to improve on the style of the police reports. Worthing swore at him -and rewrote them all, and told him to model his style on that of the -late Mr Beaver. - -Whereupon Humphrey, seeing that he would never Get On if he were to -live in the shadow of Beaver, sat down, and "wrote in." - -He wrote to _The Day_, because he bought the paper every morning, and -thought it was wonderful. - -The day that Ferrol's reply arrived was a day of triumph for Humphrey. -The letter came to him with unbelievable promptness, asking him to call -at the office.... Never again did Humphrey recapture the fine emotion -that thrilled him as he read and re-read the letter. Looking back on -it, he saw that those moments were among the most glorious in his -life; he stood on the threshold of a world of promise and enchantment, -suddenly revealed to him by this scrap of paper with _The Day_ in -embossed blue letters, surrounded by telephone numbers and telegraphic -addresses of the great newspaper. - -When he showed the letter to his aunt, she sighed in a tired way, and -said unexpectedly: "I'm afraid you will never get on, Humphrey. You are -too restless. I'm sure you would do better to remain with Mr Worthing. -However...." She very rarely finished her sentences. - -Humphrey smiled. He saw himself marching to fortune; he was twenty, and -it never occurred to him that he could fail. - - - - -IV - - -You may call Fleet Street what you like, but the secret of it eludes -you always. It has as many moods as a woman: it is the street of -laughter and of tears, of adventure and dullness, of romance and -reality, of promise and lost hopes, of conquest and broken men. Into -its narrow neck are crammed all the hurrying life, the passions, the -eager, beating hearts, the happiness and the sorrow of the broad -streets East and West that lead to it. There is something in this -thin, crooked street, holding in its body the essence of the world, -that clutches at the imagination, something in the very atmosphere -surrounding it which makes it different from all the other streets that -are walked by men. - -The stones and the old timber of some of its buildings are like the -yellow parchment of some ancient manuscript, scribbled with faded -history. There are chop-houses, and taverns, where the wigged and -knee-breeched Puffs sat writing their tit-bits of scandal for the -fashionable intelligence of the day; where Addison and Steele tapped -their snuff-boxes and planned their letters to Mr Spectator; or, -further back in the years, Shakespeare himself went Strandwards from -Blackfriars up the narrow street where the gabled houses leaned to one -another. Look, you can almost see the ghosts of Fleet Street pacing -out of the little courts and alleys that lie athwart the street: you -know that massive bulk of a man, walking ponderously, in drab-coloured -coat and knee-breeches, and rather untidy stockings above his heavy, -buckled shoes. He is in the street of a million words; other ghosts -jostle him, and in the gallant company one sees Charles Dickens, -dropping his manuscript stealthily into a dark letter-box, in a dark -office, up a dark court; and all the dead men who have given their -lives to the street, some of them foolishly wanton in wine--dead men -shot in the wars, or burnt with fever, or wrecked with the struggle, -come back ... come back to Fleet Street, to look wistfully at the lit -windows, and listen to the throbbing music of the presses. - -It lures you like a siren, coaxing with soft promises of prizes to be -wrested from it: you shall be the favoured of the gods, and you become -Sisyphus, rolling his stone eternally, day after day. Here are the -things of life that you covet, they shall be yours, says the Street: -and you are Tantalus, reaching out everlastingly, and grasping nothing, -until your heart is parched within you. You shall be strong and mighty, -it says, sapping your strength like Delilah, until you pull down the -pillars of hope, and fall buried beneath the reckless ruins of your -career. - -Once you have answered the voice of the siren, you are taken in the -magic spell. Beat your breast, and exclaim in agony, but nothing will -avail, for if you leave the Street, the quiet world will seem void for -ever, and, as the ghosts burn backwards through space, so shall you -return to the old agitations and longings. - - * * * * * - -This was the Street to which young Humphrey Quain came on a January -morning, riding triumphantly on the top of an omnibus. As he passed the -fantastic Griffin, with its open jaws and monstrous scaly wings, like a -warder guarding those who would escape, Fleet Street seemed to be the -Street of Conquest. - -It was a rare, crisp day, with a touch of frost in the air, and the sun -clear and high in the heavens, above the tangle of wires and cables -that almost roofed the Street. The traffic was beating up and down, -with frequent blocks, here and there, as a heavy hooded van staggered -up from Whitefriars or Bouverie Street. It was nearly mid-day, and -the light two-wheeled carts were pouring out of Shoe Lane, or coming -from Salisbury Square with the early editions of the afternoon papers. -Newsboys on bicycles, with sacks of papers swung over their backs, -seemed to be risking their lives every moment as they flashed into the -thick of the traffic, clinging to hansoms, and sliding between drays -and omnibuses, out of the press, until they could get through the -narrow neck of Fleet Street towards the West. - -Humphrey breathed deeply as he looked about him: the names of the -newspapers were blazoned everywhere. Heavens! what a world of paper and -ink this was, to be sure. The doors, the windows and the letter-boxes -bore the titles of newspapers--all the newspapers that were. Every -room, on every floor, was inhabited by the representatives of some -paper or other: on the musty top windows he could read the titles of -journals in Canada and Australia; great golden letters bulged across -the buildings telling of familiar newspapers. The houses were an odd -mixture of modernity and antiquity, they jostled each other in their -cramped space; narrow buildings squeezed between high, red offices with -plate-glass windows, and over and above the irregular roofs the wires -spread thin threads against the sky, wires that gave and received news -from the uttermost ends of the earth. - -The letters in white enamel or gold on the windows told of Paris -and Berlin, of Rotterdam and Vienna; here they marked the home of a -religious paper, there the office of a trade paper, and hard by it -_The Sportsman_, with its windows full of prize-fighters' photographs -and a massive silver belt in a plush case, for the possession of which -Porky Smith and Jewey Brown were coming to blows. Every branch of human -activity, all the intricate complexities of modern life seemed to be -represented either by a room or the fifth part of a room in Fleet -Street. - -And, rising out of the riot of narrow buildings, huddled closely to -each other, the great homes of the daily papers stood up as landmarks. -Here were the London offices of the important provincial papers, -which spoke nightly with Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield and -Liverpool--plate-glass windows and large letters gave them a handsome -enough appearance, but they looked comparatively insignificant beside -the tall red building of _The Sentinel_, and the new green-glazed -establishment of _The Wire_, while the grey, enormous offices of _The -Day_ dwarfed them all. There was something solid about _The Day_ as it -stood four-square firmly in the Street, with its great letters sprawled -across the front, golden by day, and golden with electric light in the -night-time. - -It seemed almost as if _The Day_ had nudged the other great papers -out of Fleet Street, for in the side streets, in Bouverie Street, and -Whitefriars Street, and in Shoe Lane, the remainder of the London -papers found their homes, with the exception of the high-toned _Morning -Courier_, which found itself at the western end of the Street past the -Law Courts. - -But _The Day_, with its arrogant dome-tower (lit up at nights), its -swinging glass doors and braided commissionaires, was the most typical -of the modern newspaper world. It was just such a place as Humphrey -Quain had dreamed. The swing doors were always on the move; the people -were coming and going quickly--here was action, and all the movement -and the business of life. - -For a few moments Humphrey hesitated a little nervously. He was a -minute or two in advance of the time appointed for the interview, and -he stood there, irresolute, filled with a wondrous sense of expectancy, -among the crowd that hurried to and fro. He noticed on the other side -of the road a bearded man, in a silk hat and a frayed overcoat, sitting -on a doorstep at the top of Whitefriars Street. The man had a keen, -intelligent face with blue eyes. It was the shiny silk hat that leapt -to Humphrey's notice, it seemed so out of keeping with the rest of -the man's clothes. Besides, why should a man in a silk hat sit on a -doorstep.... Years later the man was still there, every day, sitting -sphinx-like, surveying those who passed him ... he must have marked -their faces grow older. - -The commissionaire regarded Humphrey critically. It was the business of -the commissionaire in _The Day_ office, especially, to be a judge of -character. He divided callers into two main classes--those who wanted -to see the editor, and those whom the editor wanted to see. The two -classes were quite distinct, and there were few who, like Humphrey -Quain, belonged to both. - -"Yes, by appointment," said Humphrey, a little proudly, to the -commissionaire's cold question that rose like a wall to so many callers. - -He was shown into a little room, and made to fill up a form--name, -address and business. The next minute a boy in a green uniform led him -up a flight of stairs, through the ante-room where the pink-cheeked -Trinder sat typewriting diligently, and so to Ferrol's room. - -Humphrey had a confused impression of a broad, high room, of a man -sitting at a desk miles away at the farther end of the room by the -half-curtained window; of red walls hung with files of newspapers, and -the contents bills of that day; of a Louis XVI. clock, all scrolls and -cupids, bringing a queer touch of drawing-room leisure with it; and of -telephones and buttons that surrounded the man at the desk. The buttons -fascinated him: he saw that thin slips of ivory labelled them with the -names of the different departments--Editor, News-Editor, Reporters, -Sub-Editors, Advertisement Manager, Business Manager, Literary -Editor, Sporting Editor, City Editor, Foreign Editor--the whole of -the building, with all its workers, seemed to be within the reach of -Ferrol's fingers. He was like the captain of a great ship, navigating -the paper from this room, steering daily through the perilous journey. -Humphrey remembered afterwards how he was possessed with an odd -longing; he wanted to see Ferrol press all the buttons at once, to hear -the bones of the paper, the framework on which it was built up each -day, come clattering and rattling into the room. - -Ferrol looked up from his papers, pushed back his round, upholstered -chair that tipped slightly on its axis, and the room with its red walls -and carpet suddenly faded from Humphrey, and he became aware only of -a face that looked at him ... a masterful, powerful face, strong in -every feature, from the thick, closely-knit eyebrows below the broad -forehead, to the round, large chin. There was something insistent in -this face of Ferrol, with its steel-coloured eyes, that hardened or -softened with his moods, and its black moustache, that bulged heavily -over his upper lip and gave him an appearance of rugged ferocity. - -Humphrey felt as if he were a squirming thing under the microscope.... -That was the way of Ferrol--everything depended on the first -impression that he received; all his being was tautened to receive that -first impression. It was a narrow system of judging character, but he -made few mistakes.... They were quickly corrected. He never forgave -those who deceived him by wearing a mask over their true selves. - -There is not the slightest doubt that Humphrey felt a little -nervous--who would not, with Ferrol's eyes boring through one?--but he -knew that great issues were at stake. He carried his head high, and his -eyes met Ferrol's without a quiver. Thus he stood by the table for five -seconds, though it seemed as many minutes to him, until Ferrol told him -to sit down. - -"So you want to come on _The Day_," was the way Ferrol began. They were -eye to eye all the while. - -"Yes, sir," said Humphrey, briskly. Somehow or other, with the sound of -Ferrol's voice all his nervousness departed. It was the silence that -had made him feel awkward. - -"Let's see.... Ah! yes; you've been on an Easterham paper, haven't you?" - -"Three years," Humphrey replied. - -"That all the experience you've had?" - -Humphrey smiled faintly. "That's all," he said. - -"What do you want to do?" - -Here was an amazing question for which he was totally unprepared. It -had never occurred to him that he would be asked to make his choice. -His eyes wandered to the buttons.... What _did_ he want to do? He made -an answer that sounded futile and foolish to him. - -"I want to get on," he stammered, hesitatingly, with a picture of his -aunt rising mentally before him. - -Ferrol's eyes twinkled. It was a magic answer if Humphrey had but -known. Most of the others he saw wanted to do descriptive writing, -they had literary kinks in them, or wanted to have roving commissions -abroad.... None of them wanted to start at the bottom. - -"Well, this is the place for young men who want to get on, you know," -said Ferrol. "It's hard work...." He turned away and consulted some -papers. "I think I'll give you a chance," he said. - -The clock struck twelve, and it sounded to Humphrey that a chime of -joy-bells had flooded the room with triumphant music. - -"When can you start?" Ferrol asked. - -"Next week," Humphrey said. - -"You can start at three pounds a week." Ferrol pressed a button. -Trinder appeared. "Ask Mr Rivers if he can come," said Ferrol. - -Humphrey thought only of three pounds a week ... three pounds! - -"I'll put you on the reporting staff," Ferrol remarked. Then he smiled. -"We'll see how you get on...." There was a pause. (Three pounds a week! -Three pounds a week!) - -He looked up as the door opened and saw an extraordinarily -virile-looking person come into the room--a man with the face of a -refined pugilist, with large square-shaped hands and an expression of -impish perkiness in his eyes. - -"Come in, Rivers," said Ferrol. "This is Mr Quain." - -Mr Rivers shook his hand with an air of polite restraint. "Mr Rivers is -our News Editor," explained Ferrol, and then to Rivers, "I have engaged -Mr Quain for a trial month, Rivers." - -Rivers smiled whimsically. "You're not a genius, I hope," he said to -Humphrey. The spirit of humour that flashed across Rivers's face, -twinkling his eyes and the corners of his mouth and dimpling his -cheeks, made Humphrey laugh a negative reply. - -"That's all right," said Rivers, his face so creased in smiles until -his beady eyes threatened to disappear altogether. "The last genius -we had," he said, with a nod to Ferrol, "let us down horribly on the -Bermondsey murder story." - -The telephone bell rang. "I'll see him now," said Ferrol through the -telephone, and Humphrey took that as a signal that the interview was -ended. Ferrol shook hands with him, and once more he felt himself -the target of those steel-grey eyes that held in them the stern -remorselessness of strength. - - * * * * * - -"Good-looking young man," said Rivers, as the door closed behind -Humphrey. "Hope he'll shape all right." - -"I hope so," Ferrol echoed.... And he was glad that Rivers had praised -Humphrey, for he was pleased with the upright, manly bearing of the -lad, the quick intelligence of the face, and he had noticed the frank -eyes, the smooth skin and the dark hair that had belonged in the lost -years to Margaret. - - - - -V - - -Humphrey came downstairs and out into the street again walking like one -in a dream. His interview with Ferrol had lasted barely five minutes, -and in those few minutes the whole course of his future life had been -determined. His mind was whirling with the suddenness of it all; -whirling and whirling round one thought, the thought of three pounds -a week. Round this pivot, as a catharine-wheel spins round its pin, -the thing of the greatest import revolved brilliantly, shedding its -luminous light far into the dark recesses of the future ... he was on -_The Day_. Fleet Street was at his feet. - -In that moment a new Humphrey Quain was born, different from the -youth who had walked a little timorously into Ferrol's room; he was -no longer a lost cipher in the world, he was a unit in the army that -marched forwards, with Progress and To-morrow for their watchwords. He -felt, suddenly, a great man--Humphrey Quain of _The Day_, cocksure, -self-confident, with ambitions that appalled him when he thought of -them in after years. - -What would Beaver say? What would old Worthing say...? And there was -his aunt, too. - -That man in the silk hat, with the shabby overcoat, was still sitting -on the doorstep. As Humphrey passed him, his lips twisted in a haunting -ironical smile. Perhaps he knew of Humphrey's thoughts. - -He went back to Easterham. After all, Worthing took it very well, and -his aunt agreed that three pounds a week certainly showed that he was -Getting On, and Beaver, to whom he wrote the glad news, recommended him -rooms in Guilford Street, in the house where he was living. - -And there followed days of tremendous dreams. - - - - -VI - - -A week later a four-wheeler brought up outside No. 5A Guilford Street, -and there, on the doorstep, was Beaver, with his thumbs inkier than -ever, waiting to welcome Humphrey to London. The cabman, one of those -red-faced, truculent individuals whom a petrol-driven Nemesis has now -overtaken and rendered humble, demanded two shillings more than his -fare, firstly, because it was obvious that Humphrey came from the -country, and secondly, because he had gone by mistake to 550A, which -was at the far end of the street. - -"Why didn't you speak the number plainly," he growled. - -They compromised with an extra sixpence, on the condition that the -cabman should assist in carrying Humphrey's two trunks into the house, -as far as the second-floor landing. - -"There are your rooms," Beaver said, throwing open the door; "you've -got a sitting-room, with a little bed-room at the side. Twelve -shillings a week," he said, anxiously. "Not too much, I hope. -Breakfasts, one shilling a day." He lowered his voice mysteriously. -"Take my tip, Quain, and open the eggs and the window at the same time." - -Humphrey laughed. It was jolly to have Beaver in the loneliness of -London. This was quite another Beaver, a better-groomed Beaver, with a -clean collar, and only one day's stubble on his chin. He made swift -calculations--twelve and seven--nineteen, and coals--what of coals? - -Coals were a shilling a scuttle. Beaver confided to him that he had -a regular system for checking the coal supply. It seems he made an -inventory of every lump of coal in every fresh scuttleful. He kept a -kind of day-book and ledger system of coal, debiting against the credit -supply the lumps that he put on the fire, and balancing his books at -night. In this way Mrs Wayzgoose, the landlady, found no opportunity -for making extra capital out of the coal business. - -"You're better off than I am," Beaver said. "I've only got the top room -at eight shillings a week--a bed-sitting room. But then, I send ten -shillings a week to my sister. It doesn't leave@ very much by the time -I've had my meals and paid the rent." - -Humphrey begged him to consider the sitting-room as his own, so long -as he lived in the house. They began to unpack together, Beaver making -exclamations of surprise at the turn of things. - -"Fancy you being on _The Day_!" he said, pausing with a volume in each -hand. - -"It all happened so quickly. I took your advice. Ferrol seems a -wonderful chap." - -"Oh! I daresay Ferrol's all right ... but _The Day's_ got an awful -reputation. They're always sacking somebody.... I'd rather be where I -am. They've got to keep firing, you know. New blood, and new ideas. -That's what they want." - -Humphrey laughed. "I'm not afraid," he said. "Once I get my teeth into -the place, they won't shake me off." All the same, it must be confessed -that Beaver's words awoke a slight feeling of alarm in his heart. A -king might arise who knew not Humphrey, and he might go down with the -rest. - -"We'll put the books on the mantelpiece; I'll have to get a book-shelf -to-morrow." Humphrey had brought up a few of his favourites--an odd -collection: _The Fifth Form at St Dominic's_; _The Time Machine_; -_An Easy Outline of Evolution_; _Gulliver's Travels_, and _Captain -Singleton_; the poems of Browning and Robert Buchanan, and Carlyle's -_French Revolution_. The pictures they agreed to hang to-morrow. They -were only heliogravure prints of the kind that were sold in shilling -parts. Watts' "Hope" and "Life and Death," and other popular pictures, -together with photographic reproductions of authors, ancient and -modern, from _The Bookman_. - -When they had finished, Humphrey surveyed his new home. It looked -comfortable enough in the fire-light, with the green curtains -drawn over the windows. The furniture was of the heavy mahogany, -mid-Victorian fashion, blended with a horsehair sofa and bent-wood -arm-chair, that struck a jarring note of ultra-modernity. There was a -flat-topped desk in one corner by the fireplace. The mantelpiece was -hideous with pink and blue vases that held dried grass and clipped -bulrushes. Looking round more carefully, he saw that Moses himself -could not have had more bulrushes to screen him than Mrs Wayzgoose had -put for the delight of her lodgers. There were bulrushes in the mirror -over the sideboard, bulrushes in a gaily-decorated stand whose paint -hid its drain-pipe pedigree, bulrushes in another bloated vase on a -fretted ebony stand by the window. Who shall explain this extraordinary -passion for bulrushes that still holds in its thrall the respectable -landladies of England? - -"I must have them cleared away," said Humphrey. - -Beaver smiled. "You just try!" he said meaningly. "Anyhow, you're -better off than I am, mine's paper fans." - -He rang the bell, and a stout, placid-faced woman appeared at the -door. She wore at her neck a large topaz-coloured stone, as large as a -saucer, set in a circle of filigree gold, and heavy-looking lumps of -gold dangled from her ears. Her hands, with their fingers interlocked, -rested on the ends of the shawl that made her appear even more ample -than she was. - -"This is Mr Quain, Mrs Wayzgoose," said Beaver. - -Mrs Wayzgoose's face fell apart in her welcoming smile--the smile that -her lodgers saw only once. It was a wonderful, carefully-studied smile, -beginning with the gradual creasing of the mouth, extending earwards, -joyfully, and finally spreading until the nose and the eyes were -brought into the scheme. - -"I hope you find everything you want, Mr Quain," she said. - -"Everything's very comfortable," Humphrey answered. - -"Do you take tea or coffee with your breakfasts, Mr Quain?" - -Humphrey was about to reply coffee, when the guardian Beaver -winked enormously at him, and shook his head in a manner that was -quite perplexing. He had not a notion of what Beaver was trying to -convey--there was evidently something to beware of in the question. -Then, he had an inspiration. - -"What do I take, Beaver?" he asked. - -"Oh, tea--undoubtedly tea," Beaver answered hastily. - -"Very good." Mrs Wayzgoose turned to go. - -"Oh! by the way, Mrs Wayzgoose," Humphrey said. "These ... these -bulrushes...." - -"_Bulrushes!_" echoed Mrs Wayzgoose, losing her placidity all of a -sudden. There was an icy silence. Beaver seemed to be enjoying it. - -"Pray, what of my bulrushes?" demanded the masterful Mrs Wayzgoose. - -"Don't you think ... I mean ... wouldn't the room be lighter without -them?" - -"Without them?" The way she echoed his words, her voice rising in its -scale, reminded him of the wolf's replies to Red Riding Hood before -making a meal of her. "Are you aware, Mr Quain, that those bulrushes -have been there for the last thirty years." - -"I was not aware of it, but I am not surprised to hear it," Humphrey -answered politely. - -"And that never a complaint has been made about them." - -"I _am_ surprised to hear that," he murmured. - -"The last gentleman who had these rooms," continued Mrs Wayzgoose, -"he _was_ a gentleman, in spite of being coffee-coloured, was a law -student. Mr Hilfi Abbas. He took the rooms _because_ of the bulrushes. -Said they reminded him of the Nile. I could let these rooms over and -over again to Egyptian gentlemen while these bulrushes are there...." -And with that she flounced out of the room in a whirl of skirts, with -her ear-rings rocking to the headshakes which punctuated her remarks. - -"There you are," said Beaver, as the door closed behind her. "What did -I tell you?" - -Humphrey laughed, and shook his fist at the offending bulrushes. -"They'll go somehow, you see." - -When all the unpacking was finished, the pipes put in the pipe-rack, -the tobacco-jar on the table, and the photographs of his mother, his -father and his aunt placed on the mantelpiece, the question of food -came uppermost in his mind. Beaver told him that he had accepted an -invitation to supper. - -"I met a chap on a job whom I knew years ago. We were both reporters -together in Hull, on a weekly there. I didn't know you'd be coming up -this evening or I wouldn't have arranged to go there." - -"Well, it doesn't matter," said Humphrey. "I can manage for myself. -Don't let me upset your arrangements." - -"Look here," Beaver said suddenly. "Why shouldn't you come with me. -It's only cold supper and they won't mind a bit. I'll explain things. -Besides," he added, as he noticed Humphrey was hesitating, "Tommy Pride -will be one of your new colleagues. He's on _The Day_. You might be -able to pick up a few tips from him." - -So Humphrey agreed, and they went up into Holborn. It was Sunday -evening and every shop was shut, except an isolated restaurant and a -tobacconist here and there. The public-houses alone were wholly open, -and their windows radiated brilliance into the night. The East had -invaded the West for its Sunday parade, and the streets were a restless -procession of young people; sex called to sex without anything more -evil in intention than a walk through the streets, a hand-clasp and, -perhaps, a kiss in some by-way, and then to part with the memory of a -gay adventure that would linger during the dull routine of the week to -come, to be forgotten and replaced by another. - -Beaver was for taking the "tube" to Shepherd's Bush--it was a new -luxury for London then, making people wonder how they could have borne -so long with the sulphurous smoke and gloom of the old underground -railway--but the movement of the streets fascinated Humphrey, and, -though the journey took much longer, they went out by omnibus. - -Ah! that ride.... The first ride through London, when Humphrey felt -the great buildings all around him, and above him, rising enormously -in a long chain that seemed to stretch for miles and miles, below the -sky that was copper-tinted with the glare of thousands of lamps. What -did London mean to him, then? He found his mind groping forwards and -backwards, and this way and that way, puzzling for the secret of the -real London that was hidden in the stones of it. He was a little afraid -of it all, it seemed so vast and complicated. In Easterham, one knew -every one, and to walk the streets was like walking the rooms of one's -house--but here no man noticed another, one felt strange and outcast at -first, intensely lonely, and minutely insignificant. Idly, as he looked -down from this omnibus, at the people as they strolled up and down, -he wondered of what they were thinking. Did they ever think at all, -these people of the streets--did they ever have moments of meditation -when they pondered the why and the wherefore of anything? It seemed so -odd to Humphrey, as he thought of it--here was the centre of a great -civilization, here were men and women, well and decently dressed, here -was London broad and mighty, and yet the minds of those who walked -below him were, he felt, narrow and pinched. They might have been -living in Easterham for all their lives. - -And, now, he felt afraid for the first time, knowing that he could -never conquer these people by the path he had chosen. What mattered -anything to them, except that it touched the root of their lives? -They cared nothing, he knew, for the greatness of things. They talked -vaguely of the greatness of Empire, but they never thought about it, -nor understood it. They lived in a world of names--the world itself -was nothing but a string of names which they had been taught. The -very stars above them were just "Stars," and the word meant no more -to them: if you had talked to them of infinite worlds beyond worlds, -of other planets with suns and moons and stars of their own, they -would have winked an eye ... and how, when they could not be conquered -with the mightiness of everything about them, could Humphrey Quain -hope to conquer them. For he had nothing beyond the desire to conquer -them--a desire so strong, smouldering somewhere within him, that it -had burnt up almost every other interest; he could think perhaps more -deeply than they could, but for the rest, he was limited by lack of -great knowledge, lack of everything, except an innate gift of shrewd -observation and a power of intuitive reasoning. - -Out of the mists of his thoughts, Beaver's voice came to him. - -"There's the Marble Arch," said Beaver. "What have you been dreaming -about? You haven't said a word all the time." - -Humphrey laughed. "I was looking at the people," he said. "I always -like looking at people." - -They went past Hyde Park, with its naked trees showing like skeletons -in the moonlight. The night seemed to deepen the spaciousness of the -Park, with its shadows and silence; it held all the mystery and beauty -of a forest. And later they passed the blue, far-reaching depths of -Kensington Gardens, with the scent of trees and the smell of earth -after rain coming to them. - -It was all new to Humphrey, new and delightful. He promised himself -glorious days and nights probing this city to its heart, and listening -to the beat of its pulses. Already, for so was he fashioned, he began -to note his emotions, and to watch his inner self, and the impressions -he was receiving, so that he could write about them. This was the -journalist's sense--a sixth sense--which urges its possessor to set -down everything he observes, and adds an infinite zest to life, since -every experience, every thought, every new feeling, means something -to write about. Nor did he think of the things he saw, in the way of -the average man. He thought in phrases. It did not content him to feel -that a street lamp was merely a lamp. He would ask himself, almost -unconsciously, "What does it look like?" and search for a simile. His -thoughts ran in metaphors and symbols. They swung into Notting Hill -High Street, and here the streets were almost as crowded as those -at Holborn, and the lights of the public-houses flared, oases of -brilliance in the desert of dark, shuttered shops. And so down the hill -to Shepherd's Bush, with its lamps twinkling round the green, and its -throng of people--more men and women thinking of nothing at all, and -going up and down in herds, like cattle. - - - - -VII - - -The memory of that evening at the Prides remained with Humphrey. It -was his first glimpse into the social life, and he saw a home that -was wholly delightful. Beaver had not under-estimated the hospitality -of the Prides. They gave him a hearty welcome that made him feel at -home at once. Tommy Pride met them in the passage, and after the first -introductions he led the way to the sitting-room, where Mrs Pride was -waiting. She was a woman of forty, buxom and charming. He saw, within -a very few minutes, that her admiration of Tommy Pride knew no bounds, -that she thought him splendid and flawless--that much he read from the -way her brown eyes lit up when she gazed upon him, and the fond smile -that marked her lips when she spoke to him. - -The sitting-room was not a very large apartment, but it was furnished -with unusual taste. There were books set in white enamelled -bookcases--books that are permanent on the shelf, and not novels of -a moment. There was chintz on the arm-chairs and green curtains hung -over the window, and a few original black-and-white drawings and -water-colours on the walls, papered in dark blue. The impression that -the room gave to the visitor was one of peace and rest. - -Humphrey was frankly disappointed in Tommy Pride. He had had a vague -notion that everybody connected with a London newspaper was, of -necessity, a person of fame. He knew the names of those who signed the -articles in _The Day_, and he imagined he would find himself in the -company of the great immortals. Somehow or other it had never crossed -his mind that there were patient, toiling men--hundreds of them--who -put out their best work day after day, year after year, without any -hope of glory or fame, but simply for the necessities of life, as a -bricklayer lays bricks--hundreds of men quite unknown outside the -bounds of Fleet Street and the inner newspaper world. - -"Well," Mrs Pride said to him; "so you're going to try your luck in -London, Mr Quain?" - -Humphrey nodded, and the conversation went into the channels of small -talk. Beaver and he amused the Prides with recollections of Easterham -and Mr Worthing, and Tommy Pride capped their recollections with some -of his own. - -"When I was on a little local paper once, we had a fellow named -Smee, who thought he could write," said Tommy. "The editor was a -hard, cruel sort of chap, without any sympathy for the finer side of -literature--at least that was what Smee said. He used to sob all round -the place, because he wanted to write great throbbing prose instead of -borough-council meetings. One day Smee got his chance. The editor was -ill, and there was a prisoner to be hanged in the county jail. Smee -wrote the effort of his life. It went something in this way:-- - -"'Last Tuesday, under the blue vault of heaven, when the larks were -singing their rhapsodies to the roseate dawn, at 8 A.M., like a sudden -harbinger of horror, the black flag fluttered above the prison walls, -showing that Alfred Trollop, aged forty-two, labourer, had suffered the -last penalty of the law--viz., death.'" - -"How's that for descriptive?" asked Tommy, smacking his lips. "'Viz., -death.' A glorious touch, eh?" He leaned towards Humphrey. "Don't you -bother about fine writing, Quain, or you'll break your heart. We keep -a stableful of fine writers, and turn 'em loose when we want any high -falutin' done." - -"Don't be so depressing, Tommy," Mrs Pride said. "Never mind what he -says, Mr Quain--there's a chance for every one to do his best in Fleet -Street." - -"Dear optimistress," remarked Tommy, linking an arm in hers, "let's see -what we have for supper." - -They all went into the dining-room, and Humphrey was given the place -of honour next to Mrs Pride. Beaver sat opposite, and Tommy was at the -head of the table carving the joint of cold roast beef. "I'm a little -out of form," he said, whimsically. "This is the first meal I've had at -home for a week." - -"I sometimes wish Tommy were a sub-editor," Mrs Pride confided to -Humphrey; "then we should at least have the day to ourselves. But he -says he could never sit down at a desk for eight hours a night." - -"Not me," Tommy interposed, with his mouth full of beef. "If they want -to make you a sub-editor, Quain, take several grains of cyanide of -potassium rather than yield. You've got some freedom of thought and -life as a reporter, but if you're a sub you're chained down with a -string of rules. They make you wear a mental uniform." - -"I thought a sub-editor held a more important position than a -reporter," Humphrey said. - -"So he does, only the reporters don't think so. The paper couldn't get -on without the sub-editors. I should love to see _The Day_ printed for -just one issue with everything that the reporters wrote untouched. It -would have to be a forty-two page paper. Because every reporter thinks -his story is the best, and writes as much of it as he can.... I like -the subs, they've saved my life over and over again. Next to the Agency -men they're the most useful people in the world, eh, Beaver?... Have -some beer, Beaver. Pass him the jug, Quain." - -Beaver laughed. "It strikes me you people on the regular staff of the -papers take yourselves much too seriously. You've all got swelled -heads. For the sake of fine phrases you'll lose half the facts. Why -don't you all understand that it's simply in the day's work to do your -job and forget all about it." - -"Lord knows," Tommy replied, "but we don't. We get obsessed with our -jobs, and dream them, and spend hours taking trouble over them, and we -know all the time that when they come cold and chilly at night through -the sub's hands, they're lopped about and cut up to fit a space. We may -pretend we don't care what happens to our writing, so long as we draw -our money, but I think we all do in our secret hearts. We're born that -way. The moment a man really doesn't care whether his story is printed -or cut to shreds, he's no good in a newspaper office. It means he's -lost his enthusiasm." - -Tommy's voice fell. He knew well enough that that was the state of -affairs to which he had come. All the long, long years of work had -left him emotionless. He had exhausted his enthusiasm, and the whole -business seemed stale to him. He felt out of place in this new world -of newspaperdom, peopled with energetic, hopeful young men who came -out of nowhere, and captured at once the prizes which were so hardly -won in his day. He felt himself being nudged out of it all, by the -pushful enthusiastic army of young men who had marched down on Fleet -Street. All round him he saw signs of the coming change--the old penny -papers were talking of changing their price to a halfpenny; the older -men in journalism were being pensioned off, or dismissed, or "put on -space"--which means that they were not paid a regular salary but at so -much a column for what they wrote. The spirit of change was working -everywhere: some of the solid writers who found that they could not -comply with the modern demands of journalism, migrated back to the -provinces and became editors or leader-writers on papers in Manchester, -Birmingham or Sheffield. And, at the back of all this change, the -figure of Ferrol hovered.... Ferrol sweeping irresistibly over the old -traditions of Fleet Street.... Ferrol threatening to acquire this paper -and that paper, to start weeklies and monthlies, to extend his power -even to the provinces, so that everywhere the shadow brooded. - -And they would want young men, keen, shrewd young men, and so the day -would come when he would fade away from the life of Fleet Street. And -then--"Tommy and I are going to retire soon," Mrs Pride said, with a -fond glance at her husband, "aren't we, Tommy?" - -"She means to the workhouse, Beaver," Tommy remarked, with a grin. - -"We're going to have a cottage in the country, and Tommy's going to -write his book." - -"No," said Beaver, incredulously. - -"Do you write books, Mr Pride?" Humphrey asked. - -"I? Lord, no! Not now. I once had an idea of writing books. I was just -about your age. I believe I've even got the first chapter somewhere. -But I've never written it. Whenever the missis and I get very -depressed, we cheer ourselves up by talking of that book, and writing -it in the country. By the way, do you know that deep down in the heart -of every newspaper man there's a longing to write one book, and to live -on two pounds a week in the country?" - -"That'll do, Tommy," Mrs Pride interposed. "I won't have you spoil Mr -Quain's evening any more. You're making him quite depressed. Don't pay -any attention to him, Mr Quain, and have some cheese." - -After supper they went back to the sitting-room, and Mrs Pride played -to them, and Beaver sang in a shaky bass voice. Humphrey had never -heard Beaver sing before. There was something grotesque about the -singing. It took Humphrey by surprise. Beaver was the sort of man who, -somehow or other, one imagined would sing in a high treble. He sang on -and on, right through the portfolio of the "World's Favourite Songs," -including "The Anchor's Weighed," "John Peel," "The Heart Bowed Down," -and the rest of them. Pride sat in the arm-chair by the fireside, -smoking a pipe, and nodding to the old melodies, while Humphrey -gravitated to the book-shelves, and looked at some of the books. - -He seemed to have left Easterham and his aunt far behind him in dim -ages. A new feeling of responsibility came over him, as he sat there -thinking of the morrow when his battle with Fleet Street was to begin. -The future rested with him alone, and it gave him a delicious thrill of -individuality to think of it. - -It was as if he had suddenly become merged with some one else within -him, who was constantly saying to him: "You are Humphrey Quain.... You -are Humphrey Quain. Take charge of yourself now.... I have finished -with you." He had an odd sense of not fully knowing this strange new -Self with which he was faced. He wondered, too, whether Beaver or Pride -had ever passed through the same sensation that was passing through him -now. This was the beginning of that introspection when the presence -of his Self became dominant in his mind, shaping as something to -be looked at and examined and questioned, that was to lead to much -bitterness and unhappiness in the years to come. - -The evening came to an end, but before they left Pride took Humphrey -aside. "Beaver said you might like a few hints," he said. "I don't -think I can help you much. I think you know your way about. But there -are two important things to remember: Don't be a genius, and don't be a -fool. I'll tell you more in the morning." - -On the way back to Guilford Street Beaver eulogized Pride. He was one -of the best reporters in Fleet Street--one of the safest, Beaver meant. -Never let his paper down. Worth his salary on any paper. - -"I suppose he gets a pretty big salary?" Humphrey asked. - -"Who? Pride--no! I don't think he gets very much. He's not a show man, -you see. Of course, dear old Tommy hasn't got a cent to spare. He's got -a girl of thirteen at boarding-school, and that takes a good bit of -keeping up." - -"Why was he so discouraging?" - -"Oh! that's his way. He pretends he's a pessimist." - -Humphrey went to bed that night full of thoughts of the morning. And -in the tumult of his thoughts he wondered how he should avoid becoming -as Tommy Pride, with all his thirty years of work as nothing, and all -the high ambitions sacrificed to Fleet Street. Was that to be his end -too--a reporter for ever, and at the finish of it, nothing but the -husks of enthusiasm. He thought of Pride's wistful desire for a cottage -in the country and two pounds a week. And he fell asleep while thinking -how he was going to find a better end to his work than that. - - - - -PART II - -LILIAN - - - - -I - - -Humphrey Quain came into the office of _The Day_ with the greatest -asset a journalist can possess--enthusiasm. There is no other -profession in the world that calls so continually, day after day, for -enthusiasm. The bank-clerk may have his slack moment in adding up his -figures--indeed the work has become so mechanical to him that he can -even think of other things while making his additions; the actor, even, -has his lines by heart, and can sometimes go automatically through his -part, without the audience noticing he is listless; the barrister may -lose his case; the artist may paint one bad picture--it is forgotten in -the gallery of good ones; but the reporter must be always alert, always -eager, always ready to adapt himself to circumstances and persons, -and fail at the peril of his career. In large things and small things -it is all alike: the man who goes to report a meeting must do it as -eagerly and with as much enthusiasm as the man who journeys to Egypt to -interview the Khedive. - -And, as Humphrey soon found, every day and every hour there are forces -conspiring to kill this eagerness and enthusiasm at the root. Before he -had been a week on _The Day_ he began to realize the forces that were -up against him. It seemed that there was a deliberate league on the -part of the world to stifle his ambitions, and to make things go awry -with him. Before he had been a week on _The Day_ he felt that he was -being checked and thwarted by people. He was turned from the doorsteps -by the footmen and servants of those whom he went to see on some quite -trivial matters; or he could never find the man he went forth to seek. -He went from private house to office, from office to club, in search -of a city magnate one day, and failed in his quest, and, after hours -of searching, he came back to _The Day_ empty-handed, and Rivers said -brusquely: "You'll have to try again at dinner-time. He's sure to be -home at seven. We've got to have him to-night." And so he went again -at seven to the man's house, only to find that he was dining out and -would not be back until eleven. Whereupon he waited about patiently, -and, finally, when he did return home, the city magnate declined to -venture any opinion on the subject in question to Humphrey (it was -about the Russian loan), and, after all, he came back, late and tired, -to the office, to find that, as far as Selsey, the chief sub-editor, -was concerned, nobody cared very much about his failure or not. - -And, in the morning, his struggles and troubles and the difficulty of -yesterday was quite forgotten, and Rivers never even mentioned the -matter to him. But if _The Sentinel_, or any other paper, had chanced -to find the city magnate in a more relenting mood, and had squeezed an -interview out of him...! - -He was given cuttings from other papers, pasted on slips of paper, -and told to inquire into them. They led him nowhere. There would -be, perhaps, an interview with some well-known person of European -interest visiting London, but the printed interview never said where -the well-known person was to be found. And so this meant a weary round -of hotels, and endless telephone calls, until the hours passed, and -Humphrey discovered that the man had left London the night before. Even -though that was no fault of his own, he could not eliminate the sense -of failure from his mind. - -And once, Rivers had told him to go and see Cartwright's, the -coal-merchants, in Mark Lane, and get from them some facts about the -rise in the price of coal. And he had been shown into the office, and -Cartwright had talked swiftly, hurling technical facts and figures at -him, as though he had been in the coal business all his life. So that -when the interview was ended, Humphrey reeled out of the office, his -mind and memory a tangle of half-understood facts, and wholly incapable -of writing anything on the matter. Fortunately, when he got back, he -found that other reporters had been seeing coal-merchants, and all that -was wanted was just three lines from each--an expression of opinion -as to whether the high price would last--and Humphrey rescued from -the tangle of talk Cartwright's firm belief that the rise was only -temporary. - -Another day he had been sent to interview a Bishop--an authority on -dogma, whose views were to be asked on a startling proposition (from -America) of bringing the Bible up-to-date. The Bishop received Humphrey -coldly in the hall of his house, and Humphrey noticed that the halls -were hung with many texts reflecting Christian sentiments of love and -hope and brotherhood. And the Bishop, unmoved by Humphrey's rather -forlorn appearance, for somehow he quailed before the austere gaitered -personage, curtly told him that he could not discuss the matter. - -When Humphrey came back it so happened that he met Neckinger. "Well, -what are you doing to-day, Quain?" asked Neckinger with an indulgent -smile. He was a short, thick-set man, with a pear-shaped face, and -brown eyes that held a quizzical look in them. It was the second time -Humphrey had come into touch with Neckinger, who was the editor of _The -Day_, and rarely ventured from his room when he came to the office. -Humphrey told him where he had been, and with what results. - -"Wouldn't he talk?" asked Neckinger. - -"No," Humphrey answered. - -Neckinger paused with his hand on the door knob. His eyes twinkled, and -his fingers caressed his moustache. "Why didn't you make him talk?" -asked Neckinger with a hint of disapproval in his voice. Then, without -waiting for a reply, he went into his room. - -Humphrey felt that he was faced with a new problem in life. How did -one _make_ people talk? It was not enough to hunt your quarry to his -lair--that was the easiest part of the business--you had to compel -him to disgorge words--any words--so be they made coherent sentences. -You had to come back and say that he had spoken, and write down what -he said at your discretion. And if he would not speak, you had, in -some mysterious manner, to force the words from his mouth. That was -what puzzled Humphrey in the beginning. What was the magic key that -the other reporters had to unlock the conversation of those whom they -went to see? They very seldom failed. Humphrey went home, perplexed, -disturbed with this added burden on his shoulders. He saw his life as -one long effort at making unwilling people talk for publication. - -And yet, on the whole, this first week of his in Fleet Street was one -of glorious happiness. The romance of the place gripped him at once, -and held him a willing captive. He loved the thrill of pride that came -to him, whenever he passed through the swing doors in the morning, -and the commissionaire, superior person of impregnable dignity, -condescended to nod to him. He loved the reporters' room, with its fire -and the grate, and the half circle of chairs drawn round it, where -there were always two or three of the other men sitting, and talking -wonderful things about the secrets of their work. - -In reality, the reporters' room was the most prosaic room in the -whole building. It was a broad, bare room, excessively utilitarian -in appearance. There was nothing superfluous or ornamental in it. -Everything within its four walls was set there for a distinct -purpose. The large high windows were uncurtained so as to admit the -full light of day. And when the full light of day shone, it showed an -incredibly untidy room, with every desk littered with writing-paper, -and newspapers, and even the floor thick with a slipshod carpet of -printed matter. The desks were placed against the walls and round the -room. Humphrey had no desk of his own. He usually came in and sat at -whichever desk was empty, and more often than not the rightful owner of -the desk would arrive, and Humphrey would mumble apologies, gather up -his papers, and depart to the next desk. In this way he sometimes made -a whole tour of the room, shifting from desk to desk. - -There were pegs near the door, and from one of them a disreputable -umbrella dangled by its crook handle. It was pale-brown with dust, and -its ribs were bent and broken, and rents showed in the covering--as an -umbrella its use had long since gone, yet it still hung there. Nobody -knew to whom it belonged. Nobody threw it away--it was a respected -survival of some ancient day. It remained for ever, an umbrella that -had once done good and faithful work, now useless and dusty, with its -gaping holes and twisted framework--perhaps, as a symbol. - -A telephone, a bell that rang in the commissionaire's box and told him -the reporter needed a messenger-boy, and a pot of paste completed the -furniture of the reporters' room. They had all they needed, and if -they wished for anything they could ring for it--that was the attitude -of the managerial side who were responsible for office luxuries. The -manager, by the way, had a room that was, by comparison, a temple of -luxury, from its soft-shaded electric lights and green wall-paper -(the reporters' walls were distempered) to its wondrous carpet, and -mahogany desk. Nobody seemed to care very much for the reporters, -Humphrey found, except when one of them--or all of them--saved the -paper from being beaten by its rivals, or caused the paper to beat -its rivals. But in the ordinary course of events, the manager ignored -the reporters; the sub-editors, in their hearts, regarded them as -loafers and pitied their grammar and inaccuracy for official titles -and initials of leading men; Neckinger never bothered much about them -unless there was trouble in the air, while those distant people, the -leader-writers, sometimes looked at them curiously, as one regards -strange types. And yet, the reporters were the friendliest and most -human of all those in the office. They came daily into contact with -life in all its forms, and it knocked the rough edges off them. They -were generous, large-hearted men, whose loyalty to their paper had no -limits. They lived together, herded in their big bare room, chafing -always against their slavery, and yet loving their bondage, unmoved at -the strange phases of life that passed through their hands; surveying, -as spectators regard a stage-play, the murders, the humours, the -achievements, the tragedies, and the sorrow and laughter of nations. - -In those days the interior of the grey building was an unexplored -mystery for Humphrey. He passed along the corridors by half-opened -doors which gave a tantalizing glimpse into the rooms beyond where -men sat writing. There were the sporting rooms, where the sporting -editor and his staff worked at things quite apart from the reporters. -Nothing seemed to matter to them: the greatest upheavals left their -room undisturbed; football, cricket, racing, coursing and the giving -of tips were their main interests, and though a king died or war was -declared, they still held their own page, the full seven columns of it, -so that they could chronicle the sport and the pleasure. The sporting -men and the reporters seldom mingled in the office; sometimes Lake, the -sporting editor, nodded to those he knew coming up the stairs. He was -a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a heavy face, and the appearance of -a clubman and a man of the world. - -Close to the sporting room was a strange room lit with an -extraordinarily luminous pale blue glare. Humphrey satisfying his -curiosity prowled about the building one evening, and ventured to -the door. The men who were there did not question his presence. They -just looked at him and went on with their work. One of them, in his -shirt-sleeves and a black apron, was holding a black square of glass -to the light, from which something shining was dripping. A pungent -smell of iodoform filled Humphrey's nostrils. He knew the smell; it was -intimately associated with the recollections of his youth, when he had -dabbled in photography with a low-priced camera, using the cistern-room -at the top of the house as a dark-room. And he saw that another man -was manipulating an enormous camera, that moved along a grooved base. -This, he knew, was an enlarging apparatus, and he realized that here -they were making the blocks for _The Day_--transferring a drawing or a -photograph to copper or zinc plates. - -There was something real and vital about this office where each day was -active with a different activity from the day before; where each room -was a mirror of life itself. - -Next door to the room where the blue light vibrated and flared -intensely, he found a smaller room, where two men sat, also in their -shirt-sleeves, tap-tapping at telegraph transmitters. A cigarette -dangled loosely from the lip of each man, and neither of them glanced -at the work of his fingers. They looked always at the printed proof, or -the written copy held in a clip before them. This was the provincial -wire room. They were tapping a selection of the news, letter by letter, -to Birmingham, where _The Day_ had an office of its own. Humphrey -noticed with a queer thrill that one of the men was sending through -something that he himself had written. - -Downstairs, in a long room, longer than the reporters' room, and just -as utilitarian, the sub-editors sat at two broad tables forming the -letter T. Mr Selsey, the chief sub-editor, sat in the very centre of -the top of the T, surrounded by baskets, and proofs, and telephones, -and, at about seven o'clock every evening, his dinner. He was a -gentle-mannered man, whose face told the time as clearly as a clock. -From six to eight it was cheerful; when he began to frown it was nine -o'clock; when he grew restless and spoke brusquely it was eleven; -and when his hair was dishevelled and his eyes became anxious it was -eleven-thirty, and the struggle of pruning down and rejecting the -masses of copy that passed through his hands was at its climax. At one -o'clock he was normal again, and became gentle over a cup of cocoa. - -Humphrey was never certain whether Mr Selsey approved of him or not. -He had to go through the ordeal every evening of bringing that which -he had written to him, and to stand by while it was read. It reminded -him of his school-days, when he used to bring his exercise-book up to -the schoolmaster. Selsey seldom made any comment--he read it, marked -it with a capital letter indicating whether its fate would be three -lines, a paragraph, or its full length, and tossed it into a basket, -whence it would be rescued by one of the sub-editors, who saw that -the paragraphs, the punctuation and the sense of it were right, cut -out whole sentences if it were necessary to compress it, and added a -heading to it. Then, it was taken back to Selsey, who glanced at it -quickly, and threw it into another basket, whence it was removed by a -boy and shot through a pneumatic tube to the composing-room. - -The sub-editors' room was the heart of the organism of _The Day_ -between the hours of six in the evening and one the next morning. It -throbbed with persistent business. The tape machines clicked out the -news of the world in long strips, and boys stood by them, cutting up -the slips into convenient sizes, and pasting them on paper. - -The telephone bells rang, and every night at nine-thirty, Westgate, -the leather-lunged sub-editor, disappeared into a telephone-box with -a glass door. Humphrey saw him one night when he happened to be in -the room. He looked like a man about to be electrocuted, with a band -over the top of his skull, ending in two receivers that fitted closely -over his ears. His hands were free so that he could write, and through -the glass Humphrey watched his mouth working violently until his face -was wet with perspiration. He was shouting through a mouthpiece, and -his words were carried under the sea to Paris, though no one in the -sub-editors' room could hear them, since the telephone-box was padded -and noise-proof. - -And Humphrey could see his pencil moving swiftly over the paper, -with an occasional pause, as his mouth opened widely to articulate a -question, and again he felt that delightful and mighty sensation of -being in touch with the bones of life, as he realized that somewhere, -far away in Paris, the correspondent of _The Day_, invisible but -audible, was hailing the sub-editors' room across space and time. - -He saw no longer the strained, taut face of Westgate, his unkempt -moustache bobbing up and down with the movement of his upper lip, the -big vein down his forehead bulging like a thick piece of string with -his perspiring exertions. He saw a miracle, and it filled his heart -with a strange exultation. He wanted to say to Selsey, "Isn't that -splendid!" - -Six other men sat at the long table that ran at right angles to the -top table, and Selsey was flanked by Westgate, who dealt with Paris, -and Tothill, who did the police-court news,--the stub of a cigarette -stuck on his lower lip as though it were some strange growth. These -men, in the first few days of Humphrey's life in the office of _The -Day_, were incomprehensible people to him. He could not understand -why they should elect, out of all the work in the world, to sit down -at a table from six until one; to leave their homes--he assumed that -they were comfortable--their firesides and their wives. They did not -meet life as the reporters did; they had none of the glamour and the -adventure of it, the work seemed to him to be unutterably stale and -destructive. One or two of them wore green shades over their eyes to -protect them from the glare of white paper under electric light. And -the green shades gave their faces an appearance of pallor. They looked -at him curiously whenever he came into the room: he divined at once, -rightly or wrongly, that their interests clashed with his. They were -one of their forces which he knew he would have to fight. - -The remembrance of Tommy Pride's words echoed in his ears as he stood -by Selsey's table. - -Yet this room held him spell-bound as none other did. It was the -main artery through which the life-blood of _The Day_ flowed. He saw -the boys ripping open the russet-coloured envelopes that disgorged -telegrams from islands and continents afar off; he saw them sorting -out stacks of tissue paper covered with writing, "flimsy"--manifolded -copy--from all the people who lived by recording the happenings of the -moment--men like Beaver, who were lost if people did not do things--the -stories of people who brought law-suits, who were born, married, -divorced; who went bankrupt; who died; who left wills; stories of -actors who played parts; of books that were written; of men who made -speeches; of banquets; of funerals--the little, grubby boys were -handling the epitome of existence, and this great volume of throbbing -life was merely paper with words scrawled over it to them.... It was -only in after years that Humphrey himself perceived the significance -and the meaning of the emotions which swelled within him during those -early days. At the time, as he glanced left and right, down the long -table, where the sub-editors bent their heads to their work, and he saw -this man dealing with the city news, making out lists of the prices -of stocks and shares, and that man handling the doings of Parliament, -something moved him inwardly to smile with a great, unbounded pride. He -was like a recruit who has been blooded. "I, too, am part of this," he -thought. "And this is part of me." - - * * * * * - -Yet another glimpse he had into the mysteries of the grey building, and -then he marvelled, not that the small things he wrote were cut down, -but that they ever got into print at all. - -It was one night when he had been sent out on a late inquiry. A -"runner"--one of those tattered men, who run panting into newspaper -offices at night with news of accidents or fires--had brought in some -story of an omnibus wreck in Whitehall. Humphrey was given a crumpled -piece of paper, with wretchedly scrawled details on it, and told to -go forth and investigate. Had he not been so new to the game, he -would have known that it was wise to telephone to Charing Cross or -Westminster hospitals, for the deductive mind of a reporter used to -such things would have told him that where there is an omnibus wreck, -there must be injury to life and limb, and the nearest hospitals -would be able to verify the bald fact of an accident. But there was -nobody who had sufficient leisure or inclination to teach Humphrey his -business, and, perhaps it was all the better for him that he should -buy his lessons with experience. For he found that "runners'" tales, -though they must be investigated, seldom pay for the investigation. -The "runner" exaggerates manfully for the sake of his half-crown. -Thus, when he arrived at Whitehall, he found, by the simple expedient -of asking the policeman on point duty, that there had been an -accident--most decidedly there had been an accident; one wheel had come -off an omnibus. When? "Oh, about three hours ago, but nobody was hurt -as I know on. You can go back and tell 'em there's nothing in it for -the noosepaper." - -Humphrey had never said that he was a reporter: how did the policeman -know? He was a good-natured, red-faced man, and his attitude towards -Humphrey was one of easy-going familiarity and gentle tolerance. He -spoke kindly as equal to equal; it might almost be said that, from his -great height, he bent down, as it were, to meet Humphrey, with the -air of a patron conferring benefits. He was not like the Easterham -policemen who touched their hats to Humphrey, and called him "sir," -because they knew whenever anything happened, the _Gazette_ would refer -to the plucky action of P.C. Coles, who was on point duty at the time. - -"Nobody hurt at all!" Humphrey repeated, looking vaguely round in the -darkness, as though he expected to see the wooden streets of Whitehall -littered with bleeding corpses to give the constable the lie. - -"You go 'ome," said the policeman, kindly. "I should be the first to -know of anything like that if it was serious. I'd have to put in my -report. I ain't got no mention of no one injured seriously." - -He said it with an air of finality, as though he were taking upon -himself the credit of having saved life and limb by not using his -notebook. And with that, he eased the chin-strap of his helmet with -his forefinger, nodded smilingly, repeated, "You go 'ome," and padded -riverwards in his rubber-soled boots. - -When Humphrey got back to the office and into the sub-editors' room to -tell his news, he found that their work was slackening. Two or three of -them were hard at it, but the rest were having their supper. A tall, -spidery-looking man, with neatly parted fair hair and a singularly high -forehead, was tossing for pennies with Westgate--and winning. It was -midnight. One of the sub-editors said to Humphrey: - -"You'd better tell Selsey; he's in the composing-room." Humphrey -hesitated. - -"It's across the corridor," his informant added. - -He went across the corridor, and into a new world. The room was alive -with noise; row upon row the aproned linotype operators sat before the -key-boards translating the written words of the "copy" before them into -leaden letters. Their machines were almost human. They touched the -keys, as if they were typewriting, and little brass letters slipped -down into a line, and then mechanically an iron hand gripped the -line, plunged it into a box of molten lead, and lifted it out again -with a solid line of lead cast from the mould, while the little brass -letters were hoisted upwards and distributed automatically into their -places, and all the time the same business was being repeated again -and again. The lines of type were set up in columns, seven of them to -a page, and locked in an iron frame, and then they were taken to an -inner room, where men pressed papier mâché over the pages of type, so -that every letter was moulded clearly on this substance. Then this -"flong" was placed in a curved receptacle, and boiling lead was poured -upon it, as on a mould, so that one had the page curved to fit the -cylinder of the printing machine. The curved sheet went through various -phases of trimming and making ready, until it was finally taken to the -basement.... Very many brains were working together that the words -written by Humphrey should be repeated hundreds and thousands of times. -All these men were part of the mighty scheme. They had their homes and -their separate lives outside the big building, but here they were all -merged into one disciplined body, for so many hours at night, carrying -on the work which the men on the other side did during the day. - -In one corner of the room Selsey was busy with Hargreave, the assistant -night editor, and as Humphrey went up he saw that they were still -cutting out things from printed proofs, and altering headings. And on -an iron-topped table great squares of type rested--the forms just as -he had seen them in the _Easterham Gazette_ office--only they were -bigger, and the "furniture"--the odd wedge-shaped pieces of wood which -they used in Easterham to lock the type firmly in between the frames, -was abandoned for a simpler contrivance in iron. And there were Selsey -and Hargreave peering at the first pages of _The Day_ in solid type, -reading it from right to left, as one reads Hebrew, and suddenly -Hargreave would say: "Well we'd better take out the last ten lines of -that, and shift this half-way down the column, and put this Reuter -message at the top with a splash heading," or else, putting a finger on -a square of type, "take that out altogether, that'll give us room." And -he would glance up at the clock, with the anxiety of a man who knows -there are trains to catch. - -No question of writing here.... No time for sentiment.... No time to -think, "Poor devil, those ten lines cost, perhaps, hours of work," -or, "Those ten lines were thought by their writer to be literature." -Literature be hanged! It was only cold type, leaden letters squeezed -into square frames--leaden letters that will be melted down on the -morrow--type, and the whole paper to be printed, and trains for the -delivery carts to catch, if people would have papers before breakfast. -And the aproned men brought other squares of type, and printed rough -impressions of them, so that Humphrey caught a glimpse of one of the -pages at shortly after midnight of a paper that would be new to people -at eight o'clock the next morning. He felt the pride of a privileged -person. - -Selsey caught sight of him. "Hullo, Quain ... what are you doing here?" - -"Bus accident--" began Humphrey. - -Hargreave pounced upon him. "Any good? Is it worth a contents bill?" he -asked, excitedly. - -"There hasn't been any accident worth speaking of. No one hurt, I mean." - -"All right. Let it go," said Selsey, calmly. Hargreave went away to -haggle with the foreman over something. Nobody was relieved to hear -that the accident had not been serious. - -Humphrey lingered a little longer: he saw rooms leading out of the -composing-room, where there was a noise of hammering on metal, and the -smell of molten lead, ... and men running to and fro in aprons, taking -surreptitious pinches of snuff, banging with mallets, carrying squares -of type, proofs, battered tins of tea, ... running to and fro, terribly -serious and earnest, just as scene-shifters in the theatre rush and -bustle and carry things that the audience never sees, when the curtain -hides the stage. - -"Better get home," said Selsey, noticing him again. - -Humphrey went downstairs. The reporters' room was empty; the fire was -low in the grate. He went downstairs, and as he reached the bottom -step, the grey building shivered and trembled as if in agony, and -there came up from the very roots of its being a deep roar, at first -irregular, and menacing, but gradually settling down to a steady, -rhythmical beat, like the throbbing of thousands of human hearts. - - - - -II - - -The man whom Humphrey feared most, in those early days, was Rivers, the -news-editor. His personality was a riddle. You were never certain when -you were summoned to his room in the morning, whether good or ill would -result from it. In his hands lay the ordering of your day. You had no -more control over your liberty from the time you came into Rivers' -room than a prisoner serving his sentence,--no longer a man with a -soul, but a reporter. You could be raised into the highest heaven or -dropped down to the deepest hell by the wish of Rivers. He could bid -you go forth--and you would have to tramp wretchedly the streets of the -most unlovely spots in outer London in an interminable search for some -elusive news: or perhaps you would be given five pounds for expenses -and told to catch the next train for a far county, and spend the day -among the hedgerows of the country-side. He had power absolute, like -the taskmasters of old. - -He sat in his room, with the map of England on the wall with its red -flags marking the towns where _The Day_ had correspondents, surrounded -by telephones and cuttings from papers. He was in the office all day -and night. At least that was how it appeared to Humphrey, who met him -often and at all times on the stairs. When he was not, by any chance, -there, his place was taken by O'Brien, an excitable Irishman, whose -tie worked itself gradually up his collar, marking the time when his -excitement was at fever-heat like a barometer. - -Rivers had a home, of course, and a wife and a family. He was -domesticated somewhere out in Herne Hill, from the hours of eight -until ten-thirty in the morning; and except once a week no more was -seen of him at home. O'Brien generally took the desk on Sundays. But -for the rest of his life Rivers lived and breathed with _The Day_ -more than any one else. From the time the door closed on him after -breakfast, to the time when it closed on him late at night, when he -went home, worn-out and tired, he worked for _The Day_. He was bought -as surely as any slave was bought in the days of bondage. And his price -was a magnificent one of four figures. - -He expected his men to do as he did, in the service of the paper. For -his goodwill, nothing sufficed but the complete subservience of all -other interests to the work of _The Day_. Not until you did that, were -you worthy to be on the paper and serve him.... And many hearts were -broken in that room, with its hopeless gospel of materialism, where -ideals were withered and nothing spiritual could survive. - -Rivers was one of the young men who had won himself to power by the -brute force of his intellect. He knew his own business to the tips of -his fingers, and, beyond that, nothing mattered. Art and literature and -the finer qualities of life could not enter into the practical range of -his vision. They were not news. The great halfpenny public cared for -nothing but news--a murder mystery, for choice; and the only chance -art or literature had of awaking his interest was for the artist to -commit suicide in extraordinary circumstances, or for the novelist to -murder his publisher. ("By George!" I can hear Rivers saying, "here's a -ripping story.... Here's an author murdered his publisher ... 'm ... 'm -... I suppose it's justifiable homicide.") - -But on news--red-hot news--he was splendid. He might be sitting in -his chair, joking idly with anybody who happened to be in the room, -and suddenly the boy would bring in a slip from the tape machine: a -submarine wreck! Immediately, the listless, joking man would become -swiftly serious and grim. He would decide instantly on the choice of -reporters--two should be sent to the scene. "Boy, bring the A.B.C. -No train. Damn it, why didn't that kid bring the news in at once. He -dawdled five minutes. We could have caught the 3.42. Well, look up the -trains to Southampton. Four o'clock. O'Brien, telephone up Southampton -and tell them to have a car to take _The Day_ reporters on. Boy, ask -Mr Wratten and Mr Pride to come up. O'Brien, send a wire to the local -chaps--tell 'em to weigh in all they can. Notify the post-office five -thousand words from Portsmouth. Too late for photographs to-night--ring -through to the artists, we'll have a diagram and a map. Off Southsea, -eh? Shove in a picture of Southsea...." And in an hour it would all -be over, and Rivers, a new man with news stirring in the world, would -playfully punch O'Brien in the chest, and gather about him a reporter -or two for company, and bestow wonderful largesse in the shape of -steaks and champagne. That was the human thing about Rivers. He was -master absolute, and yet there was no sharp dividing line between him -and the men under him. The discipline was there, but it was never -obtruded. They drank, and joked, and scored off each other, and Rivers, -when things were slack, would tell them some of his early adventures, -but whenever it came to the test, his authority in his sphere was -supreme. He knew how to get the best work out of his men; and, I think, -sometimes, he was sorry for the men who had not, and never would get, a -salary of four figures. - -Humphrey could not understand him. At times he would be brutally cruel, -and morose, scarcely speaking a word to anybody except Wratten, who was -generally in his good books; at other times he would come to the office -as light-hearted as a child, and urge them all into good-humour, and -make them feel that there was no life in the world equal to theirs. -Since that day when Humphrey had first met him in Ferrol's room, and he -had laughed and said, "You're not a genius, are you?" Rivers had not -taken any particular notice of him. When he came into Rivers' room, -halting and nervous, he envied the easy freedom of the other reporters -who chanced to be there. Wratten sitting on a table, dangling his legs, -and Tommy Pride, with his hat on the back of his head, and a pipe in -his mouth, while a third man might be looking over the diary of the -day's events. - -"Hullo, Quain...." - -"Good-morning, Mr Rivers." - -"O'Brien, what have you got for Quain. Eh? Nothing yet. Go downstairs -and wait." - -Or else: "Nothing doing this morning. You'd better do this lecture at -seven o'clock. Give him the ticket, O'Brien." - -And, as Humphrey left the room, he heard Wratten say casually, "I'll -do that Guildhall luncheon to-day, Rivers, eh?" And Rivers replied, -"Right-O. We shall want a column." - -Splendid Wratten, he thought! How long would it be before he acquired -such ease, such sure familiarity--how long before he should prove -himself worthy to dangle his legs freely in the presence of Rivers. - -Within a few days something happened that made Humphrey the celebrity -of a day in the reporters' room. It was a fluke, a happy chance, as -most of the good things in life are. A man had killed himself in a -London street under most peculiar circumstances. He had dressed himself -in woman's clothes, and only, after death, when they took him to the -hospital, did they find that the dead body was that of a man. He was -employed in a solicitor's office near Charing Cross Road. His name was -Bellowes, and he was married, and lived at Surbiton. These facts were -published briefly in the afternoon papers. Rivers, scenting a mystery, -threw his interest into the story. There is nothing like a mystery for -selling the paper. He sent for Willoughby. - -Humphrey had found Willoughby one of the most astonishing individuals -of the reporters' room. He was a tall, slim man, with a hollow-cheeked -face and a forehead that was always frowning. His hair fell in disorder -almost over his eyebrows, and whenever he wrote he pulled his hair -about with his left hand, and mumbled the sentences as he wrote them. -His speciality was crime: he knew more of the dark underside of human -nature than any one Humphrey had met. He knew the intimate byways of -crime, and its motives; every detective in the Criminal Investigation -Department was his friend, and though by the rigid law of Scotland Yard -they were forbidden to give information, he could chat with them, make -his own deductions as well as any detective, and sometimes accompany -them when an arrest was expected. He drew his information from unknown -sources, and he was always bringing the exclusive news of some crime or -other to _The Day_. - -He was a bundle of nerves, for he lived always in a world of -expectancy. At any moment, any hour, day and night, something would -be brought to light. Murder and sudden death and mystery formed the -horizon of his thoughts. - -Humphrey had found a friend in Willoughby. In very contrast to the -work in which he was engaged, he kept the room alive with merriment. -He could relate stories as well as he could write them, and he spoke -always with the set phrases of old-time journalism that had a ludicrous -effect on his listeners. His character was a strange mixture of -shrewdness, worldly-wisdom, and ingenuousness, and this was reflected -in the books he carried always with him. In one pocket there would -be an untranslatable French novel, and, in the other, by way of -counterblast, a Meredith or a Stevenson. He and Humphrey had often -talked about books, and Willoughby showed the temperament of a cultured -scholar and a philosopher when he discussed literature. - -Willoughby went up to Rivers' room. - -"Here you are, my son," said Rivers, tossing him over the cuttings on -the affair of the strange suicide. "Get down to Surbiton and see if you -can nose out anything. I'll get some one else to look after the London -end." - -The some one else chanced to be Humphrey, for there was nobody but him -left in the reporters' room. Thus it came about that, a few minutes -after Willoughby had set out for Surbiton, Humphrey came out on Fleet -Street with instructions to look after the "London end" of the tragedy. - -Rivers' parting words were ringing in his ears. They had a sinister -meaning in them. "... And don't you fall down, young man," he had said, -using the vivid journalistic metaphor for failure. - -The busy people of the street surged about him, as he stood still for a -moment trying to think where he should begin on the London end. He felt -extraordinarily inexperienced and helpless.... He thought how Wratten -would have known at once where to go, or how easily Tommy Pride, with -his years of training, could do the job. He did not dare ask Rivers to -teach him his business--he had enough common sense to know that, at any -cost, his ignorance must be hidden under a mask of wisdom. - -The reporter thrust suddenly face to face with a mystery that must be -unravelled in a few hours is a fit subject for tragedy. He is a social -outlaw. He has not the authority of the detective, and none of the -secret information of a department at his hand. He is a trespasser in -private places, a Peeping Tom, with his eye to a chink in the shuttered -lives of others. His inner self wrenches both ways; he loathes and -loves his duty. The human man in him says, "This is a shocking -tragedy!" The journalist subconsciously murmurs, "This will be a column -at least." Tears, and broken hearts, and the dismal tragedy of it all -pass like a picture before him, and leave him unmoved. - -The public stones him for obeying their desires. He would gladly give -up all this sorry business ... and perhaps his salvation lies in his -own hand if he becomes sufficiently strong and bold to cry "Enough!" - -And this is the tragedy of it--he is neither strong nor bold; and so we -may appreciate the picture of Humphrey Quain faced for the first time -with the crisis that comes into every journalist's life, when his work -revolts his finer senses. - -He went blindly up the street, and newsboys ran towards him with -raucous shouts, offering the latest news of the suicide. He bought a -copy, and read through the story. It occurred to him that the best -thing he could do was to go to the offices near Charing Cross Road, -where the dead man had worked. - -He took an omnibus. It was five o'clock in the evening, and most of -the passengers were City men going home. Lucky people--their work was -finished, and his was not yet begun. - -When he came to the building he wanted, he paused outside. It was a -ghastly business. What on earth should he say? What right had he to go -and ask questions--there would be an inquest. Surely the public could -wait till then for the sordid story. It was ghoulish. - -He went into the office and asked the young man at the counter whether -Mr Parfitt (the name of the partner) was in. The young man must have -guessed his business in a moment. Humphrey felt as if he had a placard -hanging round his neck, "I am a newspaper man." "No," snapped the young -man, curtly, "he's out." - -"When will he be back?" asked Humphrey. - -"I don't know," the young man answered, obstinately. "Who are you -from?" That was a form of insult reserved for special occasions: it -implied, you see, that the caller was obviously not of such appearance -as to suggest that he was anything but a paid servant. - -Humphrey said: "I wanted to talk about this sad tragedy of--" - -The young man looked him up and down, and said, "We've nothing to say." - -"But--" began Humphrey. - -"We've nothing to say." The young man's lips closed tightly together -with a grimace of absolute finality. Humphrey hesitated: he knew that -the whole mystery lay within the knowledge of this spiteful person, if -only he could be overcome. - -"Look here," said the young man, threateningly. "Why don't you damn -reporters mind your own business. You're the seventh we've 'ad up 'ere. -We've nothing to say. See?" His voice rose to a shriller key. He was -a very unpleasant young man, but fortunately he dropped his "h's," -which modified, in some strange way, in Humphrey's mind the effect -of his onslaught. The young man who had at first seemed somebody of -importance, faded away now merely to an underbred nonentity. Humphrey -laughed at him. - -"You might keep your h's if you can't keep your temper," he said. - -Then he left the office, feeling sorry for himself. It was nearly six -o'clock, and he was no further. A hall-porter sat reading a paper -in front of the fireplace. Humphrey tried diplomacy. He remarked on -the tragedy: the hall-porter agreed it was very tragic. There had -been seven other reporters before him (marvellous how policemen and -hall-porters seemed to know him at once). Humphrey felt in his pocket -for half-a-crown and slipped it into the porter's hand. The porter -thanked him with genuine gratitude. - -"Well," said Humphrey, "what sort of a chap was this Mr Bellowes?" - -"Can't say as how I ever saw him," said the porter; "this is my first -day here." - -"O lord!" groaned Humphrey. - -He was in the street again, pondering what he should do. And suddenly -that intuitive reasoning power of his began to work. A man who worked -in the neighbourhood would conceivably be known to the shopkeepers -round about. He visited the shops adjoining the building where the dead -man worked, but none of them yielded any information, not even the -pawnbrokers. The men whom he asked seemed quite willing to help, but -they knew nothing. Finally, he went into the Green Lion public-house -which stands at the corner by a court. - -Hitherto public-houses had not interested him very much: he went into -them rarely, because in Easterham, where every one's doings were noted, -it was considered the first step downwards to be seen going into a -public-house. Thus, he had grown up without acquiring the habit of -promiscuous drinking. - -There were a good many people in the bar, and the briskness of business -was marked by the frequent pinging noise of the bell in the patent cash -till, as a particularly plain-looking young woman pulled the drawer -open to drop money in. Humphrey asked for bottled beer. "Cannock's?" -the barmaid asked. "Please." She gave him the drink. He said "Thank -you." She said "Thank you." She gave him the change, and said "Thank -you" again. Whereupon, in accordance with our polite custom, he -murmured a final "'Kyou." Then she went away with an airy greeting to -some fresh customer. - -Presently she came back to where Humphrey was standing. He plunged -boldly. - -"Sad business this of Mr Bellowes?" he ventured, taking a gulp at his -beer. She raised her eyebrows in inquiry. - -"Haven't you read about--" he held a crumpled evening paper in his -hand. "The tragedy, I mean." - -"Oh yes," she said. "Very sad, isn't it?" - -A man came between them. "'Ullo, Polly, lovely weather, don't it?" he -said, cheerfully, counting out six coppers, and making them into a neat -pile on the table. "Same as usual." - -"Now then, Mister Smart!" said Polly, facetiously, bringing him a glass -of whisky. "All the soda." - -"Up to the pretty, please," he said, adding "Whoa-er" as the soda-water -bubbled to the level of the fluted decorations round the glass. Small -talk followed, frequently interrupted by fresh arrivals. A quarter -of an hour passed. The cheerful man had one more drink, and finally -departed, with Polly admonishing him to "Be good," to which he replied, -"I always am." Humphrey ordered another Cannock. - -"Did he often come here?" - -"Who?" asked Polly. "Mr Jobling--the man who's gone out?" - -"No. I mean Mr Bellowes." - -"I'm sure I don't know," she said a little distantly. "Those gentlemen -over there"--nodding to a corner of the bar where two men stood in the -shadows--"can tell you all about him. They were telling me something -about him just before you came in. Fourpence, please." - -Humphrey took with him his glass of beer, and went to the two men. They -were both drinking whisky, and they seemed to be in a good humour. -They turned at Humphrey's wavering "Excuse me...." - -"Eh?" said one of the men. - -"Excuse me..." Humphrey repeated. "I'm told you knew Mr Bellowes." - -"Well," said the other man, a little truculently. "What if we did?" - -It seemed to Humphrey that the most absolute frankness was desirable -here. - -"Look here," he said, "I wish you'd help me by telling me something -about him. Here's my card.... I'm on _The Day_." - -The younger of the two men smiled, and winked. "You've got a nerve," he -said. "Why, you couldn't print it if we told you." - -"Couldn't I? Well, never mind. Let's have a drink on it anyway." - -Humphrey began his third Cannock, and the others drank whisky. One of -them, in drinking, spilt a good deal of the liquor over his coat lapel, -and did not bother to wipe it off: he was slightly drunk. - -"It's bringing a bad reputation on the firm," said the elder man. "Name -in all the papers." - -Humphrey was seized with an idea. He knew now that the whole secret -of the mystery was within his grasp. One of the men, at least, was -from the solicitor's office. The instinct of the journalist made him -courageous: he would never leave the bar until he got the story. - -"I'll tell you what," he said, "I'll promise to keep the name of the -firm out of _The Day_; I'll just refer to it as a firm of solicitors!" - -"That's not a bad notion," said the younger man. He drew the elder -man aside and they talked quietly for a few minutes. Then more drinks -were ordered. Humphrey tackled his fourth Cannock. His head was just -beginning to ache. - -A tantalizing half-hour passed. The younger man seemed more friendly -to Humphrey--he had some friends in Fleet Street; did Humphrey know -them, and so on. The elder man was growing more drunk. He swayed a -little now. Humphrey's ears buzzed, and his vision was not so acute. -The outlines of people were blurred and indistinct. "Good lord," he -murmured to himself, "I'm getting drunk too." He was pleasantly happy, -and smiled into his sixth glass of beer. He confided to the elder man -that he admired him for his constancy to the dead man, and they began -to talk over the bad business as friends. The elder man even called him -"Ol' chap." They really were very affectionate. - -"But WHY did he do it?" said Humphrey; "that's what beats me." - -"Oh, well, you see he was in love with this girl ..." - -"Which girl?" - -"Why, Miss Sycamore ... you know the little girl that sings, 'Come -Round and See Me in the Evening,' in the _Pompadour Girl_." - -"No. Was he?" - -"Was he not," said the elder man, with a hiccough. "Why, he used to -be talking to me all day about her.... And the letters. My word, you -should see the letters ... he used to show them to me before he sent -them off. Full of high thinking and all that." - -And gradually the whole story came out, in scattered pieces, that -Humphrey saw he could put together into a real-life drama. Never once -did he think of the dead man, or the dead man's wife in Surbiton -(Willoughby was probably doing his best there). He only saw the secret -drama unfolding itself like a novelist's plot. The meetings, the -letters, the double life of Bellowes, a respectable churchwarden in -Surbiton; a libertine in London--and then she threw him over; declined -to see him when he called at the stage door; he had dressed himself as -a woman, hoping to pass the stage-door keeper. Perhaps if he had got as -far as the dressing-room, maddened by the breakage of his love, and the -waste of his intrigue, there might have been a double tragedy. And so -to the final grotesque death in the street. - -It was eight o'clock when Humphrey had the whole story in his mind, and -by that time, though he knew he had drunk far too much, he was not so -drunk as the other two men. - -"There you are, old boy," said the elder man, affectionately. "You can -print it all, and keep my name and the name of the firm out of the -papers." - -"So long," said the younger man, as they parted at the door of the bar. -"You won't have another." - -"I'd better get back now," Humphrey replied. "Thanks awfully. You've -done me a good turn." - -He walked back to the office; the late evening papers still bore on -their posters the word "Mystery"--but he alone of all the people -hurrying to and fro knew the key of the mystery. He had set forth a -few hours ago--it seemed years--ignorant of everything, and, behold, -he had put a finger into the tragedy of three lives. All that feeling -of revolt and hatred of his business passed away from him, and left in -its place nothing but a great joy that he had succeeded, where he never -dreamt success was possible. After this he knew he must be a journalist -for ever, a licensed meddler in the affairs of other people. - -And so, with his head throbbing, and his legs a little unsteady, he -came back to the office of _The Day_. It was nine o'clock; Rivers had -left the office for the night, and O'Brien was out at dinner. He went -to Mr Selsey, and told him briefly all he knew. - -"Where did you get it from?" Selsey asked. - -"From some friends of his; I promised I wouldn't mention the name of -the firm of solicitors he worked in." - -"What about Miss Sycamore?" - -"Miss Sycamore?" echoed Humphrey, blankly. - -"Yes. Haven't you got her? We must know what she says. It mayn't be -true." - -Humphrey's head swam. He was appalled at the idea of having to go out -again, and face the woman in the sordid case. Selsey looked at the -clock. "I'll send somebody else up to see her--she's at the Hilarity -Theatre, isn't she? You'd better get on with the main story. Write all -you can." - -He went to the reporters' room; nobody was there except Wratten, just -finishing his work. Humphrey sat down at a desk, and began to write. -His brain was whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled over -one another, until he did not know how to tell them all. He started -to write, and he found that he could not even begin the story. He -tore up sheet after sheet in despair. The clock went past the quarter -and Humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank paper. Wratten -finished his work and dashed out with his copy to the sub-editor's room. - -"I'm drunk," he said to himself. "That's what's the matter." - -And later: "What a fool I was to drink so much." - -And then, as if in excuse: "But I shouldn't have got the story if I -hadn't drunk with them." - -A boy came to him. "Mr Selsey says have you got the first sheets of -your story." - -"Tell him he'll have them in a few minutes," Humphrey said. - -And when Wratten came into the room he found Humphrey with his head on -his outstretched arms, and his shoulders shaken with his sobbing. - -"Hullo! What's up, old man?" asked Wratten, bending over him. "Not -well?" - -Humphrey lifted a red-eyed face to Wratten. "I'm drunk," he said. "My -head's awful." - -"Bosh!" Wratten said cheerfully, "you're sober enough. Selsey's -delighted you've got your story. I suppose it was a hard story to get." - -Humphrey groaned. "I can't write it.... I can't get even the beginning -of it." - -"That happens to all of us. I have to begin my story half a dozen times -before I get the right one. Look here, let me help you. Tell me as much -as you can." He touched the bell, and a boy appeared. "Go and get a cup -of black coffee--a large cup, Napoleon," he said jovially to the boy, -giving him a sixpenny piece. - -By the time the coffee had arrived, Humphrey had told Wratten the -story. "By George!" said Wratten, "that's fine! Now, let's do it -between ourselves. Don't bother about plans. Start right in with the -main facts and put them at the top. Always begin with the fact, and -tell the story in the first two paragraphs--then you've got the rest of -the column to play about in." - -The coffee woke Humphrey up. In a quarter of an hour, with Wratten's -help, the story was well advanced, and Selsey's boy had gone away with -the first slips. Whenever he came to a dead stop, Wratten told him how -to continue. "Wrap it up carefully," Wratten said. "Talk about the -dead man's pure love for anything that was artistic: say that he was -a slave to art, and that Miss Sycamore typified art for him. That'll -please her. Say that she never encouraged his attentions, and that -realizing life was empty without her, he killed himself. Make it the -psychological tragedy of a man in love with an Ideal that he could -never attain. And don't gloat." - -The story was finished. "That's all right," Wratten said. - -"Look here--" Humphrey began, but something choked his throat. He felt -as if Wratten had rescued him from the terror of failure: his glimpse -of brotherhood overwhelmed him. - -"Stow it!" said Wratten, unconcernedly. "It's the paper I was thinking -of. Well, I'm off. Don't say a word about it in the morning." - - * * * * * - -And there it was, in the morning, the whole story with glaring -headlines, an exclusive story for _The Day_. Humphrey, riding down -Gray's Inn Road, saw the bills in the shop-windows, and two men in the -omnibus were discussing it: his head was dull with the drink of last -night, but he felt exhilarated when he thought of it all. He wanted -to tell the two men in the omnibus that he had written the story in -_The Day_. He came to the office and the fellows in the reporters' -room seemed as glad as he was. Willoughby told him of his Surbiton -adventure, and how Mrs Bellowes declined to see anybody. And when he -went into Rivers' room, the great man smiled and said facetiously, -"Well, young man, I suppose you're pleased with yourself." He winked at -Wratten. "You'll be editor one day, eh?" - -"It's a jolly good story," said Wratten, "the best _The Day's_ had for -a long time." - -Humphrey smiled weakly. He would have told Rivers just how it came to -be such a jolly good story, if Wratten had not frowned meaningly at -him. And not until Rivers said: "Come off that desk, young man, and see -what you can do with this--" handing him a job, did Humphrey realize -that he was at ease, dangling his legs with the great ones. - - - - -III - - -Not everything that Humphrey did was difficult, nor undesirable. There -were times when his card with _The Day_ on it opened the doors of high -places, magically: there were many people who welcomed him, actors -and playwrights and people to whom publicity such as the reporter can -give is necessary. He was received by countesses who were engaged -in propaganda work, and by lordlings who were interested in schemes -for the alleged welfare of the people: these people wanted to be -interviewed, many of them even prepared their statements beforehand. -But, in spite of the advantage they gained, they always treated him -with that polite restraint which the English aristocracy adopt towards -the inferior classes. He obtained wonderful peeps into grand houses, -with huge staircases, and enormous rooms with panelled walls and -candelabra and rare pictures; into Government offices, too, when an -inquiry was necessary, where permanent officials worked, heedless of -the change of Ministers that went on with each new Government; and once -he went into the dressing-room of Sir Wimborne Johns, that very famous -actor, who shook him by the hand, and treated Humphrey as one of his -best friends, and told him two funny stories while the dresser was -adjusting his make-up for Act II. - -Then there were the meetings--amazingly futile gatherings of people -who met in the rooms of hotels, the Caxton Hall at Westminster or -the Memorial Hall in Farringdon Street. These meetings gave young -Humphrey an insight into the petty little vanities of life. They were -hot-beds of mutual admiration. What was their business and what did -they achieve? Heaven only knows! They had been in existence for years; -this was perhaps the seventh or eighth or twenty-sixth annual meeting -of the Anti-Noise Society, and the world was not yet silent. Yet here -were the old ladies and the old gentlemen and the secretary (in a -frock coat) congratulating themselves on an excellent year's work, -and passing votes of thanks to each other, as though they were giving -lollipops to children. These meetings were all built on one scheme. -They always began half an hour late, because there were so few people -in the room. The reporters (and here Humphrey sometimes met Beaver) sat -at a green baize-covered table near the speakers, and were given all -sorts of printed matter--enough to fill the papers they represented, -and, occasionally, men and women would sidle up to them, and give -their visiting-cards, and say, "Be sure and get the initials right," -or, "Would you like to interview me on Slavery in Cochin-China?" Then -the chairman (Sir Simon Sloper) arrived, whiskered and florid-faced, -and every one clapped their hands; and the secretary read letters and -telegrams of regret which he passed to the reporters' table; and then -they read the balance-sheet and the annual report, and Miss Heggie -Petty, with the clipped accent of Forfarshire, gave her district -report, and W. Black-Smith, Esq. ("Please don't forget the hyphen in -_The Day_"), delivered _his_ district report, and then the secretary -spoke again, and the treasurer reminded them with a sternly humorous -manner, that the annual subscriptions were overdue, and, finally, came -the great event of the afternoon: Sir Simon Sloper rose to address the -meeting. Everybody was hugely interested, except the reporters, to whom -it was platitudinous and tediously stale: they had heard it all before, -times without number, at all the silly little meetings of foolish -people the Sir Simon Slopers had their moments of adulation and their -reward of a paragraph in the papers. Nothing vital, nothing of great -and lasting importance, was ever done at these meetings, yet every day -six or seven of them were held. - -There were societies and counter societies: there was a society for the -suppression of this, and a society for the encouragement of that; there -was the Society for Sunday Entertainment, and the Society for Sunday -Rest; every one seemed to be pulling in opposite directions, and every -one imagined that his or her views were best for the people. Humphrey -found the reflection of all this in the advertisement columns of _The -Day_, where there were advertisements of lotions that grew hair on bald -heads, or ointment that took away superfluous hair; medicines that made -fat people thin, or pills that made thin people fat; tonics that toned -down nervous, high-strung people, and phosphates that exhilarated those -who were depressed. Life was a terribly ailing thing viewed through the -advertisement columns; one seemed to be living in an invalid world, -suffering from lumbago and nervous debility. It was a nightmare of a -world, where people were either too florid or too pale, too fat or too -thin, too bald or too hairy, too tall or too short ... and yet the -world went on unchangingly, just as it did after the meetings of all -the little societies of men or women who met together to give moral -medicine to the world. - -It is necessary that you should see these things from the same point of -view as Humphrey, to realize the effect of it all on the development -of his character. For after a dose of such meetings, when the careful -reports of speeches that seemed important enough at the time, were -either cut down by the sub-editors to three lines, or left out of the -paper altogether, he asked himself the question: Why? - -Why do all these people hold meetings? - -And the answer came to him with a shock: "They are doing it all for -_me_. Everything that is going on is being done for _me_." - -And as he realized that he was only an onlooker, a creature apart, -something almost inhuman without a soul for pity or gladness, a dweller -on the outskirts of life, a great longing came over him to join in it -all himself. It seemed that this gigantic game of love and passion and -sudden death and great achievement, was worth learning, and those who -did not learn it, and only looked on while the tumult was whirling -about them, were but shadows that faded away with the sunset of years. - -He wanted to join in. He saw, now, that he was drifting nowhere. He, -too, wanted to share in the great game, playing a part that was not -to be ignored, that was needful to the success of the game. Alone he -brooded on it. Beaver chaffed him and asked him what was up. Impossible -to explain the perplexities of his inmost mind to Beaver. - -"I don't know," he said, "I've got the hump." - -They were having breakfast in the common sitting-room. - -"Haven't they printed your stuff?" - -"It isn't that," Humphrey said. - -"Well, what's up?" demanded the insistent Beaver. - -"Everything!" said Humphrey, gloomily, looking round the room. The -bulrushes were still there. "Everything. This ... I feel as we used to -feel at Easterham!" - -"I know what's the matter with you," said Beaver, folding his napkin, -and pushing back his chair from the table. He regarded Humphrey with -tremendous wisdom, and bit his nails. "You've got the hump," he said -smiling at his inspiration. "Too many late hours." - -"I suppose so." - -"Well, look here, don't you get brooding. You want company. I vote we -have lunch together to-day. You come and call for me at the office, at -one." - -"Right you are, I will if I can," Humphrey replied. - -All the morning he remained in the same mood, grappling with the new -aspect of things that had come to him. Alone he brooded on it: he heard -Rivers running through the programme of the day's events--the King -going to Windsor, a new battleship being launched, a murderer to be -tried at the Old Bailey, a society scandal in the Law Courts--the usual -panorama of every day, at which Rivers told his men to look. And it was -a great thing for the people of Windsor that the King was coming; there -would be flags and guards of honour, and the National Anthem; and the -reputation of a ship-building firm, and the anxiety of thousands rested -on the successful launch of the battleship, and a weary woman in a -squalid slum was waiting tremblingly for the issue of the murder trial; -but all these things, of such great import to those who played in the -game, were not shared by those who looked on. And as Humphrey listened -to Rivers, he realized that though they all moved with life, they were -not of it. - -He remembered a story that Willoughby told of a Salvation Army -meeting in the Albert Hall, when General Booth had walked up and down -the platform speaking of the glories of salvation, and, suddenly, -he pointed a finger at the table below. "Are you saved?" he asked, -with his finger shaking at a man who was looking up at him. "Me?" -said the man, looking about him confusedly, and then, with a touch -of indignation at being suddenly dragged into the game, "Me? I'm a -reporter!" - -He remembered that story now, and all that it expressed. At the time -Willoughby told it, he thought it was a good joke, but now he saw the -cruel irony of it. - -And, in this frame of mind, as he was at grips with himself, he went -to call for Beaver. A light glimmered in the darkness of his mind, and -the Joy and Spirit of Life itself, playing, instead of the Pipes of -Pan, the keys of a typewriter, smiled upon him, and gave him the vision -of a girlish face in a halo of fair hair that seemed threaded with gold -as the sunlight touched it. - - - - -IV - - -He went into the office of the Special News Agency and found himself -in a room where half-a-dozen girls were typewriting. They were making -manifold copies of the hundred and one events that the Special News -Agency "covered" with its Beavers, and supplied at a fixed annual rate -to the newspapers. The Special News Agency were, so to speak, wholesale -dealers in news. You bought the reports of Ministers' speeches or -out-of-the-way lawsuits by the column. It was the same principle -that governed the _Easterham Gazette_ and its columns of stereo. No -newspaper could afford a sufficiently large staff of reporters to -cover everything. So the Special News Agency had its corps of verbatim -shorthand writers, its representatives in every small village, and -in every police-court. There was, of course, no room for the play of -imagination or fantasy or style in these Special News Agency reports, -and it was because of their rather stilted writing that the reporters -on papers like _The Day_ and _The Sentinel_ and _The Herald_ were sent -sometimes over the same ground that the News Agency men had covered, -to see if they could infuse some fresh interest into the story, or at -all events to rewrite it, so that instead of each paper being uniform, -it would strike its individual note in the presentation of news. The -Special News Agency did for London and England what Reuter does for the -world. - -There was among the cluster of girls working at their typewriters one -who looked up at Humphrey and smiled, as he waited for Beaver. She was -not a particularly pretty girl, but there was a quality in her hair -and eyes and in the expression of her face that lifted it out of the -commonplace. The mere fact that out of all the girls who were at work -in the office, she alone left the memory of her face to Humphrey, is -sufficient tribute to her personality. - -She smiled--and Humphrey remembered that smile, and the hair, that was -dull brown in shadow and gleaming with golden threads in the sunlight, -and the eyes, that were either grey or blue, and very large. And then, -Beaver came and took him to lunch. - -They went to a Fleet Street public-house, and lunched off steak and -bubble-and-squeak for a shilling, and all through the lunch Humphrey -was thinking of other things--especially a smile. - -"Well," said Beaver, "got over your hump?" - -"I suppose so," Humphrey answered. ("I wonder what her name is?") - -"Life's not so bad when you get used to it?" Beaver remarked, -contemplating his inky thumbs. "The trouble is that just as you're -getting used to it, it's time to die. Eh?" - -Humphrey's thoughts were wandering again. ("I believe those eyes -were saying something to me?") Beaver continued in his chatter, and -occasionally Humphrey, catching the sense of his last few words, agreed -with a mechanical "Yes," or a nod ("Why did she smile at me?"), and at -last he blurted out, "I say, Beaver, what's the name of the girl that -sits nearest the door in your office?" - -"O lord! I don't know their names," said Beaver; "I've got other things -to think about. What d'you want to know for?" - -"She's like some one I knew in Easterham," Humphrey replied, glibly. - -"I'll find out for you, if you like." - -"No--don't bother. It doesn't matter at all." - -The next day he was walking down Fleet Street when he perceived her -looming through the crowd. He was conscious of a queer emotion that -attacked him, a sudden dryness of the throat, and a quickening of all -the pulses of his body. His whole being became swiftly taut: he almost -stood still. And, as she bore down upon him, he saw that she was not so -tall as he had imagined, but her face looked divinely attractive under -the shadow of the spreading hat, and because the sun was shining her -hair glittered like a halo. Now, she was close to him, and he found -himself praying to God that she would look at him, and smile again; and -the next moment he felt that the ground would sink beneath him if she -did so, and he longed to look the other way, but could not. The people -passing to and fro knew nothing of the terrific disturbance that was -going on in the mind of the young man walking down Fleet Street. Now -they were level--he raised his hat--it was over, and the memory of her -smile had sunk yet deeper within him. Yes, she had remembered him, and -nodded to him, and that smile--what did it mean? It was not an enticing -smile, it was an almost imperceptible movement of the closed lips, yet -it held some magic in it. It seemed to him that though they had never -spoken, she knew all about him; she came across his life, smiling in -silence, and he was aware that something triumphant and fresh had come -into his life, with her passing, just as he knew for a certainty that, -before long, he would learn the secret of her smile, when he spoke to -her. - -He went back to work, curiously elated and happy for no reason at all -that he could understand. Things were unaltered, and yet, somehow or -other, they were different. He felt, suddenly, as if years had been -added to his age; he felt that he had met something real in life -at last, and, when he came to analyse it, it was nothing but an -intangible smile, and the glance of two grey eyes. - -That night, as he was on his way home, he chanced to meet Wratten. This -tall man with the high forehead and curly hair was one of the puzzles -of the office. He was a man who held aloof from his fellows, and -because of that, they thought he was morose. Humphrey had a tremendous -admiration for him, since the night when Wratten had helped him. He -seemed so very splendid: he did daring things, and he never failed. The -secret of his success was a brutality that stultified all his better -feelings when he was on business. And he was a man who never left his -quarry, though it meant waiting hours and hours for him. - -"Hullo," said Wratten, "where are you off to?" - -"Home," said Humphrey; "where are you?" - -"I'm going home too. I live at the Hampden Club at King's Cross." - -They were near Guilford Street "Won't you come up, Wratten, and have a -drink in my rooms--I live here, you know." - -"I don't take anything stronger than lemonade," said Wratten. - -Humphrey laughed, and unlocked the door. He felt it an honour to have -Wratten as a guest, if only for a few minutes. They went upstairs, and -Humphrey apologized for the bulrushes. Wratten laughed: "Why don't you -suggest to Rivers that you should write a story about the dangers of -bulrushes in sitting-rooms: interview a doctor or two, and make 'em say -that bulrushes accumulate dust. Invent a new disease, 'Bulrush Throat.' -That'll make your landlady nervous." - -"By George," Humphrey said, "I will; that's a fine idea." Doubtless, -you remember the scare that was raised a few years ago when _The Day_ -discovered the terror that lurked in the sitting-room bulrush; you -remember, perhaps, the correspondence, and the symposium of doctors' -views that followed, and _The Day's_ leading article on the mighty -matter. Humphrey Quain set the ball rolling, and was careful to leave -marked copies of _The Day_ in places where Mrs Wayzgoose was certain to -see them, and the bulrushes disappeared very soon afterwards. Thus is -history made. - -"I owe you a lot of thanks," Humphrey said, "for the way you helped me -the other night." - -It was the first time they had referred to the matter of the street -suicide. - -"I didn't want you to be let down," said Wratten. "The life's rough -enough as it is, a little help goes a long way. But you steer clear of -too much drink, Quain. That's the ruin of so many good men...." - -"I couldn't help it." - -"Of course you couldn't--most men are drunkards from habit and not -from choice. But you can take it from me, there's no room in Fleet -Street for a man who drinks too much. They used to think it was fine -Bohemianism in the old days, when a man wasn't a genius unless he was -drunk half the time. Don't you believe it. It's the sober men who do -the work and win through." - -"It depends on what you mean by winning through." - -"Well, there are many ways.... I suppose we've all got different ideas -and ideals. I want to rear a family and keep a wife." - -"You aren't married then?" - -"Not yet. I'm going to be married ... soon," said Wratten, simply. "I -think marriage is the best thing for us. We want something to humanize -our lives. It is the only chance of happiness for most of us ... the -knowledge that whatever happens, however hard the work may be, we come -home ... and there's a wife waiting. I know plenty of journalists who -would have gone under if it were not for the wives. Splendid wives! -They sit at home patiently, knowing all our troubles, comforting us, -and keeping us cheerful. By God! Quain, the journalists' wives are the -most beautiful and loyal women in the world...." - -Humphrey smiled--and this was the man they thought was morose! - -"I get maudlin and sentimental when I think of 'em. They know our -weaknesses, and our mistakes, and they bear with us. They smooth our -hair and touch our faces, and all the misery of the day goes away with -the magic of their fingers. They make little dinners for us, that we -never eat, and they never let us see how unhappy they are, too ... I -know, I know ... I've seen so many journalists' homes, and they're all -the same ... they're simply overgrown children who let themselves be -mothered by their wives." - -Humphrey thought of the girl he had passed that day in the street.... -"I wish I were you," he said. "It must be rather fine to have some one -pegging away at you always to do your best: it must be rather fine to -have a smile waiting for you at the end of the long day's work." - -"Fine!" said Wratten, "it's the only thing that's left to us. We're -robbed of everything else that matters. We haven't a soul to call our -own, and we can't even rule our lives. Time, that precious heritage -of every one else, doesn't belong to us. We're supposed to have no -hearts, we're just machines that have always to be working at top speed -... but, thank God, there's one woman who believes in us, and who is -waiting for us always." - -"It's funny you should talk like this," Humphrey said, "to-night, of -all nights...." He was thinking again of himself and the girl who had -crossed the path of his life. - -Wratten knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and coughed with that little -dry cough that was characteristic of him. "Oh! I don't know," he said. -"Nothing funny when you come to think about it. I thought you might -have heard it in the office. I'm being married to-morrow. By the way, I -wish you'd come along and be best man: I haven't had time to fix up for -one." - - - - -V - - -It was just an incident of almost less importance than the daily work, -this business of getting married. But it was an incident that left -a singular impression on Humphrey. Wratten's marriage was a prosaic -affair, in a registry office, horribly formal, without the idealizing -surroundings of a church and the grand solemnity of the marriage -service. It took place at ten o'clock on a rather cold morning in June. -Wratten himself was extremely nervous, and it was his nervousness that -made his manner almost brusque; he must have been a gloomy lover, and -yet, as Humphrey saw the dark-eyed bride he was wedding, and marked the -pride in her eyes as she looked up to him, and the fluttering of her -lips as she whispered things to him, he knew that somewhere in this -rugged blunt nature of Wratten there was a vein of golden tenderness -and beauty. - -The marriage was oddly depressing: perhaps it was that the shadow of -coming disaster hovered over them; perhaps Humphrey heard Wratten's -words echoing in his ears, "They sit at home patiently ... knowing all -our troubles, and they never let us see that they, too, are unhappy." - -Humphrey did his duty as best man: there was a girl friend of the bride -there, and he looked after them all, and cracked jokes, and made them -sign their names in the right places, and Wratten had half a dozen -little commissions for him to carry out. He had been so busy yesterday, -that there had not been time to clear up everything. - -When it was all over, and Wratten stood on the threshold of a new -life, with his wife at his side, and a glad, proud smile on his -handsome face, they came out of the registry office, and the girl -friend emptied a bag of confetti over them, as they stepped into the -cab that was to take them to Waterloo--they were going to Weymouth for -a honeymoon. Some of the coloured pieces of paper fell on Humphrey's -coat collar. - -"Good-bye, good luck," Humphrey said. - -Wratten clasped his hand very tightly. Once again he smiled, and -gave his little dry, nervous cough. "Good-bye, old man," he said -affectionately. "Thanks awfully for coming. I think I'm going to be -happy at last," and the cab drove away. - -Humphrey saw the girl friend into an omnibus. "Didn't Maisie look -splendid." He noticed that the girl friend wore an engagement-ring on -her finger, and thenceforth he lost all interest in her. - -He went to the office as usual, but he did not tell any one that he -had been to Wratten's wedding. Now, he could feel quite at home in the -reporters' room, and he even had a desk which, by custom, had become -his own. He was more sure of himself than he had been a few months ago, -though, in his inmost heart, he was still a little afraid of Rivers. - -It was Ferrol who gave Humphrey confidence in himself. He called him -into his room, and asked him bluntly how he liked the work. - -"Very much," Humphrey replied, his eyes glistening brightly, and again -Ferrol was reminded of the long years that had passed, when romantic -days were his. The boy was shaping well. That was fine, thought Ferrol. -He meant Humphrey to have every chance; he wanted to see what stuff was -in him. - -"That's good," said Ferrol, stroking his moustache. "Mr Rivers gives a -satisfactory account of you." - -The passion that ruled him, the passion for making men and -reputations, was strong upon him just then. He saw Humphrey as raw -material, and he meant to mould him into a finished article after his -own heart. He would make no mistakes, it should be done slowly, step by -step; he would leave Humphrey to fight his own battles, and only if he -fell bloody and wounded, would he come forward and succour the boy. - -"I hope you'll keep it up," he said. "Don't get into trouble, but come -to me if you do." He smiled and still caressed that fierce moustache. -"I suppose you've heard I'm an ogre--don't believe any tale you hear. -Just come straight to me when you are in any difficulty." - -Humphrey came out of the room, exhilarated, and almost drunk with pride -and happiness. It was Ferrol's magic again: a few words from him were -like drops of oil to creaking machinery--they instilled fresh energy -and desire into men, and made their hearts ardent for conquest. It was -worth working night and day to have smooth words of praise from Ferrol -himself, to know that he was watching you, powerful in his invisibility. - - * * * * * - -That afternoon, as he was returning from some engagement, he saw the -girl with the smile coming towards him again. Afar off, it seemed, he -was aware of her coming. It was as if her presence sent silent messages -to him, vibrating through the air. Long before she appeared he had -looked expectantly before him, knowing that she would approach him. -Something in his mind linked up this neat blue-clad figure with the -episode of the morning, and the little registry office, and Wratten -saying, with that radiant smile of his, "I think I am going to be happy -at last." - -And, quite on the impulse of the moment, he made up his mind. She -passed him, and left him all a-quiver with excitement, and then he -turned and overtook her. His heart was beating quickly in the rhapsody -of it all. She stopped, noticing him at her side, hesitating, nervous. - -"I say...." - -"Oh!" She smiled, and he saw her cheeks flush with colour, and at once -he noted her wonderfully slender throat and the mysterious beauty of -her breathing. - -He was tongue-tied for a moment. She had stopped and he was speaking -to her, and he was lost in the miracle of those few seconds, when he -realized that in all the loneliness of this vast London, they had met -and spoken at last. They stood in a little island of their own making, -while people coming and going broke in a hurried surge all about them. -The newsboys ran up Fleet Street calling the hour of the latest race, -and, above all, came the noise and restlessness of the traffic beating -up and down the street. - -"I say..." Humphrey began, "it's awfully rude of me to stop you like -this...." - -She smiled again. "Not at all," she said, in a gentle voice. - -"Could you tell me if Mr Beaver happens to be in the office now?" he -asked. - -"I don't think he is," she said. "Why not come up and see?" - -"N--no--it doesn't really matter." Humphrey laughed nervously. "I shall -see him this evening. We dig together, you know." - -"Then it doesn't matter...?" she said. - -"It doesn't matter," Humphrey agreed. - -He waited forlornly: now she would pass away again, always elusive, -just flitting in and out of his life like this, a disturbing factor. - -But still she waited, and Humphrey was emboldened. - -"I say ..." he stammered. "Won't you come and have a cup of tea?" - -She glanced upwards at the clock. - -"Do come," he said, half turning to lead the way. "There's a Lyons just -near here." - -"Oh, well ..." she laughed and followed him. - - * * * * * - -"My name's Quain," he said, as they were drinking their cups of tea. -"Humphrey Quain." He waited longingly, hoping that she would understand -why he had told her his name. - -She drooped her eyes; everything she did was exaggerated in Humphrey's -imagination. She gave him her name as if she were yielding up part of -herself to him. - -"Mine is Filmer." - -It was terribly unsatisfactory just to know that. - -"I suppose you'll think me rude ..." he began. - -"Oh! you must guess...." - -"I never could. I should guess wrong." - -"Try," she coaxed. "It begins with L." - -He guessed Lily the second time, and she corrected him. "You're nearly -right," she said, "it's Lilian." - -"Lilian," he echoed, admiringly. - -"It's a hateful name," she pouted. - -"It's a lovely name," he said. - -"Do you really think so?" - -"Rather!" - -"Why?" she smiled again. - -What an absurd question to ask. Why, because--but how could Humphrey -tell her, when they had hardly known each other for a quarter of an -hour. - -"I hope you didn't think it rude of me stopping you like that," he -ventured, after a pause. - -"Oh no ... though I suppose you think it's dreadful of me to be sitting -with you like this." - -To tell the truth, Humphrey considered the whole thing was -extraordinarily dashing--that he should be sitting facing her over a -cup of tea; to have learnt her name--Lilian Filmer--Lilian, beautiful -name!--and to be carrying it off so calmly. - -"Not at all," he said. - -Her next words fell like a shower of cold water over him. - -"You're such a boy," she said, with her eyes smiling indulgently at him. - -He resented that, of course. "I'm twenty-one," he said loudly. "You're -not more than twenty-one, I'm sure." - -"Perhaps I'm not," she answered, taking a tiny watch from her bosom. -She sighed. "I must go." - -"Look here," said Humphrey, "are we going to meet again?" - -"What do you want to see me again for?" - -"I just want to," Humphrey said. "I'm all alone." - -"Alone in London," she laughed. "Tragic boy ... oh, how miserable you -look. Don't you like being called a boy?" - -"I don't mind what you call me, so long as you'll let me see you again. -To-morrow's Saturday...." - -"Oh! I can't manage to-morrow." - -"Well, on Sunday, then." - -"I never go out on Sundays." - -"On Monday," said Humphrey, desperately. - -She considered the matter. "I know I'm engaged on Monday evening." - -"We'll have lunch together." - -"Very well," she said. - -And, after that, they shook hands quite formally, and parted in Fleet -Street. He had been in heaven for twenty minutes. - -There were three days to Monday. - -Lilian! - - - - -VI - - -Out of this period of his career, Humphrey rescued memories of moments -of ineffable happiness. They came intermittently, between long blanks -of doubt and painful uncertainty, when his mind was troubled with -unsatisfied yearnings and half-understood desires. He was able one day -to look back upon it all, with an air of detached interest, like a man -looking at a cinematograph picture, and he saw meetings, and partings, -and all the ferment of his wooing of Lilian. - -There was something intimate and secret about their meetings that -pleased his palate, hungry for adventure, and this was a part of life -that belonged wholly to them; he was indeed taking a part in the great -game. - -They met on the Monday at the hour appointed, and it seemed -extraordinarily unreal, like a dream within a dream, that she should be -wonderfully alive and smiling by his side. Fleet Street, the office, -Rivers, and the long toil of the day were forgotten in a moment, such -was the miracle of her being. It seemed impossible to him, on that -day, that unhappiness and failure could darken his world. There was -something eternal about her that moved him with strong, unquenchable -desires for triumph and conquest. Her voice vibrated through him like -the throb of a war-march, urging him to great endeavour. - -So commonplace their greeting; so utterly inadequate to express the -prodigious flutterings of his heart! They should have met alone in -some solitary forest, when all the colours of the world were rushing -to the clouds, in the hours of the sunset. He could have led her to a -resting-place of moss and fern, and whispered to her all the thoughts -that were in his mind.... - -But here in the world of everyday, what romance could survive the -prosy clamour of it all. There was nothing to say but "Good-morning," -and halting, nervous things about the weather, and the theatre, and -each other's work. Anything of deeper import must be told by sighs and -silences. - -And thus, they parted again, after their lunch in a dingy Italian -restaurant in the Strand, he with all his longings unfulfilled, and -with a deeper sense of something that had been lacking in his life. -Why could he not have told her all that he had felt? Why was it -necessary for him to mask and screen his emotions with absurd talk -that only seemed to waste precious opportunities? She rose before him -in his imagination, amazingly distinct and real, no longer a shadow, -but a real person. He conjured her presence at will before him, and -she appeared as he liked to see her best, with her eyes grey and -thoughtful, and the sunlight gilding her hair where it swept up from -her white brow. Thus, when she was not there, he lived with her, and -told her all the things he dared not say to her. - -And nobody knew of these exquisite moments but himself. To mention -her to Beaver, now, would be sacrilege. There was but one man who, he -thought, would understand what was passing through him, and that was -Wratten, who was away on his honeymoon. - -They met several times during the next few weeks; it seemed to him -that she would not consent to meet him if her heart did not echo his -own. And yet, she gave no sign. There was always an air of chastened -constraint about them both. He helped her adjust her fluffy feather boa -once, and his hand brushed her cheek, and he remembered the feel of it, -smooth and soft, like the touch of the downy skin of a peach. - -All the time, of course, in the intervals of these meetings, there was -the same breathless round of work to be done. Sometimes he would have -to cancel their arrangements because he was given an assignment just -at the very hour they had set apart for themselves--it was done by a -hurried scrawl on office paper--"Dear Miss Filmer, I'm so sorry," and -so forth. Once he had written "Dearest," but he tore it up, fearing he -might lose her for ever. He could not risk offending her. He knew that -she was rigorously strict in certain conventions. - -"I say ... may I call you Lilian?" he had asked one day, and she -had glanced at him with a stricken look, and said, "Oh--please, -please don't, Mr Quain." She had even laid her hand upon his, with a -persuasive gesture. It was a distinct pat--the sort of pat one bestows -when a child is to be coaxed into goodness. - -She was very perplexing. - -Her manner could alter in the most unexpected and unaccountable manner. -One day she might be quite gay, and he would feel that now it was -merely a question of moments before he could storm her heart and carry -it: and the next time he saw her she would be strangely distant, as -though she regretted the progress they had made. Or else, she would be -provokingly casual, and wound him deliberately in his weakest spot. She -would call him a boy, with a little smile and play of the eyebrows. -Ah! that rankled more than anything she said or did, for the whole -happiness of his life depended on his being taken seriously, and at his -own valuation--and he valued himself as a man of the world, with the -experience of double his years. - -It was, perhaps, this attitude of hers towards him that made him -tell her of his work, which, in these days, became so magnified in -importance to him. When by virtue of _The Day_ he got behind the scenes -of any phase of London life, he used to make a point of telling her -just how it was done, in a rather cock-a-whoop manner. - -"Do you know," she said, "we have in our office thirty men who are -doing the same thing, and, in all London, there are hundreds more?" - -That crushed him entirely. She thought him vain. They very nearly -quarrelled seriously. - -One day Jamieson, the dramatic critic of _The Day_, met him in the -office. Jamieson was a tubby little man with a high Shakespearean -forehead, who exuded cheeriness. He was a professional optimist. He -used to depress the reporters' room with his boisterous happiness: he -was so glad that the flowers were blooming, and the grass was green, -and that there were children, and the joy of life, and so forth. - -He accosted Humphrey with twinkling eyes. "Glorious day, Quain," he -said; "makes you feel glad that you're alive, doesn't it? Ah! my boy, -it's fine to see the streets on a day like this--full of pretty girls -in their spring dresses." - -"I don't get time to think about the weather, unless I'm writing about -it," said Humphrey, with a laugh. - -"Buck up, my boy," said Jamieson, patting him on the back. "You want -to look on the bright side of things on a day like this.... By the -way, would you like to have two stalls for the Garrick to-morrow. It's -the same old play they've had for two hundred nights--they only want a -paragraph for _The Day_. I've got a first night on at His Majesty's." - -Humphrey accepted the tickets gladly, for he had a vision of an evening -at the theatre with Lilian, and Jamieson went on his way, leaving in -his wake a trail of chuckling optimism. It happened to be a Saturday -night, when he was quite free, and so he arranged with Lilian to meet -her at Victoria--she lived at Battersea Park--and then they would have -some dinner before they went to the theatre. - - * * * * * - -In those days Humphrey had not risen to the luxury of an opera hat; he -wore a bowler hat, and his coat-collar buttoned up over the white tie -of his evening-dress. He thrust his hands into his pockets and waited -at Victoria Station for her. She was to meet him at a quarter to seven, -and it was now five minutes to the hour and she had not come. He stood -there, absolutely white with the tension of the passing moments. It -seemed that he had been waiting an eternity, and he had lived through -a thousand moments of disappointed expectation. Others who had been -waiting there when he came had long since claimed those whom they had -come to meet, and walked them off with smiles and laughter. He was -still waiting. - - * * * * * - -Seven o'clock! - -What on earth could have happened? - -Visions of possible disasters crossed his mind: a train wreck and a cab -accident; or perhaps she was ill and was not coming. There would be -no way of communicating with him, and he would have to go on waiting. -Or, perhaps, she had repented of her consent to make the evening -glorious for him. The suspense was really terrible. There was nothing -to do except to watch the newsboys cheerily gathering the magazines -and papers together into piles, and shuttering the bookstall. He saw -people running for trains, and whenever the hiss of steam announced the -arrival of another train, he hurried to the wicket-gate to peer into -the recesses of the crowd that struggled through it, in the hope of -seeing her face a second before she actually appeared in person. - -At five past seven he was still moodily waiting. - -It was cruel of her to keep him dallying with patience like this. She -must have known that he would be waiting for her on the moment. How -little she cared if she could not even be punctual to the time they had -arranged. He began to feel stale and dusty, as if he had been in his -evening-dress for years. - -He made up his mind to be very angry with her when she came. - -And lo! she was at his side: more wonderful than ever, so wonderful -that he scarcely recognized her. She had come through the crowd at the -wicket-gate, floating towards him, it seemed, like a cloud of filmy, -fluffy white. Her face was radiantly flushed and smiling, and he sprang -towards her with a cry of relief and gladness. - -"Here I am," she announced. "I wondered if you'd be here." (As if he -had not been waiting heart in mouth, for all that time.) - -She wore no hat, but her hair was done in a way that he had never seen -before. It seemed to change her strangely. If anything, it made her -look more beautiful, as it rose in little waves from her forehead and -fell about her ears in wayward threads of sparkling brown. And there -was a black velvet ribbon that went in and out among the glory of her -hair. - -He slipped his hand beneath her white cloak that was fastened tightly -to her chin, to guide her through the clumsy throng of station people. -Her arm was warm and bare, as soft as satin, and there was something -sacred in the very touch of it. - -It was an occasion for a cab. They chattered on the way of everyday -things, though all the time, with her by his side, so close, so -beautiful, he could only think of Paradise. - -"I thought you were never coming," he said, with a dry throat. - -"Was I so late?" she asked, with a laugh. "I couldn't help it. I ran -like mad, and just saw the train going out of the station." - -He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, but just then they -arrived at the little restaurant in Soho where they were going to -have dinner. He went in with her, supremely conscious that every one -was staring at them. There was a stuffy smell of hot food, and the -tables were crowded with diners--very few of them in evening-dress. -He was passed on from waiter to waiter until a table was found, and -then Lilian unfastened her white cloak, and he helped her to take it -off, with a queer sensation of awe and wonder. She stood before him -transformed, another Lilian from the one he had known in the street -where they worked. He was amazed that she did not realize how this -white display of her neck and arms and gently breathing throat was -dazzling him with its splendour. He was amazed that she could sit -there, revealing her richest beauty for the first time, and be totally -unembarrassed--as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.... - -The dinner was no doubt excellent, but Humphrey could not eat. He made -a pretence of it, but he felt it was violating the ecstasy of these -moments to eat before her. He only wanted to sit and look at her. He -drank quite a lot of wine, almost a whole bottle in fact, for she took -just half a glassful with water. It was cheap stuff, masquerading under -the vague label of "Margaux," and it sent his imagination rioting. He -was conscious of being deliciously extravagant when he ordered coffees -and liqueurs, though the whole bill came to little more than twelve -and six. Then they went to the theatre, and he bought her chocolates, -and they sat in the stalls, side by side, for nearly three hours. He -tried to appear normal--impossible! He knew what was coming: he fought -against it for quite a long time, but some primeval instinct in him was -stronger than his will--his hand sought hers, when the lights were low, -and closed upon it. If she had withdrawn her hand, the whole castle -of his dream would have come crashing about his ears. But she did -not: she let it rest there. Once or twice he glanced at her sidewise, -but she seemed oblivious of him. Her gaze was fixed on the players, -her lips parted with pleasure; the pendant that hung from her neck -stirring gently with the movement of her bosom. She was enjoying the -play, but Humphrey could pay no attention to it. He could only think -of her. How real was all this: how every moment counted as a moment of -pure, throbbing enjoyment. And he thought of Rivers, and the office, -and Selsey and the sub-editors' room, messenger boys and the tape -machines--what did it all matter beside the incomparable happiness of -these moments. Knowledge came to him subconsciously: it was for this -that one worked and suffered. - - * * * * * - -As they were going in the cab together to Victoria through St. James's -Park, where the lamps make a necklet of yellow round the dark shadows -of the trees, and the moon was white in her face, he leaned towards her -and kissed her on the lips. She gave a little dry sob, and her head -drooped on his shoulder, so that he could bend over her and kiss her -with all the impetuous longing of youth. And suddenly she shook herself -free with an extraordinary melting look of tenderness and pity in her -eyes. He thought she was angry, but she only smiled and patted his -cheek. - -And he felt as if he had passed through the portals of a new world, -whose music beat gloriously on his ears, and whose colours leapt before -his eyes in flashes of brilliance. - -"Lilian.... Lilian," he whispered, calling her by her name for the -first time. - -"It's only for to-night," she said.... "Why did you kiss me?" - -"Lilian," he said again. - -They came out into the glare of the streets near Victoria: romance -dropped away from her as the Park was left behind. She sat upright and -fumbled with her hair. - -"You oughtn't to have kissed me.... I oughtn't to have...." - -The discussion of it was horrible to him. It jarred. He, too, came -suddenly back to reality. - -"It was only for to-night, of course," she said, with a nervous laugh. - -"It's not!" he said, positively. "It's for to-morrow and for all time." - -They drew up at the station. It was all over. The idyll ended in a -clatter of horses' hoofs and hissing of steam, and engines whistling, -and the hurrying to catch the last train. - -"Look here ..." said Humphrey, as he stood by the carriage door. - -"I'm not angry," she whispered. "It was my fault." - -The guard blew his whistle and waved his flag. Humphrey's heart was -bursting with the hideous intrusion of modernity. - -"Good-night," she said. "Good-night and thank you. It's been beautiful." - -There was just a second left to him, and he made use of it. She was -leaning out of the window, and he swung himself on to the footboard and -whispered-- - -"Lilian--I love you. I'll write to you to-night." - -Before she could reply, there were cries of "Stand away there," and the -train swung out of the station. - -That night Humphrey wrote his first love-letter, and told her all the -things he had been wanting to say for weeks. - - - - -VII - - -They became engaged. - -It was a secret, furtive affair, for Lilian desired it. He gave her his -signet ring--a present from his father--and she wore it, though not on -her engagement finger, in case people should ask questions. She gave -Humphrey a photograph of herself--in evening-dress--which he carried -about in his pocket-book, to take out and look at frequently. He wrote -to her every night--even when they had met during the day--long, long -letters full of very high-sounding sentiments and praise of her. -Heavens! the pages he covered with great promises. Her letters were -not of the same quality: they were rather snappy and business-like, -and held in them no romance or sentiment. Now and again she called him -"dear" in her letters, and sometimes "dearest," but they were for the -most part inadequate letters, that made him feel as if he were being -cheated out of the full measure of his love-affair. - -She told him that she was five years older than he was, and it only -puffed him with greater pride, to think that he had conquered her in -spite of his youth. - -In very truth, it was a conquest! For days and days she had withstood -the eager battery of his assault on her heart. "No," she had said -gently, "you're a dear boy and I like you ... but let's be friends." - -He went through all the phases of anger, sulkiness, despair and gloom, -pleading with her daily, until the final exultation came. He used -to see her home as far as Battersea, whenever his work allowed him -freedom. There was a narrow, dark lane through which they walked, so -that he could talk in the darkness of his love for her. Always, before -they parted, she allowed him to kiss her. She kissed him too, and often -they stood, with beating hearts, and lips met in one long kiss. He drew -her to him, yielding and supple, and told her that she must marry him. -She could resist no more, she let her head sink on his shoulder, and -his finger caressed her chin and neck, and they stayed thus fettered -with the exquisite moments of love. - -"I will be so good to you," Humphrey murmured. - -"Yes ... yes ..." she whispered, her last resistance gone. And that was -how they became engaged. - -But out of the glamour of their love and kisses there emerged the grey -talk of practical things. "We don't know anything about each other," -she cried. - -"I know you.... I feel that I have known you all my life!" he insisted. -"Don't you feel like that towards me?" he asked, anxiously. - -"Perhaps I do," she said, and Humphrey went into raptures over it. -"Isn't it wonderful," he said, "to think that only a few weeks ago we -were really strangers, and now you have been in my arms--how can we be -strangers, Lilian, and kiss as we do?" - -"Have you told your mother yet?" he asked, one day. - -"No--not yet," she said. - -"Oughtn't I to meet her?" - -"I suppose so--wait a little longer," she pleaded. "Have you told your -aunt?" - -"You asked me not to. I'd love to take you down to her--she'd like you, -I'm certain. It wouldn't matter if she didn't." - -They made plans, of course: nothing was settled about the day of their -marriage. It was a question whether life was possible for them both on -three pounds a week. "I'm sure to get a rise, soon," said Humphrey. -"I'll go and ask for one, and tell Ferrol I'm going to be married. We -can live splendidly on four pounds a week. Heaps of people live on -less." - -"I don't know.... It's mother I'm thinking of," she confessed. - -"What about mother?" he asked. - -"I'm wondering what she'll do without me." - -"There are your sisters," he said. "How many are there, let me see"--he -ticked them off--"Mabel, Florence and Edith. That's enough for her to -go on with." - -Her face grew wistful. "Yes--that's enough," she echoed, her eyes -not looking at him. "I ought to have told you, Humphrey, long before -this, but mother's rather dependent on me and Edith. There's Harry, -of course, but he's still at the Technical Institute--he'll be able -to help some day. Florence is still at school--and Mabel--Mabel's got -something the matter with her hip." - -"Well, what about your father?" - -She winced. "Father--father doesn't help much. He's--he's an invalid." - -Humphrey was young, and this was his first love, and the more obstacles -there were to overcome, the greater seemed the prize to him. "We could -send your mother a little money each week ..." he said. "It won't cost -so much when you're not there." - -"Yes, we could do that. And I could still go on with my work." - -"What," he cried, horrified, "you go to the Special News Agency after -we're married?" - -"Yes, why not?" - -"Oh, Lilian dear, I don't want you to do that. I want you to have a -home of your own, just to sit there and arrange it as you like, and -do nothing but loll in an arm-chair all day until I come home in the -evening, and then we'll loll together." - -She laughed. "You are a funny boy," she said. "I suppose you think -a house doesn't want looking after. It's much harder work than -typewriting." - -"But don't you want a _home_," he persisted, mournful disappointment in -his voice. - -"Of course I do, dear; I know what you mean--I was only teasing you. -But, I do think, for the beginning, I ought to go on with my work. It's -so much safer. Supposing you get out of work, then I could keep things -going for a time." - -"I'm hanged if I'm going to live on you," he said indignantly. - -They compromised by agreeing to the purchase of a typewriter--Lilian -was to found a little business of her own that could be done at home. -Plenty of people wanted typewriting, and she could earn almost a pound -a week, she said, that would be enough for mother.... - -These practical discussions were very bitter to Humphrey: they robbed -the whole thing of the last vestige of beauty; they depressed him, he -knew not why. She did not mean it, but everything she said, that had -nothing to do with endearment and love, made him feel hopeless. He was -only really happy when they rested as children in one another's arms, -talking delightful nonsense between their kisses, and not thinking at -all of the plans of their lives that puzzled them so much when they -came to talk about them. - -It was about this period that Wratten came back from his honeymoon, -and asked Humphrey to come and dine with him at home, always assuming -that neither of them would be kept by work. "Tommy Pride is coming -if he can, and I've asked Willoughby." It happened that Humphrey was -the only one of the invited guests from the office who was able to -come. The news of a Regent Street burglary published in the afternoon -papers, made Willoughby champ his false teeth--a habit of his when -he was excited--run his hand through his tangled hair, and depart in -mysterious ways. Tommy Pride was sent to a lecture that began at eight. -"Just my luck," he said to Humphrey, with a wry smile. "The missis will -be disappointed." - -So Wratten and Humphrey went out together. "I say," said Humphrey, on -the way, "don't tell any one, but I'm engaged to be married." - -"No--are you?" Wratten said. "Congratulations. When did that happen?" - -"Quite recently." Out came the photograph. - -"You're a lucky fellow. When are you going to get married?" - -"I don't know yet--we haven't decided. Do you think we can live on -three pounds a week?" - -"Is that all you get, old man--you're worth more: it's a bit of a tight -fit." Humphrey wondered what Wratten's salary was. Perhaps Wratten -guessed his thoughts, for he said: "I don't like telling people what I -get--there's a sort of secrecy about it--but, if you don't let it go -any further, I'll tell you--I get ten pounds a week." - -Humphrey felt himself shrink into insignificance before that mighty -sum. Ten pounds seemed a tremendous salary to earn--no wonder Wratten -had married. It was too much for one man's needs. - -"I say, that's pretty good," he said, admiringly. - -"Oh! you'll be worth more than that, some day," Wratten said. "You're -the kind of chap that gets on, I can see.... That's why I shouldn't -be in a hurry to marry if I were you," he added; "I've seen lots of -fellows stick in the mud by marrying too early. It doesn't give them -a chance. Marriage helps in some ways, and holds back in others ... a -man is not so independent when he marries. He has to think of others -besides himself. Unless, of course, his wife has a little means of her -own." - -He has to think of others besides himself! - -That point of view had never come to Humphrey before. Why, he was -marrying solely to please himself. Marriage seemed to him, then, -necessary to the fulfilment of his dreams. Lilian was a mere excuse. -He told her that he wanted to make her happy, blinding himself to the -fact that he wanted to make himself happy. He was going to use her as -a motive for his life, that was all. She would urge him on to success, -encourage him, look after him, comfort him when he was in need of -it--he had never thought of her at all, except as an accessory to his -life. Of course, if anybody had told Humphrey this, at the time, he -would have denied it, vehemently; protested his eternal love; sworn -that she was always uppermost in his mind; and that it was his most -ardent desire to work for her happiness. Love not only blinds us to the -imperfections of others, but twists the vision we have always held of -ourselves. - -Wratten had taken a flat at Hampstead--a little box of a flat--at -a ridiculously high rent, but to Humphrey, as he came into the -sitting-room, it appeared as an ideal home. There was an air of repose -and rest about it, the walls papered in a soft green, chintz curtains -drawn over the windows, a carpet of a shade of green deeper than the -walls, and old furniture about the room. - -The artistic nature is always hidden below the practical journalist, -and it comes to light in different ways. With some men it shows itself -in a love of old books; with others, it bursts out in the form of -writing other things than ephemeral newspaper "copy"; and with nearly -all, the artist in them shakes itself free from its hiding-place and -shines clear and strong in the home. There is no time for art during -the day; no need for it, indeed. The standard of what is good is not -made by the reporter, but by the paper for which he writes. - -And here, in Wratten's home, Humphrey found the vein of the artist in -him, in his perception and appreciation of old furniture. He fondled -his pieces. "Here's a nice little rocking-chair," he said. "Don't see -many of these now." - -"I like this," said Humphrey, touching another old chair. - -"Ah! yes, that's a beauty," Wratten replied. "I picked that up in -Ipswich frightfully cheap. It's an old Dutch back chair of the -seventeenth century." He tilted it up and ran his palm over the perfect -curve of the cabriole legs, entirely absorbed in the pleasure of -touching the chair. - -"I didn't know you went in for this sort of thing," Humphrey said. - -"I've been getting things like this together for years ... they're so -restful, these old things. Can you imagine anything more peaceful than -that book-case?" and he pointed to a beautiful Empire book-case, with -rows of books showing through the latticed glass and brass rosettes for -handles to the drawers that rested on claw feet. - -The change in Wratten was really remarkable. Although he was still -serious, and his face in repose was gloomy, he seemed to have lost his -brusque manner. Marriage had undoubtedly softened him. - -Mrs Wratten came into the room and welcomed Humphrey. Wratten slipped -his arm through his wife's, and she looked up at him and smiled at -him.... Humphrey saw himself standing thus, in his own home, with -Lilian close to him, his companion for ever. It all seemed so very -desirable. This little home was very compact and peaceful, thousands of -miles removed from the restlessness of Fleet Street.... - -While they were talking, a young man and a woman were ushered into -the room by the little maid-servant. The likeness between the two was -unmistakable--they were obviously brother and sister. The young man -was the taller of the two, very slender, with the thin and delicate -hands of a woman. Humphrey noticed the long fingers tapering to the -well-kept nails. The face was the face of an ascetic, thin-lipped and -refined. The eyes were peculiarly glowing, and set deeply beneath the -overhanging eyebrows; the nose was finely chiselled; the nostrils -sensitive and curling, with a faint suspicion of superciliousness. -He was introduced to Humphrey as Kenneth Carr, and Humphrey knew the -name at once. Kenneth Carr had the reputation of being a brilliant -descriptive writer; he was on the staff of _The Herald_, but, besides -that, he had written several historical biographies, many novels, and -was at work on a play. He belonged to a type which is a little apart -from Fleet Street, with its wear and tear--a shy, scholarly man, who -found that historical biographies and novels did not yield sufficient -income, and, therefore, the grinding work of everyday journalism was -preferable to pot boiling. Fleet Street was, to him, a stepping-stone. -He would have been happier in the editorial chair of a weekly paper, or -writing essays for _The Spectator_ and the _Saturday Review_, but, as -it was, he threw in his lot with Fleet Street, and did his work so well -that he stood at the top of the ladder. But Fleet Street had left its -mark on his face--it was pale and thin, and the eyes had a strained, -nervous look in them. - -"Awfully good of you to ask us," he said to Mrs Wratten. "Elizabeth and -I don't go out much, she gets so tired from her slumming." - -His sister smiled--Humphrey saw that the handsome features of Kenneth -Carr became beautiful in his sister's face. The sharp lines about the -nose and mouth were softened, her eyes were bluer and larger, her face -rounded more fully, and devoid of the hollows which made the face -of Kenneth so intellectual. The likeness between brother and sister -finished with the lips--hers were very red, and were faintly parted, so -that one had a glimpse of her teeth, like a string of white pearls. She -wore her hair in two loops from a parting in the centre, and she had a -habit of carrying her head a little forward, so that the outward curve -of her neck was emphasized in its perfect grace. - -"What does your brother mean by slumming, Miss Carr?" Humphrey asked as -they sat at dinner. - -"He calls it slumming," Elizabeth Carr laughed, "but it isn't exactly -that. I'm rather fond of the people who have no chance in life. I want -to make a chance for them." She spoke banteringly, but her eyes had a -curious way of growing large and earnest as if they were anxious to -counteract the lack of seriousness in her voice. "I'm trying to make a -thoroughfare through the Blind Alley," she said. "Isn't it dramatic? -Can't you imagine me with pick and shovel, Mr Quain." - -"What do you mean by the Blind Alley?" he asked. - -She suddenly became grave. "Of course, you've never thought of -that--have you? It's just a phrase.... Some day I'll explain to you -fully. It's where the people who have no chance live." - -"How do you help them?" - -"We don't help them much, at present--we're only beginning. It's a -life's work," she said, earnestly, "and it's a work for which a life -would be gladly given. You've asked me the question I'm always asking -myself--How is it to be done?" - -"Does your brother help?" - -"Kenneth--oh, as best he can. It's the apathy that we want to overcome. -That's what makes the Blind Alley." She laughed. "We'll do it some -day--I don't know how--but we'll do it." - -Kenneth Carr's voice drawled across the table. "Look out, Mr Quain, or -Elizabeth will have you in her toils. I'll bet she's talking slumming -to you. You can't be a social reformer and a reporter, you know, -nowadays. The two don't hang together." - -"Kenneth!" his sister said, with pretended indignation. - -"Look at me! She's making me compile a book about poverty that'll be -nothing but statistics--who wants them outside blue books. She's got me -in her toils." - -The phrase amused Humphrey: he thought of Lilian, and began comparing -her with the woman next to him. Of course, they were not alike; the -comparison irritated him, why compare people so entirely different. One -might know Elizabeth Carr for years, and yet never _know_ her; Lilian -was different. She seemed simpler, and yet.... He wondered if Lilian -had ever heard of the Blind Alley, or bothered about the people who -have no chance. - -When the dinner was finished, and they were all settling down to -chatter, the telephone bell rang. Wratten went to answer it. "It's the -office," Mrs Wratten said, with disappointment in her voice. - -Wratten came back. "I'm frightfully sorry," he said. "The office wants -me ... Collard's arrested." He went over to his wife. "I shall be late, -dear, don't sit up," he said. - -"Who's Collard?" she asked. - -"Oh! the Company promoter--reg'lar crook--but he might have waited -until the morning to be arrested." - -"Filthy luck!" he grumbled, as he reappeared, shouldering himself into -his overcoat. "Having to leave all you people like this.... Can't be -helped." - -The maid came in with coffee. Wratten gulped a thimbleful, kissed his -wife, and went out. The evening seemed to have lost something of its -pleasure with his sudden departure. They fell to talking over the ways -of work and the calls of the office. It was as if Fleet Street had -suddenly asserted itself, and shown the futility of trying to escape -from it even for a few hours. - -"Poor Mr Wratten," Elizabeth Carr sighed, "I do think they're -heartless." - -"Why don't you help us, Miss Carr?" Humphrey said, with a laugh. "We're -in the Blind Alley too." - - - - -VIII - - -The weeks passed into August, and Humphrey took eagerly all the -work that was given to him by Rivers. He became a mental ostrich, -assimilating all sorts of knowledge. One day, perhaps, he would have -to describe a cat show at the Crystal Palace, the next he might be -attending a technical exhibition at the Agricultural Hall and Olympia, -and have his head stuffed with facts and figures of this and that -industry. He was acquiring knowledge all day long, but it was only -superficial; there was no time to go deeply into any subject, and -indeed, his one object was to unburden his mind of all the superfluous -things he learnt during the day. If reporters were to keep a book of -cuttings of everything they wrote--and they know the value of their -work sufficiently not to do that--they would be amazed, looking back -over ten years (those cuttings would fill several mighty volumes), at -the vast range of subjects they touched upon, at the inside knowledge -they had of the little--and even big--things of life; of the great -men with whom they had come into contact, perhaps for a few minutes, -perhaps for a day; of the men they had even helped to make great by the -magic of publicity--they would be astounded at the broadness of their -lives, at the things they had forgotten long ago, and perhaps they -would pity themselves, looking over their cuttings, for the splendid -futility of it all. - -You remember Kipling's poem of "The Files," bound volumes of past -years; which are repositories of all lost endeavours and dead -enthusiasm. Heaven help us when we can write and achieve no more, and -the only work of our youth and manhood lies buried, forgotten, in the -faded yellow sheets of the files. - -But Humphrey Quain at this period, just like every other young man, -whether he be a haberdasher or a reporter, did not contemplate the -remote future. He was young, and his brain was clear and fresh, and he -wrote everything with a pulsing eagerness, as though it were his final -appeal to posterity. He found his style improving, as he read, and -his understanding broadened. He wrote in the crisp style that suited -_The Day_; he had what they call the "human touch"--that was a phrase -which Ferrol was very fond of using. Rivers began to entrust him with -better things to do: now and again he was sent out of London on country -assignments. That was a delightful business, to escape for a day or -so from the office routine, and be more or less independent in some -far-away town or village. You were given money for expenses, and told -to go to Cornwall, where something extraordinary was about to happen, -or some one had a grievance, or else there was some one to interview, -and you packed a handbag, and went in a cab to Paddington, and had -lunch on the train, and stopped at the best hotel, and generally tried -to pretend that you were holiday making. But, more often than not, the -idea of a holiday fell away when you got to the place, and you had to -bustle and bother and worry to get what you wanted. Then you had to -write your message, and that meant generally being late for dinner, or -perhaps it was the kind of story that kept you hanging about and made -it necessary to telephone news late at night. - -But going out of town held a wonderful charm for Humphrey--it gave him -a sense of responsibility. It made him feel that the office trusted -him; somehow or other he felt more important on these country jobs, as -if he bore the burden of _The Day_ on his own shoulders. - -There was the charm, too, of writing the story in the first person, -instead of adopting the impersonal attitude that was the rule with -London work; and the charm of fixing the little telegraph pass to -the message, which franked it at press rates to _The Day_ without -pre-payment. Sometimes there were other men on the same story, and they -forgathered after work, and as all journalists do, talked shop, because -they cannot talk of anything without it touches the fringe of their -work. The men he met were, for the most part, thoroughly experienced -and capable, they were tremendously enthusiastic, though they tried -to appear blasé, because it was considered the correct thing among -themselves. They never discussed each other's work, nor told of what -they had written. Even when they met in the morning, though they had -all read their colleagues' messages in the papers, and compared them -with their own, they kept aloof from all reference to the merits or -demerits of these messages. But it used to rejoice Humphrey's heart -to see, sometimes, how older men who were inclined to patronize him -as a beginner and a junior the night before, treated him as one of -themselves in the morning at the breakfast-table. And he nearly burst -with pride when he first saw his messages headed: "From _The Day_ -Special Correspondent." Even though he were no further afield than -Manchester or Birmingham, it seemed to place him in the gallant band -of great ones just as if he were a Steevens, a Billy Russell, or an -Archibald Forbes. - -And all the time he was learning,--learning more swiftly than any one -else can learn, in the school of journalism, where every hour brings -its short cut to knowledge and worldly wisdom. - -The occasional separations from Lilian, however, modified a little the -charm of going away. These orders to go out of town had a habit of -coming at the most undesirable moments, generally upsetting any plans -they had made together for spending an enjoyable evening somewhere. - -"When we are married," said Humphrey, on the eve of a departure for -Canterbury to describe the visit of a party of priests from France -and Italy who were making a pilgrimage to the Cathedral, "when we are -married, you shall come away with me. It's not bad fun, if the job -isn't hard." - -"I wish you didn't have to go away so often," she pouted. - -There was a hint of conflict, but Humphrey was too blind to see it. -He only wished he had to go away more often, for the measure of his -success on _The Day_ was in proportion to the frequency of special work -they gave to him. "All will be well when we are married," he said, -comforting her. - -His love-story wove in and out of his daily work. The date of their -marriage had not yet been fixed, because Ferrol was away somewhere in -the south of France, and that business of the extra pound a week on -his salary could not, of course, be settled until Ferrol came back. It -seemed, too, that Lilian was in no hurry to be married; she loved these -days of his wooing to linger, with their idyllic moments, and rapturous -embraces, and the wistfulness of all too insufficient kisses. - -For the period of engagement was to them a period of licensed kissing. -Nor was it always possible to meet beneath the moon. Humphrey grew -cunningly expert in finding places where they could kiss in broad -daylight. There was an Italian restaurant in the Strand (now pulled -down for improvement), which had an upstairs dining-room where nobody -but themselves ever seemed to go, and then there was the National -Gallery, surprisingly empty, where the screens holding the etchings -gave them their desired privacy, and on Saturday afternoon they went -in the upper circles of theatres, sometimes, on purpose not to see the -play, but to sit in the deserted lounges during the acting, and enjoy -each other's company. Their love-affair was tangled by circumstance; -scamped and impeded--they made the best of it, and lived many hours of -happiness. - -And then, one day, when he least expected it, she said: "I suppose you -ought to come down and see mother." - -Humphrey went out to Battersea to the home of his betrothed. The -circumstances of his visit were not happy. It was raining, and there is -no city in the world so miserable as London when it rains. The house -was in a rather dreary side-street, a long distance from Battersea -Park, a mere unit in the army of similar houses, that were joined -to one another in a straight row, fronted by railings that had once -been newly painted, but were now grimed and blackened. These houses -appalled one: they were absolutely devoid of any kind of beauty, never -could they have been deemed beautiful by their architect. They were -as flat-fronted and as hideously symmetrical as a doll's-house; nor, -apparently, did the people who dwelt in them take any pains to lessen -the hideousness of their exteriors: ghastly curtains were at every -window, curtains of mid-Victorian ugliness, leaving a cone-shaped -vacancy bounded by lace. In the windows of the lower floors one caught -a glimpse of a table, with a vase on it, and dried grass in the vase, -and behind the glass panes above the front doors there was, in house -after house, as Humphrey walked down the street, a trumpery piece of -crockery or some worthless china statuette, or the blue vase of the -front window, with more grass in it, or a worse abomination in the -shape of a circular fan of coloured paper. - -Number twenty-three, to be sure, where Lilian lived, was, as far as -the outside view was concerned, different from the other houses, in -that there were real flowers in the window, instead of dried grass. -Humphrey felt wet and miserable when he reached it; the rain had -dripped through a hole in his umbrella, and had soaked the shoulder of -his coat. He went up the steps and pulled the bell. He waited a little -while, and happening to glance over the railings into the area, he saw -a girl of rather untidy appearance look up at him, and quickly vanish, -as if she had been detected in something that she had been forbidden to -do. The girl, he noticed, had the same features, on a smaller scale, as -Lilian: he supposed she was Florence. Then he heard footsteps in the -passage, and through the ground-glass panels of the door he could see -a vague form approaching. The next moment all memory of ugliness and -squalor and the dismal day departed from him, as Lilian, the embodiment -of all the beautiful in his life, stood before him, smiling a welcome. -How she seemed to change her personality with every fresh environment -in which they met! She was the same Lilian, yet vaguely a different -one here, with her brown hair done just as charmingly yet not in the -same way as she did it when they went to theatres in the evening. She -wore a white muslin blouse, without a collar, and round her neck was -a thin gold chain necklace which he had given her. Though he did not -realize it at the time, his joy in her was purely physical; the mere -sight of her bared neck and throat and the warm softness of her body -was sufficient to make him believe that he loved her as he could never -love anybody else; he sought no further than the surface; she was -pretty, and she was agreeable to be his wife. He did not stop to think -of anything else. - -"So it's really you!" she said, with a laugh. - -As though she had not been expecting him! - -He murmured something about the weather as he shook his dripping -umbrella. She could invest commonplaces, courtesy phrases, with -reality. Her eyes were tender as she said, "You poor thing." It was -really fine to have some one so interested in your welfare that her -eyes could show pity over a few rain-spots. - -"You must come in and dry yourself over the fire. We had a fire because -it is so wet." - -She closed the door. He took off his coat and hat, and suddenly he -caught her silently to him (her eyes spoke of caution, and looked -towards the door, leading from the passage), and they kissed hurriedly -and passionately. She disengaged herself, and began to talk about -trivialities in a high tone. "I have not told any one yet," she -whispered. "It is still a secret--so you needn't be afraid of mother." -She led the way into the room. Somebody was sitting on the sofa, -against the light. - -"Mother," said Lilian, "this is Mr Quain." - -"Oh," said Mrs Filmer, rising and coming forward to shake hands with -him, "how do you do?" - -Humphrey sat down in a gloomy, black horsehair chair by Mrs Filmer, -who returned to a sofa that belonged to the same family. They began -to talk. It was plain that Lilian's mother had been coached by her. -She seemed to pay him a deference altogether disproportionate to the -occasion, if he were to be considered as a mere casual visitor, a -friend of Lilian. She was a faded woman of fifty years or so, the -personification of the room itself, for everything within those four -walls was irrevocably lost and faded--the photographs in their ugly -frames were yellow and old-fashioned; the pictures on the walls, -chiefly engravings of thirty years ago, in bevelled frames of walnut -wood, were spotted with damp; the furniture was absolutely without -taste, a mixture of horsehair and mahogany, and the piano had one of -those frilled red satin fronts behind a fretted framework. There was a -blue plush _portière_, with a fringe of pom-poms down one side of it, -hanging from a brass rod over the door. - -It was difficult for him to believe that she was Lilian's mother: -that she had actually brought into the world that beautiful, supple -being whom he loved. Had she ever been like Lilian? He could trace no -resemblance to her in this little thin woman who sat before him, her -hands, with the skin of them warped and crinkled, crossed in her lap, -her hair sparse and faded, with threads of brown showing among the -grey, and the fringe of another tint altogether. She did not even talk -as Lilian did: she was too careful of aspirates. He saw that she was -altogether inferior to Lilian. She talked of nothing--nothing at all. -And all the time she was talking, and he was answering her, he was -aware, dimly, of Lilian's presence, somewhere in the background; he was -conscious of her watching him, studying him. - -The weather was terrible for the time of the year. - -They wanted to move out of this house; it was too large for them. - -It was so nice for Lilian to have such a comfortable office to work in. - -But it was a long way to come home, when the weather was bad. - -The weather was very bad to-day. - -The summer, one supposed, was breaking up. - -After all, it was not so very out of season. - -Mr Quain must find his work very interesting. - -And so on. - -Tea was brought in by a girl who was Lilian on a smaller scale. "Edith, -this is Mr Quain," said Lilian; and to Humphrey, "This is my sister -Edith." She put the tray down, and shook hands limply. He noticed -that she had precisely the same coloured eyes as Lilian's, but they -were weaker, and she did not carry herself well. She seemed but a -pale shadow of the splendid reality of Lilian. Then Florence, the -other sister, came into the room; she was the young girl whom Humphrey -had seen over the railings as he stood on the doorstep. She was -undeveloped, but her face and figure bore great promise of a beautiful -womanhood. Her hair was of a reddish colour, and hung in a long plait -down her back. Her face was quite unlike Lilian's: he judged that she -resembled her father. - -"You look dreadful, child," said Lilian, with a laugh. "Go and wash -your face, little pig." - -Florence made a grimace, and tossed her pigtail. "It's freckles," she -said, hopelessly. "I've been scrubbing away for ten minutes." She -looked at Humphrey appealingly, with a smile in her eyes--they all had -that smile he knew so well. - -"I think you're too hard on your sister, Miss Filmer," he said to -Lilian, with mock gravity. (How odd the Miss Filmer sounded.) "She -looks radiant. I noticed it was freckles at once." Florence went to -Lilian and put her arm round her waist. They were evidently very -sisterly. Edith was busy pouring out tea ("One lump or two, Mr Quain"); -Mrs Filmer sat with her hands crossed in her lap looking out of the -window into the garden beyond. Humphrey took a cup of tea across to -her; she was too effusive in her thanks; begged him to sit down, -and urged Florence to look after Mr Quain. Just then the front door -clicked. "There's Harry," said Edith, putting down the teapot, and -running to the door. A short, well-built young man appeared. His hair -was the reddish colour of Florence's hair, and his face was frank and -boyish. He was about nineteen years old, just the age of discrimination -in ties and socks, and the flaunting of well-filled cigarette cases. -He and Edith were apparently the greatest friends, doubtless because -there was only two years' interval in their ages. Nevertheless, he -pulled Florence's pigtail affectionately and gave her a brotherly -kiss; pecked Lilian on the cheek ("What a horrid collar you're wearing, -Harry," she said, "and you simply reek of tobacco"), and kissed -his mother on her forehead. Then Lilian introduced him to Humphrey -Quain, and they shook hands and regarded each other furtively, with a -constrained silence. - -Humphrey felt that the whole family must know of the relations between -Lilian and himself, though not one of them spoke about it. But they -all treated him with a certain deference, and gave him a status in -the house, which invested him with a superiority that seemed to match -Lilian's. For there was no doubt of her superiority in this household, -now that they were all gathered together. She seemed so stalwart and -broad beside them; a creature apart from them all. She did not appear -to belong to them, and yet she was, indisputably, of them. They were -so commonplace, and she was so rare--at least, that was what Humphrey -thought. He watched her as she moved about the room bearing plates -and cups, noiselessly, gracefully; she gave him a new impression of -domesticity as she wandered about in her own home without the hat that -he was accustomed to see her wearing. And she gave him, furthermore, -an appearance of strength and character, as though she had acquired -the right to rule in this household by the might of her own toil which -chiefly supported it. While she was in the room, it lost some of its -faded quality, and when she left it to take a cup of tea and a piece -of cake to Mabel, the third sister, who was an invalid lying, he -understood, on a couch upstairs, the room became desolate, and the most -insistent person was the faded mother with her querulous voice. - -They made him look at picture-postcard albums and photographs, and some -of Florence's drawings, while Lilian was absent. Florence wanted to -be a fashion artist, and though her drawings were incredibly bad and -scratchy, he felt it was necessary for him to say that they showed -promise.... How had Lilian grown to be Lilian in these surroundings, he -wondered--surroundings of such frank ugliness and shabby gentility? - -He glanced out of the window which gave a view of a narrow oblong -garden at the back, where a few stunted wallflowers struggled to live. -A patch of unkempt grass ran between the high walls, and there a broken -wicker-work chair faced the windows. As he looked out he saw a man -stumbling over the grass towards the side door: he caught a glimpse of -the soiled and frayed clothes, and feet clothed in down-at-the-heel -slippers, of a grey face with shrunken cheeks, and pale blue eyes that -peered weakly from beneath grey wiry eyebrows. The man came across his -vision like a spectre, trailing his slippered feet one after another, -and swaying a little as he walked. He was fascinated by the sight, and -suddenly his attention was distracted by Lilian. She had come back to -the room, and was standing at his side. Her eyes had followed his, and -she knew what he had seen. "Will you have some more tea?" she said, -abruptly, touching him on the shoulder. He turned away hastily: his -eyes met hers; they held a challenge in them, as though she were daring -him to speak of the man in the garden. It was as if he had probed into -a carefully hidden secret. - -He knew, without being told, that this aimless, shambling man with the -slippered feet was the father. He was given in a moment the explanation -of this room; the mother; the invalid child; and the air of subdued -failure that brooded over the house. He saw Lilian as a regenerating, -purifying influence, trying to lift them out of the slough. Their -eyes met, and though no word was passed between them, he understood -everything. - -He wished that he had not come to this house. This family depressed -him, and made him feel afraid of Life. It was an odd thought that -haunted him: they would be his relations when he married Lilian. - -But when, after the leave-takings, she came to the door to help him -on with his coat and let him out, he realized that she was unchanged, -that she was still splendid for him, and as desirable as she had always -been. He felt something of a hero, because he was going to rescue her -from this dreadful home of hers.... - -The memory of the father dogged his thoughts as he came away. He wished -he had not gone to the house. - - - - -IX - - -At eight o'clock, on a chill morning, the women in the red-brick -cottages of Hyde, which are built round the Hyde collieries, felt the -earth quiver beneath their feet, and heard a low roar, reverberating -about them. Their hands went up to their beating hearts; they rushed to -their windows that overlooked the grey wastes where the shafts of the -mines stood gaunt against the horizon; they saw a burst of flame leap -from the upcast shaft of No. 3 mine; leap vividly for a swift moment, -and leave behind it a vision of a twisted cable-rope, and twisted -iron, and the flame that vanished swiftly bore with it the souls of -two hundred men: their husbands, their sons--their men. They gathered -their shawls about them, and ran, with their clogs clattering on the -cobbled streets, to the pit-mouth, joining a stream of men, whose -eyeballs shone whitely from the grime and black of their faces--they -ran with terror clutching at their hearts and fear at their heels, and -every lip was parched and dry with the horror and dread of the moment. -There had been a disaster to No. 3 pit: an explosion; a fire--"What is -it? Tell us?" They crowded round the mine offices, besieged the mine -manager: "For the love of Heaven, for the mercy of Mary, for the sake -of Christ--tell us! We must know ... we are the wives, the daughters, -the mothers of those who went below to their work in the blackness -of the coal.... No need to tell us: we know, now; we see the thin -cloud of smoke, with its evil smell, floating above the shaft ... the -engine-room is silent. The ventilation fan is not working. It has been -shattered, with the lives of all those who matter, by this explosion. - -"Yes, yes, we will wait. Some of our men are sure to have escaped; they -know the workings. They will find their way to the Arden mine shaft -adjoining, and come up in the cages. Perhaps they all will, and no -lives will be lost. We will wait...." - -At eleven o'clock the little tape machines in the newspaper offices -printed out letter by letter the message that was sent by the Hyde -reporter, who overslept himself that day, and did not hear the news -until ten. "An explosion occurred in the No. 3 mine of the Hyde -Collieries this morning. Two hundred men were working at the time, and -it is feared that there has been a serious loss of life." - -"Off you pop," said Rivers to Wratten, who had just arrived at the -office. "This looks big. I think you'd better have some one with you. -Boy, tell Mr Quain to come up." - -Half an hour later Wratten and Quain were on their way in a cab to -Euston, Humphrey thrilling with the adventure of being chosen to -accompany Wratten, looking forward to a new experience. "Horrible -things, these mine disasters," said Wratten. "I hate 'em," as if any -one in the world was so misguided as to like them. - -"Are they difficult to do?" asked Humphrey. - -"Sometimes ... it depends. If there's a chance of rescue, you've got to -hang about sometimes all night. They get on my nerves. This'll be your -first, won't it?" - -"Yes," Humphrey said. It seemed strange to him that they should be -discussing such an appalling disaster so dispassionately; considering -it only from their point of view. There was no sense of tragedy, -of deep gloom, in their talk. It was all part of their business--a -lecture, a murder, an interview, a catastrophe--it was all the same to -them. They were merely lookers-on. - -When they arrived at Euston, a tall man, whose chief characteristics -were gold-rimmed spectacles and a black moustache, came towards -them. He wore a red tie and carried a heavy ash stick in his hand. -"What--ho! Wratten," he said, jovially, "coming up?" - -"Hullo, Grame," said Wratten, "anybody else here yet?" - -"Oh! the whole gang. We're for'rard in a reserved compartment." - -Kenneth Carr, white-faced and breathless, arrived at the last moment. -"Hullo!" he said, "isn't this awful.... Two hundred men! I'll join you -as soon as possible." - -"Poor Kenneth!" Wratten remarked to Quain, as they followed Grame -to the carriage. "He really feels this quite keenly. He realizes -the immensity of the tragedy to which we're going to travel. It's a -mistake. It hampers one." - -"I should have thought it would make you do better work," Quain -answered, "if you really felt the tremendous grief of it all." - -"Not a bit. It makes you maudlin. You lose your head and go slobbering -sentimental stuff about. Remember, you're no one--you don't -exist--you're just a reporter who's got to hustle round, find out -what's happened, and tell people how it happened. Never mind how it -strikes you--_The Day_ ain't interested in you and your sensations--it -wants the story of the mine disaster." - -"But--" Humphrey began. - -Wratten turned on him savagely. "Oh! Good God! don't you think _I_ -feel it too? Don't you think I hate the idea of never being able to -write it as I see it? By God! I wouldn't dare tell the story of a mine -disaster as I see it. _The Day_ would never print it--it would be rank -socialism." - -There were five other reporters in the carriage. Two of them Humphrey -had met before: Mainham, who wore pince-nez, looked like a medical -student, and spent every Saturday at the Zoological Garden, where -he discovered extraordinary stories of crocodiles, who suffered -from measles; he was, in a way, the registrar of births, deaths and -marriages among the animals; and Chander, a thin-faced, thin-lipped -young man, who wore long hair, whose conversation was entirely made up -of a long chain of funny stories. - -Chander faced the little tragedies of his work daily, but he kept -himself eternally young by pretending only to see the humorous side of -things. For instance, he once spent a whole morning in the rain and -slush of a January, trying to verify some story. He tramped the dismal -pavements of a dirty street off Tottenham Court Road, in search of a -certain man in a certain house, finally gave it up in disgust, and -discovered that he should have gone to another street of the same name -by King's Cross. That would have disheartened the average man: but -Chander turned it into a funny story--it is good to have the Chander -point of view. - -The other reporters were Thomas, who worked for _The Courier_--a penny -paper--a well-ordered, methodical, unimaginative man, who had a secret -pity for the poor devils who had to work for halfpenny papers; and a -big broad-shouldered man, whose name was Gully. His face at a glance -seemed handsome enough, until you noticed the narrow eyes and the -coarseness of the heavy under lip. He had brought a pack of cards with -him and wanted to play nap. - -"Good heavens!" said Kenneth Carr, irritably, "try and behave as if -you had some decency left. We're going to a mine disaster. There's two -hundred dead men at the other end of the journey." - -"Well, you do talk rot," Gully replied. "Are they relations of yours?" -He sniggered at his joke, and asked Mainham to play. Mainham said he -couldn't play in the train, but Thomas was willing. Chander, who knew -that Kenneth Carr loathed Gully and all that he stood for, joined the -party out of sheer good-nature. He hated quarrelling. - -"Why look on the black side of things, Carr?" he said. "Perhaps they're -not dead at all. We needn't go into mourning until we know everything, -and we don't know anything except what the early editions of the -evening papers had. And newspapers are so inaccurate." - -"Ass!" said Kenneth, with a grin, for he and Chander were good friends, -and he understood Chander's tact. - -Gully shuffled the cards. "I hope they're dead," he said, "because then -we shall be able to get back to-morrow." - -Kenneth Carr, Grame and Wratten looked at each other. Wratten gave his -head a little toss, and made a clicking noise that meant, "What can you -expect, after all, from Gully." - -"Charitable soul," Chander said, admiringly. "What a sweet temperament -you have. Won't it be sad if you find 'em all alive and ready to kick!" - -Kenneth Carr, Wratten, Mainham and Humphrey went into the dining-car, -as the express rocked northwards towards Luton. The journey was full -of apprehension for Humphrey; he had never been on such a big story -as this, and, though he knew he had to do nothing but obey Wratten, -there was still a doubt of success in his mind. It interfered with -his appetite. He marvelled that the other men could eat their food -so calmly, as though they were going on a pleasure trip, and talk of -ordinary things. Of course, they were thoroughly used to it. It was as -common an incident in their lives as casting up columns of figures is -to a bank clerk, or the measuring of dead bodies to an undertaker. - -After luncheon, Mainham left them to go back to the carriage, and the -three friends were alone over cigarettes and coffee. - -"I'm sorry I lost my temper with Gully," Carr said, after a pause. - -"Oh, we all know Gully." Wratten smiled and sipped his coffee. - -"Don't get like Gully," Kenneth said to Humphrey, "even if you feel -like him. It's bad; it's the Gullys that have brought such a lot of -disrespect on journalism. He's the type of journalist whom people think -it necessary to give 'free' cigars to, and 'free' whiskies and sodas; -'free' dinners, even. They think it is the correct thing to give 'free' -things to us, as one throws bones to a dog. It's the Gullys who take -everything greedily and never disillusion them." - -"But don't you think you're too sensitive?" Humphrey ventured. "It -seems to me that the work we do demands a skin thick enough to take all -insults. Look at the things we have to do sometimes!" - -"It's our business to take risks," Wratten interposed. "I don't -mind what I do, so long as there's a good story in it. If it's -discreditable, the fault isn't with me. I'm only a humble instrument. -It's _The Day_ who's to blame--_The Day_ and the system. I do my duty, -and any complaints can be made to Neckinger or Ferrol, with or without -horsewhip. That's my position." - -"You see," Kenneth Carr said, musingly, "there are, roughly, three -classes of reporters. There's the man who is keenly alive to the human -side of his work and talks about it, as I'm afraid I do; there's the -man who feels just as keenly and shuts up, as you and Wratten and -Mainham and hosts of others do; and there's the chap, like Gully, who -hasn't an ounce of imagination, and gloats over things like this mine -disaster, because he's a ghoul. I envy people like you and Wratten. You -do the best work because, although you feel pity and sorrow, you never -allow these feelings to hamper your instincts of the reporter." - -Humphrey smiled. "Wratten doesn't." The time passed in recounting -some of Wratten's audacious doings. His bullying a half-suspected -murderer into a confession; his brutal exposure of a woman swindler--he -had answered an advertisement for a partner in some scheme or other, -found the advertiser was a woman with a questionable commercial past, -pretended he was _bona fide_, and, when he had obtained all his -material, ruthlessly exposed her in _The Day_. There was the case of -the feeble-minded millionaire, who was kept a prisoner in his house. -There was the case of the Gaiety girl who married a lordling, and -Wratten pried into their private lives, forced the lordling into an -interview, and wrote a merciless story that made London snigger. He was -absolutely callous in his work, yet so human and tender-hearted out -of it. Humphrey, since that night when he had been helped by him, had -looked up to Wratten as the type of the ideal reporter, with courage -unlimited, who never flinched, even when the work was most unsavoury -and humiliating. - -He was not popular with the reporters of the papers: he kept himself -away from them, and restricted his friendship to one or two men. The -reason of his unpopularity was simply because others feared him as a -rival, and Humphrey found, later, that there was merit in that sort of -unpopularity. The strong men are never popular. - -The train had now sped past Rugby, and the green valleys and chequered -landscapes ran by in a never-ending panorama. The sunshine held with -them as far as Crewe, and then, as they came into an unlovely stretch -of land bristling with factory chimneys, the clouds gathered, and the -greyness settled over the day. The three friends sat silently now: -Wratten and Carr, seated opposite, were looking out of the window, and -Humphrey over Carr's shoulder caught glimpses of the little world to -which they were journeying. He saw the great brick chimneys everywhere -now, breathing clouds of foul black smoke, and then, wherever he -looked, the strange-looking gearing-wheels of the coal-mine shafts -came into view. Some of them were quite near the railway line, and he -could see the light twinkling between their spokes as the great shaft -wheels moved round, hauling up invisible cages. There were tangles of -iron-work, and buildings of grimy brick, and, as they rushed on, they -passed gaunt sidings where coal-stained trucks waited in a long line. - -They were in a world of brick and iron and coal: down below them, -beneath the throbbing wheels of the express, the earth was a honeycomb -of burrows, where half-naked men sweated and worked in the awful -heat and close darkness. This was a hard world, spread around them, -a world where men lived hard, worked hard, and died hard. A world -without sunshine,--all grimy iron and coal and brute strength. And -again Humphrey could not help feeling the pitiful artificiality of his -own work, that mattered so little, compared with this real and vital -business of dragging coal from the heart of the earth to warm her -children. - -They had to change at Wigan: the bookstalls were covered with placards -of Manchester and Bolton newspapers telling of the horror of the -disaster. They bought copies of every paper, and saw the whole terrible -story, hastily put together, and capped with heart-rending headlines. -They would have to wait thirty minutes for the train to Hyde: Wratten -twitched Humphrey's sleeve and drew him aside. "Look here," he said, -"I don't know what the other fellows are going to do. Trains are no -good to me--I mayn't be able to get back to Wigan to wire, and the Hyde -post-office will be a one-horse show. I'm going to get a motor-car. -Come on." So they left the group. Social friendship was at an end: -there were no "Good-byes," each man was concerned with himself and his -own work. - -Motor-cars were not used by newspapers at that time to the extent that -they are used to-day; they were doubly expensive, and even a little -uncertain, but _The Day_ was always generous with expenses when it came -to getting news. - -They went outside, and Wratten hailed a dilapidated four-wheeler. -"Drive to a motor garage--quick," he said. - -"Won't t' old hoss do, guv'nor?" asked the cabby, with the broad -Northern accent. - -"No, it won't, and look slippy," growled Wratten. The old cab rattled -over the stones and down a steep hill. - -"This is a pretty dull hole," Humphrey said, looking out at the town, -which seemed to be oozing coal from all its pores. - -"Yes," Wratten said shortly. "I'm trying to think out a plan. You'd -better come with me to Hyde, and after we've got some stuff for the -main story, you can hang on, and I'll bump back here in the car, and -put it on the wire. Then I'll come back to the mine and relieve you. -You'll probably have got some interviews by then, and we can run them -on to the story." - -They arranged for the motor-car, and during a ten-minutes' wait, -Wratten dashed off to the post-office. "Always call at the post-office -when you get on a job like this, and tell them what you're going to -send. Besides, the office may have some instructions for you in the -poste restante. And always wire your address to the office. We'd better -stop at the Royal. I daresay every one else will be there, but it can't -be helped." - -They set out in the evening for the mine. The car took them through the -mean streets of Wigan and the outlying villages, where the shadow of -disaster hung like a black curtain over the houses. The streets were -strangely silent: groups of men stood at the street corners, talking -in constrained voices, and women with shawls over their heads flicked -across the roads, grey and ghostlike, the slap of their clogs breaking -harshly into the silence. Now and again they passed a beer-house, -brilliantly lit, and from here came sounds of voices, and high nervous -laughter. "They always get drunk on days like these," Wratten said. -"They have to forget that death is always sitting at their shoulders." - -And now there was a stretch of open country, yet even the fields -had not the bright green of the Southern fields. The very grass was -soiled with the coal, and the mines and the tall chimneys made a ring -round their horizon. Humphrey moved uneasily in the car: the brooding -spirit of tragedy that hovered over the place was beginning to seem -intolerable. It was all so grey, so appallingly dismal and squalid. -Here were the houses with the blinds drawn over their windows--whole -streets of them--houses where there was no man to come home now. Here -were women leaning over the railings of the patches of gardens, staring -before them into the desolate future. Fatherless babes crawling about -the dusty pavements and gutters, unheedingly, knowing nothing of the -disaster that had scorched and withered the mankind of their world. - -They turned down a side-street, and came out upon an open space filled -with a mighty crowd of people. Behind them was the gate that led to the -colliery, and far away, above their heads, Humphrey saw the winding -wheel above the shaft, twisted and broken, the shaft itself jagged and -castellated where the force of the explosion had torn the brickwork, -and the cable-ropes shattered and tangled, as if some giant hands had -wrenched it loose and made a plaything of it. - -The crowds before the gate parted as they heard the noise of the -motor-car. They made a narrow lane, just wide enough for the car -to creep through. The gate was guarded by a police-sergeant, who, -overcome by the sight of the motor-car, opened the way, and saluted: -Wratten, bulky with rugs and wraps, touched the peak of his cap. The -car drew up outside the offices, and they set out to walk up the black -hill to the pit-mouth. - -Desolation, utter and dismal; the lowering sky stained and splashed -with the red of the dying sun; dark masses gathering below the purple -pall of clouds; the ground barren and black with coal beneath the -feet: these were Humphrey's first impressions as they walked up the -hill, with thousands of envious, resentful eyes regarding them from -the crowds that huddled beyond the railings. Nobody questioned them; -nobody asked them what right they had to be there. They were part and -parcel of the scheme--the literary undertakers, or, if you like, the -descendants of the bards of old, the panegyrists, come to sing their -elegies to the dead. - -The full force of the tragedy came, as a blow between the eyes, when -they reached the pit-mouth. Those women, waiting patiently throughout -the day,--and they would wait, too, long into the night, keeping up -their vigils of despair--who could forget them? Who could look at -their faces without feeling an overwhelming gush of pity flooding the -heart; those eyes, red-rimmed and staring intensely, eyes that could -weep no more, for their tears were exhausted, and nothing but a stony -impassive grief was left! The shawls made some of the faces beautiful, -Madonna-like, framing them in oval, but others were the faces of -dolorous old women, grey-haired, and mumbling of mouth. And some of -them laid their forefingers to their lips, calling the world in silence -to witness their stupendous sorrow. They stood there compact and -pitiful: thinking of God knows what--perhaps of the last good-bye, of -a quarrel before parting, of a plan for the morrow, of all the little -last things that had been done by their men, before death had come. - -And, permeating everything, into the very nostrils of all of them, -there crept a ghastly smell of gas and coal-dust--a smell that brought -to the vision of the imaginative the shambles in the twisting galleries -of coal below their feet; great falls of black boulders, nameless -tortured hulks that once were men--living, loving, laughing--lying -haphazard as they fell to the same gigantic fist that smote the iron -wheel above the shaft, and crumpled the brickwork as if it were -cardboard. - -They had to see it all: they met other reporters wandering in and -out--dream-people in a world of terrible reality. Their companions -of the train were all there: Kenneth Carr, surveying that wall of -women silently; Mainham, talking to the mine-manager, whose black and -sweating face told of many descents into the mine; Gully, buttonholing -a woman with a baby in her arms, and making notes in his notebook; -Grame, plodding to and fro in the coaly mire, for it had been raining -that morning in the North: all working, all observing, all gathering -facts. It was not their business to moralize, to link up dead men -and disasters with the idea of these desolate women and humanity at -large. That was the leader-writer's work. Their business was to get -the news and say how it happened. They dared not even expose criminal -negligence, or inhuman cruelty, or savage conditions of work--and libel -laws were there to restrain them. - -And they all felt--yes, I believe even the brutal Gully felt it for -a moment--the unspeakable horror of the tragedy, the injustice not -of men dying like this, but having to live like this; great waves -of sympathy and pity came over them, and they pitied themselves for -their impotence. Ah! if they could have told the millions that would -read their writings in the morning, the thoughts that were in their -minds.... - -Humphrey saw it all. He saw the gaunt, drear shed where the flickering -lamp-light played over a dozen shapeless bundles sewed up in white. A -man came to the shed--this business of identification was no woman's -work--the policeman in charge whispered something: they went in -together; the policeman turned back the sheet--O God! is it possible -that a face once human could look like that! Turn down the sheet. We -cannot recognize him. All we know is that the bundle of clothes seared -from his body is his; that pocket-book is his too, and we recognize the -bone crucifix that he bought one Easter-tide in Manchester. - -"Hold up.... Thanks, matey, the light's a bit dim...." - -An odour of carbolic mingled with the stench of the coal-dust; a -blue-clad nurse with a scarlet cross on her arm moved among the white -bundles, and she seemed to bring with her a promise of exquisite peace -after pain, and rest and eternal sleep. Outside, a grim black wagon -lumbered up the hill, and, as the wind flapped its canvas doors open, -one saw its load of coffins.... - -Now the rescue party was going down again. They emerged from a brick -shanty, through whose windows Humphrey could see the shelves which -were meant to hold the miners' lamps--there was a pathos in those -empty shelves. These men were going down to dare death: they looked -inhuman fantastic creatures, with goggled helmets over their heads, and -great knapsack arrangements of oxygen and nitrogen to breathe, for one -breath of the air in the mine below meant stupor and sleep everlasting. -There were five men, and as they passed the group of dolorous women, -they must have felt the tremor of hope and deep gratitude that shot -through the fibre of every despairing one. Here were the sexes in -their elemental state, stripped of all the artificial trappings of -civilization; men were doing the work of men; women giving them -courage with the blessings of God that they murmured. - -The leader of the rescue gang carried a little canary in a cage; the -little yellow bird piped and sang, and hopped about his perch. The -little yellow bird was the centre of all their faith in God's mercy: -for if the bird could live in the air of the mine, there was still some -hope for their men. - -Slowly the cage descended the shaft that was unbroken. The sunset -blinked between the spokes of the gearing-wheel, slower and -slower--they were at the bottom of the mine. Now, they were in that -inferno of vaporous blackness, with death stalking them, a gaunt, -cloudy monster, who had but to puff out his cheeks and breathe -destruction. There would be enormous falls of coal and timber to -combat; they would have to crawl on their bellies, and stagger along, -stooping to the broken roofs of the galleries, and always there was the -startling danger of a jar knocking their knapsacks, or breaking the -mouthpieces through which they breathed their precious elixir of life. - -Up above, the night was coming, and a rain as soft as tears began -to drift downwards. The women waited. Salvation Army officers moved -among them, enticing some of them into the shelter of the silent -machine-room. "Of what use is tea and coffee to us? Give us our men. No -food or drink shall pass our lips until our men have kissed them, or we -have kissed their still faces." - -Up above, a preacher preached of the infinite mercy of God, and the -gospel of pain and sorrow by which the Kingdom of Heaven is reached. He -stood there with his arms outstretched, like a black cross silhouetted -against the darkening sky, his low, mournful, dirge-like voice blending -with the gloom.... Down below, in the reek and the stench, the -rescuers' hands are bloody with tearing their way through obstacles, -and their pulses are hammering in their heads ... and they have seen -sickening things. - -Now the wheel begins to move again. Doctors hurry to the door of the -cage--lint, bandages, stretchers, evil and glittering instruments that -kill pain with pain, all the ghastly paraphernalia of Death. They are -coming up!... They are coming up!... A silence, so swift and sudden, -that it is as if the great multitude had whispered "Hush," the tinkle -of the bell marking the stages of the ascent is clearly heard by people -waiting on the bank. The cage appears.... The men stagger out, one by -one, helmets removed, their faces grimed and sweaty, their eyes white -and staring out of the black grotesquery of their faces, their lips -taut and silent. - -And one of them carries a cage in his hand, a cage with an empty perch, -and a smother of wet and draggled feathers huddled into one corner. A -world without the song of a bird--no hope! ... no hope. - - * * * * * - -"I shall have to dash back to Wigan now, and get my stuff on the -wires," said Wratten. "Will you wait here and I'll come and relieve -you. Pick up any stuff you can. Facts." Humphrey wandered about the -dismal pit-mouth--sometimes he was challenged by the police, and -ordered to keep within a certain area. He found a cluster of reporters -by a lighted lamp. One of them had received an official communication -from the mine-manager, and he was giving it to his colleagues. Humphrey -took it down in his note-book. Then there was another flutter. A piece -of flimsy paper was fixed to a board outside the lamp-house. A message -from the King. - -Now, the wires were humming with words, thousands upon thousands of -words sent by the writers to all the cities of the kingdom. And in -all the offices the large square sheets of the press telegraph-forms -were being delivered. Humphrey saw the picture of _The Day_ office: -Selsey sitting at the top of the table, the boy handing him the pile of -news from Wigan, a sub-editor cutting it down, here and there--always -cutting down. Perhaps, you see, some great politician was making a -speech at the Albert Hall, and space was needed for three columns, with -a large introduction. - -It was nine o'clock. Another rescue party had gone down. The women -still waited, their faces yellow now in the flare of lamps. It seemed -to Humphrey that he had left London centuries ago ... that he had -never met Lilian at all. It was as if that morning his life had been -uprooted, and it would have to be planted again before it could absorb -the old interests and influences.... He was hungry and cold. There was -no chance of getting food. If he were a miner, or had any real part in -this game, the Salvation Army would have given him tea and bread ... -but he was a reporter, an onlooker, supposed to be watching everything, -and, in a sense, physically invisible. - -A car panted up.... It was Wratten. "Here I am, Quain. Anything -happened? Official communication. Oh yes, and the King's telegram. -Better send them off. Hop into the car and then send it back for me. -I'll wait." - -"Wait?" Humphrey said. "What about food?" - -"I've got some sandwiches. I'll wait here until two. Never know what -will happen. Rescuer might get killed. It's happened before. Fellow -might be brought up alive." - -"But it's going to rain like blazes." - -"Is it?... Off you get. You can turn in. I'll keep the deck." - - * * * * * - -It was nearly eleven when Humphrey had sent his telegram to London. -The post-office was open by a side door for the correspondents, and -some of them were still writing. Cigarettes dangled from their lips. -They had an opened note-book on one side and a pile of telegraph-forms -on the other--not the forms that ordinary human beings use, but large -square sheets, divided up into spaces for a hundred words on a page. -Fifteen of them made a column in _The Day_--Wratten had covered thirty -forms. - -Humphrey went back to the hotel. His friends were in the coffee-room -amazing the waitress with their appetites for cold meat and pickles and -beer at half-past eleven. The tension was over, and the reaction was -setting in. Their faces were strained, and they all seemed unnaturally -good-humoured. They laughed at anything, clutching at any joke that -would make them forget the dismal horrors of their day. Kenneth Carr -looked more pallid than ever. - -"Where's Wratten?" he asked, as Humphrey came into the room. - -"Still waiting up there," Humphrey said. - -"What's the good of waiting?" Gully put in. "If anything happens, the -Agency men will send it through, and, anyway, it's too late for the -first edition." - -"I reckon I've done my day's work; me for the soft bed," Chander -remarked. "By the way, I found five separate men who've got five -separate shillings out of me. Each swore he was absolutely the first -person to arrive on the scene and no one else there. It's a sad world. -Good-night." - -Kenneth Carr left shortly afterwards, and the others remained drinking -and telling stories. Humphrey had been chary of drinking since his -adventure that evening when he was on his first murder story, but -to-night he drank with the rest. They were all urged by the same -motives. They wanted to forget the black pit-mouth, and the women, and -the smell of the coal-dust. - -That night Humphrey woke up suddenly and heard the rain drumming -against the window. He wondered if Wratten were back from the mine. He -fell asleep again, and dreamed of a gaunt building, where a blue-clad -nurse, with the face of Lilian, hovered about white, shapeless -bundles.... And in London the dawn was coming westwards over Fleet -Street, and the vans were rattling to the stations, so that all that -had been written would be read over millions of breakfast-tables -everywhere in the kingdom. - - - - -X - - -Since his visit to Lilian's home, he had come to a definite decision -about his marriage. It would have to be privately done, and the news -kept from his aunt until they were wedded. In spite of the increasing -breadth of his life, he had not yet shaken off the narrow influence -of Easterham; his aunt still remained as a factor to be considered -in his scheme of things. If he told her, beforehand, she would ask -all sorts of questions. Who were the Filmers? What did Mr Filmer do? -(He winced at even this imagined question.) Were they _really nice_ -people? That was the greatest quality that anybody could have in his -aunt's estimation--the quality of being _really nice_. It was a vague, -impalpable quality that defied definition, though Humphrey knew that, -somehow or other, his aunt would arrive at the conclusion that the -Filmers had not that desirable attribute, if she could by any chance -visit them. - -Of Lilian, of course, there could be no doubt.... She was rare and -exquisite, so different altogether from the rest of her family. Nobody -could help loving her, and he knew that she would survive the Easterham -inquisition. But he saw at once that Mrs Filmer and his aunt would -never, never blend. She would find out at once that Mrs Filmer was not -"really nice."... - -He and Lilian talked it over, whenever they could meet. She did not -share his hurry to be married. "It is sweet like this," she said once. -There was an odd, wistful note in her voice. Then she looked at him -fondly, and, "Oh! what a boy you are, Humphrey," she said. He did -not object to that so much now. He smiled indulgently--he had not -been many months in Fleet Street, but he seemed to have absorbed the -experience of as many years. - -He was changing, so gradually, that he could not note the phases of -his development himself. He felt that he was leaving all his old -associations far behind. It was as if some driving power were within -him, rushing him forward daily, while most of the other people round -him stood still. There was Beaver, for instance--he seemed to have left -Beaver long ago, though they were still at their old Guilford Street -lodgings. But, somehow, Beaver seemed now just a milestone, marking the -passage of a brief stage in his life. Soon, he knew, Beaver would be -out of sight altogether. There was Tommy Pride--another milestone; he -had run on and caught up with Wratten and Kenneth Carr, and these were -the people who were influencing him now.... - -And there was that great ambition, growing into a steady flame: -ambition burning up every other desire within him; ambition leading him -by ways that mattered not so long as they led at last to conquest. - -Lilian was to help him: she was to be a handmaiden to ambition. The -picture of the journalistic homes that he had seen made him long -to found one of his own. This life of lodgings and drifting was -profitless--he wanted a home; permanence and peace in this life of -restless insecurity. Very often he dreamed of his home--where would it -be?--they would have to be content with rooms at first, an upper part, -perhaps, but the rooms would be their own, and they could shut the door -on the world, and live monarchs of their own seclusion for a few hours, -at least, every day. There were walls lined with books, too, in his -picture of the home, and Lilian, in an arm-chair of her own, set by the -fireplace, and the blinds down, and the light glittering on the golden -threads in her brown hair. - -He told Lilian of his dreams, and she shook her head and smiled. - -"It's a nice picture, isn't it?" she said. - -"Don't you see it too?" he asked. - -"Sometimes. I used to see it quite a lot at one time. Before I knew -you." - -He showed chagrin. "Oh! wasn't I in it?" - -"How could you have been when I hadn't met you? I forget who was -the ideal for me at the moment. Lewis Waller, perhaps, or William -Gillette." She laughed. "Silly Humphrey, it's the picture you're in -love with, and you can put anybody in the arm-chair." - -He protested against it, yet all the while he was wondering how she -could have known that! He had not considered that point of view -himself, nor would he now. It was Lilian he wanted; she was just as -beautiful as ever, and nobody else was within his grasp. - -He sighed. "I do wish we could settle about--about our marriage. Let's -fix it up for next week." - -She pretended to be horrified. "Only a week to prepare in! Look at the -things I've got to buy. My bottom drawer isn't half full." - -"Well!" he said, hopelessly, "when are we going to get married? Do -let's try and fix a day." - -He could not understand why, sometimes, she would seem so eager and -delighted with the prospect of marriage, and at other times she would -be in a mood for indefinite postponement, as though she wished to -keep him for ever lingering after her with all his thirst for love -unquenched. - -He could not know that she was beginning to realize, with that -intuition which no man can fathom, that her dreams had been but dreams, -and the love that they thought everlasting but the passing shadow of a -moment. - - * * * * * - -When he got back to the reporters' room that evening--he had -been reporting the visit of a famous actress to a Home for -Incurables--Willoughby met him with a grave face. - -"Heard about Wratten?" he asked. - -"No--what is it?" Humphrey said, feeling that evil news was coming. - -"Double pneumonia--they thought it was a chill at first ... he got it -at that mine disaster last week. You were there, weren't you?" - -"Yes. He would insist on staying out all night ... it was raining...." - -"That was Wratten all over," Willoughby said. - -Humphrey winced. "Don't say 'was,'" he said, almost fiercely. -"Wratten's going to get better. It's impossible for him to die ... -why, he is only just begun to live ... and there's his wife ... and, -perhaps...." - -He stopped short. Nobody could quite understand what Wratten meant to -him. Not even Wratten himself. - -"I didn't know you and Wratten were very thick," Willoughby said. "He's -a good chap, but so devilish glum." - -"None of you know Wratten--I don't suppose I do--but I know that he's -the whitest man in the Street." - -He went out to Hampstead that night, after work, but the nurse who came -to the door said that he could not see Mrs Wratten, she was in the -sick-room--Mr Wratten was dangerously ill; but he was going on as well -as could be expected. - - - - -XI - - -Ferrol was back in his room, among his buttons, after a long holiday -abroad. There was always a subtle difference in the office when he -returned after these occasional absences; and not only in the office, -but in the whole Street, where men would say to each other, "Ferrol's -back, I hear ... wonder what _The Day_ will do next." For Ferrol always -returned to his paper with some new scheme, some new idea that he had -planned while he was away--he seemed to be able to see weeks ahead, to -know what people would be talking about, or, if he could not be certain -as to that, he would "boom" something in _The Day_, and its mighty -circulation would make people talk about anything he wanted them to -discuss. They were doing nearly a million a day--think of it! Ferrol, -sitting in his office, could touch a button, give some instructions, -and send his influence into nearly a million homes. He could move the -thoughts of hundreds of thousands; throw the weight of _The Day_ into -a cause and carry it through into success. He could order the lives -of his readers, in large matters or small matters. That famous Batter -Pudding campaign, for instance, is not forgotten, when _The Day_ found -a crank of a doctor, who declared that our national ill-health was -due to eating Batter Pudding with roast beef. Batter Pudding was on -every one's lips, and in no one's mouth. People stopped cooking Batter -Pudding. Ferrol touched a button and they obeyed. Nor must we forget -the wonderful campaign on the "Bulrush Throat," by which Humphrey was -able to oust the bulrushes from Mrs Wayzgoose's sitting-room. - -Yet, sometimes, in _The Day_ campaigns, there was a spark of greatness -and a hint of nobler things, that seemed to reflect the complex -personality of Ferrol himself; Ferrol groping through the web of -commercial opportunism which was weaving round him, striving after -something ideal and worthy. A man has been wrongly arrested and -condemned--Ferrol stands for justice; the columns of _The Day_ are -opened to powerful pens; the nation is inflamed, there are questions in -the House, the case is re-opened and the conviction quashed. Nameless -injustices and cruel dishonesty would flourish if _The Day_ were not -there to expose such things. You must balance the good against the -evil, and perhaps the good will outweigh the evil, for Ferrol, when he -touched the buttons, did many good things, and the nearest approach -to evil he made was in doing those few things that were transparently -foolish.... - -Something in _The Day_ had arrested his attention that morning. (He -always read the paper through, page by page, from the city quotations -to the last word on the sporting page.) The article in question was not -an important one: it was a few hundred words about a party of American -girls who were being hustled through London in one day--the quickest -sight-seeing tour on record. The account of their doings was brightly -written, with a flash of humour here and there; and, you know, it had -the "human touch." - -Who wrote it? The button moves; pink-faced Trinder starts nervously -from his desk in the ante-room, and appears shiny, and halting in -speech. He is sent on a mission of investigation, while Ferrol turns -to other matters: the circulation department wants waking up. Ferrol -actually travelled in his car all the way from his house in Kensington, -and for every contents bill of _The Day_ he saw three of _The -Sentinel_. Gammon, the manager of the circulation department, appears, -produced magically by touching a button. "This won't do, you know." -There are explanations, though Ferrol doesn't want explanations--he -wants results; which Gammon, retiring in a mood for perspiration, -promises. There has been a slight drop in advertisement revenue--Ferrol -has a finger in every pie. "Dull season be damned," says Ferrol to the -advertisement manager--a very great person, drawing five thousand a -year, commissions and salary, and with it all dependent on Ferrol. In -two minutes Ferrol has produced a "scheme"--an idea that may be worth -thousands of pounds to the paper. "Splendid," says the advertisement -manager. "Get ahead with it," says Ferrol.... - -In ten minutes it is as if there had been an eruption in every -department of the grey building. The fault-finding words in the red -room with the buttons drop like stones in a pool, making widening -rings, until they reach the humblest junior in every department--Ferrol -is back, and the office knows it!... - -Trinder reappears. Mr Quain wrote the article ... and Ferrol suddenly -remembers. - -So the boy has been doing well. Both Neckinger and Rivers approve of -Humphrey. "Not a brilliant genius, thank God!" says Rivers, "but a good -straightforward man. Very sound." - -Thus is Ferrol justified once more in his perception for the right man. -His thoughts travelled back once more to Easterham, to the days when -he himself was Humphrey's age, to the days of Margaret, and the white -memories of his only romance. Strange that the vision of her should -always stand out against the thousand complexities of his life after -all these years. He saw her just as he had last seen her, eyes of a -deep darkness, and black hair that seemed by contrast to heighten the -dusky pallor of her skin. A child that was too frail to live, and yet -she had inspired him in these long distant days. - -It was astonishing to think that she had had a separate life of her -own; that she had married and passed out of the scheme of things. She -was dead, and yet she came knocking like this at queer, irregular -intervals, at the door of his life. - -And Ferrol was drawn with a strange attraction towards this boy who was -her son; he came as if he were a message from Margaret, holding out her -hands to him, across the unfathomable abyss of Space and Time. "Now you -can repay," she seemed to say. - - * * * * * - -"Well, Quain," said Ferrol, as Humphrey came into the room. - -Ferrol masked his sentiments behind the crisp, hard voice that he -always cultivated in the office. Nobody could have guessed from his -treatment of Humphrey that he regarded the boy with any particular -favour. Ferrol knew well enough how to handle men: they must be made -always to believe that they are firm and independent, and it does not -do to let them see the props and supports that hold them up. - -Humphrey was busily searching for the reason of this summons to -Ferrol's room. It was only the third time that he had been in this -broad red room, yet already his nervousness vanished, he no longer -feared his greatness, or the comprehensive power of the man with -the black moustache and the strong hands that held in their grip -all the fortunes of _The Day_. He stood there, by Ferrol's desk, so -changed, so different from the timid Humphrey who had felt the floor -sinking beneath him when he faced, for the first time, this man whose -potentiality he could not grasp. There was little outward difference, -save, perhaps, the lips compressed a little tighter, and a frown that -came and went, but inwardly the timid Humphrey had gone, and in its -place there was a bolder Humphrey, whose mind was all the better for -the bruises of battle. - -"Well, Quain," said Ferrol, moving papers about his desk, and regarding -Humphrey all the time with those penetrating grey eyes. - -"You sent for me, sir?" Humphrey asked. - -"Yes." Ferrol paused. "Getting on all right?" he blurted out. - -Humphrey smiled--Getting on! The phrase had been on his lips on that -day when he had first appeared in the red room. He thought of all the -things that had been crowded into his life since then. Of all that -he had seen; of all the people he had met; of the glimpses into the -greatness and the pettiness; the worthiness and the unworthiness; the -virtue and the vice and the vanity of it all. As he thought thus, he -saw a blurred composite picture of the past months, figures flitting to -and fro, men striving in the underworld of endeavour, work, work, and -a little love, and, in the background, a whimsical picture of his aunt -who preached the stern gospel of Getting On, without knowing what it -really meant. - -"I'm going to have you put on better work," Ferrol said. How the boy's -eyes sparkled and lit up his face! "Mr Rivers is quite satisfied. You -shall do some of the descriptive work. Think you'll be able to do as -well as John K. Garton one day?" - -John K. Garton!--he was the great descriptive writer of _The Day_, -the man who signed every article he wrote, who was never seen in the -reporters' room, except when he looked in for letters; a being who -seemed to Humphrey to belong to quite another sphere, above Wratten, -above Kenneth Carr, above all the reporters in salary and reputation. -He was one of Ferrol's products: all England knew of him, and read -his work as special correspondent, yet Ferrol could put a finger on a -button, you know.... - -Humphrey laughed. "Oh, I don't know, Mr Ferrol," he said, awkwardly. -"My work would probably be quite different, I couldn't write in his -style." - -"That's right," said Ferrol. "Try and find an individual style of your -own. No room for imitators here. Still, there's plenty of time to talk -about that. I just wanted to let you know I've had my eye on you." -Ferrol nodded, Humphrey turned to go. - -Then he remembered he was going to ask Ferrol for a rise in salary. He -came back to the desk. - -"Oh, Mr Ferrol," he said, "I ought to tell you, I'm going to be -married." - -Ferrol pushed his pad aside. What a fool he had been to think he could -constitute himself the only influence in this boy's career. How was -it he had overlooked the one important factor--a woman. It came so -suddenly, this revelation of Humphrey's intimate life, and all at once -Ferrol found himself swayed with an unreasoning dislike of this unknown -woman--it was an absurd feeling of jealousy.--Yes, he was jealous that -anybody should exercise a greater influence than himself over Humphrey, -now that he had decided to push him forward to success. - -"Married!" he said, harshly, "you damned young fool!" - -The words came as a blow in the face. Humphrey flushed, and found -that he could not speak. He thought of Ferrol's soft words that had -opened up such illimitable visions of the future, and then, quite -unexpectedly--this. - -"Somebody in Easterham?" asked Ferrol. - -"Oh no! Nobody in Easterham. She lives in London. She's in Fleet -Street." - -"A woman journalist?" - -"No--she's a typist." - -"You damned young fool!" Ferrol repeated. "What do you want to get -married for?" - - - - -XII - - -In the silence that followed, Humphrey stood bewildered. The harsh -note in Ferrol's voice surprised him; what on earth could it matter -to Ferrol whether he married or not. And Ferrol must have read his -thoughts, and seen his mistake at once. - -"Of course," he said, "it's no business of mine. Your life's your own. -Only I think you're too young for that sort of thing. Why, you haven't -seen the world yet. You haven't a father, have you?" - -"No," said Humphrey. - -"Well"--Ferrol's voice softened--"you won't mind my advising you then." - -"No," said Humphrey again: already he seemed to feel Lilian slipping -from his grasp. - -"I'm looking at it simply from the business point of view. No man has a -right to marry until his position is made--least of all a reporter." - -"But she would help me," Humphrey pleaded. "She would be able to help -me. She would ..." he broke off. - -Ferrol completed the sentence for him. "Keep you straight. Yes, I -know. I've heard it all before. The man who needs a woman to keep him -straight is only half a man." - -"But," continued Humphrey--and he thought of Wratten and Tommy -Pride--"we don't get much out of life--we're at work all day long, -there's absolutely nobody ... I mean, there's nothing left in it -all ..." he spread his hands wide. "At the end there's nothing -... emptiness." He stammered broken sentences that had a queer -impressiveness in them. "I'm nothing ... it seems to me ... all this -life, rushing about all day ... and everything forgotten to-morrow ... -there's nothing that lasts ... nothing except...." - -"Oh, you think you'll get happiness," Ferrol said. "Perhaps you will. -But every moment of happiness is going to cost you years of misery. -As soon as you marry, what happens? You are no longer independent. -You've got to lie down and take all the kicks. You've got to submit to -be ground down; to be insulted by men whom you dare not strike back, -as you would, if you had only yourself to think of.... And then, you -know, in a year's time, you've got to work ... double as hard, and to -watch every penny, and to save.... Why, you young fool, don't you see -that if you're going to get on in this business, you mustn't have any -other wish in life but to rise to the top. Everything must be put aside -for that--you must even put aside yourself. You must have only one -love--the love of the game; the love of the hunter for his quarry." - -What made Ferrol talk like this.... What had happened to Humphrey that -he should be there, standing up to Ferrol, fighting the question of his -marriage? Something new and unexpected had thrust itself into their -relations, and Humphrey could not understand it. - -"But that's what I want to do," he said; "we should do it together." - -"Yes. How?" said Ferrol, a little brutally again. "Shall I tell you? -I know you young men who marry the moment you see a marrying wage. -It's all very well for you--you may progress--you may develop--you're -bound to, for men knock about and gather world experience. But what of -the woman at home?--cooped up in her home with babies? Eh? have you -thought of that? Where would your home be? You haven't got as far as -that, then. The woman stands still, and you march on. She can lift -you up, but you can't lift her up. And then the day comes that you're -a brilliant man--the most brilliant man in the Street, if you like...." -Ferrol smiled. "Oh! you never know. Think of John K. Garton, and -Mallaby, and Owers.... And you're different. You can link up the things -of life. You can perceive and appreciate pictures and fine music and -the meaning of everything that matters ... and for the woman who has -not been able to progress, nothing but popular songs, chromographs, -and ignorance of anything but the petty little things of to-day. Then -you hear people saying, 'How on earth did he come to marry her?' -There's always an answer to that. _He_ didn't marry her. It was another -man--the man he was twenty years ago--who did it. Do you see?" - -Humphrey looked about him forlornly. His dreams were crumbling before -the onslaught of Ferrol's remorseless less words. The powerful -magnetism of this man held him: he felt sure that Ferrol was right.... -Ferrol was only voicing the thoughts that he himself had feared to -express. Above the inward turmoil of his mind, he heard again the voice -of Ferrol, forceful and insistent: - -"You are not the man you will be in twenty years' time. There's no -reason," he added hastily, "why I should take all this trouble over you -... no reason at all ... it's no concern of mine. Other people on my -staff can do as they please--for some men marriage is the best thing -... I don't interfere. I'm not interfering now. I'm only giving my -point of view." - -"Yes ... I know," Humphrey said, and somehow or other he seemed to feel -an extraordinary sympathy for Ferrol; he seemed to understand this man. -At that moment he would have stood forth for Ferrol and championed him -against a world of hatred! - -"Only I thought ..." Humphrey began. "You see, she supports her -family...." - -"O Lord!" Ferrol groaned. "It's worse than I imagined." - -"Besides, she's ... she's clever ... we have the same tastes." - -"Of course you have. But your tastes will alter. You're going to -progress.... And she's going to progress, too, on different lines.... A -woman's line of progress is different ... and in twenty years' time!" - -The telephone bell rang. Ferrol took up the receiver. - -"Well, that's all," he said to Humphrey. And then: "I don't take this -trouble with every one." - -Humphrey groped for words. "No ... I understand ... I see what you -mean.... You don't think...." - -Ferrol nodded. "You can do what you like, of course." - -He put the receiver to his ear and began talking rapidly. - - - - -XIII - - -Lilian knew the letter by heart now, she had read it through and -through so often. She had received it early that morning, when, as -usual, she ran downstairs at the postman's knock, so as to take that -precious letter, that came daily, from the floor where it lay as it -had been dropped through the slit in the door. Of late, the sisters -and brother had noticed the hurry to capture the first post, and there -had been a little good-humoured chaffing over the breakfast-table, -where they all sat together--the father and mother took their breakfast -upstairs in bed, in keeping with their slatternly lives. - -"Going to be a blushing bride soon, Lily?" said Harry, with a wink to -Edith. - -"Don't be silly!" Lilian said, crumbling her letter in her pocket. - -"What's he like? Is it that nobleman who came here a few weeks ago? If -so, I don't think much of his taste in ties!" - -"It's better than your taste in socks," retorted Lilian. - -"Aha!--a hit, a palpable hit. Guessed it at once. Pass the butter, -Edie." - -"Do tell us all about it," Florence urged. - -"The family wants to know," pleaded Harry. - -"Lilian--are you really...." - -Her hands closed over the letter which she had just read. She turned -her head away and pretended to be busy at the coffee-pot. They were all -joking among themselves, and they did not notice the tears glisten in -her eyes. - -"There's nothing to tell," she said, in a hard voice. - -"Oh, we don't believe that!" Harry said. "Young ladies wot gets letters -in masculiferous handwritings every morning...." - -She rose abruptly and looked at the clock. Then--wonderful Lilian!--she -laughed and threw them all off the scent. "You children are too -talkative," she said, with pretended loftiness. "I mustn't stop -chattering with you or I shall miss the eight-forty." She put on her -gloves with precision, and took up her little handbag, and adjusted her -hat, just as if nothing had happened to disturb the ordinary course of -her life; and, then, with the usual kiss all round, she let herself out -of the house. - -Oh, she kept herself well in hand throughout the journey to -town--nobody knew, and nobody must know. It was only a secret between -herself and her heart. She looked out with dry eyes over the dismal -plain of chimney-pots with which the train ran level, the cowls -spinning in the wind ... the chimney-pots stretched row upon row, far -away, until, with a hint of the open sea, adventure and wide freedom, -the masts and rigging and brown sails arose from the ships lying in -the docks. But when she came to the office she rushed upstairs, and in -the little room where they hung their cloaks and hats, all her pent-up -emotions broke loose with a torrent of tears. She wanted to empty her -eyes of tears so that there should be none left, and she wept without -control, silently, until she could weep no more. It was just like a -short, sharp storm on a day that is oppressive and heavy; the air is -all the cooler and sweeter for it, fresh breezes play gently over the -streets, the world itself seems eased after its outburst. - -She could smile again. She bathed her red eyes in the cold water of the -basin, and performed some magic with a powder-puff. Nobody would have -guessed, as she sat tap-tapping at her typewriter, with the sunshine -touching her hair with its golden fingers, that a thunderstorm had -shaken her nature a few minutes earlier. It was all over now; only the -letter remained, and she knew the letter by heart, she had read it so -often. - -A difficult letter to write! Well, not really, for that which comes -from the heart is easy to write. It is insincerity which presents -difficulties, and in this business Humphrey had not been insincere. He -had not made any cold calculations as to the future; he had not weighed -the pros and cons of it all. After the letter was written and posted, -the vision of her reproachful face haunted his dreams, and he felt that -he had lost something irretrievable--something of himself that had gone -from him, never to return. - -He was only considering himself. He saw the sudden possibilities of the -future which Ferrol had opened for him; the true proportions in which -he had painted that picture of the days to come. The fear of these -responsibilities attacked him and made him a coward. - -He saw, at once, that he could not marry Lilian, and he told her so in -a tempestuous, passionate letter, with ill-considered phrases jumbled -all together, treading on one another's heels, as fast as the ideas -tumbled about in his mind. - - "I cannot do it, Lilian, dear," he began. "We should never be happy - together. I can see that. I don't know what you will think of me; - you cannot think any worse of me than I think of myself. I feel a - blackguard; I feel as if some one had given me a beautiful, priceless - vase, and I had hurled it to the floor and smashed it. It is not that - I love you any the less, but I cannot ask you to share this life of - mine. When I first knew you, I thought it would be beautiful if we - could be married--everything seemed so easy to accomplish. But now I - see that years must pass before I win my way, and that marriage for - us would be an unhappy, uphill affair. Forgive me, forgive me, Lilian. - I cannot tell you all my thoughts on paper. But meet me just once - more in the old restaurant in the Strand, where I can explain to you - all that I want to say, and plead for your forgiveness. Oh, my sweet - Lilian, you will understand and help me, I know. - - "HUMPHREY." - -This was the letter, written on the impulse of the moment, which -Humphrey sent to her. Incredible that it should be dropped in the -ordinary way into a pillar-box, to lie for hours with hundreds of other -letters, to pass through many hands until it finally came into the -hands of the postman at Battersea Park, who delivered it, without any -emotion, with a score of bills and receipts and circulars. - -Well, it was done, and, while Humphrey was waiting for his work in -the reporters' room of _The Day_, Lilian's mind was busy with the new -development of affairs. Now, she could review everything calmly, she -felt in her heart that Humphrey was right, but there was the sense of -wounded pride with her. He had thrown her over! He did not even ask her -to wait for him--yes! she would have waited--he was hasty to unburden -himself and win his freedom again. Yet she knew that she could not -wait--she was older than he--she would be too old in ten years' time. -The flower of her life would be full for a few years, and then she knew -he would see that her glory was waning.... All this was no surprise -to her. Instinctively she seemed to have known that this would be the -outcome of her love affair. Strange! how she accepted it without any -more demur than the natural outburst of tears--and what were those -tears, after all, but tears of self-pity, as she looked upon herself -and saw that she was poor and patient and loveless? - -They met in that same Italian restaurant in the Strand to which -Humphrey had first taken her on that day, months ago, when the glamour -was upon him. The proprietor knew them for more or less regular -customers, and they always had the upstairs room, which was invariably -empty. - -This dreadful business of the waiter taking his hat and stick, setting -the table in order, offering the menus, and recommending things, with a -greasy smile, and knowing, dark eyes! They had to mask their feelings, -and to play the old part, and pretend that they were going to have -lunch. - -She noticed that Humphrey's face was pale, the lines about his mouth -less soft than usual. His eyes were strained, and he looked at her -wistfully, not quite sure of his ground, wondering whether there would -be a scene. - -She could read him thoroughly. She knew that he really felt mean and -uncomfortable, that she had but to use her woman-wit to recapture him -at once--snare him so completely that never could he escape again. She -knew that the very sight of her weakened him in his resolve, a kiss on -the lips, and her fingers stroking his hair and face, he was hers, and -the world well lost for him. - -But that was not Lilian's way. A strange, deep feeling of pity was -in her heart as she marked the pallor of his face. She would have -mothered him, but never cajoled him. "He is only a boy," she thought -sorrowfully, "with a boy's destructiveness. This, that he thinks is -an overwhelming tragedy, will be only a mere incident in a few years' -time." And she smiled at her thoughts. - -Her smile awoke only the faintest echoes of dying memories within -him: her smile that had once thrilled him, and sent his heart beating -faster, and made his throat so curiously parched--incredible that such -things had happened once! - -"You are not angry," he said, timidly, with a touch of tragedy in his -voice. - -"Angry?" she echoed. (He feared she was going to make light of the -whole affair, and trembled at the idea of her mocking him: he might -have known that that also was not Lilian's way.) "Angry," she repeated. -"No, Humphrey. I'm not angry." - -"There's no excuse," he began, hopelessly, "I've got nothing to say for -myself.... It seems to me ... it seems best that it should be ... for -both of us, I mean." - -"I think it's better for me," she said, softly. "There's no good making -a tragedy of it. Things always turn out for the best." - -He fidgeted uneasily. "I was thinking it over last night.... Oh, my -head aches with thinking.... You see, what can we do, if we married. -Everything's up against us ... it's all fighting and risks, and -uncertainty. I don't mind for myself" (and Humphrey really believed -this, for the moment), "it's you that I'm thinking of ... it wouldn't -be fair. I could ask you to wait ..." he did not finish. - -Now, really, Humphrey's arrogance must be taught a lesson. Behold, -Lilian gathering her forces together to crush him--ask her to wait, -indeed! as if he were her last chance. And then something in his eyes -checked her, something wistful and intensely pathetic. Splendidly, -Lilian spared him. He was so easy to crush ... perhaps she still liked -him a little, in spite of everything. - -"No," she said. "There's no need to do that. We'll each go our own -ways." - -The waiter, after discreet knocking at the door, came between them -with plates of food and clatter of knives and forks. They regarded him -silently, and when he was gone, they made a feeble pretence of eating. - -"I ought to have known better," she said, returning to the business -again with a wry smile. "I ought to have known it couldn't have lasted." - -"It isn't that I love you any the less," he said, unconsciously quoting -a phrase in his letter. "I don't know how to explain my attitude.... I -love you just the same ... but, somehow...." - -"Don't, don't explain," she interrupted. "I understand. Of course it's -impossible if you think like that. And, of course, Humphrey, there's no -need to talk of love...." She laughed a little, and then, really, she -could not spare him any more. "Oh, what a boy you are!" - -He flushed hotly. "I know you've always looked upon me as a boy," he -said. "You think I'm a child ... but it takes a man to do what I'm -doing ... it takes courage to face it out ... it hurts." - -"Oh, you _are_ a boy," she said, with a little hysterical laugh. "Of -course you're only a boy." She pushed her plate away from her. "Don't -you see what you've done--you've broken up everything." - -And she put her head on her arms outstretched on the table, and sobbed -and sobbed again. - -He watched her shoulders tremble with her sobs, and heard her accusing -words repeat themselves in a pitiful refrain in his ears. At that -moment he touched, it seemed, the lowest depths of meanness. He felt -awkward and foolish.... She was crying, and he could do nothing. -"Lilian ... Lilian," he pleaded, touching her hand that was flat on -the table. "Don't--I didn't mean to." Heavens! if she did not stop, he -would snatch her to him, and kiss her hotly, and let Ferrol and the -world and all its success go by him for ever. - -The waiter saved the situation. His knock came as a warning, and when -he entered the room with more plates and a greasier smile, he found -the lady at the window flinging it open widely and complaining of the -heat, the gentleman looking moodily before him, and the food barely -touched. - -"You no like the fricassee, sare?" he said, turning the rejected food -with his fork. - -"It's all right," Humphrey said, in a voice that the waiter knew to -mean "Get out." "No appetite to-day." - -Lilian turned from the window, as the door closed behind him. Her eyes -and lips were struggling for mastery over her emotions, and the lips -conquered with a wan, watery smile. She placed her hand on Humphrey's -shoulder. "There," she said, wiping her eyes, destroying the tension -with a prosy sniff. "It's all over--I didn't mean to be so silly." - -The miserable meal went on in silence. There was nothing more to be -said. He was thinking of all this pitiful love-affair of his, how it -ran unevenly through the fabric of work and hopes, beginning at first -with a brilliant pattern--a splash of the golden sunrise--and gradually -becoming worn, until now all the threads were twisted and frayed. After -this, they would part, never to meet again on the old terms, never -to recapture the thrill of early love. Odd, how she who had lain so -close to his heart, enfolded in his arms, would have to pass him in -the street henceforth, perhaps with only a nod, perhaps without any -recognition at all. And nobody would know, nobody would guess of their -shipwrecked love. - -"I'm glad I never told mother," she said once, voicing her thoughts. -She took a little package from her pocket: it held the few trinkets he -had given her, wrapped up in tissue-paper--a brooch or two, a thin gold -necklace with a heart dangling from it, and his own signet ring. - -"No ... no ..." he said; "for God's sake, keep those. I should be -happier if you kept them." - -She shook her head gently. "I could not keep them," she said. "They -were little tokens of your love ... they belong to you now." - -There was a pause. The clock chimed two. The disillusion was complete, -all the fine draperies of love had been wrenched away--they were so -flimsy after all--and behind them reality stood, sordid and ashamed. -She tried to strike a note of cheerful fatalism. - -"Well, what must be, must be," she said, reaching for her cloak. He -sprang to his feet to help her, remembering how, in other days, his -hand had touched her cheek, and he had urged her lips towards him, -that he might kiss her. How calm and self-possessed she was now. How -magnificently she mastered the situation--a false move from her and the -moments would become chaotic. He was uneasy, awkward and embarrassed -... one moment, ready to snatch her to his arms and begin all over -again; the next, alertly conscious that he was unencumbered, that -henceforth there was no other interest in his life but work--free! - -Now she was ready to go. - -"I won't come down with you," he said, "I'll say good-bye now." He -could not face a parting in the street. He watched her gather her -things together, her bag, her umbrella, her gloves ... she smiled at -him, and now the smile was a riddle: he could not guess her thoughts: -contempt or pity? - -Suddenly she bent down towards him, stooped over him, with her face -aglow with a divine expression, virginal and tender, the light of -sacrifice in her eyes, the sweet pain of martyrdom on her lips; she -bent towards him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. - -"Good-bye, Humphie dear." - -She had never spoken with a voice like that before, she had never shown -how much she loved him, and all the misunderstandings, the torment, the -doubts and uncertainties were washed away as his thoughts gushed forth -in a great appreciation of his loss. - -The next moment she had gone. - -He was alone in the room, with her good-bye ringing in his ears. Idly -he fingered a little packet of tissue-paper, opening it and laying bare -the little pieces of metal that were all that remained to him of his -love. - -He touched the presents that he had given to Lilian--each one held -memories for him.... The gold signet ring had belonged to his -father.... If only Daniel Quain had been there, with his world-wisdom -and philosophy.... - -Tears, Humphrey? Surely, not tears! Think how splendidly free you are -now; think of the moment of triumph when you can go to Ferrol and tell -him that you are no longer hampered; see how straight the path that -leads to conquest. - - - - -XIV - - -That night, in a little box of a flat in Hampstead, a man was fighting -his last battle, with the fingers of Death at his throat and the arm -of Love for his support. It was a sharp, short battle, ended when the -night itself finished, and the dawn came through the chinks in the -shutters, as pale and as cold as a ghost. - -This was the end of Leonard Wratten, whom so few people understood, who -had always kept his own counsel, so that only he himself knew of his -own struggles and ambitions--they were just like Humphrey's, just like -those of every other man in the Street. He had not asked much of life, -and all that he asked for was given him, and then snatched away. - -They talked about it in the Pen Club, and in the offices. "Overwork," -they whispered. "He was just married." Ferrol rose to the occasion: -wrote handsome cheques for Mrs Wratten, straightened out affairs, sent -her flowers, arranged for her to take a sea-cruise ... did all that -he possibly could, except bring Leonard Wratten striding back to life -again. - -But there was one in Fleet Street who followed the coffin to the -cemetery, who seemed to feel that he alone had understood Wratten. -("It's always the best fellows that are taken," they said, when he was -gone, as they say of every one.) And, as he came away from the cemetery -in the sunshine when the coffin had been lowered into the grave, and -scattered with lilies, he knew that he had lost friendship inestimable, -for it had not had time fully to develop and ripen. - -Wratten's death, and the break with Lilian, came hard upon each other: -he felt that the roots of his life were stirred, two influences of such -potent possibilities had gone from him. He knew that a phase of his -life was closed. - - - - -PART III - -ELIZABETH - - - - -I - - -The Pen Club stands far away from Clubland up a narrow court that leads -from Fleet Street, into the maze of the little streets and courts that -finally emerge on Holborn. - -It is the hidden core of newspaper land. It lurks behind the newspaper -offices with discreet ground-glass windows, unpretentious, and -obscurely peaceful. No porter in brass-buttoned uniform guards its -doors--indeed, it has but one, and that a door with a lustrous, -black-glass panel, with a golden message of "Members Only" lettered -upon it. Strangers and messengers are requested to tap gently on the -window of a little pigeon-hole at the side. - -Oliver Goldsmith once lived in the house that is now the Pen Club; Dr -Johnson lived a few courts away, and strode down Fleet Street to the -"Cheshire Cheese," little dreaming that Americans would follow in his -footsteps as pilgrims to a shrine. Its courts have had their place -in the history of our letters, but all that is past, for journalism -affects a contempt for literature, and literature walks by with a high -head. If you want literature, and art, and high-thinking, you must go -further west, along the Strand, where you may find a club that still -clings to the traditions of Bohemia: but if you want to meet good -fellows, jolly, generous, foolish men, wise as patriarchs in some -things, and like children in others, then you must join the Pen Club. - -All around it are the flourishing signs of the journalists' trade. -Here a process-block maker; there a lesser News Agency; round the -corner a large printing works, and almost opposite it the vibrating -basements of _The Day_. You can see the props of the scenery--take a -stroll through the courts, and you see the back-doors of all those -proud newspaper offices, great rolls of paper being hoisted up for -to-morrow's issue, dismal wagons piled high with yesterday's papers, -tied up in bundles, "returns"; unsold papers that will be taken back to -the paper-mills and pulped: food for the philosopher here! - -Humphrey Quain joined the Pen Club when he had been three years in -Fleet Street. It was Willoughby, the crime enthusiast of _The Day_, who -put his name down; Jamieson, the dramatic critic, seconded him. - -Two years had made very little outward difference in Humphrey. He had -perhaps grown an inch, and his shoulders broadened in proportion, but -his face was the same frank, boyish face that had gazed open-mouthed -in Fleet Street on that January day. Yet there was some slight change -in the expression of the eyes; they had become charged with an eager, -expectant look; observation had trained them to an alertness and a -strained directness of gaze. Inwardly, too, the change in him was -imperceptible. He had lost a little of that cocksure way of his, and -acquired, by constant mingling with men older than himself, a point of -view and an understanding above his years. In worldly knowledge he had -advanced with large and sudden strides: some call it vice and some call -it experience. A young man, thrust into the whirlpool of London, finds -it difficult to avoid such experience, and so Humphrey had allowed -himself to be tossed hither and thither with the underswirl of it all, -learning deeper lessons than any man can teach. - -He had come out of this period with a sense of something lost, -yet never regretting its loss. Sometimes a bitter spasm of shame -would overtake him when he thought of the sordid memories he was -accumulating. He could have wished it all undone, and he looked -back on the Humphrey Quain of Easterham, and saw himself singularly -unsmirched, and innocent--knowing nothing, absolutely nothing. After -all, he thought, was this knowledge? Does all this go towards the -making of a man, as the steel is tempered by the fire? Humphrey did not -know ... he took all that life offered him: the good and the bad, the -folly with the wisdom. - -That affair of his with Lilian Filmer was now nothing more than a -memory. They had never spoken since their wretched meeting in the -Strand restaurant. It was strange, too, how rarely they had met, when -in the old days scarcely a day seemed to pass without the sight of her -in Fleet Street. She still worked in the Special News Agency Office, -and yet, during the two years that had passed since their parting, -he had not seen her more than four or five times, and then only in -the distance. Once he found himself marching straight towards her in -the crowd of the luncheon-hour walkers: panic seized him; he did not -know what to do. She was walking proudly with the erect carriage of -her body that he knew so well--and then, almost mysteriously, she had -disappeared. Perhaps she had seen him, and avoided a direct meeting -by turning down a side street or by passing into a shop. For a year -he always walked on the other side of the street during the luncheon -hour. At the back of his mind she lived as vividly as she had lived in -the days when she had been the most important factor in his existence. -There were times when the thought of her rendered him uneasy; he felt -he had not been true to himself, there was a reproachful blot on his -escutcheon.... Strange! how lasting his love had seemed that night when -he had kissed her in the cab after the theatre. He could look back on -it all now dispassionately. There had been progress in the office. His -salary was now eight pounds a week. He remembered the day when he had -gone to Ferrol, and said, a little miserably, for the strain of the -breaking with Lilian pressed hardly on his heart in those days: "I've -broken off my engagement." In these words he had dedicated himself -to Ferrol and _The Day_. Nothing more was said. Ferrol nodded in a -non-committal sort of way. A few weeks later Humphrey was sent to the -East Coast on special work. He did well, and the increase in salary -came to him at last. - -With this he lifted himself out of the old ruck of his life. The money -opened up unbounded vistas of wealth and new possibilities to him. He -decided to leave Beaver and Guilford Street. Beaver, as an influence, -had served his turn in shaping Humphrey's career. It was Beaver who -first showed him the way to London, and now, at odd intervals, Beaver -occurred and recurred across his vision, still biting his nails, and -still with ink-splashed thumbs. No stress of ambition seemed to disturb -Beaver's placidity. He was content to plod on and on, day after day, a -journalistic cart-horse, until he dropped dead in his collar. That was -how it seemed to Humphrey, who never credited Beaver with any great -aspirations, yet that shaggy man had a separate life of his own, with -his own dreams, and his own aims, which one day were destined to touch -the fringe of Humphrey's life. - -Humphrey took a small flat in Clifford's Inn, a place of sleep and -peace and quiet then, as it is now, out of the noise of Fleet Street. -It was a "flat" only by courtesy, for in reality it was made up of -two rooms and a box-room. The larger was his sitting-room, and the -smaller--a narrow, oblong room--he used as a sleeping apartment. Very -little light, and scarcely any air, came through the small latticed -windows, but the rooms held a mediæval charm about them, and he was -free for ever from the landladies and grubbiness of lodgings. He paid a -pound a week for his rooms in Clifford's Inn. - -Every evening when he was free in London, Humphrey went to the Pen -Club. The place had a fascination for him, which he could not shake -off. One could not define this fascination, this influence which the -Club wielded over him. - -It grew on him gradually, until an evening spent without a visit to -the Club seemed empty and insufficient. There was nothing vicious -about the Club--it was just a meeting-place, where one could eat and -drink. Within its four walls there was peace unutterable; and the world -stood still for you when you passed the threshold. Other clubs have -tape machines spitting out lengths of news: telegrams pasted on the -walls; chairs full of old gentlemen reading newspapers with dutiful -eagerness--the Pen Club was a place where you escaped from news, -where nobody was interested in news as news, but merely in news as it -stood in the relation to the doings of their friends. There was no -excitement over a by-election, nobody cared who would get in on polling -day; nobody thrilled over a revolution in a foreign state; mention -of these things only served as a peg on which to hang discussions -of personalities. "I expect Williamson's having a nobby time in St -Petersburg," or "Who's down at Bodmin for _The Herald_--Carter?--I -thought so. Jolly good stuff in to-day." - -And when news did touch them, it touched them personally, and altered -the tenor of their lives perhaps for many days. At any minute something -would happen, and a half-dozen of them would be wanted at their -different offices. They would just disappear from the Club for a few -days, and return to find that a fresh set of events had dwarfed their -own experiences completely. They were never missed. A man might be -absent in Morocco for half-a-year, living through wild happenings, with -his life hanging on a slender thread--a hero in the eyes of newspaper -readers--but nobody in particular in the eyes of the Pen Club, where -every one found his level in the fellowship of the Pen. They came and -went like shadows. - -Humphrey found all types of journalists in the Pen Club--odd types off -the beaten track of journalism, guarding their own cabbage-patch of -news, and taking their wares to market daily. There was Larkin, for -instance, who took the railway platforms as his special province. He -was a tall, thin man, with friendly eyes smiling behind gold-rimmed -pince-nez. No Duke or Duchess could leave London by way of the railway -termini without Larkin knowing it. Those paragraphs that appeared -scattered about all the newspapers of London, telling of the departure -of Somebody and his wife to Cairo or Nice marked the trail of Larkin's -day across the London railway stations. Then there was Foyle, a chubby, -red-faced man, with a jolly smile, who, by the unwritten law of Fleet -Street, chronicled the fires that happened in the Metropolis. A fire -without Foyle was an impossible thing to imagine. There was Touche, -who dealt only in marriages and engagements; and Ford, who had made -a corner for himself in the Divorce Courts; Chate, who sat in the -Bankruptcy Court; Modgers, who specialized in recording the wills and -last testaments of those who died; and Vernham, lean, long-haired, and -cadaverous, who was the Fleet Street authority on the weather. These -men and others were the servants of all newspapers, and attached to -none. In some cases their work had been handed down from father to son; -they made snug incomes, and though they were servants of all, they were -masters of themselves. - -And all these men were just like children out of school, when they met -in the Pen Club: there was no grim seriousness about them--they kept -all that for their work. They had insatiable appetites for stories, for -reminiscences of their craft. They knew how to laugh. It was well that -they did, for, if they had taken themselves seriously, they would never -have been able to face the caricatures of themselves which hung on the -walls. These caricatures, drawn by a cartoonist on one of the dailies, -were things of shuddering satire: they were cruelly true, grotesque -parodies of faces and mouths, legs and arms. If you wanted to know the -truth of a member, all you had to do was to consult the wall, and there -you saw the man's character grimacing at you in colours. - - * * * * * - -Humphrey had been away from London for a week, and he came back to find -the Club seething with excitement. The moment he crossed the threshold -he was aware of something abnormal in the life of the Club. - -It was the last night of the Club elections for the Committee--a -riotous affair as a rule. All round the room there was the chatter and -buzz of members discussing the new spirit in the Club. - -As member after member dropped in, the excitement grew. It was a -historic election. For the first time the youngest members of the Club -had been nominated to stand on the Committee. The older members, the -men who had watched the Pen Club grow from one room in the second floor -of a house to two whole houses knocked into one, looked on a little -sorrowfully. They had not become accustomed to the new spirit in the -Club. Among themselves, they said the Club was going to the dogs. These -young men were making a travesty of the whole business. They had no -reverence for traditions. After all, the election of a Chairman and a -Committee was a grave affair. It was amazing how seriously they took -themselves. - -Presently Chander appeared selling copies of _The Club Mosquito_, a -journal produced specially for the occasion, which stung members in -the weakest spots of their personalities. There were caricatures and -portraits of all the "Young Members" who were going to save the Club, -as they put it, from the moss and cobwebs of old age. Really, these -young men were very ruthless. They invented Election songs, and they -sang boisterously:-- - - "We're going to vote all night, - We're going to vote all day." - -Privileged sub-editors, dropping in for a half-hour from their offices, -found themselves caught up on the tempest of exhilaration. "Hallo, -here's Leman--have you voted yet, Leman?" and a paper would be fetched -and Leman would be made to put a cross against thirteen names, with -thirteen people urging him to have a drink. Bribery and corruption! - -Humphrey abandoned himself to the merriment of the evening. He -constituted himself Willoughby's election-agent, and canvassed for -votes with shameless disregard for the Corrupt Practices Act. Sharp, -the sporting journalist, was busy making a book on the result. That -eminent war-correspondent, Bertram Wace, issued a manifesto, demanding -to know why he should not be Chairman. The price of _The Club Mosquito_ -rose to a shilling a copy when it was known that all the proceeds were -to go to the Newspaper Press Fund. - -Humphrey found himself left alone with the excitement eddying all round -him. He was able to survey the scene with an air of detached interest. -It reminded him of his school-days: all these men were young of heart, -with the generous impulses of boys; they had the spirit of eternal -youth--the one reward which men of their temperament are able to wrest -from life. - -He saw Willoughby, with his black hair in a disordered tangle over his -eyes, joining in the war-song of the Young Members. - -As he looked at all these men, chattering, laughing, grouped together -here and there where some one was telling an entertaining story, he saw -the smiling aspect of Fleet Street, the siren, luring the adventurous -stranger to her, with laughter and opulent promise. To-morrow they -would all begin their nervous work again, struggling to secure a firm -foothold in the niches of the Street, when a false move, a mistake, -would bring disaster with it; but they thought nothing of to-morrow; -they lived in a life of to-days.... - -He saw Tommy Pride come into the Club. Two years had left their mark -on Tommy's face. New reporters had appeared in the Street, and somehow -Tommy found himself marking time, while the army of younger men pressed -forward and passed him. He could not complain; he felt that if he -asserted himself, Rivers or Neckinger would tell him bluntly that they -were cutting down the staff--the dreadful, unanswerable excuse for -dismissal. He knew that his mind was less supple than it was years -ago; the stress and the bitterness of competition was sterner now than -in those days when they posted assignments overnight. So, too, his -pen went more slowly, finding each day increasing the difficulty of -grappling with new methods. Tommy Pride had lived in To-day, and now -To-morrow was upon him. - -"Stopping for the declaration of the poll, Pride?" asked Humphrey. - -"Not me," said Tommy, picking a bundle of letters from his pigeon-hole. -"I've had a late turn to-night and the missis will be sitting up." - -"Well, what about a drink?" - -Tommy shrugged his shoulders wearily. "Oh--a whisky and soda," he said. -"What a row these fellows are making." Willoughby attacked him with a -voting paper, and Humphrey noticed how Pride's hand--the hand that -had written millions of words--trembled as he made crosses against -the names. It was as if each finger were attached to thin wires; it -reminded Humphrey of those toy tortoises from Japan, that danced and -shook in a little glass case. And he thought: "Will my hand be like -that one day?" - -The torrent of talk flowed all round him; gusts of boisterous laughter -marked the close of a funny story. In all the stories there was a note -of egotism. He saw, suddenly, why these men were not as other men. -They were profound egotists, they lived each day by the assertion of -their own individuality. The stronger the individuality of the man, the -greater his chance of success. And these men, he saw, though they all -worked in a common school, were absolutely different from one another. -They were different, even, in breeding: there were men whose voice and -pose could only have been acquired at one of the 'Varsities; there -were men who lacked the refinements of speech; keen, eager men, and -men whose eyes had lost their lustre, who seemed weary with work; mere -boys, self-assertive and confident with the wisdom of men of the world, -and older men with grey heads and bald heads. - -They surged about him, and came and went, in twos and threes, some of -them departing to their homes in the suburbs, north and south, whither -trains ran into the early hours of the morning. - -Humphrey had been long enough in Fleet Street to know them all: if -you could have taken the personalities of these men and blended them -together, the composite result would have closely resembled the -personality of Tommy Pride--who was now drinking his second glass of -whisky. They were men of tremendously active brains--not one of them -but had an idea for a new paper that was worth a fortune if only the -capital could be procured--and all of them longed intensely for that -cottage in the country after the storm and stress of Fleet Street; they -could not talk seriously without being cynical, for though they saw -the real side of life, the pompous make-believe of the rest left them -without any illusions. - -"Better wait for the result now," Humphrey said to Tommy. "It'll be out -in a few minutes." - -"All right," said Tommy, glancing at the clock. "Green's offered me -a lift in his cab. Have a drink, Quain. I had the hump when I came -in--feel better now." - -They all trooped upstairs, where the Young Members were making -discordant noises. They sang new and improvised quatrains. You would -have thought that not a care in the world could exist within those -cheerful walls. - -There was a shout of "Here they are." The vote-counters came into the -room. One of them they hailed affectionately as "Grandpa." Humphrey had -seen him before, walking about Fleet Street, with his silver beard and -black slouch hat set on his white hair, but to-night he felt strangely -moved, as the old man came into the room, smiling to the cheers. What -was it? Some association of ideas passed through his mind, some linking -up of Ferrol, young, powerful, master of so many destinies, with the -picture before his eyes.... - -These thoughts were overwhelmed with a tumult of shouting. The old man -was reading out the names of the members of the new Committee. - -The Young Members had won. - -"Come on," said Tommy Pride, "let's get off before the rush." - -As they passed out of the Club into the cool air of the night, Tommy -suddenly recollected Green and his offer of a cab. "Oh, never mind," -he said; "can you lend me four bob for the cab; I'm rather short." -Humphrey passed the money to him, and, drawn by the jingle of the -coin, as a moth is to candle, a man lurched out of the shadows of the -court. - -The gas-light fell on the unshaven face of the man, and made his eyes -blink feebly: it showed the pitiful, shabby clothes that garbed the -swaying figure. - -"Hullo, Tommy," said the man. He smiled weakly not sure of his ground. - -"Good God!" said Tommy. - -Eagerness now came into the man's face; a terrible eagerness, as if -everything depended on his being able to compress his story into as few -words as possible, before Tommy went. There was no beating about the -bush. - -"I say, old man, lend me a bob, will you?... Didn't you know?... -Oh, I left two years ago.... Nothing doing.... Yes, I know I'm a -fool.... Honest, this is for food.... Remember that time we had up in -Chatsworth, when the Duke...? Seen anything more of that fellow we -met in Portsmouth on the Royal visit?... What was his name?... Can't -remember it ... never mind, I say, old man, _can_ you spare a bob?" - -Tommy passed him one of the shillings he had just borrowed from -Humphrey. "Why don't you pull up," he said; "you can do good stuff if -you want to." - -"Pull up!" said the man. "Course I can do good stuff. I can do the best -stuff in Fleet Street.... Remember that story I wrote about...." - -There was something intensely tragic in this sudden kindling of the -old, egotistical flame in the burnt-out ruin of a man. The cringing -attitude left him when he spoke of his work. - -"Well, you'd better get home..." Tommy said. "What's the missis doing?" - -"She's trying to make a little by typewriting now.... Thanks for the -bob...." He shambled down the court towards Gough Square. "So long." -His footsteps grew fainter, until the last echoes of them died away. - -Tommy Pride came out with Humphrey into Fleet Street. - -There came to them, as it comes only to those who work in the Street, -the fascination of its night. The coloured omnibuses, and the cabs, -and the busy crowds of people had left it long ago, and the lamps were -like a yellow necklace strung into the darkness. Eastwards, doubly -steep in its vacancy, Ludgate Hill rose under the silent railway -bridge to St Paul's; westwards, the Griffin, the dark towers of the -Law Courts, and the island churches loomed uncertainly against the -starless sky. The lights shone in the high windows of offices about -them, and they caught glimpses of men smoking pipes, working in their -shirt-sleeves--Liverpool, Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds, were waiting -for their news. The carts darted up and down the street with loads of -newspapers for the trains. There was a noise of moving machinery. A -ragged, homeless man slouched wretchedly along the street, his eyes -downcast, mumbling his misery to himself. Two men in grimy clothes -were delving down into the bowels of the roadway, and dragging up -gross loads of black slime. They worked silently, seeing nothing of -the loathsomeness of their work. Over all, above even the noise of the -machinery, there came the cleansing sound of swiftly running water, as -the street-cleaners, with streaming hoses, swept the dust and the muck -and the rubble of the day into the torrents of the gutter. - - - - -II - - -Humphrey took rooms in Clifford's Inn, because that was where Kenneth -Carr lived. The two came together, though their natures were opposite, -and their friendship had ripened. - -Carr was an ascetic, denying himself most of the ordinary pleasures -of life, sacrificing himself to the work of his heart; his mind was -calm, with a spiritual beauty; he was a man of singularly high ideals. -This contrast with Humphrey's frank materialism, his love of pleasure -and lack of any deep, spiritual feeling, seemed only to draw their -friendship closer. Then there was the memory of Wratten. They often -talked together of him, and, as for Humphrey, he never found himself -face to face with a difficult piece of reporting without imagining what -Wratten would have done. Most people in Fleet Street had forgotten him -long ago, but on Humphrey's mind he had left an indelible impression. - -"I wonder what it was about Wratten that makes us remember him still," -Humphrey said one day. "I had only known him a few months." - -"I don't know," Kenneth said. "It's like that, I've noticed. Sometimes -a man, out of all the others you meet, comes forward, and you feel -instantly, 'This man is worth having as a friend.' The charm of Wratten -was that there were two Wrattens: one, the glum, churlish man, with -whom nobody could get on, and the other, the self-revealing Wratten we -knew." - -They smoked in silence. Presently Kenneth threw his cigarette into the -fireplace. - -"I suppose I'll have to get on with my book." - -"Why don't you come out ... come to the Club?" - -"Not me, my son. I'm happier here. I want to get a chapter done." - -"What's the good of writing novels ... they don't pay, do they?" - -"Pay! They pay you for every hour you spend over them," said Kenneth. -"I should go brooding mad if I couldn't sit down for an hour or so -every night and do what I like with my people. The unhappiest moments -of my life were when, to oblige Elizabeth, I gave up novel-writing for -a time, and took to poverty statistics." - -Humphrey glanced up at the mantelpiece. A portrait of Elizabeth -Carr was there, in a silver frame, set haphazard among the litter -of masculine knick-knacks--ash-trays, a cigarette-box and a few old -pipes. It was a portrait that had always attracted Humphrey; the sun -had caught the depth of her eyes and the shadows about her throat. He -was never in the room without being conscious of that portrait, and -often, when he was not thinking of her at all, he would find himself -looking upwards at the silver frame to see, confronting him, the -eyes of Elizabeth Carr. She, herself, never seemed to be quite like -the photograph. She came, sometimes, to see Kenneth, and, at rare -intervals, Humphrey's visits coincided with hers. - -She did not live with her brother. She was more fortunate than he, -because she had been left an income which was large enough for all her -wants. She had always wished to help Kenneth with a small allowance, -but he declared he would not touch a penny of her money. "I'll fight my -own battles," he said. - -There was something in her attitude towards Humphrey--a vague, -impalpable something--that left him always uneasy; perhaps it was a -subtle display of deference--he could not define it, but he felt that -she was comparing him, in her mind, with Kenneth, and that he was -worsted in the comparison. She would move about in the little room, -preparing tea for them, her presence bringing an oddly domestic air -into the rooms, and Humphrey would help her, and she would be jolly -and laugh when he was clumsy, but all the time it was as if she were -holding him away from her with invisible hands. - -And, when he looked at her photograph, he saw behind the clear beauty -of the face, with its smile of tenderness and large eyes that never -left him, an Elizabeth Carr divinely meek ... utterly unlike the -Elizabeth Carr he knew, who carried herself with such graceful pride -and seemed so far above him. - -He took up the portrait for a moment. "She hasn't been here lately?" he -said. - -"Who?" asked Kenneth, at his writing-table. - -"Your sister ... you were speaking about the statistics you did for -her." - -"Oh? Elizabeth. No. She's been pretty busy with her work." - -"Slumming, eh?" - -"That's about it. I don't know half her schemes. Wonderful girl, -Elizabeth. Now I come to think of it, I've got to go down to Epping -Forest to-morrow. Some bean-feast she's giving to a thousand slum kids. -There's sure to be a ticket in your office, why don't you ask to do it?" - -"I will," said Humphrey. "A day's fresh air in the forest would do me -good." - -And he did. Things happened to be slack that day in Fleet Street, and -Rivers thought there would be plenty of human interest in the story, -"though, of course, it's a chestnut," so that was how Humphrey found -himself on the platform at Loughton Station an hour later. - -The morning was rich with the warmth and colour of June. The clear -fresh smell of the country was all about him. The scent of the -flowers, the sight of the green fields dappled with the yellow and -white of kingcup and daisy, the pale sky above him with the sun beating -down from the cloudless blue, called him back to Easterham, and the -life that now seemed centuries away. Throughout all the comings and -goings of years, throughout the change, and the unrest of men and -women, the old Cathedral close would be unaltered. The rooks would -still clamour and circle about the beeches, and the ivy would grow more -thickly. Looking back on Easterham, now on the odd market-place, and on -the streets that wandered out to the hedgerows and meadow-lands towards -the New Forest, he looked back on a picture of infinite peace. - -A bird's song and the croon of bees as they swung in their -flower-cradles; a horse galloping freely in a field, and cattle -browsing in the sunshine--were not all these of more worth than -anything else in life? - -Unnoticed, he had relinquished everything to Fleet Street. The poison -of its promise had drugged him. He could appreciate nothing outside its -narrow area ... news! news! and the talking of news; fifty steps round -to the Pen Club, and fifty steps back to the office; all the day spent -in that world of bricks and mortar, which had once seemed so vast, and -was now to him nothing more than a very much magnified Easterham. - -He had not even sought out London. He remembered regretfully the -evening of his first ride with Beaver, through the crowded streets -to Shepherd's Bush, when he had promised himself nights and days of -enchantment in the new wonder of London. And the wonder was still -unexplored. As it was with London, so it was with everything. His -acquaintance and knowledge was superficial. There was no time for deep -study, and the Past could not live with the Present hammering at its -doors urgently day after day. Just so, too, with the cities in every -part of England. He had travelled much, but he came away from every -place taking with him only the knowledge of the whereabouts of the -hotel, the post-office and the railway station. - -A sense of waste filled him; he saw behind him the years, crowded with -events, so crowded with movement that he could retain nothing of their -activity. And he saw before him a repetition of this, year after year, -and again year after year, a long avenue of waiting years, through -which he passed, looking ever forward, seeing nothing, remembering -nothing, and coming through them all empty-handed, unless.... - -Unless what? He saw the impasse waiting for him. What was there -to be done to avoid it? He might rise to the highest point in -reporting--climb up laboriously, only to find at the top of the ladder -that others were climbing up after him to force him down the steps on -the other side. - -Kenneth Carr was rescuing the flotsam of the years. These books of his, -though they brought little money, were something permanent; they were -the witnesses of endeavour; they remained as things achieved out of the -reckless squandering of the hours. - -And Humphrey knew that for him there would be nothing left except the -dead files of _The Day_, nothing more profitable than that, a brain -worked out, weak eyes and a trembling hand. Yes, and as he looked -about him on the glory of the country, and heard the breeze making a -sea-noise among the trees, he felt that there was something everlasting -here, if he could only grasp it. He could not explain it. He only knew -that looking upwards into the lucent depths of the green leaves of a -tree, and catching now and again the glimpse of the blue sky beyond, -seemed to remove the oppression that weighed his soul, and release his -mind from perplexity. - -He smiled. The old phrase came echoing back to him. "Two pounds a -week and a cottage in the country," he thought. Eternal, pitiful, -unfulfilled desire. - -The whistle of the approaching train woke him from his thoughts. "I'm -an ass," he said to himself. "I couldn't live a day without being in -the thick of it." - -He walked back to the station, just in time to see the train coming -round the bend of the platform, giving a glimpse of fluttering -handkerchiefs and eager faces at the windows. The stillness of the -station was suddenly shattered into a thousand noisy pieces. The -children tumbled over one another in their haste to be the first to see -all that there was to see. - -There was a mighty sound of shrill voices, chattering, laughing, and -calling to one another: a confused picture of pallid-faced children, -darting from group to group, seeking their child-friends, and arranging -themselves in marching order. The teachers herded them together like -hens marshalling their elusive brood. Humphrey surveyed the scene with -an eye trained to the observation of detail. - -He saw the painful cleanliness of the children, as though they had been -scrubbed and washed for days before their outing. He saw behind the -neatness of the pink ribbon and the mended boots, a vision of faded -mothers, fumbling with hands shrivelled by laundry work, or fingers -ragged with sewing, at these parting touches of pathetic finery. And, -behind the vision of the mothers, he saw that whole sordid underworld -hung round the neck of civilization.... These children, pinched and -haggard, were left to live in the breathless slums, with only charity -to help them. The State made laws for them: but there was no law to -make them grow up otherwise than the generation of neglect which -produced them. - -They were too young to know the difference between happiness and -misery. They could only sing and march away, an army of rags and -patched neatness, because for one whole day their young limbs were to -have the freedom of the country. They thought of that one day, and not -of the other three hundred and sixty-four days of squalor and want. - -"Hullo--here you are, then," Kenneth Carr appeared out of the crowd of -children. "Seen Elizabeth--I've lost her." - -Humphrey looked along the platform, and he saw Elizabeth Carr bending -down and talking to a little girl. She looked tall and beautiful, among -all the harsh ugliness for which these children stood. Her figure, as -she stooped to the little ones, seemed to shine with grace and merciful -pity. She saw Humphrey, and nodded to him, as he raised his hat. Then -she came up leading the child. - -"Look," she said, and though her eyes were lit with anger, her voice -was gentle. "Look at this child's dress--and the father's earning -thirty shillings a week." - -Humphrey looked. The child was dressed grotesquely, so grotesquely that -it appealed more to the sense of the ludicrous than to the sense of -pity. Her main garment was an absurd black cape sparkling with sequins, -that undoubtedly belonged to her mother's cloak; it reached to below -the child's knees. Beneath this was a tattered muslin blouse of an -uncertain, faded colour, and beneath that--nothing. Elizabeth lifted -the cape a little and showed undergarments made of string sacking. The -child had neither shoes nor stockings. - -"Isn't it a shame!" she cried, sending the child to join the rest. -"Doesn't it revolt you?" - -"Poverty!" said Humphrey. "What can one do?" - -"Do!" retorted Elizabeth. "What's the good of having compulsory -education, if you don't have compulsory clothing. I know the parents of -that child. They could dress that child if they wanted to. Oh," and -she clenched her fists, "it makes me feel so helpless." - -They talked about it on the way to the forest, as they followed in the -wake of the children. - -"The wicked folly and the shame of it," she said. "Does nobody realize -the ruin and wreckage that belongs to big cities? Thousands on -thousands of lives ended before they began. The parents don't know, and -won't know. - -"And what becomes of those who live? These children here will go -through their school-days, and then--what? A small percentage of them -may get on, the rest will become casual labourers, dock-hands, and -loafers." - -They passed a long, ill-clad youth lounging along the road. His face -was brutally coarse, and he walked with a slouch. - -"There's one of them," Elizabeth went on. "Now, I know that boy: he -used to come to these outings three years ago. He's left school now, -and he has tramped down from London for the sake of a meat-pie or a mug -of tea. Lots of them do that, you know," she said to Humphrey. "He's -never learnt a trade. Of course, he learnt history and geography, and -all that, and he got a place, I think, as an errand-boy. There's no -interest in running errands--so he just loafs now; and he'll loaf on -through life, until he's an old man, sleeping on the Embankment, or on -the benches on the Bayswater side of the Park. Perhaps he'll have a -few spells in prison--anyhow, he's doomed. Lost. And so are nearly all -these children here to-day." - -The strength of her convictions amazed Humphrey. He had never heard -Elizabeth talk like this before. He wondered why she, so beautiful and -frail, should mingle with the ugliness of life. When they came to the -forest, and Kenneth wandered off alone, she told him. - -"It's because behind all this sordidness there is something that is -more than beauty--there are magnificent tragedies here, that make my -throat dry. There are struggles to live of which nobody ever knows. -And, sometimes, you know, when I come from one of my slums and stand by -the theatres as they are emptying, and see the lighted motor-cars, and -all these other women with jewels round their necks and in their ears, -I want to laugh at the folly of it all. - -"They don't know ... they never can know, unless they go down to the -depths, and look." - -Humphrey was silent. - -"And nobody can do anything, you know, except this sort of thing. It's -a poor enough thing to do, but it's something to know you're helping." - -"I think this work is noble," Humphrey said. - -"Oh no--not noble. It would be noble if we could do something -lasting--something permanent." - -They were sitting now on the soft grass, and he looked sidewise at -Elizabeth Carr, and saw the fine outline of her profile. There was -great beauty in her face, in the delicate oval of her chin, in the -shadows that played about her throat, showing soft and white above the -low collar of lace. That low lace collar and unornamented dress gave to -her a touch of demure simplicity. She had the fragrance of lavender: -he could imagine her--(seeing her now, with her eyes and lips tender, -and her hands meekly clasped in her lap)--standing in a room of chintz -and Chippendale, tending her bowl of pink roses by the latticed window -opened to the sunshine. - -He sat by her absorbing her serenity; there was repose and rest in the -unconscious pose of her body. He had suddenly found the Elizabeth Carr -of the photograph on Kenneth's mantelpiece: her presence seemed to -bring him peace. - -The noise of the children rioting in their happiness made her smile. - -"Come," she said, "let us go and join them." - -They walked across the open space in the forest, the soft grass -yielding to their feet, and came upon the whole exulting landscape. -On all sides of them the ragged little ones, released for a day from -the barren prison-house of alley and by-way, ran and romped in the -freedom of unfettered limbs, uttering shouts of triumph and gladness. -This picture of merriment unchecked, cheered the heart with its bright -movement. Here was life, overflowing, bubbling, swirling in little -eddies among the trees and undergrowth, running free over the green -meadow-lands with all the chattering animation of childhood. - -Out of the main stream they found strange types of children, odd-minded -little things, full of cunning and mother-wit that they had learnt -already, knowing the world's hand was against them. Some of them -clutched pennies in grimy fists: money saved in farthings for weeks in -anticipation of this treat. Others secreted about their person portions -of the meat-pie which was given them for lunch. They would take this -home as an earnest of altruism. - -Impossible to forget the shadow of misery that overhung all their -lives; impossible to see these ragged children, who had hopeless -years before them, without realizing the mad folly and the waste of -citizenship. - -Splendid Empire on which the sun never sets! Will the historian of -the future, discovering in the ruins of the British Museum Humphrey's -account of that day in Epping Forest, place his finger on the yellow -paper with its faded ink, and cry: "This is where the story of the -Decline and Fall of Britain begins." - -They went to see the children take their tea. They sat at long plank -tables under the corrugated iron roof of the shed-like pavilion. The -girls were in one vast room, the boys in another. Their school-teachers -rapped on the table, and the jabber and chatter faded away into a -silence. Then the voice of one of the school-masters started singing-- - - "Praise God, from whom----" - -and the hymn was taken up by the voices, singing vociferously-- - - "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; - Praise Him, all creatures here below; - Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; - Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." - -There was nothing half-hearted about it; they made a great clamour of -their thanks, and their shrill treble made echoes within echoes against -the iron roof and wooden walls of the room in which they sat. And -Humphrey, always the looker-on, saw the imperishable pathos of this and -all that lay behind it, and for a moment he felt pity tug at his heart. -Then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he turned to Elizabeth and saw -that she was watching him. She laid a gloved hand on his sleeve for the -fraction of a second; it was an impulsive, unconscious movement, the -merest shadow of a caress. - -"I did not know you could feel like that," she said softly. - - - - -III - - -In those days Humphrey, trained in the school of experience, took his -place in the ranks of Fleet Street, that very narrow community, where -each man knows the value of his brother's work. - -He was being shaped in the mould. The characteristics of the journalist -were more strongly marked in him than they had ever been. He was -self-reliant and resourceful, he had acquired the magic faculty of -making instant friendships; he had developed his personality, and there -was about him a certain charm, a youthful ingenuousness of expression -that stood him in good stead when he was at work. People liked -Humphrey; among his colleagues in the Street, he was not great enough -for jealousy, nor small enough to be ignored. He steered the middle -course of popularity. - -He had been long enough now on _The Day_ for Ferrol to perceive his -limitations. Humphrey did not know--nobody knew--that Ferrol from his -red room was watching his work, noting each failure and each success, -watching and weighing his value. And it was with something of regret -that Ferrol realized that in Humphrey he had found not a genius, but -merely a plodding conscientious worker, perhaps a little above the -average. For, in spite of Rivers, who found that genius and reporting -do not go hand in hand, Ferrol was always searching alertly for the -miraculous writer whose style was individual; whose writing would be -discussed in those broad circles where _The Day_ was read. - -One sees Ferrol hoping for that spark of genius to glow in Humphrey, -dreaming, whenever his thoughts took him back, of days now so dim that -they seem never to have existed, and faced only with disappointment. -Up to a certain point he could make Humphrey--but no further. Perhaps, -after all, the boy might show his worth in work of broader scope.... -Ferrol plans, and plans, rearranging the men in his employ, moving a -man here, and a man there, a god with life for a chessboard and human -lives as the men.... One sees Humphrey, young and vigorous, doing his -daily work.... - -It was an extraordinary life, full of uncertainties and sudden -surprises ... a life of never-ending energy, with little rest even in -sleep, for into his dreams there crept all the tangle of the day's -happenings. Disaster swept all round him, but he seemed to be lifted -above all evil by the magic of his calling. The king can do no wrong: -no journalist ever seemed to be hit by the hazards of life. Murders, -the collapse of houses, railway smashes, roofs falling in and burying -people in the rubble, shipwrecks and terrible fires.... Humphrey -was always on the spot, sooner or later, with a dozen others of the -craft.... - -He was outside the range of the things that really mattered. Politics -and the problems that touched deeply the lives of the people did not -come his way. They fell into the hands of the lobby correspondent, the -man in the Press Gallery of the House, or the sociological writers who -stood somewhat aloof from the routine of the Street. - -But, on the whole, the life was glorious, in spite of its bitter -moments. - -"I shall have to chuck it, you know," Kenneth Carr said, one day. "This -life is too awful: it's the system that's wrong, there is no system." - -That was Kenneth's point of view. Of course there was no system. Is -there any system in life? - -"We're all sick men, in Fleet Street," sighed Kenneth. "We're sick and -we're growing old. Our nerves are broken with the continual movement -and unrest. There's no time allowance made for our stomachs: I tell -you, we're all sick men in Fleet Street, brain, nerve and stomach." - -At such times, Humphrey would laugh and defend the Street and its work, -just to cheer Kenneth up. - -"Don't you go and drop out," he urged. "I shall be left without a -friend." - -The next day they met each other on the platform at Paddington. There -was to be a Royal week in Windsor. A foreign monarch had come to -England. - -"Well, what do you think of the life to-day?" Humphrey asked. - -"Oh, it's all right," Kenneth laughed. "I suppose I wanted a little -fresh air and sunshine.... I shall get it in the forest." - - - - -IV - - -He was reading a letter in the bold, firm handwriting of Elizabeth Carr. - - "DEAR MR QUAIN," she wrote, "I don't think I ever thanked you for the - article you wrote of our day in the forest with the children. I asked - Kenneth to tell you how glad I was, but I expect he forgot all about - it. I think your article was most _sympathetic_, though I wish you - hadn't made quite so much of that unfortunate child who was dressed - so grotesquely. I will tell you what I mean when I see you, for I am - writing to know if you can come to dinner here. I'm sorry Kenneth - won't be able to come--he's away in Lancashire on that dreadful - strike. Thank Heaven--he'll be leaving it all soon." - -There was a postscript. - - "Of course, I know the nature of your work will not let you say 'yes' - definitely, but I've made the day Saturday, on purpose to give you a - chance. And if I don't have a wire from you, I shall expect you." - -It was quite a month since he had spent that day in Loughton with -Elizabeth Carr, and though he could not name offhand the things he -had done since then, day by day, that day and its incidents remained -sharply defined in his memory. - -Had he really taken more than usual care to write his account of their -doings? Or, was it that the vision of her, and the recollection of her -earnest eyes, inspired him to better work? Or, had there been nothing -very special about the story after all, and was her letter merely a -courtesy? - -The fact remained that he was flattered to receive the letter with its -invitation. Kenneth had certainly forgotten to deliver her message. He -looked upon it as something of a triumph for him: very patiently he had -waited for a word from Elizabeth Carr. - -There was that extraordinary remark of hers when he had watched the -children sing their grace. He had asked her what she meant by it, and -she had declined to say. He had felt humiliated by her words: did she -imagine that he had no heart at all? She seemed to think that because -he was a reporter on a halfpenny paper, he must be absolutely callous. - -He re-read the letter. She was curiously captious. She seemed ready to -take offence now because he had made a "story" out of that wretched -child clad in its mother's cape and bedraggled blouse. Well, of course, -she wasn't a journalist. She couldn't be expected to see human interest -from the same point of view as _The Day_. He wrote, accepting her -invitation provisionally. - -In the days that followed, thoughts of Elizabeth Carr recurred with -disturbing persistency. He recalled the odd way in which she had come -into his life: first at that evening at the Wrattens, when Lilian -Filmer had been his foremost thought, then, intermittently, at Kenneth -Carr's, something unusually antagonistic in her attitude to him; and -now she had come into the heart of his work, bringing with her a touch -of intimacy. She, who had always averted herself from him, was now -asking him to be her guest. - -She, who had always seemed to ignore him, was, of a sudden, extending -towards him tentacles of influence, vague and shadowy; he was uneasily -aware of their presence. - -He read her letter several times before the Saturday came--the gentle -perfume of it reminded him of her own fragrance. He was sensitive -to praise and appreciation, and he dwelt often on those words which -spoke of his work. It was pleasant to know that he had at last shown -Elizabeth Carr what he could do. She was, he knew, judging him always -by Kenneth's standard, in life as well as writing, and of course -every one knew that Kenneth's ideals were high, that his writing was -brilliant.... So Kenneth was going to leave Fleet Street. It was the -first that Humphrey had heard of it. "I shall have to chuck it," -Kenneth had said, and he was going to keep his word. He contemplated -the prospect with melancholy. Kenneth was a good friend; his departure -would leave an intolerable gap in London life. The chats and the -evening meetings would be gone.... They would pass out of each other's -daily life.... - -Thus Saturday came, and Humphrey found himself free to carry out his -acceptance of Elizabeth's invitation. - -Humphrey had always imagined that Elizabeth lived in a flat with some -woman-friend: he was surprised when he found the address led to a -little white house, one of a row of such houses, in a broad, peaceful -road at the back of Kensington High Street. It was one of those houses -that must have been built when Kensington was a village; it was like a -cottage in the heart of London. The Virginian creeper made its drapery -of green over the trellis-work that framed the window, and the walls -were green with ivy. An elderly woman opened the door to his knock, and -he found himself in a low-ceilinged hall, with a few black-and-white -drawings on the walls, and a reproduction of Whistler's Nocturne. - -He was ushered into the sitting-room. Even if he had not known that it -was her house, he could have chosen this room, out of all the rooms in -London, as the room of Elizabeth Carr. Wherever he looked, he found a -reflex of her peace and gentle calm. - -In the few moments of waiting he took in all the details of the room: -the soft-toned wall-paper, with a woodland frieze of blue and delicate -shades of green, the old Japanese prints on the walls, and the little -leather-bound books on the tables here and there. He had sat so many -times in the rooms of different people whom he went to interview, that -his observation had trained itself mechanically to notice such details. -He heard a rustle on the stairs, the door opened gently, and Elizabeth -Carr came into the room. - -She looked as beautiful as a picture in the frame of her own room. So -had he imagined her, her hair looped back from its centre parting piled -in gleaming coils just above the nape of her neck, leaving its delicate -outline unbroken; a long necklet of amethysts made a mauve rivulet -against the whiteness of her bosom till it fell in a festoon over her -bodice, and blended with the colour of her dress, amethystine itself. -And in her hair there gleamed a comb beaten by a Norwegian goldsmith, -and set with moonstone and chrysoprase. - -She came forward to greet him, moving with the subtle grace of -womanhood. Her charm, her frank beauty, filled him with a peculiar -sense of unworthiness and embarrassment. Before the wonder of -her, before the purity of her, everything else in life seemed -incomprehensibly sordid. - -"I am so glad you were able to come," she said. She looked him in the -eyes as she spoke, and there was this, he noticed, about Elizabeth -Carr: she meant every word she said--even the most trivial of greetings -took on significance when she uttered them. Her words gave him -confidence. - -"It was good of you to ask me...." There was a slight pause. "I nearly -missed the house," he said with an inconsequential smile. "I always -thought you lived in a flat." - -"Did you?" she replied. "Oh no!--(Do sit down--I'm expecting some more -visitors shortly.) I've had this house for a long time." She sighed. -"It's an inheritance, you know, and I thought I'd live in it myself, -instead of letting it. Kenneth and I have dreadful squabbles--he says -it's too far out for him, and wants me to keep a flat with him in -town--and I loathe flats. I've got a small garden at the back, and it's -blessed in the summer. There's a walnut tree and a pear tree just wide -enough apart to hold a hammock." - -"A hammock in London!" cried Humphrey; "I envy you! Think of our -Clifford's Inn." - -"I really don't know how you people can live on the doorsteps of your -offices. I'm sure it's not good for you. Anyway, Kenneth's giving it -up." - -"I hadn't heard of it before your letter." - -"It was only settled a few days ago. Grahams, the publishers, liked his -last book well enough to offer him a good advance; and the book's sold -in America--he's got enough to get a year's start in the country, and -so he's going down there to write only the things he wants to." - -Humphrey smiled in his cocksure way. "Aha! he'll soon get sick of it, -Miss Carr." - -Elizabeth Carr's fingers strayed into the loops of her amethyst -necklace; the light shone on the violet and blue gems as she gathered -them into a little heap, and let them fall again. Her brows hinted at a -frown for a moment, and then they became level again. - -"Nothing would make you give up Fleet Street, I suppose?" she asked. - -"No ... the fever's in me," he said. "I couldn't live without it." - -"Are you so wrapped up in it?" - -"Well," said Humphrey, "I suppose I am. It's rather fine, you know, the -way things are done. You ought to go through a newspaper office and -see it at work ... all sorts of people, each of them working daily with -only one aim--to-morrow's paper...." - -"And you never think of the day when Ferrol doesn't want you any more?" - -"Well, you know," Humphrey said, with a smile, "it's difficult to -explain. We just trust to luck. After all, lots of men have drifted -into journalism; when they're done, they drift back again." - -"I see," Elizabeth Carr said, nodding her head gently. "And there are -always fresh men to drift." - -"I suppose so." - -"And, you're quite content." - -Humphrey shrugged his shoulders. "What else can I do?" - -The bell rang. "Ah! what else!" she exclaimed, rising to meet her -visitors. - -The new-comers were introduced to Humphrey. One was a tall, thin man, -with remarkable eyes, black and deep-sunken, and the thin mobile lips -of an artist. His name was Dyotkin; he spoke English fluently, with a -faint Russian accent. The other was a woman whose youthful complexion -and features of middle age were in conflict, but whose hair tinged -with grey left no doubt of her years. Although her dress was in -excellent taste, it suggested an unduly overbearing wealth. Humphrey -recognized her name when he heard it: Mrs Hayman. She was one of the -philanthropists who helped Elizabeth in her work. - -They went into dinner, to sit at a little oval Chippendale table just -big enough for the four of them; Dyotkin and he faced one another, -sitting between Elizabeth and Mrs Hayman. - -"Your work must be very interesting," Mrs Hayman said. - -Humphrey smiled. That was the commonest remark he heard. Those who did -not know what the work was, perceived dimly its interest, but not one -of them could ever be made to understand the intense, eager passion of -the life. - -"It is interesting," Humphrey said. "Miss Carr knows a good deal of it." - -"I suppose you go everywhere--it must be splendid." - -"When you talk like that, I, too, think it must be splendid. Sometimes, -it's very funny." - -"Still, it's nice to see everything, isn't it? And I suppose you go to -theatres and concerts." - -"Oh no! I'm not a critic. That's another man's work. I'm just a -reporter." - -"I don't know how you get your news. What do you do? Go out in the -morning and ask people? And isn't it dreadfully difficult to fill the -paper?" - -It was always the same; nobody could understand the routine of the -business. Everybody had the same idea that newspaper offices lived in -a day of tremulous anticipation lest there should not be enough news. -Nobody understood that the happenings in the world were so vast and -complex, that their sole anxiety was to compress into four pages the -manifold events that had happened while the earth had turned on its -axis for one day. - -"Now, yesterday, for instance?" Mrs Hayman said, with an inviting -smile. "What did you do yesterday?" - -"Oh, yesterday was an unpleasant day. I had to go to Camberwell late -at night. A man had given himself up somewhere in Wales. He said he'd -murdered Miss Cott--you remember the train murder, three years ago.... -He kept a chemist's shop in Camberwell, we found out. So I had to go -there. I got there dreadfully late. The door was opened by a girl. Her -eyes were swollen and red. She was his daughter, I guessed.... I can -tell you, I felt awkward." - -"I should think so," Elizabeth said. He looked at her, and saw that she -was annoyed. - -"What did you do--go away?" Mrs Hayman asked. - -"Go away? Good gracious, no. I interviewed her." - -"Interviewed her!" - -"Well, I talked with her, if you like. They were very pleased at the -office." - -"I think it's repulsive," Elizabeth remarked. - -"Oh, come!" Humphrey remonstrated. - -The dinner was finished. It occurred to Humphrey that he had fallen -from grace. - -"We will go into the next room," Elizabeth said, "and Mr Dyotkin shall -play to us." As she passed by him, Humphrey went forward and opened the -door for her. Dyotkin and Mrs Hayman lingered behind. He passed into -the adjoining room with Elizabeth. He wanted to defend himself. - -"You're a little hard on me, you know," he said. - -"I don't understand how you can do it," she said. - -"Do what?" - -"Forget all your finer feelings, and make a trade of it." - -"I don't make a trade of it," he said, hotly. "You cannot separate the -good from the bad. You must take us just as we are--or leave us." - -The words came from him quietly, almost unconsciously, as though in an -unguarded moment his tongue had taken advantage of his thoughts. She -turned her face sideways to his, and he was conscious of a queer look -in her eyes--an expression which was absolutely foreign to them. He -saw doubt, uncertainty and surprise in the swift glance of a moment. -"I ought not to have said that," he thought to himself. And, then, -hard upon that, defiantly, "I don't care what she thinks; it's what I -thought." - -The expression in her eyes softened. Though he had said nothing more, -it was as if he had subtly communicated to her that which was passing -in his mind. - -"Yes," she said, with softness in her voice, "we must take the good -with the bad, but we must separate the sincere from the insincere. I -saw you that day in the forest when your eyes showed how you felt the -pity of it all--and yet, you see, you did not put that in _The Day_. -You did not write as you felt." - -So that was her explanation. How could he make her comprehend the -conflict that was for ever in his mind, and even his explanation could -not redeem him in her eyes. - -John Davidson's verse ran through his mind like a dirge:-- - - "Ambition and passion and power, - Came out of the North and the West, - Every year, every day, every hour, - Into Fleet Street to fashion their best. - They would write what is noble and wise, - They must live by a traffic in lies!" - -Ah, but it was wrong of her to take that view. As if one could ever -tell the truth in a world where the very fabric of society is woven -from lies and false conceptions. How could he tell her and make her -believe that he was thrilled, and that his throat tightened at things -that he saw--and yet he never dared give way to his emotions, and write -them. Why, the most vital things in his life were not the things he -wrote, but the things he did not write. - -Though his mind was rioting with indignation, he laughed. "We mustn't -take our work too seriously," he said. "It's too ephemeral for that. -Things only last a day." - -She did not answer. She turned from him without a word. He had meant to -anger her, and he had succeeded. There was a chatter of voices in the -passage and Mrs Hayman came into the room with Dyotkin. Elizabeth went -towards him. - -"Won't you play something?" she begged. - -Dyotkin sat down by the piano. The seat was too low; he wanted a -cushion, or some books, and Elizabeth went to fetch them. - -The sight of her waiting on Dyotkin filled Humphrey with an increasing -annoyance. It jarred on him somehow. He attempted to help in an -ungainly way, but Elizabeth, without conveying it directly, held aloof -from his assistance. He settled himself in the arm-chair by Mrs Hayman -... and Dyotkin played. - -Humphrey had no knowledge of music. He did not even know the name of -the piece that was being played, but as the fingers of Dyotkin struck -three grand chords, something stirred within his soul, and, gradually, -a vague understanding came to him, and he followed and traced the theme -through its embroidery. And the following of the theme was just like -the following of an ideal. At times he was lost in waves of seductive -sounds, that charmed him and led his thoughts away, and then, suddenly, -the chords would emerge again, out of the bewildering maze of melody -clear and triumphant, again, and yet again; he could follow them, -though they were cunningly concealed beneath intricate patterns. - -And then, for a moment, he would lose them, but he knew that they were -still there, if he sought for them, and so he stumbled on; and, behold, -once more as the dawn bursts out of the darkness, the familiar sounds -struck on his ears. And now they were with him always: he hearkened to -them, and they were fraught with a strange, delicious meaning. "I have -thought this," he said, in his mind. - -Here was something far, far removed from anything of daily life. He -was uplifted, exalted from earthly things. The wonder of the music -enchanted him. Ah! what achievements were not possible in such -moments! He felt grandiose, noble and apart from life altogether.... -The music ceased. He sighed as one awaking from the glory of a dream. -He looked up, and his eyes, once again, met the eyes of Elizabeth, deep -and tender and unspeakably divine. - - - - -V - - -It is impossible to point a finger at any date in this period of the -career of Humphrey Quain and say, "This is the day on which he fell in -love with Elizabeth Carr." For the days merged gradually into weeks and -months, and they met at irregular intervals, and out of their meetings -something new and definite came to Humphrey. - -There was no sudden transition from acquaintance to friendship, from -friendship to love. He could not mark the stages of the development of -their knowledge of one another. But before he was aware of its true -meaning, once again the spirit of yearning and unrest took hold of him. - -This time, his love was different from that abrupt love-affair with -Lilian Filmer. Then untutored youth had broken its bounds, and love had -swept him from his foothold. He had been ardent, passionate in those -days, the fervour of love had intoxicated him; but now, with this slow -attachment, his love was a different quality. Lilian, coming fresh upon -the horizon of his hopes, bringing with her the promise of all that -he needed in those days, had made a physical appeal to him. Always -there was working, subconsciously, in his mind, the thought of her -desirability. She offered him material rewards; they were attracted to -each other by the mutual disadvantages of their surroundings. - -Their meeting, their abortive love-affair was the expression of the -everlasting desire of the companionship of sex: they were, both of -them, groping after things half-understood, towards a goal that looked -glamorous in the incomplete vision they had of it. - -But Elizabeth Carr appealed to the intellectual in him. No doubt the -old primeval forces compelled him towards her, but they were far below -the surface of his thoughts whenever the vision of Elizabeth rose -before him. He could not describe the hold she had on his imagination. -Her influence had been so subtly and gently exercised, that he had not -noticed the power of it, until now he was dominated by the thought of -her. The finer spirit that lies dormant in every man, except in the -very basest, put forth its wings and awoke. In little questions of -everyday honour he began to see things from Elizabeth's point of view: -little, trivial questions of his dealings with mankind which jarred on -Elizabeth's own code of morality. Unquestionably, he was better for her -influence, better from the spiritual standpoint, but weaker altogether -when judged by the standard of everyday life. Elizabeth preached the -gospel of altruism not directly, but insidiously, and he found himself -adopting her views. - -Hitherto his had been the grim doctrine of worldly success: those who -would be strong must be ruthless and remorseless; there must be no -halting consideration of the feelings of others. Though he did not -realize it, his absorption of Elizabeth's ideals was weakening him, -inevitably. - -The charity of her work, with its gentle benevolence, was reflected -in all her life. She gained happiness by self-sacrifice, and peace -by warring against social evils. Their characters and temperaments -conflicted whenever they met, and yet, after each meeting, it seemed -to Humphrey that their friendship was arising on a firmer basis. -Sometimes the shock of their opposing personalities would leave -behind it quarrelsome echoes--not the echoes of an open quarrel, but -the unmistakable suggestion of disagreement and dissatisfaction. He -blundered about, trying to fathom her wishes, but her individuality -remained always to him a problem, inscrutably complex. - -There were times, it seemed, when their spirits were in perfect -agreement, when he was raised high in the wonder of the esteem in which -she, obviously, held him. Those were the times when he came first to -realize that he loved her: and the audacity of his discovery filled -him with dismay. He knew that she was altogether superior; she lived -exalted in thought and deed in a plane far above him. They met, it is -true, over tea, or at a theatre, just as if they both inhabited the -same sphere, but, in spite of that, they were as separate planets, -whirling in their own orbits, rushing together for an instant, meeting -for a fraction of time, and soaring away once more until again they -drew together. - -And, even when understanding of her seemed nearest to him, she suddenly -receded from his grasp. A change of voice, a change of expression, -a movement of her body--what was it? He did not know. He only knew -that something he had said had separated them: she could become, in -a moment, distant and unattainable, another woman altogether, coldly -antagonistic. - -Yet, by the old symptoms, he knew that he loved her. She persisted in -his thoughts with an alarming result. He found himself pausing, pen in -hand, at his desk in the reporters' room, thinking, "Would Elizabeth -be pleased with this?..." And an impulse that needed all his strength -to combat seized him to abandon the set form into which _The Day_ had -cast his thoughts, to criticize and to express his own individual -impression, whether they accorded or not with the views held by _The -Day_. This was altogether new and disturbing. He was a mouthpiece whose -mere duty was to record the words of others by interviews, or a painter -to present pictures and not opinions. Conscience and convictions were -luxuries that belonged to the critics of art, and the leader-writers. - -There came to him days of unqualified unhappiness, when he was -possessed by doubts. For the first time he mistrusted the value of his -work: he began to see that the fundamental truths of life were outside -his scope. Cities might be festering with immorality and slums; vice -might parade openly, but these things could never be touched on in a -daily newspaper. Nobody was to blame, least of all those who controlled -the newspaper, for it is not the business of a daily to deal with the -morals of existence.... It is not easy to analyse his feelings ... but, -as a result of all this vague tormenting and apprehension, the old -thrill at the power and wonder of the office which throbbed with daily -activities forsook him, leaving in its place nothing but the desolating -knowledge of the littleness and futility of it all. - - * * * * * - -The phase passed: the variety of the work enthralled him again. He -travelled to distant towns and remote villages, and whenever he was -in the grip of his work, all thoughts of Elizabeth Carr departed from -him. He obtained extraordinary glimpses into the lives of other people; -he acquired a knowledge into the working of things that was denied to -those who only gleaned their knowledge second-hand from the things that -he and others wrote. He saw things all day long: the plottings, the -achievements and the failures of mankind. - -The other men of the Street flitted into his life and out again at the -decree of circumstance. For a week, perhaps, half-a-dozen of them would -be thrown together in some part of England. They met at the hotels; -they formed friendships, and they parted again, knowing, with the -fatalism of their craft, that they would forgather perhaps next week, -perhaps next year. There was no sentiment in these friendships. - -There were the photographers, too. A new race of men had come into -Fleet Street, claiming kinship with the reporters, yet divided by -difference of thought and outlook upon news. They were remarkable in -their way, the product of the picture daily paper. And their coming -marked the doom of the artist illustrators in the newspapers. They were -the newest of the new generation, shattering every conception even of -the younger men of the manner in which a journalist should perform his -duty. The photographers were drawn, as a class, from the studios and -operating-rooms of the professional photographer. They forsook the -posing of babies and young men in frock coats for the photographic -quest of news. - -Their finger-tips and nails were brown with the stain of iodoform, -and for them there was no concealment of their profession, for they -went through life with the burden of their cameras slung over their -shoulders. Their audacity was astounding, even to Humphrey and his -friends, who knew the necessity of audacity themselves. - -They ranged themselves outside the Law Courts, or the Houses of -Parliament, or wherever one of the many interests of the day centred, -and when a litigant or a Cabinet Minister appeared, a dozen men closed -towards him, their cameras at the level of their eyes, and a dozen -intermittent "clicking" noises marked the achievement of their quest. -They saw life in pictures; a speech was nothing to them but the open -mouth and the raised arm of the speaker; the poignancy of death left -them unmoved before the need of focus and exposure. - -The difficulties of their work seemed so immense to Humphrey that -reporting seemed child's play beside it. For not only had they actually -to be on the spot, to overcome prejudices and barriers, but, once -there, they had to select and group their picture, and to reckon with -the light and time. And though the photographers and the reporters were -far removed from one another by the external nature of their work, -though neither class saw life from the identical standpoint, yet they -were interdependent, and linked by the same ceaseless forces working -towards one common end.... - -Sometimes, also, in out-of-the-way places, Humphrey met men who -reminded him of his days on the _Easterham Gazette_, men with -attenuated minds who were even more absorbed in their work than the -London reporter. They had a shameless way of never concealing their -identity: they were always the "reporter"; some of them never saw the -dignity of their calling, they were careless of speech and appearance, -seeming to place themselves on the level of inferior people, and -submitting to the undisguised contempt of the little local authorities, -who spoke to them scornfully as "You reporters." - -Yet, among these, Humphrey found scholars and men of strange -experience. Their salaries were absurdly low for the work they -did--thirty shillings to two pounds a week was the average; their -lives were a thousand times more dismal and humdrum than the lives of -the London men. And, in spite of these, many London men sighed for -the pleasant country work. Whenever Humphrey heard a man speak of the -leisure and peace of country journalism, he told them of Easterham and -its dreadful monotony. - -He had interior glimpses, too, of other newspaper offices; not a town -in the kingdom without its sheet of printed paper, and its reporter -recording the day or the week. These offices held his imagination by -their sameness. Whether it was Belfast or Birmingham, Edinburgh or -Exeter, their plan was uniform. There was always the narrow room, with -its paper-strewn desks or tables at which the reporters sat; always the -same air of hazy smoke hovered level with the electric-light bulbs; -the same type of alert-eyed men, with the taut lips and frown of those -who think swiftly, came into the room, smoking a cigarette or a pipe -(but rarely a cigar), and brought with them a familiar suggestion of -careless good-fellowship as they sat down to the work of transcribing -their notes. And, always, wherever he went, the pungent smell of -printer's ink was in his nostrils, the metallic rustle of shifting -types from the linotype room, and the deep, rumbling sound of machinery -in his ears. - -Ah, when he got down to the machines that moved it all, he probed to -the depths of the simple greatness. Those big, strong men who worked -below it all, and lived by the labour of it, made a parable of the -whole social system. Of what avail would all their writing be, if it -were not for the men and the machines below? - -Once he went down the stone steps to the high-roofed basement of _The -Day_. He went at midnight, just when the printing was about to begin. -It was as if he had penetrated into the utmost secrecy of the office. -Here were the things of which nobody seemed to think; here, again, -were men in their aprons stained with grease and oily ink; men with -bare, strong arms lifting the curved plates of metal, and fixing them -to the cylinders; each man doing his allotted work, oiling a bearing -here, tightening a nut there, moving busily about the mighty growth of -machinery that filled the brightly lit room. The sight of that tangle -of iron and steel confused his thoughts. He understood nothing of it -all. Those great machines rose before him, towering massively to the -roof, tier upon tier of black and glittering metal, with rods and -cranks, and weird gaps here and there showing their bowels of polished -steel. The enormous rolls of paper which he had seen carried on carts -and hoisted many a time into the paper-department of the office, were -waiting by each machine, threaded on to a rod of steel. Their blank -whiteness reflected the light of the electric lamps. - -And then, suddenly, a red light glowed, and somebody shouted, and a man -turned a small wheel in the wall--just as a motor-car driver turns -the wheel of the steering gear--and the great machines broke into -thunderous noises. The din was appalling. It was loud and continuous, -and the clamour of it deadened the ears. - -Humphrey looked and saw the white reels of paper spinning, and, through -the forest of iron and steel, he could trace a cascade of running -whiteness, as the paper was spun between the rollers, up and down -and across, until it met the curved plates of type, and ran beneath -them, to reappear black with the printed words. And the columns looked -like blurred, thin lines in the incredible rapidity of the passing -paper. The moments were magical; he tried to follow the course of this -everlasting ribbon of paper, but he could not. He saw it disappear -and come into his vision again. He saw it speed and vanish along a -triangular slab of steel, downwards into the invisible intricacies that -took it and folded it into two and four and eight pages, cut it and -patted it into shape, and tossed it out, quire after quire, a living, -printed thing--_The Day_. - -And everywhere, wherever he glanced at the turbulent, roaring machines, -little screws were working, silent wheels were spinning, small, thin -rods were moving almost imperceptibly to and fro, to and fro. He saw -great rollers touching the gutters of ink, transmitting their inky -touch to other rollers, spinning round and round and round; and the -paper, speeding through it all, from the great white web to the folded -sheets that were snatched up by waiting men and bundled into a lift, -upwards into the night where the carts were waiting. - -And the force of the noise was dreadful, and the power of the machines -perpetual and relentless as they flung from them, with such terrible -ease, hundreds and hundreds of thousands of square, folded papers. - -They looked as if they could crush the lives of men in the swift snare -of their machinery. - - - - -VI - - -Whom should he meet one day, but Beaver! - -Beaver of the inky thumbs and the bitten nails, who had, somehow, -eluded him, though they both worked in the narrow Street. Nothing -astonishing in this, for the work of Beaver lay in circles different -from his own. He never came outside the radius of meetings, inquests, -the opening of bazaars and the hundred and one minor happenings that -are to be found in "To-day's Diary." But here he was, utterly unchanged -from the Beaver with whom Humphrey had lived in Guilford Street, with -Mrs Wayzgoose, her wasteful coal-scuttles and her bulrushes. - -They met in a chop-house by Temple Bar, a strange place, where the -lower floor was packed with keen-faced men from the Courts of Justice -over the way and the Temple at the back. They sat crowded together, -abandoning all comfort in the haste to enjoy the luxury of the chops -and steaks for which the house was famed. - -There were no table-cloths on the round tables, where coffee-cups and -plates of poached eggs and rounds of toast jostled each other. Only -in England would people sit with joy and eat cheek by jowl in this -fashion, with the smell of coffee and hot food in their nostrils, and -the clatter of plates and knives and forks in their ears. - -Upstairs men played chess and dominoes over coffee and rolls, cracking -their boiled eggs with difficulty in the cramped space. - -Humphrey heard a voice hail him as he threaded his way between the -tables. He looked back and saw Beaver waving a friendly fork at him. - -"Hullo!" cried Beaver, shifting his chair away a few inches, and -seriously incommoding a grey-haired man so absorbed in his game of -chess that his coffee was cold and untouched. "Come and sit here," -cried Beaver. - -They shook hands. "Well, how goes it?" Humphrey asked. "Still with the -nose to the grindstone?" - -"That's it," Beaver said. Their positions had been changed since the -days of Easterham, when Beaver seemed miles above him in worldly -success. He remembered the day Beaver left for London, to embark on -a career which shone clear and brilliant in Humphrey's imagination. -"Write in!" Those had been Beaver's last words. "Write in. That's what -I did." The vision of it all rose before him now, as he sat by Beaver: -the dingy office, with the scent of the fishmonger next door, the -auctioneer's bills on the walls, with samples of mourning and wedding -cards, and tradesmen's invoice headings, to show the excellence of the -_Gazette's_ jobbing department. And now--? He was conscious of a change -in Beaver's attitude towards him. - -Humphrey had taken his place in Fleet Street among the personalities, -among the young men of promise and achievement. He had even seen his -name signed to occasional articles in _The Day_--glorious thrill, -splendid emotion, that repaid all the long anonymous hours of patient -work! - -"You're getting on!" Beaver said. There was admiration unconcealed in -his eyes and voice. "Great Scott! It seems impossible that you and I -ever worked together on that rotten Easterham paper. That was a fine -story you did of the Hextable Railway Smash." - -"I've got nothing to complain of," Humphrey replied, hacking at a roll -of bread. "It hasn't been easy work. Yours isn't, for the matter of -that." - -Beaver laughed. "Oh, mine--it isn't difficult, you know. I get so used -to it, that I can report a speech mechanically without even thinking of -the speaker." - -"It's a safe job, you know," he said, after a pause. "A life job." - -Humphrey knew what Beaver's exultation in the safety of his job meant. - -There were men in Fleet Street, husbands of wives, and fathers of -families, who lived and worked tremblingly from day to day, never -certain when a fatal envelope would not contain the irrevocable -"regret" of the editor that he could no longer continue the engagement. - -Why, it might happen to Humphrey himself, for aught he knew. Truly, -Beaver was to be envied after all. - -"But don't you think you'd do better on a daily paper?" Humphrey said. -"I could tell Rivers about you, you know. There might be room on _The -Day_." - -"I'm taking no risks. I'm going to stop where I am. You see--er--" -Beaver became suddenly hesitant, and smiled foolishly. "What I mean to -say is--I'm engaged to be married." - -He leant back in his seat and contemplated the astonishment in -Humphrey's face. - -"No--are you really!" - -"Fact," retorted Beaver. "Been engaged for the last year." - -Beaver going to be married! The news touched Humphrey oddly: Beaver -could be earning very little more than Humphrey had earned at the time -when he had almost plunged into married life, and there was no desire -on Beaver's part to reach out and grasp greater things; he was in a -life job, untouched by the wrack and torment of ambition, and the -craving for success. Oh, assuredly, Beaver was not to be pitied in the -equable calmness of his life and temperament. - -"Well, I congratulate you, old man--though I never thought you were the -marrying sort." - -Beaver took the congratulations blushingly. "Nor did I, until I met -Her." - -He spoke of "Her" in an awed, impressive manner, as though She were -some abnormal person far removed from all other people in the world. -Humphrey tried to figure the girl whom Beaver had chosen. He thought of -her as a rather plain, nice homely sort of person, with no great burden -of intellect or imagination. - -Beaver's hand dived into an inside pocket, and out came a leather case. -This he opened, and displayed a photograph, reverently. - -"That's her!" he said, showing the portrait. - -Humphrey kept his self-possession well. Neither by a look nor a word -did he betray the past: there was nothing in his manner to show Beaver -that the girl whose portrait he held in his hand was she whose lips had -clung to his in the young, passionate kisses of yester-year. - -But, as Humphrey looked on the face of Lilian Filmer, the same Lilian, -even though the photograph was new, and the hair was done in a -different fashion, an acute feeling of sorrow came over him, bringing -with it the remembrance of aching days, of the early beginnings, of -those meetings and partings, and hearts that strained, and he saw the -reflection of himself, foolish and cruel, mistaking the shadow for the -substance, struggling and struggling, all for nothing ... for not even -as much as Beaver had gained. - -She looked at him out of the eyes of her photograph, and about her lips -there still hovered that smile which had always been a riddle to him; a -smile of indulgent love, or contempt? Who knows--a woman's smile is the -secret of her sex. Yet now, it seemed, her lips were curved in triumph. -This was her revenge on him, that he should go for ever loveless -through the world, while she should steal into a haven of welcome peace. - -Beaver's voice brought him back to physical things. She would kiss -Beaver's shaggy-moustached lips, and his arms would catch her in an -embrace.... How soon she had forgotten ... he thought, unreasonably.... -She might have waited.... She might have understood.... - -"Well?" said Beaver, awaiting praise. "You've had a good old look." - -"She's awfully nice and charming," Humphrey answered, returning the -photograph. "She's like somebody I know." - -"Oh, you've probably seen the original, old man, when you used to come -and call for me. She used to be one of the girls in our office." - -He had forgotten that lunch in the Fleet Street public-house, when -Humphrey had asked for the name of the girl. - -Used to be one of the girls in the office! Then Lilian had left. -He wondered what she was doing, and an impulse that could not be -withstood, compelled him to find out whether she had ever mentioned him -to Beaver. - -"By George!" he said. "I remember, now. Miss Filmer, her name was, -wasn't it?" - -"That's it, Miss Filmer. Did you ever speak to her, then?" - -He was treading on uncertain ground. It was clear that she had never -spoken of him. He felt that she had forgotten him, absolutely and -completely. - -"Oh, I think so--just casually, now and again." - -"Well, I never!" said the innocent Beaver. "That's interesting. I'll -tell her I met you." - -"Oh, she wouldn't remember me or my name," Humphrey answered, hastily. -"It was only just 'How-d'ye-do' and 'Good-day' with us.... So she's -left the office now." - -"Yes. It's rather a sad story. Her father died, you know. He was a -chronic invalid--paralysis, I think. Anyhow, we don't speak of it -much, and I've never pressed her. But the father who was so useless in -life, has been the salvation of the mother by his death. Odd, isn't -it? He was insured for a good round sum, and Lilian's mother--did I -tell you her name was Lilian?--has bought a little annuity, so that -Lilian's free. She used to slave for her mother and the rest of the -family until they grew up. That's why she worked overtime at the -office. 'Pon me soul, I'd rather be the lowest jackal in Fleet Street -than some of these poor little typist girls at eighteen bob a week.... -Well, time's up. I've got to be at the Mansion House at three: the Lord -Mayor's taking the chair at some blooming meeting to raise a fund for -something, somewhere. What are you doing to-day?" - -"Oh, I'm on the Klipp case at the Old Bailey." - -Humphrey came away profoundly disturbed. Something entirely unexpected -had happened. Lilian had lived as the vaguest shadow at the back of his -mind, just as he had last seen her, when she bent down to kiss him, and -now this picture would have to be erased. He shuddered at the thought. -She was Beaver's "girl": she would be Beaver's "missis." - -After all, what did it matter? He and Lilian had long since parted; -there had been little in common between them. He might have married -her, and been as Beaver; she might have married him, but never, never, -could she have held the magic and the inspiration of Elizabeth Carr. - -His mind, always susceptible to outside influences, brooded on the new -fact that had come into his life. Unconsciously, as a natural sequel -to his thoughts, he began to dream of his new love, and to see himself -happier than he had ever been, with Elizabeth for ever at his side. -The same motives that impelled him to Lilian after that scene in the -registry office, when Wratten was married, now urged him towards -Kenneth Carr's sister.... - -And, of course, one day, Beaver would have to mention his name to -Lilian. She would probably smile and say nothing. "He's engaged now," -Beaver would say. "There won't be any bachelors left, soon." And that -would be his message to Lilian. - - - - -VII - - -On a Saturday evening some weeks later, Humphrey sat in the dismantled -room in Clifford's Inn, in which he and Kenneth Carr had shared so many -hours of grateful friendship. - -The room looked forlorn enough. Square gaping patches on the wall -marked the places where pictures had once hung; the windows were bared -of curtains and the floor was dismal without the carpet, littered with -scraps of paper and little pieces of destroyed letters. Trunks and -boxes ready for the leaving were in the small entrance hall, now robbed -of its curtains and its comfort. A pair of old boots, a broken pipe, -a row of empty bottles and siphons, a chipped cup or two--these alone -formed the salvage which the room would rescue from Kenneth's presence. - -"This," said Kenneth, taking the pipe-rack from the mantelpiece, "this, -my son, I give and bequeath to you." He laughed, and tossed it over to -Humphrey, who caught it neatly. - -Kenneth waved his arm comprehensively round the room. "Now if there's -any other little thing you fancy," he said, "take your choice. I'm -afraid there's nothing but old boots and broken glass left. You might -fancy a bottle or two for candlesticks." - -"The only thing of yours I coveted was your green edition of Thackeray, -and you took jolly good care to pack that before I came," Humphrey -remarked. - -"I'll send you one for your next birthday. I shall be rolling in money -when I get to work. Meanwhile, just hold this lid up, while I put these -photographs in." - -The light glinted on the silver of the frames. Humphrey knew nothing -of two of them, but the third was a photograph that he had always -observed. He could see it now as it lay, face upwards, in Kenneth's -hand--the photograph of Elizabeth, very sweet and beautiful, with soft -eyes that seemed to be full of infinite regret. - -"Do you know, old man," he said, "I wish you'd let me have that -photograph." - -"Which one?" - -"The one of Elizabeth." Closer acquaintance had led to the dropping of -the formal "Miss" and "Mister." - -"What will Elizabeth say: it was a special and exclusive birthday -present to me, frame and all." - -"You can easily get another one. Keep the frame if you want to. Honest, -I'd like to have the photograph. It would remind me of you and all the -jolly talks we've had." - -"Best Beloved," laughed Kenneth, jovially, "I can refuse you nothing. -It is yours, with half my kingdom." He slipped the photograph from -the frame. "You know, I feel exhilarated at the thought of leaving it -all. I walk on air. I am free." He slammed the lid on the last box and -pirouetted across the room. - -"Thanks," said Humphrey, placing the photograph in his letter-case. - -"Think of it," Kenneth cried, "from to-morrow I'm a free man--free to -write as I will: free to say at such and such a time, 'Now I shall -have luncheon,' 'Now I shall have dinner,' or, 'Now I will go to bed.' -Free to say, 'To-morrow week at three-thirty I shall do such and such -a thing,' in the sure and certain knowledge that I shall be able to do -it. Henceforth, I am the captain of my soul." - -"Oh yes, you feel pretty chirpy now, but just you wait. You wait -till there's a big story on, and you read all the other fellows' -stories--you'll start guessing who did this one, or who got that -scoop--and you'll wish you were back again." - -"Not I! I shall sit in the seclusion of my arm-chair, and gloat over it -all the next morning. And I shall think, 'Poor devils, they're still -at it--and all that they think so splendid to-day will be forgotten by -to-morrow.' I've had my fill of Fleet Street.... Besides, I don't quite -break with it." - -"Why?" - -"Didn't I tell you? Old Macalister of _The Herald_ is a brick. He's the -literary editor, you know, a regular spider in a web of books. He's put -me on the reviewers' list, so you'll see my work in the literary page -of _The Herald_. And it's another guinea or so." - -"Good old Macalister," Humphrey said. "The literary editors are the -only people who give us a little sympathy sometimes. I believe that -whenever they see a reporter they say: 'There, but for the grace of -God, go I.'" - -Kenneth surveyed the room. "There," he said, brushing the dust of -packing from him. "It's finished. In an hour I shall be gone." - -"What train are you catching?" - -"The eight-twenty. I shall be in the West Country two hours later, and -a trap will be waiting to take me to my cottage. You should see it, old -man--just three rooms, low ceilings and oaken beams, and a door that is -sunk two steps below the roadway. Five bob a week, and all mine for a -year. There's a room for you when you come." - -"Sounds jolly enough!..." Humphrey sighed. "By George, I shall miss you -when you've gone, Kenneth," he said. "There'll only be Willoughby left. -It's funny how few real, social friendships there are in the Street, -isn't it? Fellows know each other and all that, and feed together, but -they always keep their private family lives apart...." - -"I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to crow. I _am_ sorry -to leave. I'm pretending to be light-hearted and gay, as a sort of -rehearsal for Elizabeth--she'll be here soon--but, really and truly, I -feel as if I were leaving part of myself behind in Fleet Street. Say -something ludicrous, Humphrey; be ridiculous and save me from becoming -mawkish over the parting." - -"I can't," Humphrey admitted miserably. "It gives me the hump to sit in -this bare room, and to think of all the talks we've had--" - -"You've got to come here on Monday again, and see that Carter Paterson -takes away the big box." - -"I shall send a boy from the office: I won't set foot in the room -again.... Wonder who'll live here next?" he added inconsequently. - -"Donno," Kenneth replied, absently looking at his watch. "They're not -bad rooms for the price. I say, it's time Elizabeth were here." - -Their talk drifted aimlessly to and fro for the next quarter of an -hour. They had already said everything they had to say on the subject -of the journey. A feeling of depression and loneliness stole over -Humphrey: his mind travelled to the days of his friendship with -Wratten, and he was experiencing once more the sharp sense of loss that -he had experienced when Wratten died. - -There came a knock at the door, and Elizabeth appeared, bringing with -her, as she always did, an atmosphere of gladness and peace. Her -beautiful face, in the shadows of her large brimmed hat, her brilliant -eyes, and the supple grace of her figure elated him: he came forward to -greet her gaily. Sorrow could not live in her presence. - -"I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "But I've kept the cab waiting.... -Well, have you two said your sobbing farewells?" - -Kenneth kissed her. "Don't make a joke of the sacred moments ... we -were on the verge of a tearful breakdown. My tears spring from the fact -that he has given me no parting gift." - -"Good Lord! I forgot all about it." Humphrey produced from his pocket a -small brown-paper parcel. "It's a pipe--smoke it, and see in the smoke -visions of Fleet Street." - -"Well, I'm hanged!" said Kenneth, conjuring up a similar parcel; -"that's just what I bought for you. A five-and-sixpenny one, too." - -"Then I've lost," Humphrey said, with mock gloom. "Mine cost -six-and-six. He'll have to pay the cab, Elizabeth, won't he?" - -"If you two are going to stand there talking nonsense Kenneth will miss -the train. Come along! I'll carry the little bag. Can you both manage -the big one?" - -Both of them cunningly kept up their artificially high spirits. Even -when Kenneth switched off the electric light, and the room was in -darkness, except for a pallid moonbeam that accentuated the bareness of -the floor and walls, they parodied their own feelings. They were both a -little ashamed of the sentimental that was in them. - -But as the cab drove out of Fleet Street, they were silent. The lights -were flaming in the upper rooms, but the offices of _The Herald_ and -_The Day_ and the rest of the large dailies were unlit and silent, for -Sunday gave peace to them on Saturday night. But Fleet Street itself -was still alive, and the offices of the Sunday papers were active, and -the noise of the presses, without which no day passes in the Street, -would soon be heard.... - -Half an hour later, under the great glass roof of Paddington Station, -the last farewells had been said. - -Nothing but a "So long, old man," and a "Good-bye" and a tight -handshake marked the breaking of another thread of friendship. Humphrey -watched the train curve outwards and away into the darkness with that -queer emotion that always comes when one is left standing on a railway -platform, and a lighted train has moved out, full of life behind its -lit windows, leaving in its place a glistening, empty stretch of rails. - -Elizabeth was fluttering a valedictory handkerchief to the shadows. -Humphrey touched her arm gently. - -"Shall we go now?" he said. - -"I suppose we'd better." These were awkward, uneasy moments. He would -have liked to have told her how much he felt the passing of Kenneth, -but he was afraid of hurting her, for he knew that she, too, was -saddened at his departure. - -"You'll let me see you home, won't you?" he asked. - -"Would you? Thanks, so much." - -They passed out of the station, and he called a hansom. His hand held -her arm firmly as he helped her into the cab. She thanked him with her -eyes. The moment was precious. It seemed that he had taken Kenneth's -place; that, henceforth, she would look to him for protection. - -They rode in silence through the lamp-lit terraces, where the white -houses stood tall and ghostly, flinging their shadows across the road. -There was nothing for him to say. He knew that their thoughts were -running in the same groove. The sudden clear ray of a lamp flashed -intermittently as the cab came into the range of its light, and he -could see her face, serene, thoughtful, and very beautiful. It made him -think of the photograph that lay in his pocket, against his heart.... -She was very close to him, closer than she had ever been before, so -close that he had but to put out his arms and draw her lips to his. -Never again, he thought, would she be as close to him as she was at -this moment. And the memory of Lilian intruded ... and with the memory -came a vision of just such a ride homewards in a hansom.... Ah, but -Elizabeth was of a finer fibre,--a higher being altogether. His body -tingled at his thoughts. His imagination ran riot in the long silence, -and he did not seek to check it. - -He was seized by an indefinite impulse to hazard all his future in the -rashness of a moment, to take her and kiss her, and tell her that he -loved her. - -"Here we are," she said, with a sudden movement as the cab jolted to a -standstill. - -He sighed. How calm and remote she seemed from love. - -"You must come in for a moment and have something." - -He hesitated from conventional politeness. - -"The drive has been cold," she said. "I will ask Ellen to mix you a -whisky and soda; and I daresay she's left some sandwiches for us." - -"For us!" There was an inestimable touch of intimacy about those words. - -"Thanks," he said (was his voice really as strange and as husky as it -sounded to his ears?) "Thanks--if I won't be keeping you up." - -Again, that suggestion of close acquaintance and absolute familiarity, -as she let herself and him into the house with her latchkey, and closed -the door softly on the world outside. It was all nothing to her. She -moved about with perfect self-possession, unaware of the agitation -within him. - -"Let me turn up the light," she said, leading the way into the -sitting-room. - -He stumbled against something in the feeble light. - -"Mind," she cried, laughingly. "Don't knock my treasures over." - -And then, suddenly, the room was in utter darkness. - -He heard her make an impatient murmur of annoyance. "There! I've turned -it the wrong way.... Don't move ... I know where the matches are." - -He heard the rustle of her dress, and her breathing, and the faint -fragrance of her pervaded the darkness. He stood there in the black -room with the blood surging in his veins, and pulses that seemed to -be hammering against the silence. He could feel the throbbing of his -temples. She moved about the room, and once she came near to him, so -near that her hair seemed to float across his face with a caress that -was soft and silken ... clearly in his brain he pictured her, smiling, -pure and beautiful ... this darkness was becoming intolerable. He made -a step towards her.... - -And the room was lit with a brightness that blurred his sight with -the sudden transition from darkness. He saw her standing by the -gas-bracket, with a look of concern on her face. - -"Humphrey!" she cried, "is anything the matter with you?" - -He was standing in a direct line with the oval mirror on the wall, and -he caught the glimpse of a white face, with straining eyes and blanched -lips, that he scarcely recognized as his own. She came to his side, -tenderly solicitous. - -He could bear it no longer. The words came from him in faltering -sentences. - -"Elizabeth," he cried. "Don't you know ... I love you, I love you." - -Her face flushed with perfect beauty. - -"Oh--Humphrey ..." she said. - -And by the intimation of her voice, half-reproachful, and yet charged -with infinite pity and love, he knew that, if he were bold enough, he -could take her and hold her for evermore. - -"I love you.... I love you ..." he said, drawing her unresistingly -towards him. And there was nothing in life comparable to the exquisite -happiness of that miraculous moment when her lips met his. - - - - -VIII - - -He seemed to have reached out and touched the very summit of life in -that swift moment of supreme excellence. His whole being vibrated with -the splendour of living. He felt as he had felt that night when those -three grand chords struck by Dyotkin had stirred the depths of his -soul.... - -And then his moment faded away into the irrevocable past, as she -disengaged herself with a gentle, graceful movement, and they stood -facing each other in silence. He saw her eyes, inexpressibly mild and -soft, droop downwards, as she bent her head; he marked the colour -mounting up her cheeks, flushing faintly the whiteness of her neck, and -her fingers straying nervously in the thin, golden loop of the chain -that fell across her bosom. - -The wonder of his emotions dazed him. All that he could realize was -that, in the space of a second, their relations had been absolutely -changed. Henceforth, she appeared to him in another aspect. Quite -suddenly and swiftly they had become isolated from all the countless -millions in the world by the sorcery of a kiss. It seemed unreal and -absurd to him. He wanted to laugh. - -"You had better sit down," she said in a low voice, that had a note of -appeal in it. "I hear Ellen coming.... It will not do to let her notice -anything...." - -Astonishing, he thought, how tranquil and undisturbed she could remain. -She could talk to Ellen as if nothing at all had happened; she could -hand him sandwiches and prattle about little things as long as Ellen -was in the room, and even when the door closed on Ellen she seemed -loath to let him speak. - -But he stopped her, emboldened by the privilege of his love. He went -over to her and, placing his hands on each side of her face, drew her -forehead towards his kiss, and looked at her with sparkling, victorious -eyes. - -"You have made me happier than I have ever been," he said. "I will be -very grateful and good to you." - -Her eyes met his searchingly. "You will, really?" she asked. - -"Really," he said, and he kissed her again. - -Now they could talk--he had so much to say. With her acceptance of his -pledge, her smiling "Really," and his reply, he became normal again. -His thoughts descended from their eminence and came back to their -matter-of-fact, everyday plane. - -"Tell me," he said, with a lover's vanity, "when did you first know -that I loved you?" - -"I don't know ..." she said. "Perhaps to-night." - -"Only to-night!" he echoed, disappointed. "Oh, I have loved you long -before this. I think it began when we went to the forest together that -day with the children.... I shall be able to help you with your work," -he cried, buoyantly, "or will you drop it now?" - -She laughed merrily. "How you hurry things on!" she said. "Give me time -to think, like a good boy. We're not going to be married to-morrow, are -we?" - -"No ... no," he protested, "I didn't mean that. Let's have a really -long, lovely engagement. Give me months in which I can do all sorts -of things for you; we'll see things together that I've never seen -before--museums and picture-galleries. Do you know, there's hundreds of -things in London I've never seen." - -"Why not?" - -"I put off the seeing until I go there with my love." - -The consummate joy of the hour infected him. He walked up and down the -room promising great things ... vanity and egotism tinged his talk. - -"I shall get on, you know. I shall do something great in Fleet Street, -one day. There's no knowing where I shall stop. And then there are the -books I mean to write. Oh yes! Kenneth's sown the seeds of book-writing -in me. And plays ... plays are the things to make money with...." - -"You won't need money," she said, kindly. "I have enough for both of -us." - -"Dearest," he answered. (It seemed the most natural thing in the world, -now, that he should call her "dearest.") "You must not say that.... You -won't mind waiting, just a little, will you? Until I feel I can come to -you and say that I do not need your money.... I can't explain it ... I -should never be happy if I took a penny from you." - -She took his hand and caressed it. "I like you all the better for that, -Humphrey." (He noticed that she did not use the word "love.") - -He saw the future splendid, and roseate. He thought, with a smile, of -Ferrol. Ferrol could not check him now. He had made his own identity, -he was conscious of his own will to achieve that which he set out to -do. Besides, there was such a difference between Lilian and Elizabeth. - -He emerged from the house, a new being in a new world, living in the -amazement of the last hour. - - - - -IX - - -It seemed strange to him that, with such a change in his life, the old -work should proceed unaltered: he stood in Rivers' room, listening -to Rivers' talk and banter as the news-editor gave him his work to -do; he came before Selsey at night, copy in hand; he mingled with the -reporters in their big, bare room, talking of the day's paper, and -discussing their jobs and their troubles with them; he came into that -close, personal contact with men whom he knew, and men who knew him, -and yet there was always an abyss that divided his two lives. - -So it was with all of them: in their friendship they seemed to say, -"Thus far shalt thou go, and no further"; their homes, their private -sorrows and eager hopes, the real lives that they lived, in fact, were -left behind them with the closing of their house-door, and they came to -the office different beings. - -Those matters that touched their innermost lives were never discussed. -Occasionally, the birth of a baby in the home of a reporter or a -sub-editor would bring a queer suggestion of humanity and ordinary life -into their affairs: sometimes, the news would filter through of a wife -seriously ill in some home at Herne Hill or Wimbledon, and there were -solicitous inquiries (Ferrol would send down the greatest specialist in -one of those deep, generous moods of his), for the rest they displayed -no interest in each other's private affairs. - -As a matter of fact, it was assumed, by the law of the Street, that -they had no private lives of their own. It is impossible to imagine -Humphrey saying: "If you please, I am engaged to be married, may I -have the evening off," if at seven in the evening anything from a fire -at the docks to the kidnapping of a baby occurred. - -Therefore he told no one of the new wonder that had come into his life, -not even Tommy Pride, who, by the way, had of late taken to sending -out for a glass of whisky and soda, and doing his work with the glass -before him on the table. They looked at each other in the reporters' -room, and sighed, "Poor old Tommy." - -Least of all would he tell Ferrol. He would have liked to have gone -to Ferrol, and told him, but he remembered Ferrol's outburst. He was -older now, and he could not trust himself to listen calmly to the old -arguments. And he felt that it would be a slur on Elizabeth if he were -forced to plead the cause of his marriage.... - -So the days followed each other, and he was happy with that mixed -happiness which is, perhaps, the most perfect. After the first great -moment when he had declared his love, their relations had fallen back -to their original groove. It was safer thus: one could not live always -on the exalted plane of that moment. - -His love-affair with Elizabeth Carr was of a different calibre from -that with Lilian. It was truer, and rested on a firmer basis of -friendship, but it lacked the ardour, and the passionate moments and -kisses of the days when love held the ascendancy over his work.... - -Once, when he was moved with most eager desire during one of their -lonely meetings, he caught her to him, and kissed her, and he was -conscious of an unspoken reproach in her lips and eyes, that took from -him, for the moment, all the savour of his love. - -It seemed to him that he was most successful when he was not playing -the lover, when they met just as if they were rather exceptional -friends instead of betrothed, and this irked him from time to time. He -wanted to love, and be loved, he wanted to give all and take all. But -when, in those rare moods, she answered his kisses recklessly, she was -splendidly beautiful and magnificent, atoning lavishly for all that she -had withheld from him. - -In one thing this wooing ran parallel with the wooing of Lilian: there -were the same interruptions and postponement of plans; Fleet Street -for ever intruded, and always there was the remorseless, inexorable -conflict between his love and his career. - -After an unfortunate week of shattered plans for spending an evening -together, she sighed impatiently. "I wish you would give up Fleet -Street," she said. "You could do better work." - -"Oh!" he said, light-heartedly, "one day I will. I'll sit down and -write my book. But it's too soon yet." - -She looked at him with doubt in her eyes. She seemed to be feeling her -way through the dark corridors of his mind. - -"But surely you don't like the work," she said. - -He laughed. "Some days I don't, and some days I do. Some days I think -it loathsome, and some days I think it glorious.... We're all like -that." - - * * * * * - -A day came when he thought it glorious, when Fleet Street gave him of -its best, a swift reward for his allegiance. - -He was in the reporters' room one evening, talking the latest office -gossip with Jamieson and Willoughby, which concerned the marriage of -_The Day's_ Miss Minger, with young Hartopp of _The Gazette_. It was an -event in Fleet Street, marking, in its way, the end of the epoch of the -woman reporter. - -"I don't think a reporters' room is a fit place for a woman," -Willoughby said. "They're all right for their special work--cooking and -dress and weddings, and all that--but hard, right-down chasing after -stories is man's work." - -"I didn't mind Miss Minger," remarked Humphrey. "She was a jolly good -sport, but women have us at a disadvantage. Remember that time when -we all fell down on the gun-running story at Harwich, and Miss Minger -sailed in, smiled her prettiest, and squeezed a scoop out of them." - -"Ah, well," Jamieson said. "They're all the same ... marriage, you -know, and a happy home, with jolly children. They soon find out that -it's better to let hubby do the reporting.... Hullo, young man Trinder, -what do you want?" he said, breaking off as the pink-faced secretary -stood in the doorway. - -"_You're_ wanted," Trinder said, nodding to Humphrey. - -"Me!" said Humphrey. "What's up?" - -"Ferrol wants you." - -"My word!" said Willoughby. "Are you going to be sacked, or is your -salary to be raised?" - -"Our blessings on you," cried Jamieson, as he followed Trinder out of -the room, upstairs, and along the corridor to Ferrol's door. - -Ferrol stood with his hat and coat on waiting for him. - -"Oh, Quain," he said, shortly. "Get your things and come along. I want -to talk to you." - -Humphrey paused, bewildered. "Hurry up," said Ferrol. He took his watch -from his pocket, glanced at it, and clicked its case hurriedly. "I've -got to be back here at ten." - -"Very well, sir," said Humphrey. He ran back to the reporters' room, -and gathered together his hat and his coat and his stick. - -"What's up?" chorused Jamieson and Willoughby. - -"Lord knows!" he gasped. "_He_ wants me to go somewhere or the other -with him." - -"Most certainly you are either going to be sacked or have your salary -raised," remarked Willoughby. "But if you are going to be made editor, -be kind to us when you are all-powerful." - -"Ass!" laughed Humphrey, in reply. - -He went back. Ferrol made a noise of satisfaction, and led the way out -of his room, carefully switching off the lights. Down the stairs they -went, side by side, Humphrey walking beside the mighty Ferrol, just as -he did in his dreams. Down the stairs they went, and the men coming -up--his colleagues--raised their hats to Ferrol, for they always gave -him respect, and the heart of him throbbed with the strangeness of it -all. - -The commissionaire saluted stiffly, and gazed at Humphrey with a new -esteem. A small boy in uniform darted with haste before them, and -opened the door of a limousine car, reflecting the lights of the night -in its lacquered brilliance. The chauffeur touched the polished peak of -his hat. It seemed that everybody paid homage to Ferrol, greatest of -all men in the eyes of Humphrey Quain. - -For this man was the symbol, the personification of the Street and the -paper for which he had worked with all his heart, with all his might, -and with all his soul. - -He stood aside to let Ferrol step into the car first, but Ferrol, with -a smile, urged him into the lighted interior. He received an impression -of superlative comfort and riches in that small, blue-lined room with -its little electric lamp overhead. There were rugs of deliciously -soft camel-hair, and, as he settled in the yielding cushions, his -outstretched feet struck something hard, that gave warmth instantly, -even through the leather of his boots. A silver cone-shaped holder, -filled with red roses, confronted him; their very scent suggested ease -and luxury. There were touches of silver everywhere: an ash-tray at his -right hand, a whistle attached to a speaking tube, and a row of books -in a silver case--an A B C Railway Guide, a diary, an address book, -and a postal guide. They gave the Ferrol touch of concentrated energy, -even in these surroundings of comfortable, upholstered rest. - -The car sped along with a soft movement, almost noiseless, except for -the low purring of its engines. Through the windows, past the strong -face of Ferrol, he caught glimpses of a wet world with people walking -upon their own reflections in the glistening pavements, of ragged -beggars slouching along with hunched-up shoulders, of streaming crowds -passing and repassing, ignoring entirely the passage of this splendid, -immaculate room on wheels, never questioning the right of those people -within it to the shelter which was denied to them. - -And he felt extraordinarily remote from all these people: an odd thrill -of contempt for them moved him to think: "What fools they are not to -get cars for themselves." It was as if he had been suddenly translated -to another world: a world inhabited by a superior race of men and -women, almost god-like in the power of their possessions, who looked -down on other struggling mortals from their exalted plane, with a -vision blurred by warmth and security. - -The silence enchanted him. If Ferrol had spoken, the spell of that -journey would have been snapped. The silence enabled him to enjoy -to the full the extraordinary sensation of being whirled along in -the darkness by the side of Ferrol towards some unknown destiny. The -discipline had made him always regard Ferrol with awe; but now, as he -sat wrapped in the warm rugs of the motor-car, the social barriers -dropped. He wondered why Ferrol was doing this. - -The speed of the car slackened gradually. He caught a glimpse of -railings and the lights shining among the trees, bringing back to him -the old memories of his first impression of the park. But they were on -the Kensington side, and the breadth of the park from Bayswater to -Kensington made all the difference. Here there seemed to be a culture -and dignity in the very houses themselves: they did not suggest the -overbearing, self-made prosperity of that broad road that ran parallel -with it on the other side of the trees and meadows. - -A servant stood by the open door of the car. His face was implacably -dignified. His white shirt-front and tie were splendidly correct for -his station, in that he wore three obvious bone studs and a black tie. -He held the door of the house open, and Humphrey followed Ferrol inside. - -He had been to many houses such as this as a reporter, when he had -waited with a sense of social inferiority in halls hung with old -masters, and furnished with rare old oak ... at those times the -servants had treated him with a mixture of deference and contempt. But -this was different: respectful, eager hands relieved him of his coat -and hat; vaguely he knew he had to follow one of the owners of these -hands up a broad staircase, along a soft carpeted passage, to a room -which, suddenly flooded with light, showed its possession of a basin -fitted with shining silver taps. He washed luxuriously; the towels were -warm to the touch. He felt at peace with the world. - -Down the stairs again, with a portrait on the white panelled wall for -each step, to the inner hall lined with tapestries and brocade, where -a bronze statue held an electric torch aloft to light the way to the -dining-room. - -Ferrol was standing by the fire. "Chilly to-night," he said, as -Humphrey came into the room. His voice echoed in the spacious -loneliness of the room. - -"Yes," said Humphrey, "it is." He hesitated a moment, and then added -"sir." It seemed the correct thing to do, though Ferrol and he might -have been, for all that had happened in the last half-hour, excellent -personal friends, of equal status in the world. - -"Come and warm yourself," said Ferrol, motioning him to a high-backed -chair by the fire. Humphrey sat down, and put his hands to the fire. -This room with its bright lights and its high ceiling filled him with a -realization of his own comparative poverty. The walls, again, reflected -the artistic in Ferrol. - -His glance wandered to the table. Dishes of delicacies in aspic and -mayonnaise gave colour to the white glitter of glass and silver. A bowl -of great chrysanthemums rose out of the centre-piece of crystal, whose -lower tiers were crowded with peaches, apricots, green figs, grapes, -and other exotic fruits.... - -A whimsical vision came to him of a sausage-shop in Fleet Street where, -often, kept late on a job, without opportunity for dinner, he had sat -on a high stool at the counter eating sausages and onions and potatoes -as they came hot from the sizzling trays of fat in the window. The -thought made him smile. - -"What's the joke?" asked Ferrol, smiling too. - -Humphrey went a diffident pink. After all, why shouldn't he tell -Ferrol? He was quite right: the great man bubbled with laughter. He saw -the ingenuousness of the thought. It endeared Humphrey to him. - -"Ah, young man," he said, "I know that shop." - -Humphrey's eyebrows raised. - -"I've passed it many a time and seen the inviting sausages. By God!" -he continued, bringing his fist down on the mantelpiece, "I'd give you -everything on the table, every night of your life, if I could go in and -sit at the counter and eat them." He laughed. "So don't you be in too -much of a hurry to give up sausages." - -A servant appeared, bearing a silver soup-tureen. Ferrol sat at the -top of the table, and Humphrey took the seat at his right hand. The -soup was clear and delicious, possessing a faint, elusive flavour of -sherry. While he was eating, he became aware of the butler pouring -light-coloured wine into a high stemmed glass. He looked up and saw -Ferrol regarding his wine glass. - -"It's all I drink," said Ferrol. "A little hock with dinner. In my day, -many a fellow was ruined with too much drink. Are they as bad now?" he -asked. - -It was a strange experience to have Ferrol question him on the doings -of the Street. - -"Oh no!" he said, hastily, "there's not much of that now. Perhaps a -half dozen or so here and there, but nothing serious." (But he thought -of the shaking hand of Tommy Pride as he spoke.) - -"None of my men drink, eh?" Ferrol said. It was more of an assertion -than a query. "Do you know we've got the finest staff in London--in -England." - -During the whole of that delightful dinner Humphrey listened to Ferrol -talking about the men with whom he worked. He knew them all: knew all -that they had done, and all that they were capable of doing. He asked -Humphrey's opinion on this man and that man, and listened attentively -to the reply. Sometimes Humphrey made a joke, and Ferrol laughed. - -And, as the dinner progressed, and the clear, cold wine invigorated his -mind and warmed his perceptions, he conceived a greater liking for this -man, who was so human at the core of him. In the office one saw him -with the distorted, disciplined view, as an unapproachable demi-god, -surrounded by people who sacrificed his name to their own advancement. -Ah! if one could always be on these terms of privileged intimacy with -him, what a difference it would make in the work. If one dared tell -Ferrol of the obstacles and the petty humiliations that obscured the -path to good work for the sake of the paper.... - -"Tell me," said Ferrol, suddenly, pushing bunches of black grapes -towards him--"tell me about Easterham, and your life there." - -Now, what could there be in Easterham and its monotonous life to -interest Ferrol, thought Humphrey. - -Nevertheless, he told him of Easterham, and the _Easterham Gazette_ on -which he had worked. That amused Ferrol vastly. And he had to answer -oddly insistent questions--to describe the Market Square, and the -Cathedral close, with its rooks and ivy. It astonished him to find how -interested Ferrol was in these little things, and almost before he was -aware of it, he found himself speaking of personal matters, of things -that touched his own inner, private life, of his aunt (with her stern -gospel of "Getting On"), of the mother whom he did not remember, and of -Daniel Quain, his father. - -And as he talked on, he saw suddenly that Ferrol was listening in a -detached manner, and it occurred to him that he had rather overstepped -the limits of a reply to a polite inquiry. He became confused and shy. -His reminiscences withered within him. Ferrol tried to urge him along -the old track. - -"He's only doing it out of politeness," thought Humphrey. "I shan't -tell him any more. He's making fun of me." - -He cracked walnuts in silence and sipped at the port. (Ferrol touched -neither nuts nor wine.) He did not interpret that air of detached -interest with which Ferrol had listened to him as meaning anything else -but boredom. - -He did not know that, as he was speaking, the old years came back again -to Ferrol, bringing with them once again the vision of Margaret and -those secret walks outwards from Easterham, under the white moon of -romance and love and supple youth that could be his never more. - -Ferrol sighed. - -"You ought to be very happy," he said. "I think the happiest time of -my life was when I was reporting." - -"Were you ever a reporter?" asked Humphrey. - -"Oh yes! I didn't buy _The Day_ at once." - -He rose and went to a cabinet to fetch silver and enamelled boxes of -cigars and cigarettes. The cigarettes were oval and fat. - -"I don't think you've had enough scope," said Ferrol, handing him a -lighted match. "You've done well ... not as well as I hoped ... but -perhaps you'd do better elsewhere." - -A peculiar sensation attacked Humphrey in the regions of his throat -and heart. ("Most certainly you are to have your salary raised or be -sacked.") He waited tensely. - -The butler came into the room, apologetically. - -"Half-past nine, sir," he said; "the car's waiting, sir." - -"Oh--yes. I forgot. I've got to be back at the office.... All right, -Wilson. - -"Let me see--what was I saying.... Oh yes, broader scope. Can you speak -French?" he asked abruptly. - -"Just what I learnt at school.... I can read the papers." - -"You'll easily pick it up.... Look here, I'll give you a lift back to -Fleet Street. Do you want to go there?" - -"Yes," said Humphrey, and then, suddenly, for some odd reason, he -thought of Elizabeth. He was not very sure of his geography, but the -street in which she lived could not be far from here. "I think I'd -rather walk, if you don't mind.... I've got a call to make." He wanted -to tell Elizabeth how splendid Ferrol had been to him. - -"Oh well! It doesn't matter. Come and see me at twelve to-morrow. I'm -going to send you to Paris." - -"Paris!" echoed Humphrey, as if Ferrol had promised him Paradise. - -"Paris," repeated Ferrol. "We're changing our correspondent." - - - - -X - - -He did not go to Elizabeth that night: he walked, in a dream, past -Knightsbridge and up Piccadilly, contemplating the fulfilment of all -his dreams. Everything seemed possible now. He was a young man--and -Ferrol was going to give him Paris; he was a young man--and Elizabeth -had given him her love. The sequence of this thought was significant. - -It would be very fine to tell her.... At last he was lifted out of the -rut into a field of new endeavour. From Paris the path led to other -cities, of course--to Petersburg, Vienna, and Rome. One day he would -see them all. Life became at once very broad and open. - -He walked on, an un-noteworthy figure in the throng of people that -moved along Piccadilly, his thoughts surging with the prospects of his -new life. - -"Humphrey Quain ... Paris Correspondent of _The Day_." - -He murmured that to himself. Glorious title! Splendid Ferrol. How noble -was this work in Fleet Street, holding out great promises to those who -served it well, and sacrificed everything on its altar. How could one -abandon a calling where fortune may change in a moment? - -He passed through astonishing ranks of women whose eyes and lips -simulated love: one or two of them spoke to him in foreign accents. He -passed on across the Circus where the lights of the Variety Theatres -made a blur of yellow in the nebulous night. - -His steps led him again to Fleet Street, and he walked with the joy of -a man treading the soil of his own country. It was always the same -when he passed the Griffin: deep satisfaction took hold of him at the -sight of the signs in all the buildings, telling of newspapers all the -world over, in this narrow Street in which the lives of him and his -kind were centred. The fascination of the Street was perpetual. It -belonged to him. It belonged to all of them. At every hour of the day -and night there were always friends to be met. - -He turned into the cheery warmth of the Pen Club--friends everywhere -and Fleet Street smiling! There was laughter at the wooden counter, -where Larkin was telling some story to a group of men. - -"Well, the next day I thought I'd go up and inquire after his -lordship's health. The butler was very kind. 'Come in,' he said. 'His -lordship's expecting you.' So up I went, thinking I was going to get a -fine story--he was supposed to be dangerously ill in bed, mind you." - -Humphrey joined the group and listened. ("Have a drink?" said Larkin, -turning to him. "It's my shout.") - -"Well," continued Larkin, "when I got to the room, there was his -lordship in pants and undervest--you know how fat he is--with -dumb-bells in his hands and whirling his arms about like a windmill. -'Do I _look_ like a dying man?' he said, dancing lightly on his -toes. 'Go back, young man, and tell your editor what you've seen. -Good-morning.'" - -"Talking of funny experiences," said one of the others, "I remember--" -And so it went on, story after story, of real things happening in the -most extraordinary way. It was all this that Humphrey enjoyed, this -inter-change of experiences, this telling of stories that were never -written in newspapers, that belonged alone to them. - -Presently Tommy Pride came in. "Hullo all!" he said, "Hullo! young -Quain--been busy to-day?" - -They sat down together, and Humphrey noticed that Tommy's face had -changed greatly, even in the last few months. The flesh was loose and -colourless, and the eyes had a nervous, wandering look in them. - -"Ferrol's going to send me to Paris--he told me so to-night," Humphrey -blurted out. - -"Splendid," said Tommy. "Good for you." And then a look of great pathos -crept into his eyes, and he seemed to grow very old all at once. "I -wish I had all your chances," he said wistfully. "I wonder what will be -the end of me.... I hear they're making changes." - -"Don't you bother," Humphrey said. "Ferrol knows what you're worth.... -But, I say, Tommy, you don't mind, do you ... aren't you taking too -much of _that_," he pointed to the whisky glass. - -"Oh, hell! What does it matter," said Tommy. "What does anything -matter.... I'm a little worried ... they're thinking of making -changes," he repeated aimlessly. - - * * * * * - -It was all settled in a few minutes the next morning. The Paris -appointment was definitely confirmed: he was to leave immediately. He -hastened to Elizabeth to tell her the wonderful news. It never occurred -to him that she could be otherwise than pleased and proud at his -success. But her manner was recondite and baffling. - -"Have you accepted the post?" she asked. - -"Why, of course," he said. "How could I refuse such a chance." - -She regarded him dubiously. "No--you could not refuse it. I don't blame -you for not refusing it. I think I know how you feel...." - -"It's splendid!" Humphrey cried. His voice rang with enthusiasm. "Fancy -Ferrol singling me out. It will be the making of me.... It might lead -to anything." - -"But weren't you only going to stay in journalism for another year, -Humphrey?" - -"Oh, of course, when I said that, I couldn't foresee that this was -going to happen.... Elizabeth," he said suddenly, with a great fear on -him, "do you want me to give it up now?" - -"No ... no," she said in haste. "You don't understand. It's so -difficult to make you see. I wasn't prepared for this...." She laughed -for no reason at all. "I am glad of your success. I am glad you're -happy.... Of course, you don't expect me to come to Paris, like this, -at a moment's notice. You must give me time." - -He smiled with relief. "Why, of course, I didn't imagine I could carry -you away at once.... But after a few months, perhaps. It will take me a -few months to get used to the work." - -"Yes," she agreed, "after a few months. We shall see." - -Her face was strangely sorrowful. Her attitude perplexed him. It hurt -him to find that she did not share in his rejoicings. It took away some -of the savour of his success. - -He thought he was the master of his destiny. He could not discern the -hand of Ferrol moving him again towards a crisis in his life. - - - - -PART IV - -PARIS - - - - -I - - -The noise of Paris came to him through the open windows, a confusion -of trivial sounds utterly different from the solid, strong note that -London gave forth. It was the noise of a nursery of children playing -with toys--he heard the continuous jingle of bells round the necks of -the horses that drew the cabs, the shouts of men crying newspapers, the -squeaking horns of motor-cars, and, every afternoon, at this hour, the -sound of some pedlar calling attention to his wares, with a trumpet -that had a tinny sound. - -At intervals the voice of Paris, modified by the height at which he -lived and the distance he was from the Grands Boulevards, sent a shout -to him that reminded him of London. That was when a heavy rumbling -shook the narrow street which was one of the tributaries of the -Boulevards, as a monstrous, unwieldy omnibus, drawn by three horses -abreast, rolled upwards on its passage to the Gare du Nord. The horses' -hoofs slapped the street with the clatter of iron on stone, and the -passing of the omnibus drowned every other sound with its thunder, so -that when it had gone, and the echoes of its passage had died away, the -voice of Paris seemed more mincing and playful than before. - -Humphrey had been in Paris six months now, but the first impression -that the city gave had never been erased from his mind. - -At first the name had filled him with a curious kind of awe: Paris and -the splendour of its art and life, and the history which linked the -centuries together; all the history of the Kings of France which he did -not know, and the rest that he knew with the vagueness of a somewhat -neglected education--the bloody days of the Revolution, the siege, the -Commune; Paris, the cockpit of history and the pleasure-house of the -world. There was some enchantment in the thought of going to Paris, -not as a mere visitor, but as a worker, one who was to share the daily -lives of the people. - -And he had arrived in the evening of a February day, in the crisp cold, -bewildered by the strangeness of the station. The huge engine had -dragged him and his fellows--Englishmen chiefly, travelling southwards, -and eastwards, and westwards in search of sunshine--across the black -country of France, into the greener, sweeter meadows of the Valley of -the Loire, with tall poplars on the sky-line, through the suburbs with -their red and white houses looking as if they had been built yesterday, -to the vaulted bareness of the Gare du Nord. There, as it puffed and -panted, like a stout, elderly gentleman out of breath, it seemed to -gasp: "I've done my part. Look after yourselves." - -To leave the train was like leaving a friend. One stepped to the -low platform and became an insect in a web of blue-bloused porters, -helpless, eager to placate, afraid of creating a disturbance. It -seemed to Humphrey in those first few moments that these people were -inimical to him; they spoke to him roughly and without the traditional -politeness of French people. The black-bearded ticket-collector -snatched the little Cook's pocket-book from his hand, tore out the -last tickets, and thrust it back on him, murmuring some complaint, -possibly because Humphrey had not unclasped the elastic band. There was -bother about luggage too; Heaven knows what, but he waited dismally and -hungrily in the vast room, with its flicker of white light from the -arc-lamps above the low counters at which the Customs-men, in their -shabby uniforms, seemed to be quarrelling with one another, their -voices pitched in the loud key that is seldom used in England. - -He was required to explain and explain again to three or four -officials; something of a minor, technical point, he gathered, was -barring him from his baggage. His French was not quite adequate to the -occasion; but it was maddening to see them shrug their shoulders with -a movement that suggested that they rejoiced in his discomfiture.... -It was all straightened out, somehow, by a uniformed interpreter, a -friendly man who came into Humphrey's existence for a moment, and -passed out of it in a casual way, a professional dispenser of sympathy -and help, expecting no more reward than a franc or so for services that -deserved a life-long gratitude. - -But when the cabman had shouted at him, and the blue-bloused porters -(one had attached himself to each of his four pieces of baggage) had -insisted on their full payment, and after there had been an exchange -of abuse between the cabman and an itinerant seller of violets, whose -barrow had nearly been run down, Humphrey looked out of the window and -caught his first glimpses of Paris ... of the light that suggested -warmth and laughter. - -He saw great splashes of light, and through the broad glass windows of -the cafés a vision of cosy rooms, bustling with the business of eating, -of white tables at which men and women sat--ordinary middle-class -people. The movement of their arms and shoulders and heads showed that -conversation was brisk during their meal; they smiled at one another. - -As the cab sped softly along on its pneumatic tyres, he saw picture -after picture of this kind, set in its frame of light. "I shall like -living here," he thought. Chance decreed that the Rue le Peletier was -being repaired, and the cab swung out of the narrower streets into the -vivid and wonderful brilliance of the Boulevard des Italiens. - -The street throbbed with light and life. He was in a broad avenue -with windows that blazed with splendid colour in the night. The faces -of the clocks in the middle of the avenue were lit up; the lamps of -the flower and newspaper kiosks made pools of shining yellow on the -pavement; and above him the red and golden and green of the illuminated -advertisements came and went, sending their iridescence into the night. -It was not one unbearable glare that startled the eyes, but a blend of -many delicate and fine luminous tints: one café was lit with electric -lights that gave out a soft pale rose colour, another was of the -faintest blue, and a third a delicate yellow, and all these different -notes of light rushed together in a lucent harmony. - -Music floated to him as he passed slowly in the stream of bleating and -jingling and hooting traffic. He saw the people sitting outside the -cafés near braziers of glowing coal, calmly drinking coloured liquids, -as though there were no such thing as work in the world. - -And that was the thought that gave Humphrey his first impression of -Paris. These people, it seemed, only played with life. There was -something artificial and unreal about all these cafés: they played at -being angry (that business at the Customs office was part of the game), -an _agent_ held up a little white baton to stop the traffic--playing at -being a London policeman, thought Humphrey. He wondered whether this -sort of thing went on always, with an absurd thought of the Paris he -had seen at a London exhibition. - -The cab veered out of the traffic down a side-street between two cafés -larger than the rest, and, at the last glimpse of people sitting in -overcoats and furs by the braziers, he laughed in the delight of it. -"Why, they're playing at it being summer," he said to himself. - -Six months had passed since that day, and he had seen Paris in many -aspects, yet nothing could alter his first impression. The whole city -was built as a temple of pleasure, a feminine city, with all the shops -in the Rue Royale or the Avenue de l'Opera decked with fine jewels and -sables. Huge emporiums everywhere, crowded with silks and ribbons and -lace; wonderful restaurants, with soft rose-shaded lights and mauve -and grey tapestries, as dainty as a lady's boudoir. Somewhere, very -discreetly kept in the background, men and women toiled behind the -scenes of luxury and pleasure ... those markets in the bleak morning, -and the factories on the outskirts of the city, and along the outer -Boulevards one saw great-chested men and narrow-chested girls walking -homewards from their day's work. But there was pleasure, even for these -people: the material pleasure of life, and the spiritual pleasure of -art and beauty. The first they could satisfy with a jolly meal in the -little bright restaurants of their quarter with red wine and cognac; -and of the second they could take their fill for nothing, if they were -so minded, for it surrounded them in a scattered profusion everywhere. - - * * * * * - -Humphrey, in the Paris office of _The Day_, on the fourth floor of an -apartment building in the Rue le Peletier, sat dreaming of all that had -happened in the past six months. Wonderful months had they been to him! -They had altered his whole perception of things. Here, in a new world -and a new city, he was beginning to see things in a truer proportion. -Fleet Street receded into the far perspective as something quite small -and unimportant; the men themselves, even, seemed narrow-minded and -petty, incapable of thinking more deeply than the news of the day -demanded. - -Humphrey, from the heights of his room in Paris, began to see how -broad the world was, that it was finer to deal with nations than -individuals, and from his view Fleet Street appeared to him in the same -relation as Easterham had appeared to him in London. - -The clock struck five. Rivers and Neckinger and Selsey would be going -into the conference now in Ferrol's room to discuss the contents of the -paper. - -"Anything big from Paris?" some one would be asking, or "What about -Berlin?"... And he knew that every night they looked towards Paris, -where amazing things happened, and he, Humphrey Quain, was Paris. That -splendid thought thrilled him to the greatest endeavour. He was _The -Day's_ watchman in Paris, not only of all the news that happened in the -capital, but of all the happenings in the whole territory of France. - -A pile of cuttings from the morning's papers were on his desk. Here -was a leading article on the Franco-German relations from the _Echo -de Paris_--an important leading article, obviously inspired by the -Quai D'Orsay. There was a two-column account of the Hanon case--an -extraordinary murder in Lyons which English readers were following with -great interest. There was a budget of "fait-divers," those astonishing -events in which the fertility of the Paris journalist's imagination -rises to its highest point. They supplied the "human interest." He had -received a wire from London to interview a famous French actress, who -was going to play in a London theatre, and that had kept him busy for -the afternoon. The morning had been devoted to reading every Paris -paper. - -At five o'clock Dagneau arrived with the evening papers, bought from -the fat old woman who kept the kiosk outside the Café Riche. He let -himself into the flat with a latch-key, and appeared before Humphrey, -a young man, immaculately dressed, with a light beard fringing his fat -cheeks. Humphrey could never quite overcome the oddness of having a -bearded man as his junior. Dagneau was only twenty-two, but he had -grown a beard since he was twenty; that was how youths played at being -men. Humphrey called Dagneau "the lamb." - -"Hullo," he said. "Anything special?" - -Dagneau's pronunciation of English was as bad as Humphrey's -pronunciation of French, but in both cases the vocabulary was immense. - -"They're crying 'Death of the President' on the Boulevards," said -Dagneau. - -Humphrey leapt up. "Great Heavens! You don't say so!" he shouted, going -to the telephone. - -"Be not in a hurry, _mon vieux_." (Though Dagneau was his assistant, -they dropped all formalities between themselves.) "It is in _La -Presse_." - -"But--" - -"Calm yourself. _La Presse_ is selling in thousands. The news is -printed in great black letters across the front page." - -"Is it true?" gasped Humphrey. - -"It is true that the President is dead--but it is the President of -Montemujo or something like that in South America, and not M. Loubet." - -Dagneau laughed merrily and slapped the papers on the table. He took -Humphrey by the shoulders and shook him playfully. - -"I--would I let my old and faithful Englishman down?" he asked. The -newspaper phrase spoken as Dagneau spoke it sounded delightful. - -"By George, you gave me a shock," Humphrey laughed. "I thought I'd been -dozing for an hour with the President dead. Dagneau, you are an _espèce -de_--anything you like." - -"Any telegrams from London?" - -"One to interview Jeanne Granier. I've done it Will you go through -the evening papers? Look out for the _Temps_ comments on the Persian -railway ... they're running that in London. And the latest stuff about -the Hanon case. I'll run round to _Le Parisien_ and see what they've -got." - -He went down the winding staircase, past the red-faced concierge and -his enormous wife, who knitted perpetually by the door ("_Pas des -lettres, m'sieu_," she said, in answer to his inquiring look), and so -into the street. A passing cabman held up his whip in appeal, and, as -moments were precious now, Humphrey engaged him. They bowled along -through the side-streets, and at the end of each he saw, repeated, the -glorious opal and orange sunset over Paris: those magnificent sunsets -that left the sky in a smother of golden and purple and dark clouds -edged with livid light behind the steeple of St Augustine. They came to -the building of _Le Parisien_, with whom _The Day_ had an arrangement -by which Humphrey could see their proofs evening and night, in exchange -for extending the same privilege to the London Correspondent of _Le -Parisien_ at the offices of _The Day_. - -He crossed the threshold into the familiar atmosphere of Fleet Street. -Hurry and activity: young Frenchmen writing rapidly in room after room. -Some of them knew him, looked up from their work and nodded to him. -From below the printing-machines sent tremors through the building, as -they rolled off the first edition for the distant provinces of France, -and for the night trains to every capital of Europe. The same old work -was going on here: the same incessant quest and record of news. - -He went to the room of Barboux, the foreign editor. - -"Good-evening," said Barboux, black-bearded, fat and bald-headed. He -pronounced "evening" as though it were a French word, and it came out -"événandje." - -Barboux offered Humphrey a cigarette he had just rolled with black -tobacco, and asked him most intimate questions of his doings in Paris, -so that Humphrey had either to acknowledge himself a prude or a -Parisian. - -"All the same," said Barboux, "Paris is a wonderful city, _hein_?" - -"It is," said Humphrey. - -Barboux continued: "Is it not the most beautiful, the most wonderful, -the most entrancing city in the world, young Englishman?" - -"All except London," replied Humphrey. - -"Rosbif--Goddam--I box your nose," laughed Barboux. - -It was a set form of dialogue that took place every night between them, -without variation, a joke invented by Barboux. - -A man in an apron--a French version of the type in _The Day's_ -printing-office--brought in a budget of proofs. - -"There is nothing that is happening, ain't it?" remarked Barboux, who -always rendered _n'est ce pas_ in this literal fashion. - -"Apparently not," Humphrey agreed, glancing through the proofs. "When -do they expect the verdict in the Hanon case?" - -Barboux touched a bell. A young man appeared. His hair was fair and -long, his clothes were faultless to the crease in the trousers turned -up in the English style over patent-leather shoes with the laces tied -in big bows. Barboux introduced him: "M. Charnac will tell you about -the Hanon case." - -The young man bowed in a charming manner, and spoke in a soft, -delicious French, with a voice that was charged with courtesy and -kindness. - -"They do not expect a verdict to-night, m'sieu. The court has -adjourned. I've just had the finish of our correspondent's message." - -"_Merci_," said Humphrey. - -"_Pas de quoi_," said Charnac, bowing. - -Humphrey rose and bowed with the ultra politeness that was now part of -his daily life. They shook hands. - -"_Enchanté d'avoir fait votre connaissance_," and Charnac bowed once -more. - -"_Enchanté_," mumbled Humphrey. - -Barboux was at the telephone, saying impatiently, "Ah-lo.... Ah ... -lo." Humphrey put on his hat, Barboux extended his left hand--the -greatest sign of friendship that a Frenchman can give, since it implies -that he knows you too well for you to take offence at it. - -"_À demain_," said Humphrey, as he went away. - -When he came back to the office, work began in earnest. First of all -he had to select from the budget of news on his table those items -that would be most acceptable to English readers. That was no small -matter on days when there were many things happening. It required sound -judgment and a knowledge of what was best in news. Then there was -always the question of the other correspondents of London newspapers: -what were the other fellows sending? - -He and Dagneau talked things over, and, finally, when they had decided -what to transmit to London, the work of compiling the stories began. It -was necessary to build up a coherent, comprehensive story out of the -cuttings before him, in which all the points of the different papers -should be mentioned. Dagneau helped him, making illiterate translations -of leading articles, that needed revising and knocking into shape. -Perhaps, even at the eleventh hour, a telegram might arrive from the -London headquarters, setting them a new task, rendering void all the -work they might have done. - -After two hours' writing Humphrey laid down his pen. "Come along, my -lamb," he said to Dagneau; "let us go to dinner." - -Then they put on their hats and coats and went to Boisson's, a few -doors away in the Rue le Peletier, where Père Boisson presided over -a pewter counter, spread with glasses and bottles, and Mère Boisson -superintended the kitchen, and Henri, the waiter, with a desperate -squint, ran to and fro with his burden of plates, covering many miles -every night by passing and repassing from the restaurant tables to the -steamy recesses behind the door. - -This was the part of Paris life that pleased Humphrey most. - -They received him with cheery _Bons soirs_, and Henri paused in his -race to set the chairs for them, and arrange their table. Yards of -crisp bread were brought to them, and a _carafon_ of the red wine from -Touraine, whither M. Boisson went on a pilgrimage once a year to sample -and buy for himself. - -Little French olives and _filet d'hareng saur_; soup with sorrel -floating in it; fish with black butter sauce; a _contre-filet_ or a -_vol au vent_ deliciously cooked; Roquefort cheese, and, to wind up -with, what M. Boisson called magnificently _Une Belle Poire_--this -was the little dinner they had for something under three francs, and, -of course, there was special coffee to follow, and, as a piece of -extravagance, a liqueur of _mandarin_ or _noyeau_. - -"This is better than Fleet Street," said Humphrey, inhaling his -cigarette and sipping at the excellent coffee. Boisson in his -shirt-sleeves and apron came over to them and spoke to them with light -banter. He also had a joke of his own: he conceived it to be the -highest form of humour to interject "Aoh--yes--olright," several times -during the conversation. - -Madame Boisson waddled towards them, with an overflowing figure, -and said, as if her future happiness depended on an answer in the -affirmative, "_Vous avez bien diné, m'sieu_." - -The smell of food was pleasant here: there was no hurry; men and women -concentrated all their attention on eating and enjoying their meal. The -light shone on the glasses of red and white wine. It was a picture that -delighted Humphrey. - -And Dagneau was telling him of his adventures on the previous night -with a little girl, the dearest little girl he had ever met, kissing -the tips of his fingers to the air, whenever his emotions overcame -him ... and Humphrey smiled. This was a side of Paris of which he -knew nothing. His thoughts went back to London where Elizabeth lived, -beautiful and austere. "I must write to Elizabeth to-night," he thought. - -At nine-twenty Dagneau caught the eye of Henri and made an imaginary -gesture of writing on the palm of his left hand. "That's the way to get -a perfect French accent," he said to Humphrey. Henri nodded in swift -comprehension and appeared with a piece of paper on which illegible -figures were scrawled. They paid and went away, with the Boissons and -Henri calling farewells to them. Happy little restaurant in the Rue le -Peletier! - -They got back to the office just as the telephone bell was making a -rattling din. Humphrey sat down and adjusted over his head the steel -band that held the receivers close to his ears. Then, pulling the -telephone closer to him, and spreading out before him all that he had -written, he waited. - -And, presently, sometimes receding and sometimes coming nearer above -the hum and buzz that sounded like the wind and the waves roaring -about the deep-sea cables, he heard the voice of Westgate coming from -England. "Hallo ... hallo ... hallo.... That you, Quain.... Can't hear -you.... Get another line ... buzz--zz--zz ... oooo. Ah! that's better." -Westgate's voice became suddenly clear and vibrating as though he were -speaking from the next room. But Humphrey could see the little box in -the sub-editors' room, where all the men were working round Selsey, and -the messenger-boys coming and going with their flimsy envelopes; he -could see the strained, eager face of Westgate, as he waited, pencil in -hand ... and he began. - -He shouted the news of Paris for fifteen minutes, and at the end the -perspiration wetted his forehead, and Westgate's good-night left him -exhausted. Sometimes, when the wires were interfered with by a gale, -the fifteen minutes were wasted in futile shouting and endeavour to be -heard in London; sometimes Westgate would say bluntly: "Selsey says he -doesn't want any of that story," when he began to read his carefully -prepared notes. Those were desperate minutes, shouting to London -against time. - -"All well?" asked Dagneau, when he finished. - -"I suppose so," Humphrey answered. "Westgate was in great form -to-night--he was taking down at the rate of a hundred and twenty words -a minute...." He rose and stretched himself. "Will you pay the late -call at the newspaper offices? I'll be at Constans in case anything -happens." - -Out again into the bright glamour of the Boulevards to Constans at the -corner of the Place de l'Opera, in the shadow of the opera-house, to -meet the other correspondents, and wait on the events of Europe, and -drink brandy and soda or the light lager-beer that was sold at Constans. - -It was a place where most of the Paris correspondents gathered, and, -sometimes, the "Special Correspondents" came also. They were lofty -people, who had long since left the routine of Fleet Street; the -princes of journalism, who passed through Paris on their way to St -Petersburg, to Madrid--to any part of Europe or the world where there -was unrest; war correspondents, and special commissioners; men who had -letters of introduction from diplomat to diplomat, who talked with -kings and chancellors, and interviewed sultans. They flitted through -Paris whenever any big news happened, in twos and threes, only staying -for a few hours at Constans to meet friends, and then on again by the -midnight expresses.... - -They were a jolly lot of fellows who met in those days at Constans: -O'Malley of _The Sentinel_, the fair-haired scholar who spoke of style -in writing, and could speak French with an Irish accent and knew how -to ask the waiter to "Apporthez des p'hommes de therrey"; Punter, who -represented the Kelmscotts' papers, talked French politics late into -the night, and wore a monocle that never dropped from his eye--not even -in those exciting moments when Michael, his coal-black eyes and hair -betraying his ancestry, crossed his path in argument. - -At midnight Dagneau came in with word from the outside world. All was -quiet. So Humphrey went back to the hotel in the Rue d'Antin, where -he rented a room on the fifth floor by the month for eighty francs, -including the morning roll and bowl of coffee. He wrote his letter to -Elizabeth: he wanted her to come to Paris and share his life with him. - - - - -II - - -He wanted her very much to share in the delight of those days. It -was all so new and beautiful to him, so different from London. He -went about the city, sometimes alone, sometimes with Dagneau for a -companion, to the Louvre, where the Venus de Milo filled him with awe -and wonder, or to the Luxembourg, with its statuary set among the green -trees. In the afternoons, when he had any spare time, he would take a -book and read in the Tuileries, or on one of the seats in the Champs -Elysées, where the fat Norman and Breton nurses, with their broad -coloured ribbons floating from their _coifs_, wheeled perambulators -up and down, or took the children to the Punch and Judy shows. And on -Sundays in the season, there were the races at Longchamps, with a drive -homewards in the cool of the evening, through the Bois, where his cab -was one of a long line of vehicles making a moving pageant of the human -comedy, with laughing bourgeois families riding five and six in a cab, -and aristocracy and opulent beauty, artificial and real, rolling by in -victorias and electric broughams. - -Those rides down the Avenue du Bois to the Arc de Triomphe made him -feel very poor: the women, lolling back in silken comfort, seemed -lifted above the everyday world, away from all thought of squalor and -sordidness. They were the rare hot-house flowers of society; the cold -wind of life's reality would wither them in a day. So they passed -before him, exquisitely beautiful and remote, looking with languid -interest at the rest of the people in the incomparable vanity of their -silk and lace and diamonds.... - -Yet again, his work took him behind the scenes of Parisian life, into -places that are not familiar to the casual visitor to Paris. He would -sit in the Chamber of Deputies to make notes of an important debate, -or to watch the rigid semicircle of French legislators break up into -riotous factions, with the tintinnabulation of the President's bell -adding to the din. This would appear in _The Day_ with the head-line, -"Pandemonium in the French Chamber." Perhaps it was necessary to -interview a _juge d'instruction_ in his private room at the Palais -de Justice, or to pass through the corridors of the Surété--France's -Scotland Yard--to inquire into a sensational murder mystery. - -And he found, too, that in Paris he had a certain standing as a -journalist that was denied him in London. He was registered in -books, and the seal of approval was given to him in the shape of a -_coupe-fil_, which was a card of identity, with his portrait and the -name of _The Day_ on it--a magic card that enabled him to do miraculous -things with policemen and officials; it was a passport to the front -row in the drama of life. There was no need in Paris to haggle with -policemen, to wink at them, and win a passage through the crowd by -subterfuge as in London: this card divided a way for him through the -multitude. - -So that now, when he felt that he had established himself in his -career, when his salary was more than adequate for the needs of two, -the strong need of Elizabeth came to him. The brilliant gaiety of Paris -swirled about him, and tried to entice him into its joyous whirlpool. -He knew the dangers that beset him: he knew the stories of men who had -been dragged into the whirlpool, down into the waters that closed over -their heads, bringing oblivion. - -And he looked towards the ideal of Elizabeth, as he had always looked -towards the ideal of the love which she personified, to save him from -the evil things that are bred by loneliness and despair. - - - - -III - - -One Saturday night, when there was nothing else to do, he went up -to Montmartre, and walked along the Boulevard de Clichy, past the -grotesque absurdities of the _cabarets_ that are set there for the -delectation of foreign and provincial strangers: _cabarets_ that mock -at death and heaven and hell with all the vulgarity and coarseness that -exists side by side with the love of beauty, art and culture in Paris. - -For a franc you could watch the old illusion of a shrouded man turning -to a grisly skeleton in his narrow coffin; or you could see a diverting -burlesque of the celestial realms, and observe how sinners were burnt -in a canvas hell with artificial flames. Humphrey had seen all these -during his first week in Paris: he had laughed, but afterwards he had -been ashamed of his laughter. They were a little degrading.... - -He passed them by to-night, in spite of the enticing blandishments of -the mock mute, the angel and the devil by the doors of their haunts. He -wandered aimlessly along this Boulevard, where women crossed his path, -looking very picturesque, without any covering to their heads, shawls -across their shoulders and red aprons down to the fringe of their short -skirts. There was something savage and primitive about these women: -they lacked the frankness and gaiety of the coster-girl in London; they -were beautiful, with an evil and cruel beauty. Vicious-looking men -slouched from the shadows. Their looks could not conceal the knives in -their pockets. They were as rats in the night, creeping from pavement -to pavement, preying on humanity. - -The door of a café chantant opened, as Humphrey came abreast with it, -and the sound of a jingling chorus, played on a discordant piano, -arrested his steps. The man who was coming out, thinking that Humphrey -was about to enter, held the door open for him politely. Something -impelled Humphrey forward. - -He went inside. - -The room was heavy with tobacco smoke; it floated in thin clouds about -the lights and drifted here and there in pale spirals as it was blown -from the lips of the smokers. His vision was blurred by the smoke at -first, and, as he stood there blinking and self-conscious, it was as -though he had intruded into some private and intimate gathering. It -seemed that every one in the room was staring at him. The impression -only lasted a moment. He perceived a vacant chair by a table and sat -down, with the bearing of one to whom the place was familiar. - -All around him the men and women were sitting. There was an air of -sex-comradeship that, in spite of its frankness, was neither indecent -nor blatant. The people were behaving in the most natural way in -the world. Sometimes a woman nestled close to a man and their hands -interlaced; sometimes a man sat with his arm round the waist of a girl. -Mild liquids were before them--the light beer of France, little glasses -of cherries soaked in brandy, glasses of white and red wine. Their -eyes were set towards the small stage at the end of the room, a narrow -platform framed in crudely-painted canvas, representing trees and -foliage; while at the back there was a drop-scene that showed a forest -as an early Japanese artist might have drawn it, with vast distances -and a nursery contempt for perspective. - -His eye wandered to the walls painted with scroll-work and deformed -cupids and panels of nude women, so badly done that they appealed more -to the sense of humour than to the sexual. The pictures on the walls -seemed to leave the men and women untouched; they concentrated all -their attention on the entertainment. The only person in the place who -showed any sign of boredom was the gendarme who sat by the door, the -State's hostage to its conscience. Nothing, said the State, in effect, -can be indecent if one of our gendarmes is there. This was not one -of the _cabarets_ where the poet-singers of Montmartre chant, with -melancholy face, their witty doggerel or their fragrant pastorals; -where people came to hear the veiled obscenities of political satire -or allusions to passing events; this was a second-rate affair, a -_tingel-tangel_--a species of family music-hall. - -A waiter in an alpaca jacket, a stained apron wound skirt-wise round -his trousers, approached Humphrey with an inquiring lift of his -eyebrows. He removed empty glasses dexterously with one hand and -slopped a cloth over the table with the other. - -"M'sieu, desire...?" - -"_Un fin_," answered Humphrey. - -The waiter emitted an explosive _Bon_ and threaded his way through -the labyrinth of chairs to a high wooden counter, where a fat man, -with his shirt-sleeves rolled back to his elbow, stood sentinel over -rows of coloured bottles. The light shone on green and red liqueurs, -on pale amber and dark brown bottles placed on glass shelves against -a looking-glass background, that reflected the bullet shape of the -_patron's_ close-cropped head. - -Meanwhile the pianist had finished his interlude, and there was a burst -of applause as a woman appeared on the stage. She wore an amazing hat -of orange and white silk, in which feathers were the most insistent -feature. There was something extraordinarily bold and flaunting in -her presence. Her neck and shoulders and bosom were bare to the low -cut of her bodice, and the cruel light showed the powder that she -had scattered over her throat and shoulders to make them white and -enticing; it showed the red paint on the lips and the rouge on the -cheeks, and the black on her eyelashes and eyebrows. The crude touches -of obvious artifice destroyed her beauty. Her waist was compressed into -a painful smallness, and her skirt was flounced and reached only to the -knees. - -She sang a song that had something to do with a soldier's life. "Tell -me, soldier," she sang, "what do you think of in battle? Do you think -of the glory of the Fatherland and the splendour of dying for France?" -And the soldier answers: "I think only of a farm in Avignon, and a -maiden whose lips I used to kiss on the old bridge; I think only of my -old mother and how she will embrace me when I come home." - -When she sang the simple song, though her voice was false, and her -gestures stereotyped, the rouge and the powder and the paint were -forgotten for a moment. She was one of those unconscious artists -belonging to a people who have art woven into the warp and woof of -their daily life. - -The audience took up the chorus. She nodded to them with an audacious -smile. The pianist, with his cigarette stub hanging from his lips, -under cover of the volume of voices, forsook the treble for a moment, -and reached out with his hand for a glass of beer that rested above the -piano. - -It was the strange, fumbling motion of his hand that caught Humphrey's -eye, trained to observe such details. He looked closer, and saw that -the pianist's eyes were closed, and the lashes were withered where they -met the cheek. He was blind; he never saw the faces and figures of the -women who sang, he only heard the voices; he could see nothing that was -harsh and cruel. And the picture of the blind pianist at the side of -the garish stage, improvising little runs and trills and spinning a -web of melody night after night, stirred Humphrey with an odd emotion. - -There was a pause. The door opened and closed as people came and -went. Humphrey sipped at the brandy; the fiery taste of it made his -palate and throat smart. The price of the entertainment was one franc, -including a drink. - -Suddenly the pianist struck up a well-known air. A slim girl, in -the costume of the district, slouched on to the stage, her hands -thrust into the pockets of her apron. Her hair was bundled together -in careless heaps of yellow, her eyes were pale blue and almost -almond-shaped, her features finely moulded, with a queer distinction -of their own. And when she took one hand out of her apron pocket, he -saw that the fingers were long and exquisitely tapered, and tipped -with pink, beautiful nails that shone in the light. Those finger-nails -betrayed her. They were not in keeping with the part. - -She started singing, walking the small stage with a swaying motion of -her body; her young form was lithe and graceful; her movements tigrine. -And as she sang her lilting chorus, her pale eyes gazed from their -narrow slits at Humphrey, not boldly or coquettishly, but with an -indeterminate appeal, as though she felt ashamed of her song. - - "Quand je danse avec mon grand frisé - Il a l'air de m'enlacer - Je perds la tête - 'Suis comme une bête! - 'Y a pas chose--'suis sa chose à lui - 'Y a pas mal--Quoi? C'est mon mari - Car moi, je l'aime - J'aime mon grand frisé." - -The audience sang the swinging chorus, and she moved sinuously to and -fro with the rhythm of it. Humphrey sat there, and he seemed to lose -consciousness of all the other people in the room--the smell of the -smoke, and the jingle of the piano, and the ill-painted pictures on -the walls faded away from him; all his senses seemed to merge and -concentrate on the enjoyment of this moment. She was singing on the -stage for him, her narrow eyes never left him. - -And her song was a pæan in praise of the brute in man. - -She acted her song. Her face was radiant with the joy of being -possessed, and her eyes shone as she abandoned herself to the words: - - "Quand je danse avec le grand frisé - Il a l'air de m'enlacer...." - -Then her wonderful hands with their glinting finger-nails went up to -her head, and she half-closed her eyes, as though she were swooning: - - "Je perds la tête...." - -Now her eyes were opened, and they glared wildly, and her lips -trembled, and her slim body quivered with animal hunger: - - "'Suis comme une bête." - -And now, she smiled, and pride was on her face; one hand rested on -her hip, and she swaggered up the stage, as the words fitted into the -opening lilt: - - "'Y pas chose--suis sa chose à lui - 'Y pas mal--Quoi? C'est mon mari...." - -Her face became at once miraculously tender. She expressed great -and overpowering love--a love so strong that it swept everything -before it--a love that was without restraint, passionate, fierce and -unquenchable. Her arms were outstretched. Her dark blouse, opened at -the neck, revealed her white throat throbbing with her song: - - "Car moi, je l'aime - J'aime mon grand frisé." - -And when she sang "_Je l'aime_," she invested the words with passion -and renunciation. - -They clamoured for another verse, crying "_Bis ... Bis_," in throaty -tones, but she only came on to bow to them, and walk off again with -that swaying stride. - -"_Eh, bien!_" said a voice at Humphrey's elbow, "she is very good, our -little Desirée, _hein_?" - -He turned half round in his chair. At first he did not recognize the -immaculately clothed young man, with the fair, long hair, who smiled -at him, and then he recollected that they had met in the office of _Le -Parisien_. - -"M. Charnac, isn't it?" Humphrey asked. "I didn't know you at once.... -Yes, she's very good. What's her name?" - -"Desirée Lebeau," Charnac answered. He looked at Humphrey again, still -smiling. - -"Do you often come here?" he asked. - -"This is the first time.... I was wandering about.... I just dropped -in." - -Humphrey noticed that Charnac was not alone. A pretty girl dressed -becomingly in black, with a touch of red about her neck, sat by his -side. - -"Allow me to present a friend, Margot," Charnac said to the girl. "He -is an Englishman--a journalist," he added. And to Humphrey he said: - -"Mlle. Margot Lebeau. She is the sister of our little Desirée." - -"_M'sieu est Anglais_," said the dark-haired girl in a piping voice. -"_Ah! que ça doit être interessant d'être Anglais._" - - - - -IV - - -The entertainment was near its end. A dainty figure came from the -heavy curtains that hung from each side of the proscenium and hid the -entertainers from the audience. Humphrey recognised Desirée, though she -had forsaken her stage-costume and wore a simple dark-blue dress, with -a black fur boa held carelessly about her shoulders. She came towards -them with a smile, stopping on the way, as one or two men, of a better -class than the bulk of the audience, hailed her. She bent down to them, -and whispered conversations followed. She laughed and slapped the face -of one man--an elderly man with a red ribbon in his button-hole. It was -a playful slap, just the movement that a kitten makes with its paw when -it is playing with long hanging curtains. - -Charnac pushed out a chair for her invitingly. She came to them with -a smile hovering about her lips, and a look of curious interest in -her pale eyes as she saw Humphrey. She shook hands with Charnac, and -kissed her sister Margot, and then, with a frank gesture, without any -embarrassment, she held out her hand to Humphrey and said: - -"_Bon soir, p'tit homme._" - -There was a quality of friendship in her voice; her whole manner -suggested a desire to be amiable; she accepted Humphrey as a friend -without question, and, as for Charnac, she treated him as if he were -one of the family, as a brother. The women in the room stared at the -party every few moments, absorbed in the details of Desirée's dress, -and the men glanced at her with smiles that irritated Humphrey. - -"It is a little friend of mine--an Englishman," Charnac said to Desirée. - -"An Englishman!" said Desirée, in a way that seemed to be the echo -of her sister's remark a few minutes earlier. "I have a friend in -England." She spoke French in a clipped manner, abbreviating her words, -and scattering fragments of slang through her phrases. - -"Is that so?" Humphrey said. "What part of England?" - -"Manchestaire," she replied. "His name was Mr Smith. You know him?" - -Humphrey laughed. "I'm afraid I don't--Manchester's a big place, you -know." - -"Is it as big as London?" - -"Oh no. Not as big as London." - -"I should like to go to London. I have a friend there--a girl friend." - -"Oh! where does she live?" - -"I forget the name of the street--somewhere near Charing Cross--that's -a railway station, isn't it?" - -"Yes." - -Silence fell between them while a comedian, dressed as a comic -soldier, sang a song that made them all laugh; though Humphrey could -not understand the _argot_, he caught something of the innuendo of -the song. Strange, that in France and Germany, in countries where -patriotism and militarism are at their highest, the army should be held -up to ridicule, and burlesqued in the coarsest fashion. The song gave -Humphrey an opportunity of studying Desirée's face. He saw that the -yellow hair was silky and natural; her eyebrows were as pale as her -hair, and when she laughed, her red lips parted to show small white -teeth that looked incredibly sharp. She was not beautiful, but she held -some mysterious attraction for him. She was of a type that differed -from all the women he had met. Though her face and figure showed that -she was little more than twenty, her bearing was that of a woman who -had lived and learnt all there was to know of the world. One slim, -ungloved hand rested on the table, and he noted the beauty of it, its -slender, delicate fingers, and the perfect shape of her pink, shining -nails. In the making of her, Nature seemed to have concentrated in her -hands all her power of creating beauty. - -The song finished to a round of applause. - -"_Il est joliment drôle_," said Desirée to Charnac. "Ah! zut ... I -could do with a drink." - -"We won't have anything here," Charnac said. "They only sell species of -poisons. Let's go and have supper at the Chariot d'Or.... Will you join -us, Mr Quain?" - -Why not? It was a perfectly harmless idea. Every experience added -something to his knowledge. And yet, he hesitated. Somewhere, at the -back of his mind, a feeling of uneasiness awoke in him. Charnac would -pair off with Margot, and he would have to sit with Desirée during -the meal. The thought carried with it a picture of forbidden things. -Conscience argued with him: "You really oughtn't to, you know." "Why -not? What harm will it do?" he urged. Conscience was relentless. "You -forget you have a duty to some one." "Nonsense," he said, "let's look -at the thing in a broad-minded way. It won't hurt me to have supper -with them, surely." - -Desirée laid a hand upon his sleeve gently. - -"_Tu viens--oui_," she asked, in a low, caressing voice. Their eyes -met. He saw the pupils of her narrow eyes grow larger for a second, -as though they were striving to express unspoken thoughts. Then they -receded and contracted to little, dark, twinkling beads set in their -centre of pale blue circles. - -"_Oui_," he said, with a sigh. - - * * * * * - -They came out into the noisy night of the Boulevard. They walked -together, Charnac and Margot with linked arms. The lower floors of the -night restaurants were blazing with light, but in the upper rooms the -drawn blinds subdued the glare, and transformed it into a warm glow. -Cabs and motor-cars came up the steep hill from the Grands Boulevards -below for the revelry of supper after the theatre. The great doors of -the Chariot d'Or were continually moving, and the uniformed doorkeeper -seemed to enjoy the exercise of pulling the door open every second, as -women in wraps, accompanied by men, crossed the threshold. - -They went upstairs into a long brilliant room, all gold and glass and -red plush, with white tablecloths shining in the strong light. In the -corner a group of musicians, dressed in a picturesque costume--it -might have been taken from any of the Balkan States, or from -imagination--played a dragging waltz melody. - -A dark woman sat by them, wearing a Spanish dress, orange and spangled, -the bodice low-cut, and the skirt fanciful and short, showing her thin -legs clad in black open-work stockings. She regarded the room with an -air of detached interest, unanswering the glances of the men. She was -the wife of the first violinist. - -Charnac led the way to a table; he placed himself next to Margot on -the red plush sofa-cushions, and Humphrey sat with Desirée. While -Charnac was ordering the supper and consulting their individual tastes, -Humphrey glanced round the room at the men who sat at the little tables -with glasses of sparkling amber wine before them, some of them in -evening-dress, with crumpled, soft shirt-fronts, others in lounge suits -or morning-coats. Not all had women with them, but the women that he -saw were luxurious, beautiful creatures, with indolent eyes and faces -of strange beauty. - -The lights gleamed under rose-coloured shades on the table, on the -silver dishes piled high with splendid fruits, on bottles swathed -tenderly with napkins, set in silver ice-pails, on tumblers of coloured -wines and liqueurs. - -"It's pretty here, eh?" said Desirée. - -"It's not so bad. I've never been here before. Do you come often?" - -"Oh no! not often: only when Margot brings Gustave to come and fetch me -after I've been singing." - -She clapped her hands gaily as the waiter set a steaming dish of -mussels before them. The house was famed for its _moules marinières_. -"I adore them," she said, unfolding her serviette, and tucking it under -her chin. Charnac ladled out the mussels into soup-plates. Their blue -iridescent shells shone in an opal-coloured gravy where tiny slices of -onion floated on the surface. Her dainty fingers dipped into the plate, -and she fed herself with the mussels, biting them from the shells with -her sharp white teeth. She ate with an extraordinary rapidity, breaking -off generous pieces from the long, crisp roll of bread before her, and -drinking deeply of her red Burgundy. - -She was simply an animal. Margot ate in much the same way, with greedy, -quick gestures, until her plate was piled high with empty mussel -shells. And, during the meal, they chattered trivialities, discussing -personal friends in a slangy, intimate phraseology. - -The sharp taste of the sauce, with its flavour of the salt sea-water, -made Humphrey thirsty, and he, too, drank plenty of wine; and the -wine and the warmth sent the colour rushing to his cheeks, and filled -him with a sense of comfort. The whole atmosphere of the place had a -soothing effect on him. - -The orchestra started to play a Spanish dance, and the woman in orange -rose from her seat, and tossing her lace shawl aside, moved down the -aisle of tables in a sidling, swinging dance, castanets clicking from -her thumbs, marking the sway and poise of her body above her hips. It -was a sexual, voluptuous dance, that stirred the senses like strong -wine. Now she flung herself backwards with a proud, uplifted chin. One -high-heeled satin shoe stamped the floor. Her eyes flashed darkly and -dangerously; she flaunted her bare throat and bosom before them; now -she moved with a lithe sinuous motion from table to table, one hand on -her hip, and the other swinging loosely by her side. - -There was something terrible and triumphant in her dance to the beat of -the music with its rhythm of a heart throbbing in passion. - -"Bravo! bravo!" they cried, as the dance finished. "_Bis_," shouted -Charnac, lolling back in his seat with his arm round Margot's shoulder. - -"She dances well," said Humphrey. - -Desirée turned her pale eyes on him. "I can dance better," she said, -and before he had realized it, she was up and in the centre of the -room, and everybody laughed and clapped hands, as Desirée began to -dance with stealthy, cat-like steps. Her face was impudent, as she -twined and twisted her thin body into contortions that set all the men -leering at her. It was frankly repulsive and horrible to Humphrey; she -seemed suddenly to have ceased to be a woman, just as when she had -started to eat. She was inhuman when she sang and ate and danced. - -The blur of white flesh through the smoke, the odour of heavy scents, -and the sight of Desirée writhing in her horrid dance, sickened him. -He saw her white teeth gleaming between her lips, half-parted with the -exhaustion of her dance, he saw her eyes laughing at him, as though -she were proud and expected his applause, and he felt a profound, -inexplicable pity for her that overwhelmed his disgust. - -She flung herself, panting, into her seat, and pushed back her -disordered yellow hair with her hands. "_Oh la! ... la!_" she cried, -laughing in gasps, "_c'est fatiguant, ça_ ... my throat is like a -furnace." And she clicked her glass against the glass that Humphrey -held in his hand, and drained it to the finish. - -"Why did you do that?" asked Humphrey, huskily. - -"Do what?" - -"Dance like that--in front of all these people?" - -"Why shouldn't I, if I want to?" - -"I don't like it," he said, wondering why he was impelled to say so. - -"Well, you shouldn't have said she dances well," Desirée replied. - -"I must be going," Humphrey said. - -"Oh, not yet," Charnac said. "Let's all go together." - -"No," he pushed his chair away with sudden resolution. "I must go." - -"But, my dear--" Desirée began. - -"I must go," Humphrey repeated, slowly. It was like the repetition of a -lesson. "I must go now." - -"Oh, well--" Charnac said. - -The waiter appeared with a bill. "You will allow me to pay?" Humphrey -asked Charnac. - -"_Mais non, mais non, mon ami_," he replied, good-naturedly. "It was I -who asked you to come, wasn't it? Another night it will be your turn." - -"Another night," echoed Margot, in her high-pitched voice. "_J'adore -les Anglais, ils sont si gentils._" - -"And why cannot you stop?" Desirée asked. - -He avoided her eyes. Never could he explain in this room, with its -scent and its music and its warmth, that turned vice into happiness -and made virtue as chilling and intractable as marble. He only knew -that he had to go. He made some excuse--any excuse--work--a headache -... he did not know what he was saying; he was only conscious of those -narrow eyes beneath pale eyebrows, and red parted lips, and the soft -hand that lay in his--the soft hand with the finger-tips as beautiful -as rosy sea-shells. - -They were not to blame; they could not be expected to know his -innermost life, nor why it was that he felt suddenly as if he had -profaned himself, and all that was most sacred to him. But that finer, -nobler self that was always dormant within him, as eager to awaken to -influences as it was to be lulled to sleep by them, became active and -alert.... - -There was a hint of dawn in the sky as he came out into the empty -street, his mind charged with a deep melancholy. But, as the cool air -played about his face, he breathed more freely after the stuffy warmth -of the room, and he walked with a firm step, square-shouldered, erect -and courageous. - - - - -V - - -Some weeks later there came a letter which brought the reality of -things into his own life. It was a short and regretful letter from a -firm of Easterham solicitors, announcing the death of his aunt. - -They informed him of the fact in a few, brief, dignified words. There -was an undercurrent of excuse, as if they felt themselves personally -responsible for the sudden demise, and were anxious to apologise -for any inconvenience that might be felt by Mr Quain. He gathered -that his aunt had lived on an annuity, which expired with her; that -a little financial trouble--loans to a brother of whom Humphrey had -never heard--absorbed her furniture and all her possessions, with the -exception of a watch and chain, which she had willed to Humphrey. The -funeral was to take place two days hence--and that was all. - -The letter moved him neither to tears nor sorrow. His aunt had been as -remote from him in life as she was in death. An unbridgeable abyss had -divided them. Never, during the years he had lived in Easterham, after -his father's death, had they talked of the fundamental things that -mattered to one another. He felt that he owed her nothing, least of all -love, for she remained in his memory a masterful, powerful influence, -trying to fetter him down to a narrow life, without comprehension of -the broad, beautiful world that lay at her doors. - -He could see her now in her dress of some mysterious black pattern, -and always a shawl over her shoulder, her white hair plastered close -to her heavy gold earrings, her lips thin and compressed, and her eyes -hard-set, when she said, "You must Get On." She did not know, when she -urged him to go forward, how far he meant to go. Her vision of Getting -On was bounded by Easterham--what could she know and understand of all -the bewildering phases he had undergone; the bitter heartaches, the -misery of failure, and the glory of conquest in a world wider than a -million Easterhams. - -But, as he thought of her dead, a strange feeling came to him that now -she could understand everything, that she knew all, and was even ready -to reach out in sympathy to him. Her last pathetic message--a watch and -chain! The rude knowledge that he had gained of the secret things of -her life--how she lived, her loan to the brother; it seemed that some -hidden door which they had both kept carefully locked had been flung -open widely--that his eyes were desecrating her profoundest secrets. - -It was not the first time that Death had stirred his life, but this was -a sudden and unexpected snapping of a chain that bound him with his -boyhood. Always he had been subconsciously aware of his aunt's presence -in the scheme of things; there had been ingrained in him a certain fear -of her, that he had never quite shaken off. Behind the individuality of -his own life she had lurked, a shadowy figure, yet ready to emerge from -the shadows at a moment of provocation, and become real and distinct -and forbidding. - -And now he could scarcely realize that she was dead--that he was -absolutely alone in the world, though there might be, somewhere, -cousins and kinspeople whom he had never seen. - -She had not been demonstratively kind to him in life. The watch and -chain she left was the first present he could ever remember receiving -from her. But he felt that he could not absent himself from her -funeral; it would be a sad and desolate business in the Easterham -churchyard, with not many people there, yet he knew that he could not -pass the day in Paris without thinking of her, lowered into the grave -to the eternal loneliness of death. - -He sent a telegram to London, and received a reply a few hours later, -giving him permission to leave Paris, and the next day he travelled to -England. - -The collection of papers and magazines rested unread in his lap. He -looked from the window on the succession of pictures that flashed -and disappeared--a blue-bloused labourer at work in the fields, or -a waggoner toiling along a country lane; children shouting by the -hedgerows, and the signal-women who sat by their little huts on the -railway as the train sped by. He could not read; sometimes, with a -sigh, he sought a paper (France had just caught the popular magazine -habit from England), turned the pages restlessly, and, finally, leaning -on the arm-rest, stared out of the window.... - -The shuttle of his mind went to and fro, twining together -the disconnected threads of his thoughts into a pattern of -memories--memories of his youth and his work and his aunt interwoven -with the strong, dominating thought of Elizabeth.... - -His thoughts turned continually to Elizabeth; sometimes they spun away -to something else, but always they were led back through a series of -memories to that night when he had kissed her for the first time. - -It was odd how this absence from her seemed to have changed her in -his mind. There had been an undercurrent of disappointment in their -relations, of late. Her letters had been strangely sterile and -unsatisfying. She had written an evasive reply, after a delay, an -answer to his last letter begging her to come to him.... - -Yet he was eager to see her and to kiss her. He felt that she was all -that he had left to him in the world: that she and his work were all -that mattered.... - -A garrulous Frenchman lured him into conversation during dinner; he was -glad, for it gave him relief from the monotonous burden of his thoughts -... and on the boat he dozed in the sunshine of a smooth crossing. - -Once in England again, the delight of an exile returning to his home -provided new sensations. The porters were deferentially solicitous for -his comfort; the Customs officers behaved with innate politeness, and -the little squat train, with its separate compartments, brought a glow -of happiness to him. He saw England as a stranger might see it for the -first time: he observed the discipline and order of the railway station -that came not from oppression but from high organization and planning. -There were no mistakes made; the boy brought his tea-basket and did not -overcharge him; the porter accepted sixpence and touched his hat, not -obsequiously, but in acknowledgment, without a suggestion of haggling -for more. It seemed incredible that he should find this perfection, -where a year ago he could not see it.... - -There were Frenchmen in the carriage, and he sat with the conscious -pride of an Englishman in his own country. The train moved out, giving -a glimpse of the harbour and the sea breaking in white lines over the -sloping beach; and then through a tunnel that emerged on fields. The -first thing he noticed was the vivid green of the country, and the way -it was cut up and divided into squares and oblongs: the small clumps of -low-set trees, the fat cattle, and the peace brooding over the land. -And then he noticed the little houses, low-storied and thatched, with a -feather of blue smoke waving from their chimneys. The whole journey was -a series of new impressions that elated him. Stations flashed and left -behind a blurred memory of advertisements, and names that breathed -of yeoman England: Ashford--Paddock Wood--Sevenoaks--Knockholt; and -then the advertisement-boards stood out of the green fields, blatantly -insisting on lung tonics and pills, marking off mile after mile that -brought him nearer to London. The houses closed in on the railway line; -the train ran now through larger stations of red brick, passing the -peopled platforms with an echoing roar; other crowded trains passed -them, going slowly to the suburbs they had left behind. A new note -seemed to come into the journey as the evening descended, and the world -outside was populous with lights. - -The memory of the clean, sweet country, with its toy houses, was wiped -away by a swift blot of darkness as the train flashed through New -Cross, and out into the broad network of rails with which London begins. - -He saw the factories and the sidings and the busy traffic of trains -overtaking one another, running parallel for a space, and then swaying -apart as one branched off to the south-eastern suburbs. He saw the -smoke hanging in thick clouds on the far horizon; masts and rigging -made spidery silhouettes against the sky; and the tall, factory -chimneys thrust out their monstrous tongues of livid fire. - -The city was before him right and left, overgrown and tremendous. They -ran level with crooked chimney-pots and the scarred roofs of endless -rows of houses. The upper windows were yellow with light, and he caught -glimpses of women before mirrors and men in their shirt-sleeves. Dark -masses of clouds rolled before the moon. Something wet splashed on his -cheek. - -A silent Englishman sitting next to him, said moodily: "Raining as -usual. I've never once come home without it raining." He laughed as -though it were a bitter joke. - -Fantastic reflections wriggled on the wet, shining approach to -London Bridge--a swift vision of bus-drivers, with oilcloth capes -glinting in the rain, hurrying crowds, and something altogether new--a -motor-omnibus. - -Then the train, with a dignified, steady movement, swung slowly across -Hungerford Bridge, and he saw the strong, resolute river, black and -broad, flowing to the bridges, within the jewelled girdle of the -Embankment. - -The sense of England's greatness came to him, as the landmarks of -London were set in a semicircle before him: the tall dome of St Paul's, -the spires of churches, the turrets of great hotels, grey Government -offices, culminating in the vague majesty of the Houses of Parliament. - -How different the streets were from Paris! There was a force and an -energy that seemed to be driving everything perpetually forward. This -business of getting to dinner--it was about half-past seven--was a -terribly earnest and crowded affair. The throng of motor-cars and -omnibuses jammed and flocked together in the Strand, held in leash -by a policeman's uplifted hand, and when it was released, it crawled -sluggishly forward. Here and there, rare sight for Humphrey, one of -the new motor-omnibuses lumbered forward heavily, threatening instant -annihilation of everything. There was no chatter of voices in the -crowd--no gesticulation--the people walked silently and hurriedly with -a set concentration of purpose. - -He went to a hotel in the Adelphi to leave his bag. Then he came out, -pausing for a moment irresolutely in the crowd. It was too late, as he -had foreseen, to go to Elizabeth. He had made up his mind to see her on -his return from Easterham. - -An omnibus halted by him: he boarded it, and as he passed the Griffin, -he breathed deeply like a monarch entering his own domain, for the -scent of the Street was in his nostrils and the old, well-known vision -of the lit windows passed before him, and a newsboy ran along shouting -a late edition. This was the only Street in the world, he felt, that he -loved; its people were his people, and its life was his life. - -He turned into the Pen Club, to friendship, good-fellowship and -welcome. And all the old friends were there--Larkin, retelling old -stories, Chander spinning merry yarns, and Vernham making melancholy -epigrams. Willoughby, he learnt, was away on a mystery in the north, -and Jamieson was at a first night. - -"By the way," said Larkin, "heard about Tommy Pride?" - -"No. What's happened?" - -"He's left _The Day_." - -"Sacked?" asked Humphrey. - -Larkin nodded. "Rather rough on poor old Tommy. Married, isn't he?" - -A picture of his first visit to the home of the Prides leapt before -Humphrey's eyes, and the comfort, the cheeriness, that hid all the hard -work of the week. The news hurt him queerly. - -"What's he doing?" he asked. - -"Well, not much. Tommy's not a youngster, you know. I suppose the -Newspaper Press Fund will tide him over a bit." - -Larkin dropped the subject, to listen to a story from Vernham. After -all, it was the most casual thing in the happenings of Fleet Street -to them: it might happen to them any day; it was bound to happen to -them one day. And there would always be young men ready to take their -places. Nobody was to blame; it was just one of the chances of the -inexorable system which made their work a gamble, where men hazarded -their wits and their lives, and lost or won in the game. - -Humphrey knew more than they did what it meant for Tommy Pride. He -heard as a mocking echo now, the old cry, "Two pounds a week and a -cottage in the country."... - -"Have a drink," Larkin said. - -He became suddenly out of tune with the place. His perception of Fleet -Street altered. He saw the relentless cruelty of it, the implacable -demand for sacrifice that it always made. He visioned it as a giant -striding discordantly through the lives of men, crushing them with a -strength as mighty as its own machines that roared in the night ... a -clumsy and senseless giant, that towered above them, against whom all -struggles were pitiful ... futile. - - - - -VI - - -"One lump or two?" asked Elizabeth, holding the sugar-tongs poised over -his cup of tea. - -"One, please," said Humphrey. - -"Milk or cream?" - -"Milk." - -She handed him the cup in silence. There was something in the frank, -questioning look in her blue eyes that made him avert his gaze. Their -meeting had not been at all as he had imagined it. He did not spring -towards her, boyishly, and take her in his arms and kiss her. He had -approached her humbly and timidly when she stood before him, in all -her white purity and beauty, and their lips had met in a brief kiss of -greeting. Her manner had been curiously formal and restrained, empty of -all outward display of emotion. - -And now they sat at tea in her room with the conversation lagging -between them. As he looked round at the room with its chintzes and -rose-bowls, its old restfulness reasserted itself. But to Humphrey -it seemed now more than restful--it seemed stagnant and out of the -world.... Somewhere, in Paris, there were music and laughter, but here, -in this quiet backwater of London, one's vision became narrow, and life -seemed a monotonous repetition of days. He felt moody, depressed; a -sense of coming disaster hung over his mind, like a shadow. Her quick -sympathy perceived his gloom. - -"You ought not to have gone," she said, softly. - -"You mean to the funeral?" - -"Yes; you are too susceptible ... too easily influenced by -surroundings. There was no need to come all this way to make yourself -miserable." - -"I don't know why I went," he said. "We never had much in common, -my aunt and I, but somehow ... I don't know ... I couldn't bear the -thought of not being present at her funeral. I had a silly sort of idea -that she would know if I were not there." - -"You are too susceptible," she repeated. "Sometimes I wish you were -stronger. You are too much afraid of what people will think of you. -This death has meant nothing at all to you, but you are ashamed to say -so." - -"It has meant something to me," he said. "I don't mean that I felt -a wrench, as if some one whom I loved very dearly had gone ... I -felt that when my father died ... but her death has changed me -somehow--here--" and he tapped his breast, "I feel older. I feel as if -I had stood over the grave and seen the burial of my youth." - -"It has made you gloomy," Elizabeth said. "I think you would have been -truer to yourself if you had remained in Paris." - -He reflected for a few moments, drinking his tea. He felt sombre -enough in his black clothes and black tie--dreary concessions to -conventionality. - -"Ah, but I wanted to see you, Elizabeth," he said earnestly. "It's -terribly lonely without you." - -She leaned forward and laid her hand lightly on his, with a soft, -caressing touch. "It's good of you to say that," she said, and then, -with a frank smile, "tell me, Humphrey, do you really miss me very -much?" - -"I do," he said; and he began talking of himself and all that he did in -Paris. Elizabeth listened with an amused smile playing about her lips. -He told her of his work and his play, growing enthusiastic over Paris, -speaking with all the self-centredness of the egotist. - -"It seems very pleasant," she said. "You are to be envied, I think. You -ought to be very happy: doing everything that you want to do; occupying -a good position in journalism." - -He purred mentally under her praise. Already he felt better; her -presence stimulated him; but he could not see, nor understand, the true -Elizabeth, for the mists of vanity, ambition and selfishness clouded -his vision at that moment. If only he had forgotten himself ... if only -he had asked her one question about herself and _her_ work, or shown -the smallest interest in anything outside his own career, he might have -risen to great heights of happiness. - -This was the second in which everything hung in the balance. He saw -Elizabeth lean her chin in the palm of her hand and contemplate -reflectively the distance beyond him. He marked the beauty of her lower -arm, bare to the rounded charm of the elbow, as it rested on the curve -of the arm-chair. So, he thought, would she sit in Paris, and grace his -life. - -And then, suddenly, her face became grave, and she said, abruptly: - -"Humphrey, I want to talk to you very seriously. I want to know whether -you will give up journalism." - -He remembered her hint of this far back in the months when she had -first allowed him to tell her of his love. He had thought the danger -was past, but now she came to him, with a deliberate, frontal attack on -the very stronghold of his existence. - -"Give up journalism!" he echoed. "What for?" - -All the weapons of her sex were at her command. She might have said, -"For me"; she might have smiled and enticed and cajoled. But she -brushed these weapons aside disdainfully. Hers was the earnest business -of putting Humphrey to the test. - -"Because I think you and I will never be happy together if you do not. -Because, if I marry you (he noticed she did not say, 'When I marry -you'), I should not want your work to occupy a larger place in our -lives than myself. Because I hate your work, and I think you can do -better things. Those are my reasons." - -He stood up and walked to the window, looking out on the trees that -made an avenue of the quiet road. A man with a green baize covered tray -on his head came round the corner, swinging a bell up and down. - -"Well?" she said. - -"Oh but look here, Elizabeth," he began, "you spring something like -this on me suddenly, and expect me to answer at once...." - -"Oh, no! you can have time to think it over. You've had nearly a year, -you know." - -"How do you make that out?" - -"Have you forgotten? When you were going to Paris--before you were -going to Paris even--I tried to show you that I wanted you to give up -the work. I remember you promised things. You said you'd write books, -or do essays for the weeklies...." - -"But, dear, you can't make a living writing books--unless you fluke, -or unless you're a genius; as for essays for the weeklies, frankly, I -don't believe I can do them--I'm not brilliant enough." - -"Yes, you are," Elizabeth urged. (Fatal mistake to make, it smoothed -all his vanity the right way.) "I believe in you, Humphrey. If I didn't -believe in you, I wouldn't be talking as I am now. And, besides, I've -told you before, I have enough for us both." - -Though she was offering him freedom; though, if he wished, he could -accept her offer and be rid for ever from the torments of Fleet Street, -he could not leave its joys. - -"You don't understand," he said. "You couldn't expect me to live on -you...." - -"Why not? I should be prepared to live on you, if I were poor." - -"That's different. You're a woman." - -She laughed. "We won't go into the side-issues of arguments over -ethics," she said. "You need not live on me. You told me that you -had saved four hundred pounds. If we lived simply that would keep us -both for a start, and you could be adding to your income by writing. -Humphrey, don't you see I'm trying to rescue you. I want you to do -something fine and noble; I want you to go forward." - -"Well, I've gone forward," he said. "I've made myself in the Street. -You don't know what you ask when you want me to give it up. Nobody -can understand it unless he's been in the game. I can't think what it -is--it isn't vanity, because all that we write is unsigned; it's sheer -love of the work that drives us on." - -"But you hate it, too." - -"We hate it as fiercely as we love it..." he said, simply. "One day we -say to ourselves, 'We will give it up.' That's what I say to you, now. -I'm going to give it up, one day." - -"That you have also promised before," she said, in a gentle voice. "Let -us talk it over between ourselves. Why shouldn't you leave now?" - -He was cornered: he stood at bay, facing her beauty, but behind it and -above it he saw all the struggles and endeavour and splendid triumph -that awaited him in the restless years to come, when each day would -be a battle-field, and any might bring him defeat or conquest. He saw -the world opening before him, and far-off cities close at hand; he -saw himself wandering through the years, touching the lives of men; a -privileged person, always behind the scenes of life, with a hint of -power perhaps.... And, in exchange, she offered him peace and rest, -both of which corroded the soul eager for war; peace and rest and -love, that would be so beautiful until the years made them familiar -and wearisome, until he would be forced to go out again into the thick -of the battle ... and by that time his armour would be rusty, and the -years of peace would have blunted his sword. - -"Elizabeth," he said slowly, "I can't live in a room, now. I can't -always look out of the window on the same scene. I must keep moving. -Each day must bring me a fresh scene, a fresh experience. I have grown -so used to change and movement that a week without it makes life dull -and unbearable. I'm not fit for anything else but the work I do. I'm -born to do that and nothing else. Everything in life now I see from -the point of view of 'copy.'" He laughed, but there was a sob in his -laughter at his shameful confession. "Why, even at the funeral, as I -stood over the grave, and watched them lower the coffin, I felt that -I could write a splendid column about it, and instead of feeling the -solemnity of it all, I found that I was watching the white surplices -against the green trees, and looking at the faces of the people, and -painting a picture in my mind...." - -He paused. Her eyes were downcast, and her fingers played absently with -the loops of the chain that hung from her neck. - -"It's a habit," he went on. "It's grown on me, so that I see life and -its emotions as a series of things to be written about. Why shouldn't -I have thought as I did at the funeral? I have been taught to do it, -when I go to the funerals of great men that I have to report. I'm a -journalist ... a reporter. I've seen men eat their hearts out in a -year, after they've left the Street light-heartedly. The reaction comes -suddenly. Things are happening all around them, and they're out of it. -And they creep back, and try to get a job again. That's what Kenneth -himself will do one day.... I don't want to be one of those, Elizabeth. -I want to go through with it, right through to the failure at the end -of all, and when the failure comes, I'll build up again." - -She spread out her hands helplessly. "I see..." she said, "I see...." -That was all for a moment, and then, again: "If you were doing -something worthy, I could understand; if you were producing art, I -could understand, too ... but this"--a copy of _The Day_ was on the -table, and she held it in her hand--"this is unworthy. This is all you -produce with your infinite labour." - -"It's not unworthy ... we have our ideals." - -She laughed, and her laugh stung him. - -"Humphrey, you have the ha'penny mind that does not see beyond its own -nose. You just live for the day itself. Oh!" she cried, "if you knew -how I hate your Ferrol, and all that he stands for: all the ignoble -things in life, painting everything with the commercial taint of -worldly success. There was a beautiful picture bought the other day for -the National Gallery. I see it is to be known as the '£60,000 picture.' -That's the spirit behind Ferrol ... we might be crying for great -reforms--I have not spoken of my work in all this--we might be lifted -up with the power at his command...." - -When she spoke of Ferrol, Humphrey remembered all that had been done -for him. What could she know of Ferrol's personality, of his splendid -force, of the thousand generous acts that remained hidden, while -only the things were remembered that blackened his reputation. His -admiration for Ferrol was immeasurable. He saw in the indomitable -energy of the man something tangible and positive among all the -negative virtues of life. Ferrol stood for achievement that crowned the -indefatigable years. And with it all, this superman could descend from -his loftiness and be human and weave the spell of his humanity about -the lives of others. - -"You don't understand Ferrol," he said. "Very few people do. But he has -been kind to me ... there's something in Ferrol that draws me to him. -One day you will see he will do all that you expect him to do, but the -time is not yet ripe for that. And you speak as if Ferrol were the only -man in England who owned a newspaper. What of the others--have any of -them done as much good as he has done?" - -"Whatever good he has done, is done from motives of gain." - -"I do not look at motives," he retorted. "I look only at the effects of -the action. If a bad deed is done from good motives, it does not make -the deed anything but bad." - -They were standing face to face now. - -"Come, Elizabeth," he said, moving towards her. "You do not know how I -love you, and if you loved me, you would not ask me to give up my work." - -Her face was white and beautiful, and her hand went up to her heart -with a womanly gesture. She spoke in a low, deliberate voice. - -"In all that we have said, there has never been a word of what giving -up _my_ work may mean to me. Yet you would have me abandon it, and -forsake all the good we have tried to build up...." - -"You would have to give it up, one day, Elizabeth. Besides, if you -like," he said, desperately, "I'll go to Ferrol and ask him to remove -me from Paris back to London. I'll do anything to meet you, I only want -to make you happy." - -"Oh, don't keep on saying that sort of thing," she said; "it irritates -me. Those hollow repetitions of set phrases--just because they're the -right thing to say." - -"I think you are unreasonable," he began. "I have worked all these -years for success, and now, just when I've won it, you wish me to throw -everything away." - -"I wish you to do nothing against your will. I thought you would have -seen my point of view. I thought you would be ready to share in my -work, which is the work of humanity.... I am sorry. You see, we clash. -We shall be better alone." - -He stared at her with dull incomprehension. "We clash. We shall be -better alone." The words repeated themselves over and over again in his -brain. And his mind suddenly went back to a little room in the Strand -and the tears of Lilian.... - -"You mean that," he said, slowly. "You mean that." - -She nodded. "Don't you see how impossible it would be?" - -"You never loved me," he flung forth as a challenge. "You could have -helped me and understood me.... I am not so bad as you think I am." - -A sad smile answered him. "I understand you so well, Humphrey, that I -know I shall never be able to help you." - -He looked about him in weak hesitation. "I suppose I must begin again," -he said. - -"You ... you ... all the time it is you," she cried, passionately. "And -what about myself; must not I begin over again, too?" - -"I'm sorry," he said, feeling the inadequacy of his words. He longed -intensely to be away from her now, to be out in the open street where -he could think. This room was stifling. He went through the horrid -methodical business of parting as if it were all a dream. He remembered -glancing at the clock in a casual way, and saying, "I'd better be -going"; he remembered the ludicrous search for one glove, he murmuring -that it didn't really matter, and she insisting on a search with -aching minuteness.... - -He never saw her again; her life had impinged on his, and left its -impression, as many others had done. He did not regret her as he had -regretted Lilian, for she had outraged his self-respect, and left him -abashed and humbled. - - - - -VII - - -He went back to Paris, and a week later the trouble broke out in -Narbonne. - -At first it did not seem very serious. One understood vaguely that the -wine-growers were in revolt. The Paris buyers had been adulterating the -vintages--making one cask into a dozen--so that they came to a year -when there was such a glut of this adulterated wine on the market, -that the wine-growers of the South were left with wine to spill in the -gutters, and wine to give to the pigs--but without bread to give to -their children. - -Then there arose one of those men who flame into history for a few -vivid moments. A leader of men, whose words were sparks dropped among -straw; who had but to say "Kill," and they would kill, until he bade -them stop. - -For a time, in a way essentially peculiar to France, the ludicrous -prevailed. Municipalities resigned, mayors and all, and there was no -giving nor taking in marriage, no registration of births or deaths. -Odd stories of the despair of love--sick peasantry at postponed -weddings--filled the papers; the _Assiette au Beurre_ published -a special number satirizing the situation. It was a good joke in -Paris--but at Perpignan and Montpellier twenty thousand _vignerons_ -were talking of bloody revolution, and marching with blue and silver -banners, and calling on the Government to put a tax on sugar, so as to -make adulteration so costly that it should be profitless.... - -And Humphrey in the Paris office distilled a column a day from the -forty columns that the French Special Correspondents sent to their -papers, while Dagneau, up at the Ministry of the Interior, garnered -facts and official _communiqués_. - -Work was his salvation and his solace. Everything of the past was wiped -away from his mind when Humphrey worked. The personal things affecting -his own private life became trivial beside the urgent importance of -keeping _The Day_ well-informed. And thus habit had fortified his power -of resistance to external matters that might have disturbed a mind -less trained to make itself subservient to the larger issue of duty. -In a week--a brief week--he had gone through every phase of sorrow, -anger, self-pity at his rejection. He thought of writing--indeed, -he went so far one night as to compose a letter imploring Elizabeth -for forgiveness, promising everything she wished ... but, when it -was written, he tore it into little pieces. A mood of futile oaths -followed. He felt that he had been balked of her by trickery. It led to -violent hatred of her cold austerity, her icy splendour. He put away -the thought of her from him. After all, what did it matter? They would -never have been happy together. Always she was above him, distant and -unattainable ... yet those fine moments, when she had stooped down and -lifted him up, when gold and brilliance took the place of the dross in -his mind! How she filled him with dreams of overwhelming possibilities, -of ennobling achievements.... Below the crust of the selfishness and -vanity of his life, there was a rich vein of good and strong desire -ready to be worked, if she had only known. There were moments when -his whole soul ached with an intense longing to be exalted and free -from the impoverished squalor of its surroundings. He knew it, and the -thought of it made him unjust to Elizabeth. She had not known of those -constant conflicts which endured over years that seemed everlasting,--a -guerrilla warfare with conscience. - -They had not mattered. She had given his soul back to him, to do as -he liked with it; she had forsaken him before he was strong enough to -stand alone.... - -The telephone bell rang. He adjusted the metal band over his head. -"Londres," said the voice of the operator. His ears heard nothing but -the voice of _The Day_ calling to him; his eyes saw nothing but the -sheets of writing at his side, and everything else faded from his mind -but the news of the night.... - - * * * * * - -He put the receiver down, and almost immediately the telephone bell -rang, and he heard a voice telling him that it was Charnac.... "Where -have you been?" asked Charnac. "One has missed you." Humphrey explained -his absence. - -"Can you come to supper to-night," Charnac called. "Your little Desirée -will be there." His voice came out of the depths of space, calling -Humphrey to the gaiety of life. "Your little Desirée...." It brought -to him, vividly, her thin, supple figure; those strange blue eyes -that looked widely from beneath the pale eyebrows; and the lips of -cherry-red. The song that she had sung that night had been lilting ever -since in his mind: - - "... Je perds la tête - 'Suis comme une bête." - -He saw her in all her alluring languor, secret, and mysterious. And it -was the eternal mystery in her that attracted him. For a few moments he -hesitated, indeterminately, at the telephone. "_Eh bien, mon vieux_," -called Charnac's voice. "Will you come? 11.30 at the Chariot d'Or." - -"I'll come," said Humphrey. - -It was ten-thirty. Ripples of unrest stirred his mind; he felt deeply -agitated. He knew that he was on the brink of a new and complex -development in his life; and the future stretched before him, vague -and impenetrable, full of a promise of mournful and fierce delights, of -happiness inconceivable, and sorrow inexperienced. No scruples retarded -him now, and the voice of conscience was stilled, but despite all this, -an indefinable mist of melancholy clouded his soul. - -Dagneau came briskly into the office. Humphrey ceased brooding, and -swung round in his chair. - -"Lamb," he said, "I'm going out to supper to-night." - -"Oh! la! la!" Dagneau laughed. "Who's the lucky lady?" - -"Not for the likes of little lambs that have to stay in the office and -keep the fort." - -Dagneau made a grimace. "I suppose it isn't safe for both of us to -leave," he said. - -"No fear," Humphrey replied. "There's no knowing what these fellows -mayn't be up to in the South. Anyhow, if anything urgent happens, come -along to me. I shall be in the Chariot d'Or until one o'clock." - -Dagneau was a good fellow, thought Humphrey, as his cab climbed the -hill to Montmartre. It was jolly decent of him not to mind. He forgot -the office now, and thought only of the night's adventuring. There -was fully a half-hour to spare, so he idled it away on the terrace of -a café sipping at a liqueur. Every variety of street hawker came to -persuade sous from him: they had plaster figures for sale, or wanted -to cut his silhouette in black paper, or draw a portrait of him in -pastels, or sell him ballads and questionable books, bound in pink, -pictorial covers. The toy of the moment, frankly indecent, yet offered -with a childlike innocence that made it impossible for one to be -disgusted with the vendors, was thrust before him fifty times. They -showed him how it worked, and when he refused, they brought from inner -pockets picture-postcards which they tried to show him covertly, until -he drove them away with the _argot_ he had learned from Dagneau. - -At the time appointed a cab climbed the steep Rue Pigalle, and drew up -before the Chariot d'Or. Charnac sat in the middle comfortably squeezed -in between Margot and Desirée. They waved a cheery greeting as they saw -Humphrey, and he helped them down. Without any question he linked his -arm in Desirée's, and led her up the brilliant scarlet staircase to the -supper-room. Her meek acceptance of him, and the touch of her, gave -him a strong sense of possession. This woman acknowledged his right of -mastery over her, without a word being spoken, without any pleading, or -the bitter pain of uncertainty. From that moment he felt she was his -completely and unquestionably. There was no need to woo her and win -her; she was to be taken, and she would yield herself up, as women were -taken and women yielded themselves up in the earliest days of the earth. - -They went to their table. He had no eyes for anyone but Desirée. She -threw off her wrap, with a gesture of her shoulders, and as it tumbled -from them, they shone white and shapely, and a rose was crushed to her -bosom, making a splash of scarlet on her white bodice. She laughed and -looked at him frankly, as if there were to be no secrets between them, -and once, while the supper was being ordered, her thin hand rested in -his, and he was stirred to wild, delicious emotion. Yes, she was all -as he had imagined her; she had not changed at all, and her yellow -hair and pale eyebrows and thin face culminating in her pointed chin, -reminded him of an Aubrey Beardsley picture--those slanting eyes, and -red lips eternally shaped for a kiss, and the slender throat that -rippled below the white surface of its skin when she spoke, the thin -bare arms, and her hands, balanced on delicate wrists--those hands -with their long dainty fingers and exquisite finger-tips. The sight of -her inflamed him. - -Their conversation was commonplace. Why, she wanted to know, did he run -away the last time they met. He lied to her, and pleaded a headache. - -"And you won't run off this time?" she asked, with a childish note of -appeal in her voice. - -He sought her hand and held it in his own. She drew it away with a -little grimace. "You're hurting me," she said. - -Occasionally Margot cut into their conversation. She lacked the beauty -of her sister, her figure was stouter, and her face was not well -made-up. She treated Charnac with good-natured tolerance. - -During the supper--again the famous mussels--Desirée asked Humphrey -many questions about himself--they were not questions which penetrated -deeply into his private life, indeed, she showed no desire to pry into -his surroundings. She wanted to know his tastes, and his likes and -dislikes, and when, sometimes, he said anything that showed that they -had something in common, she laughed delightedly at the discovery. - -Her eyes held a wonderful knowledge in them, but the boldness of their -gaze did not suggest immodesty to him. Her eyes seemed to say: "There -are certain things in life we never talk about. But I understand them -all, and I know that you know I understand." It made him feel that -there was nothing artificial about their friendship; in one bound they -had attained perfect understanding, and it was miraculous to him. - -It was miraculous to him to sit there, with the music surging in his -veins, and to look upon this delicately-wrought creature, beautiful, -perfect in body, knowing that when he wished he could take her in his -arms, and she would give herself to him without any hesitation. She was -utterly strange to him, and yet, by this miracle, their lives were -already commingled in swift intimacy. He thought of the other two women -who had influenced his life: though he had kissed them, and spent long -hours with them, they seemed now irrevocably distant from him, and -never had he penetrated to the stratum of full comprehension that lay -below the surface of misunderstandings.... - -He looked back on the years that were past, and he could only see -himself struggling and pleading and breaking his heart to win that -which was won now without any contest at all. Was it love or passion -that he wanted from them. Ah! if we would only be frank with ourselves, -and admit that there is no love without passion, there is no passion -without love: that by separating passion from love, it has become a -degraded and hidden thing. - -And Humphrey wanted love: the desire for love, love inseparable from -passion, had made a turbulent underflow beneath the stream of his life. -Twice he had tried to grasp love, twice it had eluded him. He had been -despoiled by circumstance ... cheated by his own conscience. - -It was miraculous to him now, that he should be able to wrest his prize -from life with so little struggle after all. He looked at Desirée, and -her eyes smiled--how incredibly near they seemed to one another, how -the unattainable drew close to him and smiled.... - -He became aware of his name spoken aloud, and he looked up and saw a -waiter looking round the room, with Dagneau at his side. Dagneau's face -was strained and anxious. He seemed out of breath. Suddenly he caught -sight of Humphrey, and hurried towards him. He raised his hat to the -group. "Pardon, mad'm'selle," he said to Desirée, as he put a telegram -before Humphrey. - -The blue slips pasted on the paper danced before his eyes. - -"_Qu'est que c'est?_" Margot asked, fussily. - -"Ferrol wants you to go to Narbonne," Dagneau said. "There's been -shooting there.... I looked up the trains. You can catch the one -o'clock from the Gare d'Orsay if you hurry." - -Humphrey stared stupidly at the telegram, and Desirée touched him with -her hand. - -"_C'est quelque chose de grave?_" she asked. - -He shrugged his shoulders. "Narbonne," he said to Charnac, laconically. - -"_Oh! nom d'un nom_--to-night?" asked Charnac. "_C'est embêtant, ça._" - -And, suddenly, Humphrey grew peaceful again, and all the turbulence of -his thoughts calmed down and flowed towards the one desire that he had -made paramount in his life--the desire of the journalist for news, the -longing of the historian for history. - -Fleet Street called to him from those blue strips with their printed -message. "Go Narbonne immediately cover riots," and the signature that -symbolized Fleet Street--"Ferrol"--held in it all the power that had -made him a puppet of Fate. - -But Narbonne.... From all parts of Europe the Special Correspondents -would be converging on the town. There would be great doings to -describe, new interests to make him forget rapidly. - -Dagneau helped him on with his coat. "Send on my bag," he said, -glancing at his watch. "I'm awfully sorry," he added to Charnac. -"You'll understand. Explain to them, won't you? Dagneau, stop and -finish my supper." - -He forgot everything else ... what else mattered? - -"_Dis donc_," Desirée said, "are you going again?" How surprisingly -unimportant she seemed at this moment. Her expression was -half-suppliant, half-petulant. "If you go," she said distinctly, "I -will never speak to you again--never." - -As if she could hold him back when others had failed! But he was moved -to show her tenderness. A momentary pang of regret shot across him -because he had to leave her. "Don't be cross," he whispered. "I shall -be back in three days." - -She turned her head away impetuously. And he realized that there never -had been, nor ever could be, anything in common between them. - - * * * * * - -Once, when he was dozing in the train speeding southwards to Bordeaux, -he woke up and laughed as he remembered the ludicrous amazement on the -face of Desirée as he left her suddenly and gladly to take up his work. - - - - -VIII - - -The matters that occupied his mind belonged only to his work. In the -early morning at Bordeaux, when he had to change, he bought a budget -of morning papers, and read them in the refreshment-room over his roll -and coffee. The news was alarming enough: people were fleeing from -Narbonne and the neighbouring towns. Seven had been shot in a riot on -the previous night; the soldiery was in charge of the town, and martial -law had been proclaimed. - -The French journalists excelled themselves in superlatives ... their -stories were vain accounts of personal emotions and experiences, for it -is the fashion with them to thrust their personality in front of the -news. - -Thereafter, on the journey to Narbonne, Humphrey wondered how he was -going to get his telegrams out of the town, if it were besieged. He -bought a map of the district and studied it: it might be necessary to -send a courier to Perpignan, or back to Bordeaux, or, if things were -very bad indeed, there were carrier pigeons; the Spanish frontier at -Port Bou was not very far away also ... perhaps, he could find some -one to whom to telephone. It was his business to get any news out of -Narbonne, and there would be no excuse for failure. - -The people in his carriage were talking of the shooting. - -"I shouldn't like to be going there," one said. - -"It will be worse to-night," another remarked. "Those Southerners lose -their heads so quickly." - -It seemed odd to Humphrey that while they were talking of it in this -detached way, he alone, probably, out of the whole train-load, was -about to plunge into the actualities of revolution of his own free -will. For the next few days he would be living with the grievances of -the wine-growers, learning things that were unknown to him now. He -would have to record and describe all that happened. His was the power -to create sympathy in English households for the wrongs of these people -starving in the midst of their fertile vineyards. - -The brakes jarred the carriages of the train. Heads were put out of the -window. On the up-line a goods train carrying flour had met with an -accident. The engine lay grotesquely on one side, powdered with white -flour, and the vans looked as if they had been out in a snow-storm. The -melancholy sight of the shattered train slid past, as their own train -jolted slowly on its journey. - -"What is it--have they wrecked the train?" some one asked. - -"No," another said, pointing to a paragraph in the paper, "it was -an accident. The engine ran off the metals last night. It's in the -_Depêche de Toulouse_." - -They all chattered among themselves. It was a trivial affair, then--one -had thought for a moment that those sacred Narbonnais...! - -But there was something sinister in that wrecked train with its broken -vans and its engine covered in a cloud of white. It seemed to presage -disaster, as it lay there outside the door of the town. - -The train stopped. "Narbonne" cried the porters. Humphrey descended -as though it was the commonest thing in his life to enter garrisoned -cities. The platform was full of soldiers, some standing with fixed -bayonets, others sleeping on straw beside their stacked arms. Officers -strolled up and down to the clank of their swords; outside, through the -door of the station, itself guarded by an infantryman in a blue coat, -with its skirts tucked back, he caught a glimpse of horses tethered to -the railings. - -Nobody stopped him but the ticket-collector: in the midst of all this -outward display of militarism, the business of the station went on as -usual. Trains steamed in and departed; expresses pounded through on -their way to Paris; porters were busy with parcels. The hotel buses -were drawn up outside, just as if nothing in the world had happened to -disturb the life of the town. He chose the Hotel Dorade omnibus, and -away they went. - -The streets were lined with soldiers bivouacking on the pavements. The -avenue from the station was a long line of stacked rifles, and soldiers -in blue and red lounging against the walls, smoking cigarettes, or -lying on the pavement, where beds of hay had been made. Many of the -shops were shuttered. He looked up, and the flat roofs of the houses -were like barracks, with the _képis_ of soldiers visible between the -chimney-pots. The bus passed an open square--cavalry held it, and -another street, broad and long, leading from it, was a camp of white -tents. - -Sentries guarded the bridges across the river, and though the main -Boulevard was free of soldiers, he saw a hint of power in the -courtyards of large houses. The walls were placarded with green and -yellow posters, addressed to "Citoyens," urging them to resist the -Government. The soldiers read them idly. - -And, in the midst of all this, the people of Narbonne sat outside -the cafés in the sunshine, under the red and white striped awnings, -drinking their vermouth or absinthe! - -Later, after he had taken his room at the Hotel Dorade, he walked -about the town through the ranks of the soldiers. Groups of people -stood here and there, with grim faces and stern-set lips; they -looked revengefully at officers and mounted police, and whenever a -regiment marched into the town to the music of its drums and bugles, -it was greeted with hoarse shouts of derision, and mocking cries of -"Assassins!" - -At the corner of a street of shops he came upon a little mound of -stones set round a dark stain on the cobbled road; a wreath was laid -there, and a night-light still burned under a glass cover. A piece of -white cardboard, cut in the shape of a miniature tombstone, rested -against a brick. He read the ill-written inscription on the card:-- - - | - | - ----- - | - | - | - | - - - RENÉ DUCLOS - âgé de 29 ans - assasiné par le gouvernement. - -There were seven other little memorial mounds in the neighbourhood. -Each one of them marked where a victim had fallen to the soldiers' ball -cartridge. One of the cardboard tombstones bore a woman's name. Her -death was one of the inexplicable accidents of life: she was to have -been married on the morrow. On her way she had been carried along in -the crowd which was marching towards the Town Hall ... and in a minute -she was dead. - -These signs of tragedy made a deep impression on Humphrey's -journalistic sense. He saw that the soldiers had not dared to move the -mounds that reminded the people of the dreadful happenings in their -midst. And they were surrounded by little silent crowds, who spelt out -the inscriptions, sighed, and departed with mutterings. - -A man with bloodshot eyes, and unkempt hair, his chin thick with -bristles, lurched across the road, and stood by Humphrey, regarding him -with a curious, persistent gaze. Humphrey moved away, and the man edged -after him. He made for the main Boulevards where the crowded cafés gave -him a sense of safety. He turned round, and saw that he was still being -shadowed. - -A voice hailed him from a café: he turned and saw O'Malley, the -Irishman of _The Sentinel_. - -"Hallo," said O'Malley, "been here long?" - -"Just arrived," Humphrey said. He was glad to see a friend. That -unkempt man who had followed him made him feel uncomfortably insecure. - -"Where are you stopping?" O'Malley asked. - -"At the Dorade." - -"I'm there too: there's a whole gang of French and English fellows -here. Been having no end of adventures. My carriage was held up outside -Argelliers yesterday, and they wanted to see my papers. As bad as the -flight to Varennes, isn't it?" He laughed, and they sat down to drink. - -The unkempt man took up his position against the parapet of the bridge -opposite. - -Humphrey noticed that O'Malley wore a white band round his arm with a -blue number on it, and his name, coupled with _The Sentinel_, written -in ink that had frayed itself into the fabric. - -"You'll have to get one of these," O'Malley explained. "It isn't safe -to be a stranger here. They're issued by the People's Committee to -journalists who show their credentials. A lot of detectives have been -down here, you see, posing as journalists, and asking questions in the -villages, getting all sorts of information; that's how they managed to -arrest the ringleaders in the villages." - -"It was a pretty mean trick," Humphrey said. - -"Mean--I should think it was. They nearly lynched Harridge, the -photographer, yesterday, and they chased another so-called journalist -to the river, and he had to swim for his life, while the mob fired -pot-shots at him from the bridges. So now they've placarded the town to -explain that every real journalist has a white armband with a number on -it." - -Humphrey looked at the shaggy man opposite. "Good Lord!" he said, -"that's why that fellow's been shadowing me...." - -"Yes. He's one of the Committee's spies." - -"I'd better get that armband quick." - -"No hurry. You're all serene in my company. We'll finish our drink and -stroll up together." - -On the way O'Malley told him some of the latest developments. The chief -ringleader, the man whom the wine-growers hailed as the Redeemer, was -still at large, and nobody knew where he was. Picture-postcards of the -bearded man with a halo round his head and a bunch of grapes dangling -from a cross that he held in his right hand, were selling in thousands -at two sous each. - -"To-morrow there are the funerals," remarked O'Malley. "Seven funerals -at once. It ought to make a good story." - -They came to a dingy house, where there were no soldiers. Humphrey -followed O'Malley up a narrow, twisting staircase to a little room. -The walls were plastered with the posters he had seen on the street -hoardings. Five men sat in the room, smoking cigarettes. The air -was full of the stale reek of cheap tobacco. They sat in their -shirt-sleeves with piles of papers before them. - -One of them, a gross man with a black moustache straggling over his -heavy under lip, spread out his fat hands in inquiry. Another, thin, -undersized and dirty, with a rat-like face, peered at them with -blinking red-rimmed eyes. - -"What do you want?" he asked, gruffly. - -O'Malley, in his best Irish-French, explained his business and -presented Humphrey. The hollow farce of polite phrases, which mean -nothing in France, was played out. They wanted to see his _carte -d'identité_ and all the credentials he had. Humphrey unloaded his -pocket-book on them. Finally, they made him sign a book, and they gave -him a white armlet; he pinned it round his arm, and walked forth a free -man. The unkempt man stood on the opposite side of the street still -watching him. - -And now, as he walked along the streets of Narbonne, with the white -armlet of the revolutionaries giving him protection, he smiled to see -the soldiers guarding the streets. - -"Look here," he said to O'Malley, "who's going to give me anything to -prevent the soldiers bayoneting me?" - -"Yes--I've thought of that too," O'Malley answered. "Funny, isn't it, -that we've got to fly for a safeguard to the People's Committee? By -the way, don't you get talking to strangers more than you can help. -They're down on spies. I'm going to get my copy off now. See you at the -post-office." - -Humphrey went back to the Dorade, and wrote his message, a descriptive -account of all that he had seen, in abbreviated telegraphese. Other -correspondents were there, war correspondents used to open campaigns, -prepared for all emergencies; others had come from the Fleet Streets -of Spain and Belgium and Germany. There was an American, too, who -had travelled from Paris: as he had not yet obtained his armband, he -remained in the hotel, writing very alarming telegrams. - -The Englishmen dined together--a jolly party--at a large round table, -and, afterwards, they all went out to look at the town at night under -arms. Once, during their walk, the sound of firing came to them, and -they ran helter-skelter up the Boulevard right into the arms of a -young lieutenant, who laughed and told them that nothing serious had -happened. He invited them all to a drink in a café, and just to satisfy -them, Humphrey went reconnoitring and found that all was peaceful. - -He had no time to think of anything but his work. At midnight he went -to bed and slept deeply. - - * * * * * - -On the second day the "Redeemer," whom every one had imagined to be -captured, suddenly appeared in Narbonne, and was whisked away in a -motor-car to Argelliers, his native town. Bouvier, of the _Petit -Journal_, saw him, dashed into a motor-garage, and hired a car in an -instant. - -"_Viens_," he shouted, as Humphrey strolled down the Street. "The -'Redeemer' has come back. You can share my car." Humphrey, knowing -nothing except that Bouvier was very excited, and that, by a chance, -some big news had come under his notice, jumped into the car, and away -they whirled into the open country. - -The Southern landscape was vivid in the hot sunshine of the late -autumn; they left clouds of dust behind them as the car raced along to -overtake the car of the "Redeemer." They passed the spacious vineyards, -where the grapes grew like stunted hop-fields, twining round their -little sticks; they sped through avenues of poplars, and almond trees -and ilex; through villages where old women cheered and pointed down the -long road. - -"We're catching him up," Bouvier grunted. "They must have heard the -news of his coming somehow." - -A bend in the road, and a bridge with the blue river running beneath -its arches; farmhouses and boys driving cattle home; children swinging -on a gate, and old men plodding towards the sunset, on sticks that -could never straighten their bent backs: the country came at them and -receded from them in a succession of pictures framed in the hood of -their car. Vineyards, and again vineyards, with the ungathered grapes -withering in the sun, and people crying to them, "He's come back: the -brave fellow." - -As the road led nearer to Argelliers they overtook yellow coaches, full -of people, and country carts swinging along. The drivers pointed their -whips ahead, and shouted something, but the words were lost in the rush -of the wind as the car rushed by them. - -"The whole countryside seems to know that he's escaped. There'll be -thousands in the Market Place," Bouvier said. - -"It'll be a fine story," Humphrey agreed. "Those other fellows must -have missed it." He was drunk with the excitement and the happiness of -hunting a quarry. - -They came to the Market Place of Argelliers, and the sight amazed him. - -Left and right the people crushed together--a rectangular pattern of -humanity. People of all ages had been drawn there by the magnetism of -this man who had stirred up the South to revolt. The caps and dresses -of the women and girls gave touches of colour to the sombre crowd of -men, and, as he stood up in the motor-car for a better view, he saw -row upon row of pink, upturned faces, parted, eager lips, and eyes -that strained against the sunshine to see the black-clad figure of -a man standing on the low roof of the People's Committee. Boys had -climbed the trees round the Market Place--their gaping faces shone from -the dark branches; and on the outskirts of the vast crowd men and -women stood up in carts and waggonettes--horses had been harnessed to -anything that ran on wheels. - -There was not a soldier in sight. The sun shone fiercely on the Market -Place of Argelliers, where two thousand people were thinking of their -wrongs. And the man on the roof talked to them. His voice, strong and -sonorous, came to them urging them to be of good cheer. They flung back -at him cries of encouragement, and called him by name. - -"I'm going into the crowd," Humphrey said. - -"Better stop here," urged Bouvier. "They're an excitable lot." - -"I must hear what he's saying." - -Humphrey climbed out of the car, and pushed his way into the middle -of the crowd. There was a loud shouting over some remark that the -speaker had made. He found himself wedged in tightly between heavy, -broad-shouldered men, with black eyes and swarthy faces. He heard -the man on the roof speak about those who had been attacking him, -and a voice close to Humphrey yelled, "_La Depêche de Toulouse_," -and immediately another voice cried out, "_Conspuez la Depêche de -Toulouse_." He turned at the voice and saw, with a sudden shock, the -shaggy-haired man with the bloodshot eyes who had dogged his footsteps -that first day in Narbonne. Their glances met. Humphrey thrust back -into his pocket the pencil with which he had been making furtive notes. - -"_Conspuez les autres!_" cried the man with the bloodshot eyes, -"_conspuez les mouchards_." - -He was conscious of a new note in the crowd: he saw anger and hatred -passing swiftly over all the faces around him. They turned on him with -relentless eyes. He saw the shaggy-haired man shouldering his way, and -scrambling towards him with crooked fingers that clawed at the air. In -one quick second he realized that he was in danger. - -"_Conspuez les autres._" The cry rose all about him swelling to a roar -of confusion. - -"_En voilà un!_" shouted the shaggy man, pointing to Humphrey's white -armband. They surged against him, and he was swept from his feet. He -heard the shriek of women, and the babble and a murmur that ran like an -undercurrent through the storm of noisy voices. The black figure on the -roof was wringing his hands, and trying to calm the mob. - -Humphrey turned to escape. "What a fool I was to come into the thick of -it," he thought. Once, in the struggle, he saw Bouvier standing with a -white face in the motor-car, probably wondering what the row was about. - -And then, they came at him suddenly and determinedly. Remorseless and -menacing faces were thrust close to him. He struck out and a thrill -went up his arm as his fist met a hard cheek-bone. - -Something fell on his arm with a heavy, aching blow that left it numb -and limp, and at the same moment an excruciating spasm of self-pity -swept upward from his soul, as he saw, as in a red mist, uplifted, -clenched hands struggling to meet him. This was real life at last. He -had ceased to be an onlooker; the game was terrible and earnest, and he -was, for the first time, the principal figure in the play. His agony -did not last long. - -The hot breath of the men was on him, and the evil, bloodshot eyes of -the shaggy-haired man who had denounced him, loomed terribly large, -like great red-veined moons. - -And, in that last moment, before all consciousness went from him for -ever, as he swayed and fell before the trampling mob, in that supreme -moment when deliverance came from all the tribulations that life held -for him, an odd, whimsical idea twisted his lips into a smile as he -thought: - -"What a ripping story this will make for _The Day_." - - -THE END - - -COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH - - - - - * * * * * - -Transcriber's Notes: - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -Hyphenation has been retained as in the original publication. - -Page 25, in the phrase "every day" a space was kept -(every day, it seemed). - -Page 31, comma erased (among which, "Twencent"). - -Page 41, double quotes added ("We had an awful row.). - -Page 56, hyphen retained (a bed-sitting room). - -Page 77, apostrophe added (reporters' room). - -Page 112, She changed to she (Yes, she had remembered him,). - -Page 121, period added (he began.). - -Page 190, double quotes added (I know."). - -Page 192, period erased (to wait..."). - -Page 195, apostrophe replaced by period (she was now.). - -Page 212, double quotes added (I wrote about...."). - -Page 212, double quotes added (Thanks for the bob...."). - -Page 245, period added (of the office.). - -Page 254, sedn changed to send in (I'll send you). - -Page 256, single quote added (forgotten by to-morrow.'). - -Page 256, single quote added (go I.'"). - -Page 307, question mark changed to period (Not as big as London.). - -Page 310, phaseology changed to phraseology in (intimate phraseology.). - -Page 340, period added (anything in common between them.). - -Both "latchkey" and "latch-key" were used in this text. This text also -uses "countryside" and "country-side", "earrings" and "ear-rings", -"lawsuits" and "law-suits", "notebook" and "note-book", "schoolmasters" -and "school-masters", "tablecloths" and "table-cloths". This was retained. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Mightier than the Sword, by Alphonse Courlander - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD *** - -***** This file should be named 55535-8.txt or 55535-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/5/3/55535/ - -Produced by Clarity, Lucia Rockaiova and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Mightier than the Sword - -Author: Alphonse Courlander - -Release Date: September 13, 2017 [EBook #55535] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Lucia Rockaiova and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" height="777" alt="Cover" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - - -<h1><a name="MIGHTIER_THAN_THE" id="MIGHTIER_THAN_THE"></a>MIGHTIER THAN THE -SWORD</h1> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="center"> -<br /><br /> - -<div class="nbox cbox"> - -<p class="ph3"><em>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</em></p> - -<div class="center bb padded">Crown 8vo, Cloth, 6/-</div> - -<div class="padded left box"> -THE SACRIFICE. (Also a <span class="smcap">Sixpenny -Edition</span>.)<br /> -EVE'S APPLE.<br /> -HENRY IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.<br /> -UNCLE POLPERRO. -</div> - -<div class="center bt padded"> -<span class="smcap">London</span>: T. FISHER UNWIN -</div> -</div> -<br /><br /> - -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<p class="ph1">MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD</p> - -<div class="center"> -BY<br /> -<p class="ph2">ALPHONSE COURLANDER</p><br /> -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ornament.jpg" width="100" height="100" alt="Ornament" /> -</div> -<br /> -LONDON<br /> -T. FISHER UNWIN<br /> -ADELPHI TERRACE<br /> -1913<br /> -</div> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> -<tr><td align="left"><em>First Edition</em></td><td align="right"><em>May 1912</em></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><em>Second Impression</em></td><td align="right"><em>July 1912</em></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><em>Third Impression</em></td><td align="right"><em>October 1913</em></td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="center"> -<br /> -[<em>All Rights Reserved</em>]<br /> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#PART_I">PART I</a></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Easterham</span></td><td align="right">9</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#PART_II">PART II</a></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Lilian</span></td><td align="right">71</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#PART_III">PART III</a></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span></td><td align="right">199</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><a href="#PART_IV">PART IV</a></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Paris</span></td><td align="right">281</td></tr> -</table></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I<br /> - -<small>EASTERHAM</small></h2> - -</div> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="ph1">MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.I" id="I.I"></a>I</h3> - -</div> - -<p>If you had been standing on a certain cold night in -January opposite the great building where <em>The Day</em> -is jewelled in electric lights across the dark sky, you -would have seen a little, stout man run down the steps -of the entrance at the side, three at a time, land on the -pavement as if he were preparing to leap the roadway, -with the sheer impetus of the flight of steps behind him, -and had suddenly thought better of it, glance hurriedly -at the big, lighted clock whose hands, formed of the -letters <em>T-H-E D-A-Y</em>, in red and green electric lights, -showed that it was nearly half-past twelve, and suddenly -start off in a terrible hurry towards Chancery Lane, as -though pursued by some awful thing.</p> - -<p>Considering the bulkiness of the little man, he ran -remarkably well. He dodged a light newspaper van -that was coming recklessly round Fetter Lane, for -there was none of the crowded traffic of daylight to be -negotiated, and then, he turned the corner of Chancery -Lane—and there you would have seen the last of him. -He would have vanished from your life, a stumpy little -man, with an umbrella popped under one arm, a bundle -of papers grasped in his hand, a hat jammed down on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -his head, and the ends of a striped muffler floating in -the breeze of his own making.</p> - -<p>The sight of a man running, even in these days -when life itself goes with a rush, is sufficient to awaken -comment in the mind of the onlooker. It suggests -pursuit, the recklessness of other days; it impels, instinctively, -the cry of "Stop, thief," for no man runs -unless he is hunted by a powerful motive. Therefore -it may be assumed that since I have sent a man bolting -hard out of your sight up the lamp-lit avenue of -Chancery Lane, you are wondering why the devil he's -in such a hurry.</p> - -<p>Well, he was hurrying because the last train to -Shepherd's Bush goes at 12.35, and, as he had been -away from home since ten o'clock that morning, he was -rather anxious to get back. He could not afford a cab -fare, though only a few hours ago he had been eating -oysters, bisque soup, turbot, pheasant, asparagus out of -season and pêche Melba at the Savoy Hotel with -eighteenpence in his pocket—and the odd pence had -gone to the waiter and the cloakroom man. So that -by the time he had reached the top of Chancery Lane, -dashed across the road and through the door of the -station, where a porter would have slammed the grille -in another second, and bought his ticket with an -explosive, panting "Bush," he had just tenpence left.</p> - -<p>The lift-man knew him, nodded affably and said: -"Just in time, Mr Pride."</p> - -<p>"A hard run," said Mr Pride; and then with a cheery -smile, "never mind; good for the liver." There were -only a few people in the lift—four men and a woman -to be precise. He knew the men as casual acquaintances -of the last tube train. There was Denning, a -sporting sub-editor on <cite>The Lantern;</cite> another was a -proof-reader on one of the afternoon papers, who finished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -work in the evening but never went home before the -last tube; then there was Harlem, the librarian of <cite>The -Day</cite>, an amazing man who spoke all the European -languages, and some of the Asiatic ones after his fifth -glass of beer; the fourth was a friend of Harlem, a -moody young man who wore his hair long, smoked an -evil-looking pipe, and seemed to be a little unsteady on his -feet. As for the woman, Pride knew her well by sight. -She had hair that was of an unreal yellow, and a latch-key -dangled from her little finger as though it were a -new kind of ring. She always got out at Tottenham -Court Road.</p> - -<p>As the lift went down, its high complaining noise -falling to a low buzzing sound seemed like the tired -murmur of a weary human being glad that rest had -come at last. The sound of the approaching train came -rolling through the tunnel. They all rushed desperately -down the short flight of steps that led to the platform, -as the train came in with a rattle of doors opening and -slamming, and scrambled for seats, while the uniformed -men, who appeared to be the only thoroughly wide-awake -people in the neighbourhood, said in the most contradictory -fashion: "Stand clear of the gates," "Hurry on, -please," and "Passengers off first."</p> - -<p>Pride found himself in the smoking carriage, -opposite Harlem, with his young friend at his side. -It never occurred to him that there was anything -exceptional in his dash for the last train. He did it -four nights out of the week, as a matter of course. He -was fifty years old, though he pretended he was ten -years younger, and shaved his face clean to keep up the -illusion. He used to explain to his friends that he came -of a family famous for baldness in early years.</p> - -<p>"Been busy?" asked Harlem, filling his pipe.</p> - -<p>"Nothing to speak of," said Pride. "Turned up at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -the office at eleven, but there was nothing doing until -after lunch. Then I had to go and see Sir William -Darton—they're going to start the Thames Steamboats -again. He wasn't at home, and he wasn't in his office, -but I found him at six o'clock in the Constitutional. -Got back and found they'd sent home for my dress -clothes, and left a nice little envelope with the ticket -of the Canadian Dinner.... That's why I'm so late -to-night...."</p> - -<p>Pride filled his own pipe, and sighed. "The old -days are over!" he said. "They used to post our -assignments overnight—'Dear Mr Pride, kindly do a -quarter of a column of the enclosed meeting.' Why, -<cite>The Sentinel</cite> used to allow us five shillings every time -we put on evening dress."</p> - -<p>"Well, <cite>The Sentinel</cite> was a pretty dull paper before -the Kelmscotts bought it and turned it into a halfpenny," -said Harlem. "Look at it now, a nice, bright -paper—oh, by the way, do you know Cannock," he -jerked his head to the man at his side. "He's <cite>The -Sentinel's</cite> latest acquisition. This is Tommy Pride, -one of the ancient bulwarks of <cite>The Sentinel</cite>, until they -fired him. Now he's learning to be a halfpenny -journalist."</p> - -<p>Pride looked at the young man.</p> - -<p>"I don't know about being the latest acquisition," -Cannock said. "As a matter of fact, they've fired <em>me</em> -to-day."</p> - -<p>"It's a hobby of theirs now," Harlem remarked. -"You'll get a job on <cite>The Day</cite> if you ask for one. -There's always room with us, ain't there, Tommy?"</p> - -<p>Pride looked wistfully at the clouds of blue smoke -that rose from his lips.... Yes, he thought, there -was always room on <cite>The Day</cite>—at any moment they -might decide to make alterations in the staff. The fact<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -of Cannock's being sacked mattered nothing; he was -a young man, and for young men, knocking at the -door of Fleet Street, there was always an open pathway. -Think of the papers there were left to work for—the -evenings and the dailies, and even when they were -exhausted, perhaps a job on a weekly paper, or the -editorship of one of the scores of penny and sixpenny -magazines. And, after that, the provinces and the -suburbs had their papers. Pride knew: in his long experience -he had wandered from one paper to another, -two years here, three years here, until the halfpenny -papers had brought a new type of journalist into the -street.</p> - -<p>"Married?" asked Pride.</p> - -<p>"Not me!" replied Cannock, with a slight hiccough.</p> - -<p>"Well, you're all right. You can free-lance if you -want to."</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's no good to me," Cannock said. "It's a -dog's life anyhow, and I've only had two months of it. -I'm going back to my guv'nor's business."</p> - -<p>"Ah," said Pride, "there's no use wasting sympathy -on you. Why did you ever leave it? What's his -business?"</p> - -<p>"That," Cannock laughed gaily and pointed to a -poster as the train stopped at Tottenham Court Road -Station. It was a great picture of barrels and barrels -of beer, piled one above the other, reaching away into -the far distance. Thousands of barrels under a vaulted -roof. And in the foreground were little figures of men -in white aprons with red jersey caps on their heads, -rolling in more barrels, with their arms bared to the -elbows. Across the picture in large letters Pride could -read: "Cannock Brothers, Holloway. Cannock's Entire."</p> - -<p>"Why, your people are worth millions!" Pride said. -"What on earth are you doing in journalism."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I know they are. That's what I was thinking of -yesterday. I wondered how on earth they got anybody -to do the work."</p> - -<p>"Well, you won't mind me, I'm sure," Pride said, -leaning over to Cannock. "I'm older than you, and I -belong to what they call the old school of journalism. -This isn't the lovely life some people think it must be, -and it's going to get worse each year. We've got to -fight for our jobs every day of our life. 'Making good,' -they call it. I'm used to it," he said defiantly, looking -at Harlem, "I like it.... I couldn't do anything else. -I'm not fit for anything else. It has its lazy moments, -too, and its moments of excitement and thrills. No, -my son, you go back to the brewery, there's more -money in it for you and all the glory you want with -your name plastered over every bottle and on all the -walls. Ask five hundred men in the street if they've -ever heard of Tommy Pride. They've been reading -things I've written every day, but they don't know -who's written them. Ask 'em who's Cannock? Why, -they'll turn mechanically into the nearest public-house -and call for a bottle of you."</p> - -<p>"I used to think it would be jolly to be on a -newspaper," Cannock said. "My guv'nor got me the -job. He's something to do with the Kelmscotts."</p> - -<p>"So it is if you're meant to be on a newspaper. -That's the trouble of fellows like you. You come out -of nowhere, or from the 'Varsity, and get plunked right -down in the heart of a London newspaper office—probably -someone's fired to make room for you. You're -friends of the editor and you think you're great men, -until you find you're expected to take your turn with -the rest. Then you grouse, because you're not meant -for it. You've got appointments to keep at dinner-time, -and you must get your meals regularly. Or you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -want to write fine stuff and be great star descriptive -men at once, or go to Persia and Timbuctoo, and live -on flam and signed articles. But, if you were meant -to be a reporter, you'd hang round the news editor's -room for any job that came along, you'd take any old -thing that was given you, and do it without a murmur, -and when you've done that for thirty years you might -meet success, and stay on until they shoved you out of -the office."</p> - -<p>He saw that Cannock was smiling, and seemed to -read his thoughts.</p> - -<p>"Me?" he said. "Oh, you mustn't judge by me. I -belong to the old school, you know. I'm the son of -my father—he was a Gallery man, and died worth three -hundred pounds, and that's more than I am. I'm one -of the products of the last generation, and all I want is -£2 a week and a cottage in the country." The little -man relit his pipe, and puffed contentedly. "Lord! -I should like that!" he said.</p> - -<p>"You're always frightened of being fired, Tommy," -said Harlem. "You know well enough you're what we -call a thoroughly reliable and experienced man, and -Ferrol wouldn't have you sacked."</p> - -<p>"There's always that bogy," Pride answered with a -laugh. "You never know what may happen. The -only thing is to join the Newspaper Press Fund and -trust in the Lord. None of the youngsters do either -of these things to-day."</p> - -<p>Cannock and Harlem prepared to leave as the train -slowed down before Marble Arch. "It's a rotten game," -said Cannock. "I'm glad I'm out of it. Good-bye."</p> - -<p>Pride took his hand. "Good-bye." He saw them -pass the window, and wave to him as they went under -the lighted "Way Out" sign, and then he turned to his -papers with a sigh. But somehow or other he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -read. He always carried papers about with him, through -sheer force of habit, much as the under side of a tailor's -coat lapel is bristling with pins. He had been with -news all day; he had written some of it; he had read -the same things in the different editions of the newspapers; -he had left the street when they were printing -more news; and the first thing he would do on waking -up in the morning would be to reach out for a copy -of <cite>The Day</cite> which was brought with the morning tea. -He did not read news as the average man does—he -regarded it objectively, reading it without emotion. -The march of the world, the daily happenings moved -him as much as a packet of loose diamonds moves the -jeweller who handles them daily, and weighs them to -see their worth.</p> - -<p>He was thinking of Cannock, with his future all -clear before him: Cannock, with beer woven into the -fibre of his being, as news was in his. It must be rather -fine to be independent like that.... Idly, he wondered -what Cannock's guv'nor was like: did he admire these -pictures of the vast hall crowded with beer barrels, -enough to last London for a whole Saturday night, -and ready to be filled up again for all the nights in the -week.... He looked round the carriage at the faces -of those who were travelling with him. Five boisterous -young people were making themselves a noisy nuisance -at one end of the carriage. Opposite him, in the seat -lately occupied by Harlem, a working man was staring -ahead of him with an empty wide stare as if, in a -moment of absent-mindedness, his actual self had -slipped away, and left a hulk of shabbily-clothed body, -without a spark of intelligence. Others were nodding, -half asleep, and there was one man, with closed eyes, -and parted lips, breathing stertorously, whose head -bobbled from side to side with the rocking of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -train.... He woke up, suddenly, as the train stopped -with a jerk, and the conductor called out "'Perd's Bush."</p> - -<p>Tommy Pride always gave his papers to the lift-man. -They waited for the last passenger, who came -lurching round the corner with his head still bobbling -and his eyes half lost below the drooping eyelids. He -steadied himself against the wall—and his hand spread -over another of those glorious posters. What a picture -for Cannock!... Somehow, Pride rejoiced to think -that he was not Cannock.</p> - -<p>He went past the Green to one of the small houses -in a turning off the Uxbridge Road. The moon shone -out of the wintry sky, white and placid, above his home. -He let himself in, and turned out the flicker of gas in -the hall. He walked on tiptoe into the sitting-room, -and having taken off his boots went to the fireplace. -Here on a trivet he found a cup of cocoa, and his -slippers warming before the fire. There were three -slices of thin bread and butter on the table. He never -went to bed without his bread and butter. During his -meal he saw a copy of <cite>The Day</cite> on a chair, and he read -bits of it mechanically, for he had read it all before. -The clock struck one, and he bolted the front door and -went softly upstairs. As he turned on the light his wife -stirred uneasily, and he came to the bedside. She opened -her eyes at his kiss, and smiled tenderly at him.</p> - -<p>"Is it very late, dear?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"One o'clock."</p> - -<p>"Poor sweetheart!" she murmured. "Did you have -your cocoa?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said.</p> - -<p>"Tired?"</p> - -<p>He laughed. "Not very. I'm a bit cheerful, to -tell you the truth. Tell you about it in the morning. -Ferrol spoke to me to-day. He's a fine chap."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.II" id="I.II"></a>II</h3> - -</div> - -<p>That was the magic of it! Ferrol had spoken to him. -The conversation had been quite ordinary. "Well, -Pride, I hope things are going all right?" And Ferrol -had nodded cheerfully and smiled as he passed into -his room. Perhaps, he had asked Pride to come and -see him.... It was not what Ferrol said that -mattered: it was the Idea behind it—that Ferrol knew -and remembered his men individually.</p> - -<p>Out of the insensate tangle of machines and lives, -high above the thunderous clamour of the printing-presses, -the rolling of heavy vans stacked high with -cylinders of paper, the ringing of telephone bells, the -ticking and clicking and buzzing, floor above floor, of -the great grey building in which they all lived, Ferrol -rises with his masterful personality and calm voice, -carving the chaos of it all into discipline and order. -He looms, in the imagination, powerful and omnipresent, -making his desires felt in the far corners of -the continents.</p> - -<p>Ferrol whispered, and Berlin, Vienna or San -Francisco gave him his needs. He was the brain and -the heart of the body he had created, and his nerves -and his arteries were spread over the earth. He placed -his fingers on the pulse of mankind, and knew what -was ailing—knew what it wanted, and found the -specialist to attend to it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> - -<p>His influence lay over the narrow street of tall -buildings, urging men onwards and upwards with the -gospel of great endeavour. Some men, as their pagan -ancestors worshipped the Sun as the God of Light, -placed him on a pedestal in their hearts, and bowed -down to him as the God of Success, for the energy -of his spirit was everywhere. If you searched behind -the ponderous double octuple machines, rattling and -thudding, and driving the work of their world forward, -you would have found it there—the motive power of -the whole. It lurked in the tap-tap of the telegraph -transmitter, in the quick click of the type in the slots -of the linotype machines as the aproned operators -touched the keyboard; it was in the heart of the -reporter groping through the day for facts, and writing -them with the shadow of Ferrol falling across the paper. -The clerks in the counting-house, the advertising men, -the grimy printers' boys in the basement, the type-setters -and the block-makers on the top floors near -the skylights, messengers, typists—they were all bricks -in the edifice which was built up for the men who -wrote the paper—the edifice of which Ferrol was the -keystone.</p> - -<p>His enemies distorted the vision of him; they saw -him, an inhuman, incredible monster, with neither soul -nor heart, grimly eager for one end—the making of -money. They wrote of him as an evil thing, brooding -over sensationalism.... One must see him as Tommy -Pride and all those who worked for him on <cite>The Day</cite> saw -him, eager, keen, and large-hearted, a wonderful blend -of sentiment and business, torn, sometimes, between -expediency and the hidden desires of his heart. One -must see him reckless and, since he was only human, -making mistakes, creating, destroying, living only for -what the day brought forth....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> - -<p>The spirit of Fleet Street, itself.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Like a silver thread woven into the texture of his -character, in which good and evil were patterned as -they are in most men, a streak of the sentimental was -there, shining untarnished, a survival of his days of -young romance. Very few people knew of this trait; -Ferrol hugged it to himself secretly, as though it were a -weakness of which he was ashamed. It came upon him -at odd, unexpected moments when he was hemmed in -by the gross materialism of every day, this passionate, -sudden yearning for poetry and ideals. He would try -to lift the latch of the door that had locked the world of -beauty and art from him. Swift desires would seize -him to be carried away in his motor-car, as if it were a -magic carpet, to some Arcadia of dreaming shadows, -with the sunlight splashing through the green roofs of -the forests.</p> - -<p>The sentimental in him would, at such times, find -expression in many ways. He made extravagant gifts -to people; he would take a sudden interest in the career -of one man, and bring all that man's longings to realization -by lifting him up and making his name. How -glorious that power was to Ferrol! The power of -singling men out, finding the spark of genius that he -could raise to a steady flame, fanning it with opportunity; -he could make a man suddenly rich with -a stroke of his pen; pack him off to Arabia or South -America and bid him write his best. Sometimes they -failed, because it was not in them to succeed, and Ferrol -was as merciless to failures as he was generous to those -who won through.</p> - -<p>The men he made!...</p> - -<p>Sometimes, when the waves of sentiment swept over -him, he would try and materialize his ideals for a time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -He would commission a great poet to contribute to <cite>The -Day;</cite> he would open his columns to the cult of the -beautiful, and then a grisly murder or a railway disaster -would happen, crushing Ferrol's sentiment. Away with -the ideal, for, after all, the world does not want it! -Three columns of the murder or the railway disaster, -with photographs, leaders, special articles, all turning -round the news itself. That was how it was -done.</p> - -<p>And now the fit was on Ferrol as he sat in his room -with the crimson carpet and the dark red walls, hung -with contents bills of <cite>The Day</cite>. He had been going -over the morning letters with his secretary, listening to -the applications for employment. He made a point of -hearing them, now and again. There was one letter -there that suddenly awoke his interest; the name -touched a chord in his memory, a chord that responded -with a low, tender note.... And, his mind marched -back through the corridors of the past, until he came -out upon the old, quiet, cathedral town of the days of -his youth.</p> - -<p>He saw himself, a slight, eager young man, long, -long before his dreams of greatness came to pass, yet -feeling in his heart that the plans he was making would -be followed. A young Ferrol plotting within himself to -wrest spoils from the world, longing intolerably for -power and the wealth that could give it. Well did he -know, even in those far-off days, that destiny was holding -out her hands, laden with roses and prizes for -him.... Those were the days of the young heart; -the days of nineteen and twenty, and the first love, -scarce understood, that comes to us, mysterious and -beautiful. He saw a very different Ferrol then. The -lip unshaven, that was now hidden with a bushy moustache -turning grey; the hair, now also grey under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -touch of Time, silky and black. He saw this boy walking -the lanes that led out of Easterham town, in the -spring-time, with a girl at his side.</p> - -<p>Over the abyss of the years the boy beckoned to -him, and Ferrol looked back on a yesterday of thirty -years. Her name was Margaret, and she was for him -the beginning of things. From her he learned much of -the tenderness of life, and the love of Nature that -had remained with him. He was a clerk in an -auctioneer's office then, with most of his dreams still -undreamt. He and Margaret had been children -together. They were children now, laughing, and -walking over the fields with the spire of the cathedral, -pointing like a finger to the skies, in the distant haze of -the afternoon.</p> - -<p>There was more purity in that first romance of his -than in anything he had found in after years. Oh! -wonderful days of young unsullied hearts, and the -white innocence of life. The memory of evenings came -to him, of kisses in the starlight, when incomprehensible -emotions surged through him, vague imaginings of what -life must really be, and the torture of unrest, of something -that he did not understand. Her eyes were -tearful, and yet she smiled, and at her smile they both -laughed. And so the spell was broken, and they -trudged, side by side, homeward in the silent night.</p> - -<p>She inspired him, and in that, perhaps, she fulfilled -her destiny. She sowed the seeds of ambition in his -soul: he would dare anything for her, yea, reach his -hand upwards, and pluck the very stars from Heaven -to lay at her feet. And, very gradually, a dreadful -nausea of Easterham came over him. His desk was -by the window that looked upon the High Street: he -almost remembered, now, the day when it first dawned -on him that the place was no longer tolerable. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -mid-day and the heat quivered above the cobble-stones: -two dogs were fighting with jarring yelps that -could be heard all down the street; the baker's cart -went by with an empty rattle, and Miss Martin of -Willow Hall drove in as usual to the bank next door. -An old man was herding a flock of sheep towards the -market-place, and the sheep-dog ran this way and -that way, barking as he ran. Three sandwich-men, -grotesquely hidden in boards, slouched past in frayed -clothes and battered hats, with pipes in their -mouths. He read their boards mechanically.... "Sale -at Wilcox's.... Ladies' Undergarments.... Ribbons." -He had read the same thing every day in the week; he -had looked out upon the same scene, every day, it seemed; -the dogs had been quarrelling eternally, the shepherd -passed and repassed like a never-ending silent dream; -grocer, and baker, and banker, and Hargrave, the -farmer ... there he was again touching his hat to -Miss Martin as she stepped from her trap.... O -God! the heavy monotony of it all fell like a weight on -his heart.</p> - -<p>The nostalgia grew. The chimes of the cathedral -lost their music, the stillness of the town became more -unbearable than the turmoil and clatter of cities. There -was something to be wrought for and fought for in -the world outside. This was not life; this was a -mausoleum!</p> - -<p>The arguments with his father—his mother was -dead—and the long time it took to persuade him.... -The parting with Margaret, and the whispered vows -and promises, spoken breathlessly from their earnest -young hearts. It seemed they could never be broken.</p> - -<p>He came to London. It was in the late seventies, -at the beginning of the spread of education that has -resulted in the amazing flood of periodicals: it was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -flood that led Ferrol on to fortune. His scope widened; -he grew in his outlook, and saw that here was a way to -power indeed. He shone like a new star over London, -gathering lesser lights around him, developing that -marvellous power of organization, that astonishing -personality that drew men to him, until he seized his -opportunity and bought the moribund <cite>Day</cite> when it -was a penny paper on its last legs. In ten years' time -he had become wealthy and powerful, and since then -he had gone on and on until no triumph was denied -him.</p> - -<p>And Margaret...? The years passed, and with -the passing of time, they both developed. That young -love, once so irrefrangible, grew warped and misshapen, -until it finally snapped. There was no quarrel; neither -could reproach the other; they simply grew out of their -love, as so many young people do. There was a -correspondence for a time, but it slackened and presently -ceased altogether. She must have felt her hold loosening -on Ferrol, as with a thousand new interests he came -upon the wide horizon of life. She must have noticed -this in his letters, and instead of seeking to bind him -to her against his will, she just let him go. And Ferrol -must have weighed the impossibility of asking her to -marry him at this point of his career, when he was -striving and struggling upwards; not all men travel the -fastest when they travel alone, but Ferrol was one of -those who could run no risk of being delayed. They -had none of the pang of parting ... but years afterwards, -when Ferrol was a childless widower (for he -married when he was thirty-five, and walked behind his -wife's coffin two years afterwards), he wondered what -had become of Margaret, and always he cherished that -memory of his one romance that had tapered away out -of his life. He could never forget the sweet simplicity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -of Margaret's face, the tears on her eyelashes, and the -yielding softness of her youth when he pressed her to -his heart and lips with wonderful thoughts quivering -through his soul.</p> - -<p>He remembered one day in his life, a few years after -the death of his wife, when a wild desire had seized -him to handle his past again, as an antiquarian turns -over his treasures and rejoices in some ancient relic. -It was a day in summer, when the heat was heavy over -London, and the city smelt of hot asphalt and tar: -without a word to anybody he had left his work -and taken the train, back to Easterham and his -youth.</p> - -<p>The old familiar landmarks rose up before him, -bringing a strange feeling of age to him. So much had -happened in the interval that it seemed that year upon -year had piled up a wall before him, separating him for -evermore from this old world that had been. The ivy -still clung to the castellated walls of the Cathedral -close; the clock chimed as he went by, just as he -had heard it chime in the long days that were gone. -The very rooks seemed unchanged as they clamoured -huskily in the old beeches.</p> - -<p>And yet, with it all, there was something different, -and he knew that the difference lay not so much with -the place as with himself. His entire perception had -altered. He saw things through eyes that had grown -older. The High Street, with its brooding air of stillness, -that had once seemed so stale and intolerable to -him, now appealed to him with its wondrous peace, a -magical spot far away from the turmoil of things. -There were the same names over the grocers' and the -drapers' and the ironmongers' shops, but old Matthew -Bethell's quaint bookshop had gone, and in its place -there stood a large green, flat-fronted establishment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -with an open window stacked high with magazines and -newspapers, and a great poster above it, thus:</p> - -<div class="center"> -<div class="nnbox cbox"> -<div class="bb padded"> -The Day.<br /> -</div> -<div class="bb padded"> -ONE HALFPENNY<br /> -</div> -<div class="left"> -<div style="margin: 1ex 0 .5ex .5em;">HOWARD</div> -<div style="margin: 0 0 .5ex 3em;">SLANDER</div> -<div style="margin: 0 0 0 6em;">CASE.</div> -<hr style="margin: 1ex auto 0 auto;"/> -</div> -<div class="padded"> -FULL REPORT.<br /> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The sentimental in him winced, but the material -business man glowed with pride as he saw the great -poster, proclaiming <cite>The Day</cite> paramount over its rivals. -There was always a conflict between the two men that -made up that complex personality known as Ferrol. -He went to the house where he had once lived; his -father was dead now, and as he looked up at the open -window and saw a strange woman doing some needle-work, -it seemed to him as if the people that were living -there had laid sacrilegious hands upon the holy fragrance -of the past; as if their prying eyes had peered into all -the hidden secrets that belonged to him. He turned -away resentfully towards the old inn, the Red Lion, -whose proprietor, old Hamblin, remembered him from -other days when he revealed himself, and was inclined -to be overcome with the importance of the visit, until -Ferrol put him at his ease. They chatted together, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -old man, with his back to the fireplace, coat-tails lifted -from habit, for the grate was empty on this hot day, -Ferrol sitting astride a chair, watching the blue stream -of smoke that came from Hamblin's lips as he puffed -at his long white churchwarden.... Hamblin must -have stood like that during all the years that Ferrol -had been in London. The only change that came to -the people of Easterham was death.</p> - -<p>They talked of people they had known, and so the -talk came naturally to Margaret. He listened unmoved -to the news of her marriage, and found that nothing -more than conventional phrases came from his lips -when Hamblin told him of her death. Somehow, it -seemed to him so natural. He had been away seventeen -years, and Easterham had lost its hold upon him -now. The death of his father ... the new face at the -window of their house.... The death of Margaret -seemed to come as a natural sequence to things.</p> - -<p>Hamblin went on talking about people. "She -married Mr Quain, one of the College schoolmasters.... -I expect he was after your time ... a good deal -older than you, Mr Ferrol.... They had one child, a -boy ... living with his aunt now. All her people left -Easterham years ago...." And so on.</p> - -<p>It was in the afternoon that Ferrol came back to -London, feeling that he had been prodding at wet -moss-grown stones in some old decayed ruin, turning -them over to see what he could find, and having them -crumble apart in his hands. He never went back again.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That was thirteen years ago. Ferrol's memories -ended abruptly. He touched a button, and a young -man, with a shiny, pink face and fair hair parted in -the middle, came in with a notebook and pencil in his -hand. He looked as if he spent every moment of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -spare time in washing his face. There was a quiet, -nervous air about him—the air of one who is never -certain of what is going to happen next. Ferrol's -abrupt sentences always unnerved him.</p> - -<p>"Trinder," he said, "there was a letter among the -lot to-day. Quain. Written on <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> -notepaper. Asking for editorial employment."</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir." Trinder had long ceased to marvel at -Ferrol's memory for details.</p> - -<p>"Write to him the usual letter asking him to call. -Wednesday at twelve."</p> - -<p>Trinder made a note and withdrew.</p> - -<p>Ferrol wondered what Margaret's boy was like.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.III" id="I.III"></a>III</h3> - -</div> - -<p>At the age of twenty Humphrey Quain found himself -on the threshold of a world of promise. It seemed to -him that if, out of all the years of time, he could have -chosen the period in which he would live, he would -have picked out the dawn of this twentieth century of -grace. England was just then in the throes of casting -from herself the burden of old traditions. The closing -years of the nineties had been years of preparation and -development—years of broadening minds and new -ideas, until quite suddenly, it seemed, the century -turned the corner, and yesterday became old-fashioned -in a day, and all eyes were fixed on the glorious -sunrise of the twentieth century—the wonderful -century.</p> - -<p>People, you remember, played with the fantasy of -beginning a brand-new century as if it were a new -toy. Nobody who was living could remember the birth -of the last century. It was a new emotion for everyone. -There was the oddity of writing dates, discarding for ever -the 189— and beginning with 19—; old phrases, such -as <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fin-de-siècle</i>, became suddenly obsolete; new phrases -were coined, among which "Twencent" (an abbreviation -for twentieth century, and a tribute to the snap -and hustle with which the world was now expected to -go) survived the longest; songs were sung at music-halls; -there was a burst of cartoons on the subject; -people referred jokingly to the last century, parodying -the recollections of boresome centenarians; while the -unhappy <em>Nineteenth Century</em>, as though the calendar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -had taken a mean advantage of its mid-Victorian -dignity, determined never again to risk being so hopelessly -out of date, and added to its title the words -"and After," thereby enabling future centuries to go -for ever without ruffling its title.</p> - -<p>In the midst of this change, when the death of -Queen Victoria seemed to snap the present from the -past irrevocably, and the novelty of a king came to -England again; when the first of the tubes that now -honeycomb London was a twopenny wonder, and -people were talking of Shepherd's Bush, and Notting -Hill Gate, and marvelling curiously why they had -never talked of them before; when Socialism was -burrowing and gnawing like a rat at the old, worn -fabric of Society, urging the working-man to stand -equal in Parliament with the noblest lords in the land. -In the midst of all this there arose suddenly, born -with the twentieth century, the Young Man. He had -already come, answering the call of the country in the -dark disillusioning days of the Boer War. People had -seen the young clerks and workmen of England marching -shoulder to shoulder down the streets of London, -like the train-bands of Elizabethan days. When the -country was in peril the flower and the youth of -England came to its aid, and the older men could -do nothing but stay at home and look on.</p> - -<p>The young man, scorned by his elders in all the -periods of the nineteenth century except those last -years of development, found himself suddenly caught -up on the high wave that was sweeping away the -rubbish and the sentiment and the lumber of the old -customs, and borne above them all. He was set on -a pinnacle, as the new type; the future of the world -was said to be in the hands of the young men; the -old men—even forty was too old, you remember—had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -had their day. They were now like so much old -furniture, shabby and undesirable, second-hand goods, -better replaced by strong, well-made, up-to-date -things.</p> - -<p>It really was a wonderful time for the Young Man. -In the old days it had been customary for him to show -respect to his elders, to call them "sir," to stand up -when they came into a room, or raise his hat if they -met in the streets, to offer his seat to them if there was -none vacant, and generally to treat them as old ladies, -with polite reverence mingled with awe.</p> - -<p>The worship of age had become a fetish; it was -improper to criticize the opinions of a man older than -yourself; it was heresy to think that you were as -capable as the old men; youth had to wait and grow -old for its chances in life; youth was ridiculed, snubbed -and held in the leash.</p> - -<p>And then, quite suddenly it seemed, though Ibsen -had heard it knocking at the door long before, the -younger generation burst upon us with an astonishing -vigour, taking possession of the new century, trampling -down the false gods of age and bringing in its train, -like boys trooping from a nursery, hosts of new toys -and new ideas in everything.</p> - -<p>It was, I think, <cite>The Day</cite> that finally discovered the -Young Man. Ferrol had known the bitter opposition -which he had fought in his own twenties and thirties, -and he shone as the apostle of youth. The Young -Man, from a neglected embryo, became a national -asset; all hands were uplifted to him in the dawn of the -new century. He was enthroned in the seats from -which his elders were deposed.</p> - -<p>People seeking for a symbol of the new life that was -beginning, looked westwards and found a whole nation -that typified the Young Man who was to be their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -salvation. They found America, eager, with strident -voice, forceful and straining its muscles to the game of -life—a whole nation of young men. It became the -fashion to take America as a model. There was an -invasion of boots and bicycles and cameras. "Look," -every one cried, "see how they do things better than we -do. Look at their magazines—how wonderful they are." -Phonographs, kinetoscopes, the first jumpy cinematographs, -photo-buttons, chewing-gum, they came to the -country, and were hailed gladly as from the land of -Young Men.</p> - -<p>Presently the young men themselves came. They -came with their hair parted in the middle, and keen, clean-shaven -faces with very predominant chins. They were -mere boys, and they had a bounce and a boisterous -assurance that took one's breath away. With them -came loudly-striped shirts, multi-coloured socks, felt -hats and lounge suits in city offices, and, later, soft-fronted -shirts and black silk bows for evening wear. -They opened London offices for New York firms, and -showed us card-indexing systems, roll-top desks, dictaphones -and loose-leaf ledgers. All letters were typewritten, -and the firm who sent out a letter in the -crabbed handwriting of its senior clerk was accounted -disgracefully behind the times.</p> - -<p>The Young Man set the pace with a vengeance, and -it was a panting business to keep abreast of him.</p> - -<p>Cock-tails and quick-lunch restaurants appeared -next; griddle-cakes, clam-chowder and club sandwiches -were shown to us; and finally, as though having absorbed -their nutriment, we had assimilated their habits, a fierce -desire to speak with a nasal accent took hold of us.</p> - -<p>The man who wanted to get a job spoke with as -much American accent as he could muster up; he -looked American, and he affected American ways; his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -affirmative was "sure," and he wore his hair long -and sleek, divided evenly in the middle. He was the -Young Man, cocksure, enthusiastic and determined—the -most remarkable product of his time.</p> - -<p>Ferrol found him, a year or so before he arrived, with -that instinct of his, almost second-sight, which never -failed. He boomed him as a Type; he glorified him, -and gave him high posts in the office of <cite>The Day</cite>. -With the exception of Neckinger, the editor, who came -straight from New York, he was the native product, and -Ferrol was always on the look-out for more of him.</p> - -<p>And so, in the midst of all this, when the cry for the -Young Man was at its hungriest, when "hustle" and -"strenuous" were added to the vocabulary, we see -Humphrey Quain, waiting on the outskirts, watching his -opportunity, and meanwhile bending over the counter -of the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> office, coat off and shirt -sleeves turned back to the elbow, folding up copies of -the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> as they came damp, with the ink -wet on them, from the printing-press in the basement.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> was, unhesitatingly, the -worst paper in Easterham. It was an eight-page -weekly journal, with a staff of one editor, one reporter -and Humphrey Quain. When things were slack in the -reporting line, the reporter (an extraordinarily shaggy -person called Beaver, whose thumbs were always -covered with ink) was expected to "fill up time at -case"—which means that he was to assist in setting -up the paper in type. The editor, whose name was -Worthing, walked about in a knickerbocker suit and a -soft grey hat, and it was part of his business to obtain -advertisements for the <cite>Gazette</cite>. The leading articles he -wrote were always composed with one eye on the advertiser. -In praising the laudable action of Councillor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -Bilson in opposing the introduction of trams into the -town, there was a pleasant parenthesis, something in -this manner: "It needs no words of ours to echo the -praise bestowed on that gallant champion of our town, -our much-respected Councillor Bilson (in whose windows, -by the way, there is a remarkable exhibit of Oriental -coffee-making) ..." and so on.</p> - -<p>It was Beaver's duty to make the "calls" during the -week. How he managed them all, I don't know; but -in the intervals of attending the police-court, the council -meetings, and all the meetings of local organizations, he -would call at the hospital, at the mayor's parlour, on the -town clerk, on the churches and cathedrals, snapping up -unconsidered trifles in the shape of accidents, civic news, -church services, and all the other activities of Easterham -life. Sometimes during the week Beaver would swing -himself astride a bicycle, as frayed and as shabby as -himself, and pedal to Wimberly, or Pooleham, or further -afield to Great Huxton for local meetings, all of which -were of vast interest to the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite>, since its -copies went weekly—or were supposed to go—over the -whole of the county, and it had annexed to its title the -names of all the best villages. Its full title, by the way, -was: <cite>Easterham Gazette, and Wimberly, Pooleham, -Great Huxton, Middle Huxton and Little Huxton -Chronicle; Coomber, Melsdom and Upper Thornton -Journal</cite>, largest circulation in any district, weekly one -penny. It was nigh upon sixty years of age, and therefore -its tottering infirmity may be excused.</p> - -<p>Humphrey Quain came into the office ostensibly as -a clerk. In the beginning he thought it was a fascinating -game seeing the things that one wrote in print. -Therefore, all unconsciously, he started to write. He -began with "Cycle Notes" and "Theatre Notes," and -presently he found himself with sufficient interest to fill<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -a whole column, which dealt mainly with local gossip, -and was called "The Easterham Letter." It was -addressed always to the editor and was signed "P and -Q." When he was not writing, he was addressing -wrappers or making out the weekly bills for the newsagents; -and every Friday evening he stood by the -counter, folding up the papers as they came to him, and -handing them to grubby little children who were sent -by the newsagents, or sold the papers for themselves in -the streets.</p> - -<p>It really was a remarkable paper for the twentieth -century. Its advertisement space was one shilling an -inch, or less if you promised not to tell any one; three -men, of course, could not fill the whole of these eight -great sheets, and therefore the carrier's wagon delivered -every Thursday to the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> office, mysterious -thin brown parcels the size of a column, and -rather heavy. Simultaneously, all over the country, -like parcels were being delivered, and, if by chance you -compared an issue of the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> with any -thirty local papers in the North, South, or East of -England, you would have been amazed at the remarkable -similarity of their contents. They had the same -serial story of thrilling adventure, the same "Cookery -Notes and Kitchen Recipes," the same "Home Hints -to Household Happiness," word for word, and the same -column of jokes.</p> - -<p>For these long parcels that arrived every Thursday -at the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> office were columns of type -cast from moulds, sent down from a London Agency -which has made a mighty business of supplying general -matter, from foreign intelligence to fashion notes, ready -for the printing-press, at so much a column. They call -it "stereo."</p> - -<p>Humphrey Quain had been in the office for three<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -years. His aunt was a friend of Mr Worthing, the -editor, and his father thought it would be a good thing -for the boy to have some association with the world of -letters, however distant. Shortly afterwards, Quain -senior had taken a master's appointment in a private -boarding-school at Southsea, and Humphrey remained -with his aunt. A year later his father died.</p> - -<p>He parted with his father with a straining heart, -for Daniel Quain was a tremendous success as a father, -though he was a failure as a man. Of course this was -only Humphrey's point of view: what more could a -boy want than a father who could fashion any kind -of toy, from whistles to steamboats, out of a block of -wood; who knew enough of elementary science to -make a pin sail on water, by letting it rest on a -cigarette paper which soaked and sank away, leaving -the pin afloat; who could blow a halfpenny from one -wine-glass to another, and produce whooing sounds -from a hollow tube by placing it over a gas flame. -Wonderful father!</p> - -<p>It was Daniel who fostered in Humphrey's heart -the love of reading: those early books were adventure -stories by Fenimore Cooper, Kingston and Ballantyne. -He read Harrison Ainsworth, too, and Henty, and took -in the <cite>Boy's Own Paper</cite>, and, in short, did everything -in the way of reading that a normal, happy, healthy-minded -boy should do. "Keep clear of philosophy -until you are thirty," Daniel said one day, as he was -showing him how three matches can be made to stand -upright; "then you won't understand enough of life to -be miserable."</p> - -<p>Later, he came to the Dickens and Thackeray stage, -but he was pained to find he could not enjoy Scott. -He confided his distaste to his father, as though it were -a guilty failing of which to be ashamed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Form your own likes and dislikes in reading as in -everything else," said Daniel. "Don't be a literary -snob, and pretend you enjoy the acquaintance of books -merely because they belong so to speak to the 'upper -ten' of the book-world."</p> - -<p>When his father died, Humphrey was first brought -face to face with the stern things of life. It was a -chance remark of his aunt that gave him the first -glimpse. "You'll have to do something for yourself, -Humphrey," she said one day. "That father of yours -did nothing for you." She always spoke bitterly of -his father.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had never thought of it before. It had -seemed to him that things came naturally to people -from father to son: that, in some mysterious, unthought-of -way, when he was about twenty or so, he would find -himself with an income of sorts, or some settled employment.</p> - -<p>"You must Get On," said his aunt, looking at him -through her spectacles. "Young men Get On quickly -to-day. You must grasp your opportunities."</p> - -<p>So here came a new and delightful interest into -Humphrey's existence. He perceived something fine -in it all. From that day he had one creed in life: the -creed of Getting On. This determination swamped -every other interest in life. It was as if his aunt had -suddenly touched upon some internal button that had -started off a driving-wheel within him, and set all the -machinery of energy into movement. How did one -"Get On" in the world? He began to take an enormous -interest in everything, to follow the doings of men -and cities outside Easterham; his knowledge widened -slowly, for he had no brothers and was singularly -innocent in the everyday sense of the word.</p> - -<p>And all the time, during those Easterham days,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -he was beginning to understand things. He saw that -Beaver and Worthing, with their small salaries and -narrow capacities, had not "Got On"—would never -"Get On." He realized too, that his father, well through -life, had been little better than a man in the beginning -of it. On the other hand, Bilson, with his large, shining -shop, might be said to have "Got On," and just when -he was half deciding that Bilson held the secret, Bilson -suddenly went bankrupt, owing to the failure of some -coffee plantations in Ceylon. It seemed a perplexing -business, this getting on. Easier to talk about than to -do. And, after all, the getting on-ness of Bilson had -been circumscribed by the narrow area of Easterham. -The real success meant power, and the ability -to use it: wide power over the affairs of other -people.</p> - -<p>These were not the thoughts of a moment: they -were lingering thoughts that spread over three years, -from seventeen to twenty, those three years when he -was at the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> office, with only Beaver -and Worthing for his models in life.</p> - -<p>They were thoughts in the intervals of writing -"notes" on local subjects—indeed, the notes were the -outcome of the thoughts—of reading, and of cycling, -and going to the theatre. And then one day a most -amazing thing happened.</p> - -<p>Beaver Got On!</p> - -<p>Yes, it was really incredible, but the fact was there -indisputable and glaring. Beaver, shaggy and unkempt, -who seemed to have settled down for ever to the meetings -and the calls and the police-courts ("Harriet -Higgins, 30, no fixed abode, charged with being drunk -and disorderly, etc."), broke through the cobwebs that -had settled on him, in an unexpected and definite -manner.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p> - -<p>He came to Humphrey one day and remarked quite -casually, "I've given old Worthing the push."</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked at him: he wore a Norfolk -jacket, with old trousers, and a tweed hat of no shape -at all. Beaver took his pipe out of his mouth, and -Humphrey noticed the short nails on his stumpy, fat -fingers. Beaver always bit his nails.</p> - -<p>"I've given old Worthing the push," said Beaver. -"Look at this." He showed a letter to Humphrey, who -saw that it was from the "Special News Agency" of -London, employing Beaver in their service at £2, 10s. -a week.</p> - -<p>"How did you get it?" Humphrey asked.</p> - -<p>"Wrote in," said Beaver, gnawing a finger-tip. -"Been writing in on the quiet for the last year. Fed -up with old Worthing and filling up time at case."</p> - -<p>"I thought you had to know how to write well if -you wanted to work in London," Humphrey said. -There were no illusions about Beaver's style.</p> - -<p>"Oh! the Agency doesn't want writing—it wants a -man who can take down shorthand verbatim.... I'm -off next week," said Beaver.</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked longingly at him and his letter, -and then round at the whitewashed walls of the office, -with its Calendars and local Directories for years past -on the shelf, and the pile of <cite>Gazettes</cite> on the corner of -the counter. Mr Worthing passed through the office, -stopped, and scowled at Beaver.</p> - -<p>"Kindly remove your head-gear in the front office," -he said, and Beaver, with the unmurmuring discipline -of years which nothing could break, took off the -crumpled tweed thing he called a hat.</p> - -<p>"Nice pig, isn't he?" Beaver said to Humphrey, as -Worthing went out. "We had an awful row. Said I -ought to have given him a month's notice. A week<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -would have been good enough for me if he was doing -the sacking. Pig in knickers, that's what he is," said -Beaver, defiantly. "This is a Hole."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Beaver!" cried Humphrey, hopelessly. "It is -a Hole. He <em>is</em> a Pig.... But what's going to happen -to me?"</p> - -<p>"You'll do my work," Beaver remarked.</p> - -<p>"I can't write shorthand. Besides, I don't want to. -How old are you, Beaver?"</p> - -<p>"Just turned thirty. Why?"</p> - -<p>"Thirty!" thought Humphrey; fancy Beaver having -wasted all these years in doing nothing but local reporting. -Would he have to work ten years more and still -achieve nothing further than Beaver. There must be -some way out of it. Beaver had found it, and surely -he could.</p> - -<p>"It's fine for you," Humphrey said, admiringly now, -for, in the blankness of Beaver leaving the office where -they had worked, he had forgotten to congratulate him. -"The Special News Agency is the biggest in London, -isn't it."</p> - -<p>"Rather," said Beaver, comfortably. "It's a life -job." That was his ambition. "Look here, young -Quain, I think you're too good for Easterham, too. -Those notes of yours, you know.... I used to read -'em every week. Not at all bad.... You take my -tip, and do a turn at reporting for a while, and then -when you've got the hang of things write in. Write in -to all the London papers. Say you've had good provincial -experience—'provincial' sounds better than -local. You'll see. You're bound to get replies. Say -you're a good all-round man. Enclose a stamped -envelope." Beaver sauntered to and fro, nibbling at a -nail between excited sentences. "Oh, and don't you -forget it. Write on <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> notepaper."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> - -<p>And when, a week later, Beaver left, Worthing asked -Humphrey to try his hand at the police-court, Humphrey -accepted the inevitable, and tried to improve on -the style of the police reports. Worthing swore at him -and rewrote them all, and told him to model his style -on that of the late Mr Beaver.</p> - -<p>Whereupon Humphrey, seeing that he would never -Get On if he were to live in the shadow of Beaver, sat -down, and "wrote in."</p> - -<p>He wrote to <cite>The Day</cite>, because he bought the paper -every morning, and thought it was wonderful.</p> - -<p>The day that Ferrol's reply arrived was a day of -triumph for Humphrey. The letter came to him with -unbelievable promptness, asking him to call at the -office.... Never again did Humphrey recapture the -fine emotion that thrilled him as he read and re-read -the letter. Looking back on it, he saw that those -moments were among the most glorious in his life; he -stood on the threshold of a world of promise and -enchantment, suddenly revealed to him by this scrap -of paper with <cite>The Day</cite> in embossed blue letters, -surrounded by telephone numbers and telegraphic -addresses of the great newspaper.</p> - -<p>When he showed the letter to his aunt, she sighed -in a tired way, and said unexpectedly: "I'm afraid you -will never get on, Humphrey. You are too restless. -I'm sure you would do better to remain with Mr -Worthing. However...." She very rarely finished -her sentences.</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled. He saw himself marching to -fortune; he was twenty, and it never occurred to him -that he could fail.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.IV" id="I.IV"></a>IV</h3> - -</div> - -<p>You may call Fleet Street what you like, but the -secret of it eludes you always. It has as many moods -as a woman: it is the street of laughter and of tears, -of adventure and dullness, of romance and reality, of -promise and lost hopes, of conquest and broken men. -Into its narrow neck are crammed all the hurrying life, -the passions, the eager, beating hearts, the happiness -and the sorrow of the broad streets East and West that -lead to it. There is something in this thin, crooked -street, holding in its body the essence of the world, that -clutches at the imagination, something in the very -atmosphere surrounding it which makes it different -from all the other streets that are walked by men.</p> - -<p>The stones and the old timber of some of its -buildings are like the yellow parchment of some ancient -manuscript, scribbled with faded history. There are -chop-houses, and taverns, where the wigged and knee-breeched -Puffs sat writing their tit-bits of scandal for -the fashionable intelligence of the day; where Addison -and Steele tapped their snuff-boxes and planned their -letters to Mr Spectator; or, further back in the years, -Shakespeare himself went Strandwards from Blackfriars -up the narrow street where the gabled houses leaned to -one another. Look, you can almost see the ghosts of -Fleet Street pacing out of the little courts and alleys -that lie athwart the street: you know that massive bulk -of a man, walking ponderously, in drab-coloured coat -and knee-breeches, and rather untidy stockings above<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -his heavy, buckled shoes. He is in the street of a -million words; other ghosts jostle him, and in the -gallant company one sees Charles Dickens, dropping his -manuscript stealthily into a dark letter-box, in a dark -office, up a dark court; and all the dead men who have -given their lives to the street, some of them foolishly -wanton in wine—dead men shot in the wars, or burnt -with fever, or wrecked with the struggle, come back ... -come back to Fleet Street, to look wistfully at the lit -windows, and listen to the throbbing music of the -presses.</p> - -<p>It lures you like a siren, coaxing with soft promises -of prizes to be wrested from it: you shall be the -favoured of the gods, and you become Sisyphus, rolling -his stone eternally, day after day. Here are the things -of life that you covet, they shall be yours, says the -Street: and you are Tantalus, reaching out everlastingly, -and grasping nothing, until your heart is parched within -you. You shall be strong and mighty, it says, sapping -your strength like Delilah, until you pull down the -pillars of hope, and fall buried beneath the reckless -ruins of your career.</p> - -<p>Once you have answered the voice of the siren, you -are taken in the magic spell. Beat your breast, and -exclaim in agony, but nothing will avail, for if you leave -the Street, the quiet world will seem void for ever, and, -as the ghosts burn backwards through space, so shall -you return to the old agitations and longings.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>This was the Street to which young Humphrey -Quain came on a January morning, riding triumphantly -on the top of an omnibus. As he passed the fantastic -Griffin, with its open jaws and monstrous scaly wings, -like a warder guarding those who would escape, Fleet -Street seemed to be the Street of Conquest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was a rare, crisp day, with a touch of frost in the -air, and the sun clear and high in the heavens, above the -tangle of wires and cables that almost roofed the Street. -The traffic was beating up and down, with frequent -blocks, here and there, as a heavy hooded van staggered -up from Whitefriars or Bouverie Street. It was nearly -mid-day, and the light two-wheeled carts were pouring -out of Shoe Lane, or coming from Salisbury Square -with the early editions of the afternoon papers. Newsboys -on bicycles, with sacks of papers swung over their -backs, seemed to be risking their lives every moment -as they flashed into the thick of the traffic, clinging to -hansoms, and sliding between drays and omnibuses, out -of the press, until they could get through the narrow -neck of Fleet Street towards the West.</p> - -<p>Humphrey breathed deeply as he looked about him: -the names of the newspapers were blazoned everywhere. -Heavens! what a world of paper and ink this -was, to be sure. The doors, the windows and the letter-boxes -bore the titles of newspapers—all the newspapers -that were. Every room, on every floor, was inhabited -by the representatives of some paper or other: on the -musty top windows he could read the titles of journals -in Canada and Australia; great golden letters bulged -across the buildings telling of familiar newspapers. -The houses were an odd mixture of modernity and -antiquity, they jostled each other in their cramped -space; narrow buildings squeezed between high, red -offices with plate-glass windows, and over and above -the irregular roofs the wires spread thin threads against -the sky, wires that gave and received news from the -uttermost ends of the earth.</p> - -<p>The letters in white enamel or gold on the windows -told of Paris and Berlin, of Rotterdam and Vienna; -here they marked the home of a religious paper, there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -the office of a trade paper, and hard by it <cite>The Sportsman</cite>, -with its windows full of prize-fighters' photographs and -a massive silver belt in a plush case, for the possession -of which Porky Smith and Jewey Brown were coming -to blows. Every branch of human activity, all the -intricate complexities of modern life seemed to be -represented either by a room or the fifth part of a -room in Fleet Street.</p> - -<p>And, rising out of the riot of narrow buildings, -huddled closely to each other, the great homes of the -daily papers stood up as landmarks. Here were the -London offices of the important provincial papers, -which spoke nightly with Birmingham, Manchester, -Sheffield and Liverpool—plate-glass windows and large -letters gave them a handsome enough appearance, but -they looked comparatively insignificant beside the tall -red building of <cite>The Sentinel</cite>, and the new green-glazed -establishment of <cite>The Wire</cite>, while the grey, enormous -offices of <cite>The Day</cite> dwarfed them all. There was something -solid about <cite>The Day</cite> as it stood four-square firmly -in the Street, with its great letters sprawled across the -front, golden by day, and golden with electric light in -the night-time.</p> - -<p>It seemed almost as if <cite>The Day</cite> had nudged the -other great papers out of Fleet Street, for in the side -streets, in Bouverie Street, and Whitefriars Street, -and in Shoe Lane, the remainder of the London papers -found their homes, with the exception of the high-toned -<cite>Morning Courier</cite>, which found itself at the western end -of the Street past the Law Courts.</p> - -<p>But <cite>The Day</cite>, with its arrogant dome-tower (lit -up at nights), its swinging glass doors and braided -commissionaires, was the most typical of the modern -newspaper world. It was just such a place as -Humphrey Quain had dreamed. The swing doors<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -were always on the move; the people were coming -and going quickly—here was action, and all the movement -and the business of life.</p> - -<p>For a few moments Humphrey hesitated a little -nervously. He was a minute or two in advance of -the time appointed for the interview, and he stood -there, irresolute, filled with a wondrous sense of expectancy, -among the crowd that hurried to and fro. He -noticed on the other side of the road a bearded man, -in a silk hat and a frayed overcoat, sitting on a doorstep -at the top of Whitefriars Street. The man had a -keen, intelligent face with blue eyes. It was the shiny -silk hat that leapt to Humphrey's notice, it seemed -so out of keeping with the rest of the man's clothes. -Besides, why should a man in a silk hat sit on a -doorstep.... Years later the man was still there, -every day, sitting sphinx-like, surveying those who -passed him ... he must have marked their faces -grow older.</p> - -<p>The commissionaire regarded Humphrey critically. -It was the business of the commissionaire in <cite>The -Day</cite> office, especially, to be a judge of character. He -divided callers into two main classes—those who wanted -to see the editor, and those whom the editor wanted to -see. The two classes were quite distinct, and there were -few who, like Humphrey Quain, belonged to both.</p> - -<p>"Yes, by appointment," said Humphrey, a little -proudly, to the commissionaire's cold question that rose -like a wall to so many callers.</p> - -<p>He was shown into a little room, and made to fill up -a form—name, address and business. The next minute -a boy in a green uniform led him up a flight of stairs, -through the ante-room where the pink-cheeked Trinder -sat typewriting diligently, and so to Ferrol's room.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had a confused impression of a broad,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -high room, of a man sitting at a desk miles away at the -farther end of the room by the half-curtained window; -of red walls hung with files of newspapers, and the -contents bills of that day; of a Louis XVI. clock, all -scrolls and cupids, bringing a queer touch of drawing-room -leisure with it; and of telephones and buttons -that surrounded the man at the desk. The buttons -fascinated him: he saw that thin slips of ivory labelled -them with the names of the different departments—Editor, -News-Editor, Reporters, Sub-Editors, Advertisement -Manager, Business Manager, Literary Editor, -Sporting Editor, City Editor, Foreign Editor—the -whole of the building, with all its workers, seemed to -be within the reach of Ferrol's fingers. He was like the -captain of a great ship, navigating the paper from this -room, steering daily through the perilous journey. -Humphrey remembered afterwards how he was possessed -with an odd longing; he wanted to see Ferrol -press all the buttons at once, to hear the bones of the -paper, the framework on which it was built up each -day, come clattering and rattling into the room.</p> - -<p>Ferrol looked up from his papers, pushed back his -round, upholstered chair that tipped slightly on its -axis, and the room with its red walls and carpet suddenly -faded from Humphrey, and he became aware only -of a face that looked at him ... a masterful, powerful -face, strong in every feature, from the thick, closely-knit -eyebrows below the broad forehead, to the round, -large chin. There was something insistent in this face -of Ferrol, with its steel-coloured eyes, that hardened or -softened with his moods, and its black moustache, that -bulged heavily over his upper lip and gave him an -appearance of rugged ferocity.</p> - -<p>Humphrey felt as if he were a squirming thing under -the microscope.... That was the way of Ferrol—everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -depended on the first impression that he -received; all his being was tautened to receive that first -impression. It was a narrow system of judging character, -but he made few mistakes.... They were quickly -corrected. He never forgave those who deceived him -by wearing a mask over their true selves.</p> - -<p>There is not the slightest doubt that Humphrey felt -a little nervous—who would not, with Ferrol's eyes -boring through one?—but he knew that great issues were -at stake. He carried his head high, and his eyes met -Ferrol's without a quiver. Thus he stood by the table -for five seconds, though it seemed as many minutes to -him, until Ferrol told him to sit down.</p> - -<p>"So you want to come on <cite>The Day</cite>," was the way -Ferrol began. They were eye to eye all the while.</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir," said Humphrey, briskly. Somehow or -other, with the sound of Ferrol's voice all his nervousness -departed. It was the silence that had made him -feel awkward.</p> - -<p>"Let's see.... Ah! yes; you've been on an -Easterham paper, haven't you?"</p> - -<p>"Three years," Humphrey replied.</p> - -<p>"That all the experience you've had?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled faintly. "That's all," he said.</p> - -<p>"What do you want to do?"</p> - -<p>Here was an amazing question for which he was -totally unprepared. It had never occurred to him that -he would be asked to make his choice. His eyes wandered -to the buttons.... What <em>did</em> he want to do? -He made an answer that sounded futile and foolish -to him.</p> - -<p>"I want to get on," he stammered, hesitatingly, with -a picture of his aunt rising mentally before him.</p> - -<p>Ferrol's eyes twinkled. It was a magic answer if -Humphrey had but known. Most of the others he saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -wanted to do descriptive writing, they had literary kinks -in them, or wanted to have roving commissions abroad.... -None of them wanted to start at the bottom.</p> - -<p>"Well, this is the place for young men who want to -get on, you know," said Ferrol. "It's hard work...." -He turned away and consulted some papers. "I think -I'll give you a chance," he said.</p> - -<p>The clock struck twelve, and it sounded to -Humphrey that a chime of joy-bells had flooded the -room with triumphant music.</p> - -<p>"When can you start?" Ferrol asked.</p> - -<p>"Next week," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"You can start at three pounds a week." Ferrol -pressed a button. Trinder appeared. "Ask Mr Rivers -if he can come," said Ferrol.</p> - -<p>Humphrey thought only of three pounds a week -... three pounds!</p> - -<p>"I'll put you on the reporting staff," Ferrol remarked. -Then he smiled. "We'll see how you get on...." There -was a pause. (Three pounds a week! Three pounds -a week!)</p> - -<p>He looked up as the door opened and saw an -extraordinarily virile-looking person come into the -room—a man with the face of a refined pugilist, with -large square-shaped hands and an expression of impish -perkiness in his eyes.</p> - -<p>"Come in, Rivers," said Ferrol. "This is Mr -Quain."</p> - -<p>Mr Rivers shook his hand with an air of polite -restraint. "Mr Rivers is our News Editor," explained -Ferrol, and then to Rivers, "I have engaged Mr Quain -for a trial month, Rivers."</p> - -<p>Rivers smiled whimsically. "You're not a genius, I -hope," he said to Humphrey. The spirit of humour that -flashed across Rivers's face, twinkling his eyes and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -corners of his mouth and dimpling his cheeks, made -Humphrey laugh a negative reply.</p> - -<p>"That's all right," said Rivers, his face so creased in -smiles until his beady eyes threatened to disappear -altogether. "The last genius we had," he said, with a -nod to Ferrol, "let us down horribly on the Bermondsey -murder story."</p> - -<p>The telephone bell rang. "I'll see him now," said -Ferrol through the telephone, and Humphrey took that -as a signal that the interview was ended. Ferrol shook -hands with him, and once more he felt himself the -target of those steel-grey eyes that held in them the -stern remorselessness of strength.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Good-looking young man," said Rivers, as the -door closed behind Humphrey. "Hope he'll shape all -right."</p> - -<p>"I hope so," Ferrol echoed.... And he was glad that -Rivers had praised Humphrey, for he was pleased with -the upright, manly bearing of the lad, the quick intelligence -of the face, and he had noticed the frank eyes, -the smooth skin and the dark hair that had belonged in -the lost years to Margaret.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.V" id="I.V"></a>V</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Humphrey came downstairs and out into the street -again walking like one in a dream. His interview with -Ferrol had lasted barely five minutes, and in those few -minutes the whole course of his future life had been -determined. His mind was whirling with the suddenness -of it all; whirling and whirling round one thought, -the thought of three pounds a week. Round this pivot, -as a catharine-wheel spins round its pin, the thing of -the greatest import revolved brilliantly, shedding its -luminous light far into the dark recesses of the future -... he was on <cite>The Day</cite>. Fleet Street was at his -feet.</p> - -<p>In that moment a new Humphrey Quain was born, -different from the youth who had walked a little timorously -into Ferrol's room; he was no longer a lost cipher in the -world, he was a unit in the army that marched forwards, -with Progress and To-morrow for their watchwords. He -felt, suddenly, a great man—Humphrey Quain of <cite>The -Day</cite>, cocksure, self-confident, with ambitions that appalled -him when he thought of them in after years.</p> - -<p>What would Beaver say? What would old Worthing -say...? And there was his aunt, too.</p> - -<p>That man in the silk hat, with the shabby overcoat, -was still sitting on the doorstep. As Humphrey passed -him, his lips twisted in a haunting ironical smile. -Perhaps he knew of Humphrey's thoughts.</p> - -<p>He went back to Easterham. After all, Worthing -took it very well, and his aunt agreed that three pounds a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -week certainly showed that he was Getting On, and -Beaver, to whom he wrote the glad news, recommended -him rooms in Guilford Street, in the house where he -was living.</p> - -<p>And there followed days of tremendous dreams.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.VI" id="I.VI"></a>VI</h3> - -</div> - -<p>A week later a four-wheeler brought up outside No. -5A Guilford Street, and there, on the doorstep, was -Beaver, with his thumbs inkier than ever, waiting to -welcome Humphrey to London. The cabman, one of -those red-faced, truculent individuals whom a petrol-driven -Nemesis has now overtaken and rendered -humble, demanded two shillings more than his fare, -firstly, because it was obvious that Humphrey came -from the country, and secondly, because he had gone -by mistake to 550A, which was at the far end of the -street.</p> - -<p>"Why didn't you speak the number plainly," he -growled.</p> - -<p>They compromised with an extra sixpence, on the -condition that the cabman should assist in carrying -Humphrey's two trunks into the house, as far as the -second-floor landing.</p> - -<p>"There are your rooms," Beaver said, throwing open -the door; "you've got a sitting-room, with a little bed-room -at the side. Twelve shillings a week," he said, -anxiously. "Not too much, I hope. Breakfasts, one -shilling a day." He lowered his voice mysteriously. -"Take my tip, Quain, and open the eggs and the -window at the same time."</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed. It was jolly to have Beaver in -the loneliness of London. This was quite another -Beaver, a better-groomed Beaver, with a clean collar, -and only one day's stubble on his chin. He made swift<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -calculations—twelve and seven—nineteen, and coals—what -of coals?</p> - -<p>Coals were a shilling a scuttle. Beaver confided to -him that he had a regular system for checking the coal -supply. It seems he made an inventory of every lump -of coal in every fresh scuttleful. He kept a kind of -day-book and ledger system of coal, debiting against -the credit supply the lumps that he put on the fire, -and balancing his books at night. In this way Mrs -Wayzgoose, the landlady, found no opportunity for -making extra capital out of the coal business.</p> - -<p>"You're better off than I am," Beaver said. "I've -only got the top room at eight shillings a week—a bed-sitting -room. But then, I send ten shillings a week to -my sister. It doesn't leave@ very much by the time I've -had my meals and paid the rent."</p> - -<p>Humphrey begged him to consider the sitting-room -as his own, so long as he lived in the house. They -began to unpack together, Beaver making exclamations -of surprise at the turn of things.</p> - -<p>"Fancy you being on <cite>The Day!</cite>" he said, pausing -with a volume in each hand.</p> - -<p>"It all happened so quickly. I took your advice. -Ferrol seems a wonderful chap."</p> - -<p>"Oh! I daresay Ferrol's all right ... but <cite>The Day's</cite> -got an awful reputation. They're always sacking somebody.... -I'd rather be where I am. They've got to -keep firing, you know. New blood, and new ideas. -That's what they want."</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed. "I'm not afraid," he said. -"Once I get my teeth into the place, they won't shake -me off." All the same, it must be confessed that -Beaver's words awoke a slight feeling of alarm in his -heart. A king might arise who knew not Humphrey, -and he might go down with the rest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> - -<p>"We'll put the books on the mantelpiece; I'll have -to get a book-shelf to-morrow." Humphrey had brought -up a few of his favourites—an odd collection: <cite>The Fifth -Form at St Dominic's;</cite> <cite>The Time Machine;</cite> <cite>An Easy -Outline of Evolution;</cite> <cite>Gulliver's Travels</cite>, and <cite>Captain -Singleton;</cite> the poems of Browning and Robert Buchanan, -and Carlyle's <cite>French Revolution</cite>. The pictures they -agreed to hang to-morrow. They were only heliogravure -prints of the kind that were sold in shilling -parts. Watts' "Hope" and "Life and Death," and -other popular pictures, together with photographic reproductions -of authors, ancient and modern, from <cite>The -Bookman</cite>.</p> - -<p>When they had finished, Humphrey surveyed his -new home. It looked comfortable enough in the fire-light, -with the green curtains drawn over the windows. -The furniture was of the heavy mahogany, mid-Victorian -fashion, blended with a horsehair sofa and -bent-wood arm-chair, that struck a jarring note of ultra-modernity. -There was a flat-topped desk in one corner -by the fireplace. The mantelpiece was hideous with -pink and blue vases that held dried grass and clipped -bulrushes. Looking round more carefully, he saw that -Moses himself could not have had more bulrushes to -screen him than Mrs Wayzgoose had put for the delight -of her lodgers. There were bulrushes in the mirror -over the sideboard, bulrushes in a gaily-decorated stand -whose paint hid its drain-pipe pedigree, bulrushes in -another bloated vase on a fretted ebony stand by the -window. Who shall explain this extraordinary passion -for bulrushes that still holds in its thrall the respectable -landladies of England?</p> - -<p>"I must have them cleared away," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Beaver smiled. "You just try!" he said meaningly. -"Anyhow, you're better off than I am, mine's paper fans."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>He rang the bell, and a stout, placid-faced woman -appeared at the door. She wore at her neck a large -topaz-coloured stone, as large as a saucer, set in a circle -of filigree gold, and heavy-looking lumps of gold -dangled from her ears. Her hands, with their fingers -interlocked, rested on the ends of the shawl that made -her appear even more ample than she was.</p> - -<p>"This is Mr Quain, Mrs Wayzgoose," said Beaver.</p> - -<p>Mrs Wayzgoose's face fell apart in her welcoming -smile—the smile that her lodgers saw only once. It -was a wonderful, carefully-studied smile, beginning with -the gradual creasing of the mouth, extending earwards, -joyfully, and finally spreading until the nose and the -eyes were brought into the scheme.</p> - -<p>"I hope you find everything you want, Mr Quain," -she said.</p> - -<p>"Everything's very comfortable," Humphrey -answered.</p> - -<p>"Do you take tea or coffee with your breakfasts, -Mr Quain?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey was about to reply coffee, when the -guardian Beaver winked enormously at him, and shook -his head in a manner that was quite perplexing. He -had not a notion of what Beaver was trying to convey—there -was evidently something to beware of in the -question. Then, he had an inspiration.</p> - -<p>"What do I take, Beaver?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, tea—undoubtedly tea," Beaver answered -hastily.</p> - -<p>"Very good." Mrs Wayzgoose turned to go.</p> - -<p>"Oh! by the way, Mrs Wayzgoose," Humphrey said. -"These ... these bulrushes...."</p> - -<p>"<em>Bulrushes!</em>" echoed Mrs Wayzgoose, losing her -placidity all of a sudden. There was an icy silence. -Beaver seemed to be enjoying it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Pray, what of my bulrushes?" demanded the masterful -Mrs Wayzgoose.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think ... I mean ... wouldn't the -room be lighter without them?"</p> - -<p>"Without them?" The way she echoed his words, -her voice rising in its scale, reminded him of the wolf's -replies to Red Riding Hood before making a meal of -her. "Are you aware, Mr Quain, that those bulrushes -have been there for the last thirty years."</p> - -<p>"I was not aware of it, but I am not surprised to -hear it," Humphrey answered politely.</p> - -<p>"And that never a complaint has been made about -them."</p> - -<p>"I <em>am</em> surprised to hear that," he murmured.</p> - -<p>"The last gentleman who had these rooms," continued -Mrs Wayzgoose, "he <em>was</em> a gentleman, in spite -of being coffee-coloured, was a law student. Mr Hilfi -Abbas. He took the rooms <em>because</em> of the bulrushes. -Said they reminded him of the Nile. I could let these -rooms over and over again to Egyptian gentlemen while -these bulrushes are there...." And with that she -flounced out of the room in a whirl of skirts, with her -ear-rings rocking to the headshakes which punctuated -her remarks.</p> - -<p>"There you are," said Beaver, as the door closed -behind her. "What did I tell you?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed, and shook his fist at the offending -bulrushes. "They'll go somehow, you see."</p> - -<p>When all the unpacking was finished, the pipes put -in the pipe-rack, the tobacco-jar on the table, and the -photographs of his mother, his father and his aunt placed -on the mantelpiece, the question of food came uppermost -in his mind. Beaver told him that he had accepted an -invitation to supper.</p> - -<p>"I met a chap on a job whom I knew years ago.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -We were both reporters together in Hull, on a weekly -there. I didn't know you'd be coming up this evening -or I wouldn't have arranged to go there."</p> - -<p>"Well, it doesn't matter," said Humphrey. "I can -manage for myself. Don't let me upset your arrangements."</p> - -<p>"Look here," Beaver said suddenly. "Why shouldn't -you come with me. It's only cold supper and they -won't mind a bit. I'll explain things. Besides," he -added, as he noticed Humphrey was hesitating, "Tommy -Pride will be one of your new colleagues. He's on <cite>The -Day</cite>. You might be able to pick up a few tips from him."</p> - -<p>So Humphrey agreed, and they went up into Holborn. -It was Sunday evening and every shop was shut, except -an isolated restaurant and a tobacconist here and there. -The public-houses alone were wholly open, and their -windows radiated brilliance into the night. The East -had invaded the West for its Sunday parade, and the -streets were a restless procession of young people; sex -called to sex without anything more evil in intention -than a walk through the streets, a hand-clasp and, perhaps, -a kiss in some by-way, and then to part with the -memory of a gay adventure that would linger during -the dull routine of the week to come, to be forgotten -and replaced by another.</p> - -<p>Beaver was for taking the "tube" to Shepherd's -Bush—it was a new luxury for London then, making -people wonder how they could have borne so long with -the sulphurous smoke and gloom of the old underground -railway—but the movement of the streets -fascinated Humphrey, and, though the journey took -much longer, they went out by omnibus.</p> - -<p>Ah! that ride.... The first ride through London, -when Humphrey felt the great buildings all around him, -and above him, rising enormously in a long chain that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -seemed to stretch for miles and miles, below the sky that -was copper-tinted with the glare of thousands of lamps. -What did London mean to him, then? He found his -mind groping forwards and backwards, and this way and -that way, puzzling for the secret of the real London that -was hidden in the stones of it. He was a little afraid of it -all, it seemed so vast and complicated. In Easterham, -one knew every one, and to walk the streets was like -walking the rooms of one's house—but here no man -noticed another, one felt strange and outcast at first, -intensely lonely, and minutely insignificant. Idly, as -he looked down from this omnibus, at the people as they -strolled up and down, he wondered of what they were -thinking. Did they ever think at all, these people of -the streets—did they ever have moments of meditation -when they pondered the why and the wherefore of anything? -It seemed so odd to Humphrey, as he thought -of it—here was the centre of a great civilization, here -were men and women, well and decently dressed, here -was London broad and mighty, and yet the minds of -those who walked below him were, he felt, narrow and -pinched. They might have been living in Easterham -for all their lives.</p> - -<p>And, now, he felt afraid for the first time, knowing -that he could never conquer these people by the path he -had chosen. What mattered anything to them, except -that it touched the root of their lives? They cared -nothing, he knew, for the greatness of things. They -talked vaguely of the greatness of Empire, but they -never thought about it, nor understood it. They lived -in a world of names—the world itself was nothing but -a string of names which they had been taught. The -very stars above them were just "Stars," and the word -meant no more to them: if you had talked to them of -infinite worlds beyond worlds, of other planets with suns<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -and moons and stars of their own, they would have -winked an eye ... and how, when they could not be -conquered with the mightiness of everything about them, -could Humphrey Quain hope to conquer them. For he -had nothing beyond the desire to conquer them—a desire -so strong, smouldering somewhere within him, that it -had burnt up almost every other interest; he could think -perhaps more deeply than they could, but for the rest, -he was limited by lack of great knowledge, lack of -everything, except an innate gift of shrewd observation -and a power of intuitive reasoning.</p> - -<p>Out of the mists of his thoughts, Beaver's voice came -to him.</p> - -<p>"There's the Marble Arch," said Beaver. "What -have you been dreaming about? You haven't said a -word all the time."</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed. "I was looking at the people," -he said. "I always like looking at people."</p> - -<p>They went past Hyde Park, with its naked trees -showing like skeletons in the moonlight. The night -seemed to deepen the spaciousness of the Park, with its -shadows and silence; it held all the mystery and beauty -of a forest. And later they passed the blue, far-reaching -depths of Kensington Gardens, with the scent of trees -and the smell of earth after rain coming to them.</p> - -<p>It was all new to Humphrey, new and delightful. -He promised himself glorious days and nights probing -this city to its heart, and listening to the beat of its -pulses. Already, for so was he fashioned, he began to -note his emotions, and to watch his inner self, and the -impressions he was receiving, so that he could write -about them. This was the journalist's sense—a sixth -sense—which urges its possessor to set down everything -he observes, and adds an infinite zest to life, since every -experience, every thought, every new feeling, means<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -something to write about. Nor did he think of the -things he saw, in the way of the average man. He -thought in phrases. It did not content him to feel that -a street lamp was merely a lamp. He would ask himself, -almost unconsciously, "What does it look like?" and -search for a simile. His thoughts ran in metaphors -and symbols. They swung into Notting Hill High Street, -and here the streets were almost as crowded as those at -Holborn, and the lights of the public-houses flared, oases -of brilliance in the desert of dark, shuttered shops. -And so down the hill to Shepherd's Bush, with its -lamps twinkling round the green, and its throng of -people—more men and women thinking of nothing at -all, and going up and down in herds, like cattle.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="I.VII" id="I.VII"></a>VII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The memory of that evening at the Prides remained -with Humphrey. It was his first glimpse into the social -life, and he saw a home that was wholly delightful. -Beaver had not under-estimated the hospitality of the -Prides. They gave him a hearty welcome that made -him feel at home at once. Tommy Pride met them in -the passage, and after the first introductions he led the -way to the sitting-room, where Mrs Pride was waiting. -She was a woman of forty, buxom and charming. He -saw, within a very few minutes, that her admiration of -Tommy Pride knew no bounds, that she thought him -splendid and flawless—that much he read from the way -her brown eyes lit up when she gazed upon him, and -the fond smile that marked her lips when she spoke -to him.</p> - -<p>The sitting-room was not a very large apartment, -but it was furnished with unusual taste. There were -books set in white enamelled bookcases—books that -are permanent on the shelf, and not novels of a moment. -There was chintz on the arm-chairs and green curtains -hung over the window, and a few original black-and-white -drawings and water-colours on the walls, papered -in dark blue. The impression that the room gave to -the visitor was one of peace and rest.</p> - -<p>Humphrey was frankly disappointed in Tommy -Pride. He had had a vague notion that everybody -connected with a London newspaper was, of necessity, -a person of fame. He knew the names of those who -signed the articles in <cite>The Day</cite>, and he imagined he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -would find himself in the company of the great immortals. -Somehow or other it had never crossed his -mind that there were patient, toiling men—hundreds of -them—who put out their best work day after day, year -after year, without any hope of glory or fame, but -simply for the necessities of life, as a bricklayer lays -bricks—hundreds of men quite unknown outside the -bounds of Fleet Street and the inner newspaper world.</p> - -<p>"Well," Mrs Pride said to him; "so you're going to -try your luck in London, Mr Quain?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey nodded, and the conversation went into -the channels of small talk. Beaver and he amused the -Prides with recollections of Easterham and Mr Worthing, -and Tommy Pride capped their recollections with -some of his own.</p> - -<p>"When I was on a little local paper once, we had a -fellow named Smee, who thought he could write," said -Tommy. "The editor was a hard, cruel sort of chap, -without any sympathy for the finer side of literature—at -least that was what Smee said. He used to sob -all round the place, because he wanted to write great -throbbing prose instead of borough-council meetings. -One day Smee got his chance. The editor was ill, and -there was a prisoner to be hanged in the county jail. -Smee wrote the effort of his life. It went something in -this way:—</p> - -<p>"'Last Tuesday, under the blue vault of heaven, -when the larks were singing their rhapsodies to the -roseate dawn, at 8 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>, like a sudden harbinger of -horror, the black flag fluttered above the prison walls, -showing that Alfred Trollop, aged forty-two, labourer, -had suffered the last penalty of the law—viz., death.'"</p> - -<p>"How's that for descriptive?" asked Tommy, smacking -his lips. "'Viz., death.' A glorious touch, eh?" -He leaned towards Humphrey. "Don't you bother about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -fine writing, Quain, or you'll break your heart. We keep -a stableful of fine writers, and turn 'em loose when we -want any high falutin' done."</p> - -<p>"Don't be so depressing, Tommy," Mrs Pride said. -"Never mind what he says, Mr Quain—there's a chance -for every one to do his best in Fleet Street."</p> - -<p>"Dear optimistress," remarked Tommy, linking an -arm in hers, "let's see what we have for supper."</p> - -<p>They all went into the dining-room, and Humphrey -was given the place of honour next to Mrs Pride. -Beaver sat opposite, and Tommy was at the head of the -table carving the joint of cold roast beef. "I'm a little -out of form," he said, whimsically. "This is the first -meal I've had at home for a week."</p> - -<p>"I sometimes wish Tommy were a sub-editor," Mrs -Pride confided to Humphrey; "then we should at least -have the day to ourselves. But he says he could never -sit down at a desk for eight hours a night."</p> - -<p>"Not me," Tommy interposed, with his mouth full -of beef. "If they want to make you a sub-editor, Quain, -take several grains of cyanide of potassium rather than -yield. You've got some freedom of thought and life as -a reporter, but if you're a sub you're chained down with -a string of rules. They make you wear a mental -uniform."</p> - -<p>"I thought a sub-editor held a more important -position than a reporter," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"So he does, only the reporters don't think so. The -paper couldn't get on without the sub-editors. I should -love to see <cite>The Day</cite> printed for just one issue with -everything that the reporters wrote untouched. It would -have to be a forty-two page paper. Because every -reporter thinks his story is the best, and writes as much -of it as he can.... I like the subs, they've saved my -life over and over again. Next to the Agency men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -they're the most useful people in the world, eh, -Beaver?... Have some beer, Beaver. Pass him the -jug, Quain."</p> - -<p>Beaver laughed. "It strikes me you people on the -regular staff of the papers take yourselves much too -seriously. You've all got swelled heads. For the sake -of fine phrases you'll lose half the facts. Why don't -you all understand that it's simply in the day's work -to do your job and forget all about it."</p> - -<p>"Lord knows," Tommy replied, "but we don't. -We get obsessed with our jobs, and dream them, and -spend hours taking trouble over them, and we know -all the time that when they come cold and chilly -at night through the sub's hands, they're lopped -about and cut up to fit a space. We may pretend we -don't care what happens to our writing, so long as we -draw our money, but I think we all do in our secret -hearts. We're born that way. The moment a man -really doesn't care whether his story is printed or cut -to shreds, he's no good in a newspaper office. It means -he's lost his enthusiasm."</p> - -<p>Tommy's voice fell. He knew well enough that that -was the state of affairs to which he had come. All the -long, long years of work had left him emotionless. He -had exhausted his enthusiasm, and the whole business -seemed stale to him. He felt out of place in this new -world of newspaperdom, peopled with energetic, hopeful -young men who came out of nowhere, and captured at -once the prizes which were so hardly won in his day. -He felt himself being nudged out of it all, by the pushful -enthusiastic army of young men who had marched down -on Fleet Street. All round him he saw signs of the -coming change—the old penny papers were talking of -changing their price to a halfpenny; the older men in -journalism were being pensioned off, or dismissed, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -"put on space"—which means that they were not paid -a regular salary but at so much a column for what they -wrote. The spirit of change was working everywhere: -some of the solid writers who found that they could -not comply with the modern demands of journalism, -migrated back to the provinces and became editors or -leader-writers on papers in Manchester, Birmingham -or Sheffield. And, at the back of all this change, the -figure of Ferrol hovered.... Ferrol sweeping irresistibly -over the old traditions of Fleet Street.... -Ferrol threatening to acquire this paper and that paper, -to start weeklies and monthlies, to extend his power -even to the provinces, so that everywhere the shadow -brooded.</p> - -<p>And they would want young men, keen, shrewd -young men, and so the day would come when he would -fade away from the life of Fleet Street. And then—"Tommy -and I are going to retire soon," Mrs Pride -said, with a fond glance at her husband, "aren't we, -Tommy?"</p> - -<p>"She means to the workhouse, Beaver," Tommy -remarked, with a grin.</p> - -<p>"We're going to have a cottage in the country, and -Tommy's going to write his book."</p> - -<p>"No," said Beaver, incredulously.</p> - -<p>"Do you write books, Mr Pride?" Humphrey asked.</p> - -<p>"I? Lord, no! Not now. I once had an idea of -writing books. I was just about your age. I believe -I've even got the first chapter somewhere. But I've -never written it. Whenever the missis and I get very -depressed, we cheer ourselves up by talking of that book, -and writing it in the country. By the way, do you -know that deep down in the heart of every newspaper -man there's a longing to write one book, and to live on -two pounds a week in the country?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> - -<p>"That'll do, Tommy," Mrs Pride interposed. "I -won't have you spoil Mr Quain's evening any more. -You're making him quite depressed. Don't pay -any attention to him, Mr Quain, and have some -cheese."</p> - -<p>After supper they went back to the sitting-room, -and Mrs Pride played to them, and Beaver sang in a -shaky bass voice. Humphrey had never heard Beaver -sing before. There was something grotesque about the -singing. It took Humphrey by surprise. Beaver was -the sort of man who, somehow or other, one imagined -would sing in a high treble. He sang on and on, right -through the portfolio of the "World's Favourite Songs," -including "The Anchor's Weighed," "John Peel," -"The Heart Bowed Down," and the rest of them. -Pride sat in the arm-chair by the fireside, smoking a -pipe, and nodding to the old melodies, while Humphrey -gravitated to the book-shelves, and looked at some of -the books.</p> - -<p>He seemed to have left Easterham and his aunt far -behind him in dim ages. A new feeling of responsibility -came over him, as he sat there thinking of the -morrow when his battle with Fleet Street was to begin. -The future rested with him alone, and it gave him a -delicious thrill of individuality to think of it.</p> - -<p>It was as if he had suddenly become merged with -some one else within him, who was constantly saying -to him: "You are Humphrey Quain.... You are -Humphrey Quain. Take charge of yourself now.... I -have finished with you." He had an odd sense of not -fully knowing this strange new Self with which he was -faced. He wondered, too, whether Beaver or Pride had -ever passed through the same sensation that was passing -through him now. This was the beginning of that -introspection when the presence of his Self became<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -dominant in his mind, shaping as something to be -looked at and examined and questioned, that was to -lead to much bitterness and unhappiness in the years to -come.</p> - -<p>The evening came to an end, but before they left -Pride took Humphrey aside. "Beaver said you might -like a few hints," he said. "I don't think I can help -you much. I think you know your way about. But -there are two important things to remember: Don't -be a genius, and don't be a fool. I'll tell you more in -the morning."</p> - -<p>On the way back to Guilford Street Beaver eulogized -Pride. He was one of the best reporters in Fleet Street—one -of the safest, Beaver meant. Never let his paper -down. Worth his salary on any paper.</p> - -<p>"I suppose he gets a pretty big salary?" Humphrey -asked.</p> - -<p>"Who? Pride—no! I don't think he gets very -much. He's not a show man, you see. Of course, -dear old Tommy hasn't got a cent to spare. He's got -a girl of thirteen at boarding-school, and that takes a -good bit of keeping up."</p> - -<p>"Why was he so discouraging?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! that's his way. He pretends he's a pessimist."</p> - -<p>Humphrey went to bed that night full of thoughts -of the morning. And in the tumult of his thoughts he -wondered how he should avoid becoming as Tommy -Pride, with all his thirty years of work as nothing, and -all the high ambitions sacrificed to Fleet Street. Was -that to be his end too—a reporter for ever, and at the -finish of it, nothing but the husks of enthusiasm. He -thought of Pride's wistful desire for a cottage in the -country and two pounds a week. And he fell asleep -while thinking how he was going to find a better end to -his work than that.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II<br /> - -<small>LILIAN</small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.I" id="II.I"></a>I</h3> - -</div> - - -<p>Humphrey Quain came into the office of <cite>The Day</cite> -with the greatest asset a journalist can possess—enthusiasm. -There is no other profession in the world -that calls so continually, day after day, for enthusiasm. -The bank-clerk may have his slack moment in adding up -his figures—indeed the work has become so mechanical -to him that he can even think of other things while -making his additions; the actor, even, has his lines by -heart, and can sometimes go automatically through his -part, without the audience noticing he is listless; the -barrister may lose his case; the artist may paint one -bad picture—it is forgotten in the gallery of good ones; -but the reporter must be always alert, always eager, -always ready to adapt himself to circumstances and -persons, and fail at the peril of his career. In large -things and small things it is all alike: the man who goes -to report a meeting must do it as eagerly and with as -much enthusiasm as the man who journeys to Egypt to -interview the Khedive.</p> - -<p>And, as Humphrey soon found, every day and every -hour there are forces conspiring to kill this eagerness -and enthusiasm at the root. Before he had been a week -on <cite>The Day</cite> he began to realize the forces that were up -against him. It seemed that there was a deliberate -league on the part of the world to stifle his ambitions, -and to make things go awry with him. Before he had -been a week on <cite>The Day</cite> he felt that he was being -checked and thwarted by people. He was turned from -the doorsteps by the footmen and servants of those -whom he went to see on some quite trivial matters; or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -he could never find the man he went forth to seek. He -went from private house to office, from office to club, in -search of a city magnate one day, and failed in his quest, -and, after hours of searching, he came back to <cite>The Day</cite> -empty-handed, and Rivers said brusquely: "You'll -have to try again at dinner-time. He's sure to be home -at seven. We've got to have him to-night." And so -he went again at seven to the man's house, only to find -that he was dining out and would not be back until -eleven. Whereupon he waited about patiently, and, -finally, when he did return home, the city magnate -declined to venture any opinion on the subject in question -to Humphrey (it was about the Russian loan), and, -after all, he came back, late and tired, to the office, to -find that, as far as Selsey, the chief sub-editor, was concerned, -nobody cared very much about his failure or not.</p> - -<p>And, in the morning, his struggles and troubles and -the difficulty of yesterday was quite forgotten, and Rivers -never even mentioned the matter to him. But if <cite>The -Sentinel</cite>, or any other paper, had chanced to find the -city magnate in a more relenting mood, and had squeezed -an interview out of him...!</p> - -<p>He was given cuttings from other papers, pasted on -slips of paper, and told to inquire into them. They led -him nowhere. There would be, perhaps, an interview -with some well-known person of European interest -visiting London, but the printed interview never said -where the well-known person was to be found. And so -this meant a weary round of hotels, and endless telephone -calls, until the hours passed, and Humphrey discovered -that the man had left London the night before. -Even though that was no fault of his own, he could not -eliminate the sense of failure from his mind.</p> - -<p>And once, Rivers had told him to go and see Cartwright's, -the coal-merchants, in Mark Lane, and get from -them some facts about the rise in the price of coal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -And he had been shown into the office, and Cartwright -had talked swiftly, hurling technical facts and figures at -him, as though he had been in the coal business all his -life. So that when the interview was ended, Humphrey -reeled out of the office, his mind and memory a tangle -of half-understood facts, and wholly incapable of writing -anything on the matter. Fortunately, when he got back, -he found that other reporters had been seeing coal-merchants, -and all that was wanted was just three lines -from each—an expression of opinion as to whether the -high price would last—and Humphrey rescued from -the tangle of talk Cartwright's firm belief that the rise -was only temporary.</p> - -<p>Another day he had been sent to interview a Bishop—an -authority on dogma, whose views were to be asked -on a startling proposition (from America) of bringing -the Bible up-to-date. The Bishop received Humphrey -coldly in the hall of his house, and Humphrey noticed -that the halls were hung with many texts reflecting -Christian sentiments of love and hope and brotherhood. -And the Bishop, unmoved by Humphrey's rather forlorn -appearance, for somehow he quailed before the austere -gaitered personage, curtly told him that he could not -discuss the matter.</p> - -<p>When Humphrey came back it so happened that he -met Neckinger. "Well, what are you doing to-day, -Quain?" asked Neckinger with an indulgent smile. He -was a short, thick-set man, with a pear-shaped face, and -brown eyes that held a quizzical look in them. It was -the second time Humphrey had come into touch with -Neckinger, who was the editor of <cite>The Day</cite>, and rarely -ventured from his room when he came to the office. -Humphrey told him where he had been, and with what -results.</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't he talk?" asked Neckinger.</p> - -<p>"No," Humphrey answered.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> - -<p>Neckinger paused with his hand on the door knob. -His eyes twinkled, and his fingers caressed his moustache. -"Why didn't you make him talk?" asked Neckinger -with a hint of disapproval in his voice. Then, without -waiting for a reply, he went into his room.</p> - -<p>Humphrey felt that he was faced with a new problem -in life. How did one <em>make</em> people talk? It was not -enough to hunt your quarry to his lair—that was the -easiest part of the business—you had to compel him to -disgorge words—any words—so be they made coherent -sentences. You had to come back and say that he had -spoken, and write down what he said at your discretion. -And if he would not speak, you had, in some mysterious -manner, to force the words from his mouth. That was -what puzzled Humphrey in the beginning. What was -the magic key that the other reporters had to unlock the -conversation of those whom they went to see? They -very seldom failed. Humphrey went home, perplexed, -disturbed with this added burden on his shoulders. He -saw his life as one long effort at making unwilling people -talk for publication.</p> - -<p>And yet, on the whole, this first week of his in Fleet -Street was one of glorious happiness. The romance of -the place gripped him at once, and held him a willing -captive. He loved the thrill of pride that came to him, -whenever he passed through the swing doors in the -morning, and the commissionaire, superior person of -impregnable dignity, condescended to nod to him. He -loved the reporters' room, with its fire and the grate, -and the half circle of chairs drawn round it, where there -were always two or three of the other men sitting, and -talking wonderful things about the secrets of their work.</p> - -<p>In reality, the reporters' room was the most prosaic -room in the whole building. It was a broad, bare room, -excessively utilitarian in appearance. There was nothing -superfluous or ornamental in it. Everything within its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -four walls was set there for a distinct purpose. The -large high windows were uncurtained so as to admit the -full light of day. And when the full light of day shone, -it showed an incredibly untidy room, with every desk -littered with writing-paper, and newspapers, and even -the floor thick with a slipshod carpet of printed matter. -The desks were placed against the walls and round the -room. Humphrey had no desk of his own. He usually -came in and sat at whichever desk was empty, and more -often than not the rightful owner of the desk would arrive, -and Humphrey would mumble apologies, gather up his -papers, and depart to the next desk. In this way he -sometimes made a whole tour of the room, shifting from -desk to desk.</p> - -<p>There were pegs near the door, and from one of them -a disreputable umbrella dangled by its crook handle. -It was pale-brown with dust, and its ribs were bent and -broken, and rents showed in the covering—as an umbrella -its use had long since gone, yet it still hung there. Nobody -knew to whom it belonged. Nobody threw it away—it -was a respected survival of some ancient day. It -remained for ever, an umbrella that had once done good -and faithful work, now useless and dusty, with its gaping -holes and twisted framework—perhaps, as a symbol.</p> - -<p>A telephone, a bell that rang in the commissionaire's -box and told him the reporter needed a messenger-boy, -and a pot of paste completed the furniture of the reporters' -room. They had all they needed, and if they wished -for anything they could ring for it—that was the attitude -of the managerial side who were responsible for office -luxuries. The manager, by the way, had a room that was, -by comparison, a temple of luxury, from its soft-shaded -electric lights and green wall-paper (the reporters' -walls were distempered) to its wondrous carpet, and -mahogany desk. Nobody seemed to care very much for -the reporters, Humphrey found, except when one of them—or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -all of them—saved the paper from being beaten by -its rivals, or caused the paper to beat its rivals. But in -the ordinary course of events, the manager ignored the -reporters; the sub-editors, in their hearts, regarded them -as loafers and pitied their grammar and inaccuracy for -official titles and initials of leading men; Neckinger -never bothered much about them unless there was trouble -in the air, while those distant people, the leader-writers, -sometimes looked at them curiously, as one regards -strange types. And yet, the reporters were the friendliest -and most human of all those in the office. They came -daily into contact with life in all its forms, and it knocked -the rough edges off them. They were generous, large-hearted -men, whose loyalty to their paper had no limits. -They lived together, herded in their big bare room, -chafing always against their slavery, and yet loving their -bondage, unmoved at the strange phases of life that -passed through their hands; surveying, as spectators -regard a stage-play, the murders, the humours, the -achievements, the tragedies, and the sorrow and laughter -of nations.</p> - -<p>In those days the interior of the grey building was -an unexplored mystery for Humphrey. He passed -along the corridors by half-opened doors which gave a -tantalizing glimpse into the rooms beyond where men -sat writing. There were the sporting rooms, where the -sporting editor and his staff worked at things quite apart -from the reporters. Nothing seemed to matter to them: -the greatest upheavals left their room undisturbed; football, -cricket, racing, coursing and the giving of tips were -their main interests, and though a king died or war was -declared, they still held their own page, the full seven -columns of it, so that they could chronicle the sport and -the pleasure. The sporting men and the reporters -seldom mingled in the office; sometimes Lake, the -sporting editor, nodded to those he knew coming up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -stairs. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a -heavy face, and the appearance of a clubman and a man -of the world.</p> - -<p>Close to the sporting room was a strange room lit -with an extraordinarily luminous pale blue glare. -Humphrey satisfying his curiosity prowled about the -building one evening, and ventured to the door. The -men who were there did not question his presence. -They just looked at him and went on with their work. -One of them, in his shirt-sleeves and a black apron, was -holding a black square of glass to the light, from which -something shining was dripping. A pungent smell of -iodoform filled Humphrey's nostrils. He knew the -smell; it was intimately associated with the recollections -of his youth, when he had dabbled in photography with -a low-priced camera, using the cistern-room at the top -of the house as a dark-room. And he saw that another -man was manipulating an enormous camera, that moved -along a grooved base. This, he knew, was an enlarging -apparatus, and he realized that here they were making -the blocks for <cite>The Day</cite>—transferring a drawing or -a photograph to copper or zinc plates.</p> - -<p>There was something real and vital about this office -where each day was active with a different activity from -the day before; where each room was a mirror of life -itself.</p> - -<p>Next door to the room where the blue light vibrated -and flared intensely, he found a smaller room, where two -men sat, also in their shirt-sleeves, tap-tapping at telegraph -transmitters. A cigarette dangled loosely from -the lip of each man, and neither of them glanced at the -work of his fingers. They looked always at the printed -proof, or the written copy held in a clip before them. -This was the provincial wire room. They were tapping -a selection of the news, letter by letter, to Birmingham, -where <cite>The Day</cite> had an office of its own. Humphrey<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -noticed with a queer thrill that one of the men was -sending through something that he himself had written.</p> - -<p>Downstairs, in a long room, longer than the reporters' -room, and just as utilitarian, the sub-editors sat at two -broad tables forming the letter T. Mr Selsey, the chief -sub-editor, sat in the very centre of the top of the T, -surrounded by baskets, and proofs, and telephones, and, -at about seven o'clock every evening, his dinner. He -was a gentle-mannered man, whose face told the time -as clearly as a clock. From six to eight it was cheerful; -when he began to frown it was nine o'clock; when he -grew restless and spoke brusquely it was eleven; and -when his hair was dishevelled and his eyes became -anxious it was eleven-thirty, and the struggle of pruning -down and rejecting the masses of copy that passed -through his hands was at its climax. At one o'clock -he was normal again, and became gentle over a cup of -cocoa.</p> - -<p>Humphrey was never certain whether Mr Selsey -approved of him or not. He had to go through the -ordeal every evening of bringing that which he had -written to him, and to stand by while it was read. -It reminded him of his school-days, when he used to -bring his exercise-book up to the schoolmaster. Selsey -seldom made any comment—he read it, marked it with -a capital letter indicating whether its fate would be -three lines, a paragraph, or its full length, and tossed it -into a basket, whence it would be rescued by one of the -sub-editors, who saw that the paragraphs, the punctuation -and the sense of it were right, cut out whole -sentences if it were necessary to compress it, and added -a heading to it. Then, it was taken back to Selsey, who -glanced at it quickly, and threw it into another basket, -whence it was removed by a boy and shot through a -pneumatic tube to the composing-room.</p> - -<p>The sub-editors' room was the heart of the organism<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -of <cite>The Day</cite> between the hours of six in the evening -and one the next morning. It throbbed with persistent -business. The tape machines clicked out the news of the -world in long strips, and boys stood by them, cutting up -the slips into convenient sizes, and pasting them on -paper.</p> - -<p>The telephone bells rang, and every night at nine-thirty, -Westgate, the leather-lunged sub-editor, disappeared -into a telephone-box with a glass door. -Humphrey saw him one night when he happened to be -in the room. He looked like a man about to be electrocuted, -with a band over the top of his skull, ending in -two receivers that fitted closely over his ears. His hands -were free so that he could write, and through the glass -Humphrey watched his mouth working violently until -his face was wet with perspiration. He was shouting -through a mouthpiece, and his words were carried under -the sea to Paris, though no one in the sub-editors' room -could hear them, since the telephone-box was padded -and noise-proof.</p> - -<p>And Humphrey could see his pencil moving swiftly -over the paper, with an occasional pause, as his mouth -opened widely to articulate a question, and again he -felt that delightful and mighty sensation of being in -touch with the bones of life, as he realized that somewhere, -far away in Paris, the correspondent of <cite>The Day</cite>, -invisible but audible, was hailing the sub-editors' room -across space and time.</p> - -<p>He saw no longer the strained, taut face of Westgate, -his unkempt moustache bobbing up and down with the -movement of his upper lip, the big vein down his forehead -bulging like a thick piece of string with his perspiring -exertions. He saw a miracle, and it filled his -heart with a strange exultation. He wanted to say to -Selsey, "Isn't that splendid!"</p> - -<p>Six other men sat at the long table that ran at right<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -angles to the top table, and Selsey was flanked by -Westgate, who dealt with Paris, and Tothill, who did the -police-court news,—the stub of a cigarette stuck on his -lower lip as though it were some strange growth. These -men, in the first few days of Humphrey's life in the -office of <cite>The Day</cite>, were incomprehensible people to him. -He could not understand why they should elect, out of -all the work in the world, to sit down at a table from -six until one; to leave their homes—he assumed that -they were comfortable—their firesides and their wives. -They did not meet life as the reporters did; they had -none of the glamour and the adventure of it, the work -seemed to him to be unutterably stale and destructive. -One or two of them wore green shades over their eyes -to protect them from the glare of white paper under -electric light. And the green shades gave their faces -an appearance of pallor. They looked at him curiously -whenever he came into the room: he divined at once, -rightly or wrongly, that their interests clashed with his. -They were one of their forces which he knew he would -have to fight.</p> - -<p>The remembrance of Tommy Pride's words echoed -in his ears as he stood by Selsey's table.</p> - -<p>Yet this room held him spell-bound as none other did. -It was the main artery through which the life-blood of -<cite>The Day</cite> flowed. He saw the boys ripping open the -russet-coloured envelopes that disgorged telegrams from -islands and continents afar off; he saw them sorting out -stacks of tissue paper covered with writing, "flimsy"—manifolded -copy—from all the people who lived by -recording the happenings of the moment—men like -Beaver, who were lost if people did not do things—the -stories of people who brought law-suits, who were born, -married, divorced; who went bankrupt; who died; who -left wills; stories of actors who played parts; of books -that were written; of men who made speeches; of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -banquets; of funerals—the little, grubby boys were -handling the epitome of existence, and this great volume -of throbbing life was merely paper with words scrawled -over it to them.... It was only in after years that -Humphrey himself perceived the significance and the -meaning of the emotions which swelled within him -during those early days. At the time, as he glanced -left and right, down the long table, where the sub-editors -bent their heads to their work, and he saw this man -dealing with the city news, making out lists of the prices -of stocks and shares, and that man handling the doings -of Parliament, something moved him inwardly to smile -with a great, unbounded pride. He was like a recruit -who has been blooded. "I, too, am part of this," he -thought. "And this is part of me."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Yet another glimpse he had into the mysteries of the -grey building, and then he marvelled, not that the small -things he wrote were cut down, but that they ever got -into print at all.</p> - -<p>It was one night when he had been sent out on a late -inquiry. A "runner"—one of those tattered men, who -run panting into newspaper offices at night with news -of accidents or fires—had brought in some story of an -omnibus wreck in Whitehall. Humphrey was given a -crumpled piece of paper, with wretchedly scrawled details -on it, and told to go forth and investigate. Had he not -been so new to the game, he would have known that it -was wise to telephone to Charing Cross or Westminster -hospitals, for the deductive mind of a reporter used to -such things would have told him that where there is an -omnibus wreck, there must be injury to life and limb, -and the nearest hospitals would be able to verify the -bald fact of an accident. But there was nobody who -had sufficient leisure or inclination to teach Humphrey -his business, and, perhaps it was all the better for him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -that he should buy his lessons with experience. For he -found that "runners'" tales, though they must be investigated, -seldom pay for the investigation. The "runner" -exaggerates manfully for the sake of his half-crown. -Thus, when he arrived at Whitehall, he found, by the -simple expedient of asking the policeman on point duty, -that there had been an accident—most decidedly there -had been an accident; one wheel had come off an -omnibus. When? "Oh, about three hours ago, but -nobody was hurt as I know on. You can go back and -tell 'em there's nothing in it for the noosepaper."</p> - -<p>Humphrey had never said that he was a reporter: -how did the policeman know? He was a good-natured, -red-faced man, and his attitude towards Humphrey was -one of easy-going familiarity and gentle tolerance. He -spoke kindly as equal to equal; it might almost be said -that, from his great height, he bent down, as it were, to -meet Humphrey, with the air of a patron conferring -benefits. He was not like the Easterham policemen -who touched their hats to Humphrey, and called -him "sir," because they knew whenever anything -happened, the <cite>Gazette</cite> would refer to the plucky -action of P.C. Coles, who was on point duty at the -time.</p> - -<p>"Nobody hurt at all!" Humphrey repeated, looking -vaguely round in the darkness, as though he expected to -see the wooden streets of Whitehall littered with bleeding -corpses to give the constable the lie.</p> - -<p>"You go 'ome," said the policeman, kindly. "I -should be the first to know of anything like that if it -was serious. I'd have to put in my report. I ain't got -no mention of no one injured seriously."</p> - -<p>He said it with an air of finality, as though he were -taking upon himself the credit of having saved life and -limb by not using his notebook. And with that, he -eased the chin-strap of his helmet with his forefinger,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -nodded smilingly, repeated, "You go 'ome," and padded -riverwards in his rubber-soled boots.</p> - -<p>When Humphrey got back to the office and into the -sub-editors' room to tell his news, he found that their -work was slackening. Two or three of them were hard at -it, but the rest were having their supper. A tall, spidery-looking -man, with neatly parted fair hair and a singularly -high forehead, was tossing for pennies with Westgate—and -winning. It was midnight. One of the sub-editors -said to Humphrey:</p> - -<p>"You'd better tell Selsey; he's in the composing-room." -Humphrey hesitated.</p> - -<p>"It's across the corridor," his informant added.</p> - -<p>He went across the corridor, and into a new world. -The room was alive with noise; row upon row the -aproned linotype operators sat before the key-boards -translating the written words of the "copy" before them -into leaden letters. Their machines were almost human. -They touched the keys, as if they were typewriting, and -little brass letters slipped down into a line, and then -mechanically an iron hand gripped the line, plunged it -into a box of molten lead, and lifted it out again with a -solid line of lead cast from the mould, while the little -brass letters were hoisted upwards and distributed -automatically into their places, and all the time the same -business was being repeated again and again. The -lines of type were set up in columns, seven of them to a -page, and locked in an iron frame, and then they were -taken to an inner room, where men pressed papier mâché -over the pages of type, so that every letter was moulded -clearly on this substance. Then this "flong" was placed -in a curved receptacle, and boiling lead was poured upon -it, as on a mould, so that one had the page curved to fit -the cylinder of the printing machine. The curved sheet -went through various phases of trimming and making -ready, until it was finally taken to the basement....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -Very many brains were working together that the words -written by Humphrey should be repeated hundreds and -thousands of times. All these men were part of the -mighty scheme. They had their homes and their -separate lives outside the big building, but here they -were all merged into one disciplined body, for so many -hours at night, carrying on the work which the men on -the other side did during the day.</p> - -<p>In one corner of the room Selsey was busy with -Hargreave, the assistant night editor, and as Humphrey -went up he saw that they were still cutting out things -from printed proofs, and altering headings. And on an -iron-topped table great squares of type rested—the -forms just as he had seen them in the <cite>Easterham -Gazette</cite> office—only they were bigger, and the "furniture"—the -odd wedge-shaped pieces of wood which they -used in Easterham to lock the type firmly in between -the frames, was abandoned for a simpler contrivance in -iron. And there were Selsey and Hargreave peering at -the first pages of <cite>The Day</cite> in solid type, reading it from -right to left, as one reads Hebrew, and suddenly -Hargreave would say: "Well we'd better take out the -last ten lines of that, and shift this half-way down the -column, and put this Reuter message at the top with a -splash heading," or else, putting a finger on a square of -type, "take that out altogether, that'll give us room." -And he would glance up at the clock, with the anxiety -of a man who knows there are trains to catch.</p> - -<p>No question of writing here.... No time for sentiment.... -No time to think, "Poor devil, those ten lines -cost, perhaps, hours of work," or, "Those ten lines were -thought by their writer to be literature." Literature be -hanged! It was only cold type, leaden letters squeezed -into square frames—leaden letters that will be melted -down on the morrow—type, and the whole paper to be -printed, and trains for the delivery carts to catch, if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -people would have papers before breakfast. And the -aproned men brought other squares of type, and printed -rough impressions of them, so that Humphrey caught a -glimpse of one of the pages at shortly after midnight of -a paper that would be new to people at eight o'clock the -next morning. He felt the pride of a privileged person.</p> - -<p>Selsey caught sight of him. "Hullo, Quain ... what -are you doing here?"</p> - -<p>"Bus accident—" began Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Hargreave pounced upon him. "Any good? Is it -worth a contents bill?" he asked, excitedly.</p> - -<p>"There hasn't been any accident worth speaking of. -No one hurt, I mean."</p> - -<p>"All right. Let it go," said Selsey, calmly. Hargreave -went away to haggle with the foreman over -something. Nobody was relieved to hear that the -accident had not been serious.</p> - -<p>Humphrey lingered a little longer: he saw rooms -leading out of the composing-room, where there was a -noise of hammering on metal, and the smell of molten -lead, ... and men running to and fro in aprons, taking -surreptitious pinches of snuff, banging with mallets, -carrying squares of type, proofs, battered tins of tea, ... -running to and fro, terribly serious and earnest, just as -scene-shifters in the theatre rush and bustle and carry -things that the audience never sees, when the curtain -hides the stage.</p> - -<p>"Better get home," said Selsey, noticing him again.</p> - -<p>Humphrey went downstairs. The reporters' room -was empty; the fire was low in the grate. He went -downstairs, and as he reached the bottom step, the grey -building shivered and trembled as if in agony, and there -came up from the very roots of its being a deep roar, at -first irregular, and menacing, but gradually settling down -to a steady, rhythmical beat, like the throbbing of -thousands of human hearts.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.II" id="II.II"></a>II</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The man whom Humphrey feared most, in those early -days, was Rivers, the news-editor. His personality was -a riddle. You were never certain when you were summoned -to his room in the morning, whether good or ill -would result from it. In his hands lay the ordering of -your day. You had no more control over your liberty -from the time you came into Rivers' room than a -prisoner serving his sentence,—no longer a man with a -soul, but a reporter. You could be raised into the highest -heaven or dropped down to the deepest hell by the wish -of Rivers. He could bid you go forth—and you would -have to tramp wretchedly the streets of the most unlovely -spots in outer London in an interminable search for some -elusive news: or perhaps you would be given five pounds -for expenses and told to catch the next train for a far -county, and spend the day among the hedgerows of the -country-side. He had power absolute, like the taskmasters -of old.</p> - -<p>He sat in his room, with the map of England on the -wall with its red flags marking the towns where <cite>The Day</cite> -had correspondents, surrounded by telephones and cuttings -from papers. He was in the office all day and -night. At least that was how it appeared to Humphrey, -who met him often and at all times on the stairs. When -he was not, by any chance, there, his place was taken by -O'Brien, an excitable Irishman, whose tie worked itself -gradually up his collar, marking the time when his excitement -was at fever-heat like a barometer.</p> - -<p>Rivers had a home, of course, and a wife and a family. -He was domesticated somewhere out in Herne Hill, from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -the hours of eight until ten-thirty in the morning; and -except once a week no more was seen of him at home. -O'Brien generally took the desk on Sundays. But for -the rest of his life Rivers lived and breathed with <cite>The -Day</cite> more than any one else. From the time the door -closed on him after breakfast, to the time when it closed -on him late at night, when he went home, worn-out and -tired, he worked for <cite>The Day</cite>. He was bought as surely -as any slave was bought in the days of bondage. And -his price was a magnificent one of four figures.</p> - -<p>He expected his men to do as he did, in the service -of the paper. For his goodwill, nothing sufficed but -the complete subservience of all other interests to the -work of <cite>The Day</cite>. Not until you did that, were you -worthy to be on the paper and serve him.... And -many hearts were broken in that room, with its hopeless -gospel of materialism, where ideals were withered and -nothing spiritual could survive.</p> - -<p>Rivers was one of the young men who had won -himself to power by the brute force of his intellect. -He knew his own business to the tips of his fingers, -and, beyond that, nothing mattered. Art and literature -and the finer qualities of life could not enter into the -practical range of his vision. They were not news. -The great halfpenny public cared for nothing but news—a -murder mystery, for choice; and the only chance art -or literature had of awaking his interest was for the -artist to commit suicide in extraordinary circumstances, -or for the novelist to murder his publisher. ("By -George!" I can hear Rivers saying, "here's a ripping -story.... Here's an author murdered his publisher ... -'m ... 'm ... I suppose it's justifiable homicide.")</p> - -<p>But on news—red-hot news—he was splendid. He -might be sitting in his chair, joking idly with anybody -who happened to be in the room, and suddenly the boy -would bring in a slip from the tape machine: a submarine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -wreck! Immediately, the listless, joking man would -become swiftly serious and grim. He would decide instantly -on the choice of reporters—two should be sent -to the scene. "Boy, bring the A.B.C. No train. Damn -it, why didn't that kid bring the news in at once. He -dawdled five minutes. We could have caught the 3.42. -Well, look up the trains to Southampton. Four o'clock. -O'Brien, telephone up Southampton and tell them to -have a car to take <cite>The Day</cite> reporters on. Boy, ask -Mr Wratten and Mr Pride to come up. O'Brien, send a -wire to the local chaps—tell 'em to weigh in all they can. -Notify the post-office five thousand words from Portsmouth. -Too late for photographs to-night—ring -through to the artists, we'll have a diagram and a map. -Off Southsea, eh? Shove in a picture of Southsea...." -And in an hour it would all be over, and Rivers, a -new man with news stirring in the world, would playfully -punch O'Brien in the chest, and gather about him -a reporter or two for company, and bestow wonderful -largesse in the shape of steaks and champagne. That -was the human thing about Rivers. He was master -absolute, and yet there was no sharp dividing line between -him and the men under him. The discipline was -there, but it was never obtruded. They drank, and joked, -and scored off each other, and Rivers, when things were -slack, would tell them some of his early adventures, but -whenever it came to the test, his authority in his sphere -was supreme. He knew how to get the best work out -of his men; and, I think, sometimes, he was sorry for -the men who had not, and never would get, a salary of -four figures.</p> - -<p>Humphrey could not understand him. At times he -would be brutally cruel, and morose, scarcely speaking -a word to anybody except Wratten, who was generally -in his good books; at other times he would come to the -office as light-hearted as a child, and urge them all into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -good-humour, and make them feel that there was no life -in the world equal to theirs. Since that day when -Humphrey had first met him in Ferrol's room, and he -had laughed and said, "You're not a genius, are you?" -Rivers had not taken any particular notice of him. -When he came into Rivers' room, halting and nervous, -he envied the easy freedom of the other reporters who -chanced to be there. Wratten sitting on a table, dangling -his legs, and Tommy Pride, with his hat on the back -of his head, and a pipe in his mouth, while a third man -might be looking over the diary of the day's events.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, Quain...."</p> - -<p>"Good-morning, Mr Rivers."</p> - -<p>"O'Brien, what have you got for Quain. Eh? -Nothing yet. Go downstairs and wait."</p> - -<p>Or else: "Nothing doing this morning. You'd -better do this lecture at seven o'clock. Give him the -ticket, O'Brien."</p> - -<p>And, as Humphrey left the room, he heard Wratten -say casually, "I'll do that Guildhall luncheon to-day, -Rivers, eh?" And Rivers replied, "Right-O. We -shall want a column."</p> - -<p>Splendid Wratten, he thought! How long would it -be before he acquired such ease, such sure familiarity—how -long before he should prove himself worthy to -dangle his legs freely in the presence of Rivers.</p> - -<p>Within a few days something happened that made -Humphrey the celebrity of a day in the reporters' room. -It was a fluke, a happy chance, as most of the good -things in life are. A man had killed himself in a London -street under most peculiar circumstances. He had -dressed himself in woman's clothes, and only, after -death, when they took him to the hospital, did they find -that the dead body was that of a man. He was employed -in a solicitor's office near Charing Cross Road. -His name was Bellowes, and he was married, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -lived at Surbiton. These facts were published briefly -in the afternoon papers. Rivers, scenting a mystery, -threw his interest into the story. There is nothing like -a mystery for selling the paper. He sent for Willoughby.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had found Willoughby one of the most -astonishing individuals of the reporters' room. He was -a tall, slim man, with a hollow-cheeked face and a forehead -that was always frowning. His hair fell in disorder -almost over his eyebrows, and whenever he wrote -he pulled his hair about with his left hand, and mumbled -the sentences as he wrote them. His speciality was -crime: he knew more of the dark underside of human -nature than any one Humphrey had met. He knew the -intimate byways of crime, and its motives; every -detective in the Criminal Investigation Department was -his friend, and though by the rigid law of Scotland Yard -they were forbidden to give information, he could chat -with them, make his own deductions as well as any -detective, and sometimes accompany them when an -arrest was expected. He drew his information from -unknown sources, and he was always bringing the exclusive -news of some crime or other to <cite>The Day</cite>.</p> - -<p>He was a bundle of nerves, for he lived always in a -world of expectancy. At any moment, any hour, day -and night, something would be brought to light. Murder -and sudden death and mystery formed the horizon of -his thoughts.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had found a friend in Willoughby. In -very contrast to the work in which he was engaged, he -kept the room alive with merriment. He could relate -stories as well as he could write them, and he spoke -always with the set phrases of old-time journalism that -had a ludicrous effect on his listeners. His character -was a strange mixture of shrewdness, worldly-wisdom, -and ingenuousness, and this was reflected in the books -he carried always with him. In one pocket there would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -be an untranslatable French novel, and, in the other, -by way of counterblast, a Meredith or a Stevenson. -He and Humphrey had often talked about books, -and Willoughby showed the temperament of a cultured -scholar and a philosopher when he discussed literature.</p> - -<p>Willoughby went up to Rivers' room.</p> - -<p>"Here you are, my son," said Rivers, tossing him -over the cuttings on the affair of the strange suicide. -"Get down to Surbiton and see if you can nose out anything. -I'll get some one else to look after the London -end."</p> - -<p>The some one else chanced to be Humphrey, for there -was nobody but him left in the reporters' room. Thus -it came about that, a few minutes after Willoughby had -set out for Surbiton, Humphrey came out on Fleet Street -with instructions to look after the "London end" of the -tragedy.</p> - -<p>Rivers' parting words were ringing in his ears. They -had a sinister meaning in them. "... And don't you -fall down, young man," he had said, using the vivid -journalistic metaphor for failure.</p> - -<p>The busy people of the street surged about him, as -he stood still for a moment trying to think where he -should begin on the London end. He felt extraordinarily -inexperienced and helpless.... He thought how -Wratten would have known at once where to go, or -how easily Tommy Pride, with his years of training, -could do the job. He did not dare ask Rivers to teach -him his business—he had enough common sense to -know that, at any cost, his ignorance must be hidden -under a mask of wisdom.</p> - -<p>The reporter thrust suddenly face to face with a -mystery that must be unravelled in a few hours is a fit -subject for tragedy. He is a social outlaw. He has not -the authority of the detective, and none of the secret -information of a department at his hand. He is a trespasser<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> -in private places, a Peeping Tom, with his eye to -a chink in the shuttered lives of others. His inner self -wrenches both ways; he loathes and loves his duty. -The human man in him says, "This is a shocking -tragedy!" The journalist subconsciously murmurs, -"This will be a column at least." Tears, and broken -hearts, and the dismal tragedy of it all pass like a -picture before him, and leave him unmoved.</p> - -<p>The public stones him for obeying their desires. He -would gladly give up all this sorry business ... and -perhaps his salvation lies in his own hand if he becomes -sufficiently strong and bold to cry "Enough!"</p> - -<p>And this is the tragedy of it—he is neither strong -nor bold; and so we may appreciate the picture of -Humphrey Quain faced for the first time with the crisis -that comes into every journalist's life, when his work -revolts his finer senses.</p> - -<p>He went blindly up the street, and newsboys ran -towards him with raucous shouts, offering the latest -news of the suicide. He bought a copy, and read -through the story. It occurred to him that the best -thing he could do was to go to the offices near Charing -Cross Road, where the dead man had worked.</p> - -<p>He took an omnibus. It was five o'clock in the -evening, and most of the passengers were City men -going home. Lucky people—their work was finished, -and his was not yet begun.</p> - -<p>When he came to the building he wanted, he paused -outside. It was a ghastly business. What on earth -should he say? What right had he to go and ask -questions—there would be an inquest. Surely the -public could wait till then for the sordid story. It was -ghoulish.</p> - -<p>He went into the office and asked the young man at -the counter whether Mr Parfitt (the name of the partner) -was in. The young man must have guessed his business<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> -in a moment. Humphrey felt as if he had a placard -hanging round his neck, "I am a newspaper man." -"No," snapped the young man, curtly, "he's out."</p> - -<p>"When will he be back?" asked Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," the young man answered, obstinately. -"Who are you from?" That was a form of insult reserved -for special occasions: it implied, you see, that -the caller was obviously not of such appearance as to -suggest that he was anything but a paid servant.</p> - -<p>Humphrey said: "I wanted to talk about this sad -tragedy of—"</p> - -<p>The young man looked him up and down, and -said, "We've nothing to say."</p> - -<p>"But—" began Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"We've nothing to say." The young man's lips closed -tightly together with a grimace of absolute finality. -Humphrey hesitated: he knew that the whole mystery -lay within the knowledge of this spiteful person, if only -he could be overcome.</p> - -<p>"Look here," said the young man, threateningly. -"Why don't you damn reporters mind your own business. -You're the seventh we've 'ad up 'ere. We've nothing to -say. See?" His voice rose to a shriller key. He was a -very unpleasant young man, but fortunately he dropped -his "h's," which modified, in some strange way, in -Humphrey's mind the effect of his onslaught. The -young man who had at first seemed somebody of -importance, faded away now merely to an underbred -nonentity. Humphrey laughed at him.</p> - -<p>"You might keep your h's if you can't keep your -temper," he said.</p> - -<p>Then he left the office, feeling sorry for himself. It -was nearly six o'clock, and he was no further. A hall-porter -sat reading a paper in front of the fireplace. -Humphrey tried diplomacy. He remarked on the -tragedy: the hall-porter agreed it was very tragic.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> -There had been seven other reporters before him -(marvellous how policemen and hall-porters seemed to -know him at once). Humphrey felt in his pocket for -half-a-crown and slipped it into the porter's hand. The -porter thanked him with genuine gratitude.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Humphrey, "what sort of a chap was -this Mr Bellowes?"</p> - -<p>"Can't say as how I ever saw him," said the porter; -"this is my first day here."</p> - -<p>"O lord!" groaned Humphrey.</p> - -<p>He was in the street again, pondering what he should -do. And suddenly that intuitive reasoning power of his -began to work. A man who worked in the neighbourhood -would conceivably be known to the shopkeepers -round about. He visited the shops adjoining the building -where the dead man worked, but none of them -yielded any information, not even the pawnbrokers. -The men whom he asked seemed quite willing to help, -but they knew nothing. Finally, he went into the Green -Lion public-house which stands at the corner by a -court.</p> - -<p>Hitherto public-houses had not interested him very -much: he went into them rarely, because in Easterham, -where every one's doings were noted, it was considered -the first step downwards to be seen going into a public-house. -Thus, he had grown up without acquiring the -habit of promiscuous drinking.</p> - -<p>There were a good many people in the bar, and the -briskness of business was marked by the frequent -pinging noise of the bell in the patent cash till, as a particularly -plain-looking young woman pulled the drawer -open to drop money in. Humphrey asked for bottled -beer. "Cannock's?" the barmaid asked. "Please." She -gave him the drink. He said "Thank you." She said -"Thank you." She gave him the change, and said "Thank -you" again. Whereupon, in accordance with our polite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -custom, he murmured a final "'Kyou." Then she went -away with an airy greeting to some fresh customer.</p> - -<p>Presently she came back to where Humphrey was -standing. He plunged boldly.</p> - -<p>"Sad business this of Mr Bellowes?" he ventured, -taking a gulp at his beer. She raised her eyebrows in -inquiry.</p> - -<p>"Haven't you read about—" he held a crumpled -evening paper in his hand. "The tragedy, I mean."</p> - -<p>"Oh yes," she said. "Very sad, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>A man came between them. "'Ullo, Polly, lovely -weather, don't it?" he said, cheerfully, counting out six -coppers, and making them into a neat pile on the table. -"Same as usual."</p> - -<p>"Now then, Mister Smart!" said Polly, facetiously, -bringing him a glass of whisky. "All the soda."</p> - -<p>"Up to the pretty, please," he said, adding "Whoa-er" -as the soda-water bubbled to the level of the fluted -decorations round the glass. Small talk followed, frequently -interrupted by fresh arrivals. A quarter of -an hour passed. The cheerful man had one more drink, -and finally departed, with Polly admonishing him to -"Be good," to which he replied, "I always am." -Humphrey ordered another Cannock.</p> - -<p>"Did he often come here?"</p> - -<p>"Who?" asked Polly. "Mr Jobling—the man who's -gone out?"</p> - -<p>"No. I mean Mr Bellowes."</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I don't know," she said a little distantly. -"Those gentlemen over there"—nodding to a corner of -the bar where two men stood in the shadows—"can tell -you all about him. They were telling me something -about him just before you came in. Fourpence, -please."</p> - -<p>Humphrey took with him his glass of beer, and went -to the two men. They were both drinking whisky, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -they seemed to be in a good humour. They turned at -Humphrey's wavering "Excuse me...."</p> - -<p>"Eh?" said one of the men.</p> - -<p>"Excuse me..." Humphrey repeated. "I'm told -you knew Mr Bellowes."</p> - -<p>"Well," said the other man, a little truculently. -"What if we did?"</p> - -<p>It seemed to Humphrey that the most absolute frankness -was desirable here.</p> - -<p>"Look here," he said, "I wish you'd help me by telling -me something about him. Here's my card.... I'm -on <cite>The Day</cite>."</p> - -<p>The younger of the two men smiled, and winked. -"You've got a nerve," he said. "Why, you couldn't -print it if we told you."</p> - -<p>"Couldn't I? Well, never mind. Let's have a drink -on it anyway."</p> - -<p>Humphrey began his third Cannock, and the others -drank whisky. One of them, in drinking, spilt a good -deal of the liquor over his coat lapel, and did not bother -to wipe it off: he was slightly drunk.</p> - -<p>"It's bringing a bad reputation on the firm," said the -elder man. "Name in all the papers."</p> - -<p>Humphrey was seized with an idea. He knew now -that the whole secret of the mystery was within his -grasp. One of the men, at least, was from the solicitor's -office. The instinct of the journalist made him courageous: -he would never leave the bar until he got the story.</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you what," he said, "I'll promise to keep the -name of the firm out of <cite>The Day;</cite> I'll just refer to it -as a firm of solicitors!"</p> - -<p>"That's not a bad notion," said the younger man. -He drew the elder man aside and they talked quietly -for a few minutes. Then more drinks were ordered. -Humphrey tackled his fourth Cannock. His head was -just beginning to ache.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> - -<p>A tantalizing half-hour passed. The younger man -seemed more friendly to Humphrey—he had some -friends in Fleet Street; did Humphrey know them, and -so on. The elder man was growing more drunk. He -swayed a little now. Humphrey's ears buzzed, and his -vision was not so acute. The outlines of people were -blurred and indistinct. "Good lord," he murmured to -himself, "I'm getting drunk too." He was pleasantly -happy, and smiled into his sixth glass of beer. He confided -to the elder man that he admired him for his -constancy to the dead man, and they began to talk over -the bad business as friends. The elder man even called -him "Ol' chap." They really were very affectionate.</p> - -<p>"But WHY did he do it?" said Humphrey; "that's -what beats me."</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, you see he was in love with this girl ..."</p> - -<p>"Which girl?"</p> - -<p>"Why, Miss Sycamore ... you know the little girl -that sings, 'Come Round and See Me in the Evening,' -in the <cite>Pompadour Girl</cite>."</p> - -<p>"No. Was he?"</p> - -<p>"Was he not," said the elder man, with a hiccough. -"Why, he used to be talking to me all day about her.... -And the letters. My word, you should see the letters -... he used to show them to me before he sent them -off. Full of high thinking and all that."</p> - -<p>And gradually the whole story came out, in scattered -pieces, that Humphrey saw he could put together into a -real-life drama. Never once did he think of the dead -man, or the dead man's wife in Surbiton (Willoughby -was probably doing his best there). He only saw the -secret drama unfolding itself like a novelist's plot. -The meetings, the letters, the double life of Bellowes, a -respectable churchwarden in Surbiton; a libertine in -London—and then she threw him over; declined to -see him when he called at the stage door; he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -dressed himself as a woman, hoping to pass the stage-door -keeper. Perhaps if he had got as far as the -dressing-room, maddened by the breakage of his love, -and the waste of his intrigue, there might have been a -double tragedy. And so to the final grotesque death in -the street.</p> - -<p>It was eight o'clock when Humphrey had the whole -story in his mind, and by that time, though he knew he -had drunk far too much, he was not so drunk as the -other two men.</p> - -<p>"There you are, old boy," said the elder man, -affectionately. "You can print it all, and keep my -name and the name of the firm out of the papers."</p> - -<p>"So long," said the younger man, as they parted at -the door of the bar. "You won't have another."</p> - -<p>"I'd better get back now," Humphrey replied. -"Thanks awfully. You've done me a good turn."</p> - -<p>He walked back to the office; the late evening -papers still bore on their posters the word "Mystery"—but -he alone of all the people hurrying to and fro -knew the key of the mystery. He had set forth a few -hours ago—it seemed years—ignorant of everything, -and, behold, he had put a finger into the tragedy of three -lives. All that feeling of revolt and hatred of his -business passed away from him, and left in its place -nothing but a great joy that he had succeeded, where -he never dreamt success was possible. After this he -knew he must be a journalist for ever, a licensed meddler -in the affairs of other people.</p> - -<p>And so, with his head throbbing, and his legs a -little unsteady, he came back to the office of <cite>The Day</cite>. -It was nine o'clock; Rivers had left the office for the -night, and O'Brien was out at dinner. He went to Mr -Selsey, and told him briefly all he knew.</p> - -<p>"Where did you get it from?" Selsey asked.</p> - -<p>"From some friends of his; I promised I wouldn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -mention the name of the firm of solicitors he worked -in."</p> - -<p>"What about Miss Sycamore?"</p> - -<p>"Miss Sycamore?" echoed Humphrey, blankly.</p> - -<p>"Yes. Haven't you got her? We must know what -she says. It mayn't be true."</p> - -<p>Humphrey's head swam. He was appalled at the -idea of having to go out again, and face the woman in -the sordid case. Selsey looked at the clock. "I'll send -somebody else up to see her—she's at the Hilarity -Theatre, isn't she? You'd better get on with the main -story. Write all you can."</p> - -<p>He went to the reporters' room; nobody was there -except Wratten, just finishing his work. Humphrey -sat down at a desk, and began to write. His brain was -whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled -over one another, until he did not know how to tell -them all. He started to write, and he found that he -could not even begin the story. He tore up sheet after -sheet in despair. The clock went past the quarter and -Humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank -paper. Wratten finished his work and dashed out with -his copy to the sub-editor's room.</p> - -<p>"I'm drunk," he said to himself. "That's what's the -matter."</p> - -<p>And later: "What a fool I was to drink so -much."</p> - -<p>And then, as if in excuse: "But I shouldn't have got -the story if I hadn't drunk with them."</p> - -<p>A boy came to him. "Mr Selsey says have you got -the first sheets of your story."</p> - -<p>"Tell him he'll have them in a few minutes," -Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>And when Wratten came into the room he found -Humphrey with his head on his outstretched arms, and -his shoulders shaken with his sobbing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Hullo! What's up, old man?" asked Wratten, -bending over him. "Not well?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey lifted a red-eyed face to Wratten. "I'm -drunk," he said. "My head's awful."</p> - -<p>"Bosh!" Wratten said cheerfully, "you're sober -enough. Selsey's delighted you've got your story. I -suppose it was a hard story to get."</p> - -<p>Humphrey groaned. "I can't write it.... I can't -get even the beginning of it."</p> - -<p>"That happens to all of us. I have to begin my story -half a dozen times before I get the right one. Look -here, let me help you. Tell me as much as you can." -He touched the bell, and a boy appeared. "Go and get -a cup of black coffee—a large cup, Napoleon," he said -jovially to the boy, giving him a sixpenny piece.</p> - -<p>By the time the coffee had arrived, Humphrey had -told Wratten the story. "By George!" said Wratten, -"that's fine! Now, let's do it between ourselves. Don't -bother about plans. Start right in with the main facts -and put them at the top. Always begin with the fact, -and tell the story in the first two paragraphs—then -you've got the rest of the column to play about in."</p> - -<p>The coffee woke Humphrey up. In a quarter of an -hour, with Wratten's help, the story was well advanced, -and Selsey's boy had gone away with the first slips. -Whenever he came to a dead stop, Wratten told him -how to continue. "Wrap it up carefully," Wratten said. -"Talk about the dead man's pure love for anything that -was artistic: say that he was a slave to art, and that -Miss Sycamore typified art for him. That'll please her. -Say that she never encouraged his attentions, and that -realizing life was empty without her, he killed himself. -Make it the psychological tragedy of a man in love with -an Ideal that he could never attain. And don't gloat."</p> - -<p>The story was finished. "That's all right," Wratten -said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Look here—" Humphrey began, but something -choked his throat. He felt as if Wratten had rescued -him from the terror of failure: his glimpse of brotherhood -overwhelmed him.</p> - -<p>"Stow it!" said Wratten, unconcernedly. "It's the -paper I was thinking of. Well, I'm off. Don't say a -word about it in the morning."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>And there it was, in the morning, the whole story -with glaring headlines, an exclusive story for <cite>The Day</cite>. -Humphrey, riding down Gray's Inn Road, saw the bills -in the shop-windows, and two men in the omnibus were -discussing it: his head was dull with the drink of last -night, but he felt exhilarated when he thought of it all. -He wanted to tell the two men in the omnibus that he -had written the story in <cite>The Day</cite>. He came to the -office and the fellows in the reporters' room seemed as -glad as he was. Willoughby told him of his Surbiton -adventure, and how Mrs Bellowes declined to see anybody. -And when he went into Rivers' room, the great -man smiled and said facetiously, "Well, young man, I -suppose you're pleased with yourself." He winked at -Wratten. "You'll be editor one day, eh?"</p> - -<p>"It's a jolly good story," said Wratten, "the best -<cite>The Day's</cite> had for a long time."</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled weakly. He would have told -Rivers just how it came to be such a jolly good story, if -Wratten had not frowned meaningly at him. And not -until Rivers said: "Come off that desk, young man, -and see what you can do with this—" handing him a -job, did Humphrey realize that he was at ease, dangling -his legs with the great ones.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.III" id="II.III"></a>III</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Not everything that Humphrey did was difficult, nor -undesirable. There were times when his card with <cite>The -Day</cite> on it opened the doors of high places, magically: -there were many people who welcomed him, actors and -playwrights and people to whom publicity such as the -reporter can give is necessary. He was received by -countesses who were engaged in propaganda work, and -by lordlings who were interested in schemes for the -alleged welfare of the people: these people wanted to -be interviewed, many of them even prepared their statements -beforehand. But, in spite of the advantage they -gained, they always treated him with that polite restraint -which the English aristocracy adopt towards the inferior -classes. He obtained wonderful peeps into grand houses, -with huge staircases, and enormous rooms with panelled -walls and candelabra and rare pictures; into Government -offices, too, when an inquiry was necessary, where permanent -officials worked, heedless of the change of -Ministers that went on with each new Government; and -once he went into the dressing-room of Sir Wimborne -Johns, that very famous actor, who shook him by the -hand, and treated Humphrey as one of his best friends, -and told him two funny stories while the dresser was -adjusting his make-up for Act II.</p> - -<p>Then there were the meetings—amazingly futile -gatherings of people who met in the rooms of hotels, -the Caxton Hall at Westminster or the Memorial Hall -in Farringdon Street. These meetings gave young -Humphrey an insight into the petty little vanities of -life. They were hot-beds of mutual admiration. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -was their business and what did they achieve? Heaven -only knows! They had been in existence for years; -this was perhaps the seventh or eighth or twenty-sixth -annual meeting of the Anti-Noise Society, and the world -was not yet silent. Yet here were the old ladies and -the old gentlemen and the secretary (in a frock coat) -congratulating themselves on an excellent year's work, -and passing votes of thanks to each other, as though -they were giving lollipops to children. These meetings -were all built on one scheme. They always began half -an hour late, because there were so few people in the -room. The reporters (and here Humphrey sometimes -met Beaver) sat at a green baize-covered table near the -speakers, and were given all sorts of printed matter—enough -to fill the papers they represented, and, occasionally, -men and women would sidle up to them, and give -their visiting-cards, and say, "Be sure and get the initials -right," or, "Would you like to interview me on Slavery -in Cochin-China?" Then the chairman (Sir Simon -Sloper) arrived, whiskered and florid-faced, and every -one clapped their hands; and the secretary read letters -and telegrams of regret which he passed to the reporters' -table; and then they read the balance-sheet and the -annual report, and Miss Heggie Petty, with the clipped -accent of Forfarshire, gave her district report, and W. -Black-Smith, Esq. ("Please don't forget the hyphen in -<cite>The Day</cite>"), delivered <em>his</em> district report, and then the -secretary spoke again, and the treasurer reminded them -with a sternly humorous manner, that the annual subscriptions -were overdue, and, finally, came the great -event of the afternoon: Sir Simon Sloper rose to address -the meeting. Everybody was hugely interested, except -the reporters, to whom it was platitudinous and tediously -stale: they had heard it all before, times without number, -at all the silly little meetings of foolish people the -Sir Simon Slopers had their moments of adulation and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -their reward of a paragraph in the papers. Nothing -vital, nothing of great and lasting importance, was ever -done at these meetings, yet every day six or seven of -them were held.</p> - -<p>There were societies and counter societies: there -was a society for the suppression of this, and a society -for the encouragement of that; there was the Society -for Sunday Entertainment, and the Society for Sunday -Rest; every one seemed to be pulling in opposite directions, -and every one imagined that his or her views were -best for the people. Humphrey found the reflection of -all this in the advertisement columns of <cite>The Day</cite>, where -there were advertisements of lotions that grew hair on -bald heads, or ointment that took away superfluous hair; -medicines that made fat people thin, or pills that made -thin people fat; tonics that toned down nervous, high-strung -people, and phosphates that exhilarated those -who were depressed. Life was a terribly ailing thing -viewed through the advertisement columns; one seemed -to be living in an invalid world, suffering from lumbago -and nervous debility. It was a nightmare of a world, -where people were either too florid or too pale, too fat -or too thin, too bald or too hairy, too tall or too short -... and yet the world went on unchangingly, just as it -did after the meetings of all the little societies of men -or women who met together to give moral medicine to -the world.</p> - -<p>It is necessary that you should see these things from -the same point of view as Humphrey, to realize the effect -of it all on the development of his character. For after -a dose of such meetings, when the careful reports of -speeches that seemed important enough at the time, were -either cut down by the sub-editors to three lines, or left -out of the paper altogether, he asked himself the question: -Why?</p> - -<p>Why do all these people hold meetings?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> - -<p>And the answer came to him with a shock: "They -are doing it all for <em>me</em>. Everything that is going on is -being done for <em>me</em>."</p> - -<p>And as he realized that he was only an onlooker, a -creature apart, something almost inhuman without a soul -for pity or gladness, a dweller on the outskirts of life, a -great longing came over him to join in it all himself. It -seemed that this gigantic game of love and passion and -sudden death and great achievement, was worth learning, -and those who did not learn it, and only looked on while -the tumult was whirling about them, were but shadows -that faded away with the sunset of years.</p> - -<p>He wanted to join in. He saw, now, that he was -drifting nowhere. He, too, wanted to share in the great -game, playing a part that was not to be ignored, that -was needful to the success of the game. Alone he -brooded on it. Beaver chaffed him and asked him what -was up. Impossible to explain the perplexities of his -inmost mind to Beaver.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," he said, "I've got the hump."</p> - -<p>They were having breakfast in the common sitting-room.</p> - -<p>"Haven't they printed your stuff?"</p> - -<p>"It isn't that," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"Well, what's up?" demanded the insistent Beaver.</p> - -<p>"Everything!" said Humphrey, gloomily, looking -round the room. The bulrushes were still there. -"Everything. This ... I feel as we used to feel at -Easterham!"</p> - -<p>"I know what's the matter with you," said Beaver, -folding his napkin, and pushing back his chair from the -table. He regarded Humphrey with tremendous wisdom, -and bit his nails. "You've got the hump," he said -smiling at his inspiration. "Too many late hours."</p> - -<p>"I suppose so."</p> - -<p>"Well, look here, don't you get brooding. You want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -company. I vote we have lunch together to-day. You -come and call for me at the office, at one."</p> - -<p>"Right you are, I will if I can," Humphrey replied.</p> - -<p>All the morning he remained in the same mood, -grappling with the new aspect of things that had come to -him. Alone he brooded on it: he heard Rivers running -through the programme of the day's events—the King -going to Windsor, a new battleship being launched, a -murderer to be tried at the Old Bailey, a society scandal -in the Law Courts—the usual panorama of every day, -at which Rivers told his men to look. And it was a -great thing for the people of Windsor that the King was -coming; there would be flags and guards of honour, and -the National Anthem; and the reputation of a ship-building -firm, and the anxiety of thousands rested on -the successful launch of the battleship, and a weary -woman in a squalid slum was waiting tremblingly for -the issue of the murder trial; but all these things, of such -great import to those who played in the game, were not -shared by those who looked on. And as Humphrey -listened to Rivers, he realized that though they all moved -with life, they were not of it.</p> - -<p>He remembered a story that Willoughby told of -a Salvation Army meeting in the Albert Hall, when -General Booth had walked up and down the platform -speaking of the glories of salvation, and, suddenly, he -pointed a finger at the table below. "Are you saved?" -he asked, with his finger shaking at a man who was -looking up at him. "Me?" said the man, looking about -him confusedly, and then, with a touch of indignation at -being suddenly dragged into the game, "Me? I'm a -reporter!"</p> - -<p>He remembered that story now, and all that it -expressed. At the time Willoughby told it, he thought -it was a good joke, but now he saw the cruel irony of it.</p> - -<p>And, in this frame of mind, as he was at grips with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -himself, he went to call for Beaver. A light glimmered -in the darkness of his mind, and the Joy and Spirit of -Life itself, playing, instead of the Pipes of Pan, the keys -of a typewriter, smiled upon him, and gave him the vision -of a girlish face in a halo of fair hair that seemed threaded -with gold as the sunlight touched it.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.IV" id="II.IV"></a>IV</h3> - -</div> - -<p>He went into the office of the Special News Agency and -found himself in a room where half-a-dozen girls were -typewriting. They were making manifold copies of the -hundred and one events that the Special News Agency -"covered" with its Beavers, and supplied at a fixed -annual rate to the newspapers. The Special News -Agency were, so to speak, wholesale dealers in news. You -bought the reports of Ministers' speeches or out-of-the-way -lawsuits by the column. It was the same principle -that governed the <cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> and its columns of -stereo. No newspaper could afford a sufficiently large -staff of reporters to cover everything. So the Special -News Agency had its corps of verbatim shorthand writers, -its representatives in every small village, and in every -police-court. There was, of course, no room for the play of -imagination or fantasy or style in these Special News -Agency reports, and it was because of their rather stilted -writing that the reporters on papers like <cite>The Day</cite> -and <cite>The Sentinel</cite> and <cite>The Herald</cite> were sent sometimes -over the same ground that the News Agency men had -covered, to see if they could infuse some fresh interest -into the story, or at all events to rewrite it, so that instead -of each paper being uniform, it would strike its individual -note in the presentation of news. The Special News -Agency did for London and England what Reuter does -for the world.</p> - -<p>There was among the cluster of girls working at their -typewriters one who looked up at Humphrey and smiled, -as he waited for Beaver. She was not a particularly -pretty girl, but there was a quality in her hair and eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -and in the expression of her face that lifted it out of the -commonplace. The mere fact that out of all the girls -who were at work in the office, she alone left the memory -of her face to Humphrey, is sufficient tribute to her -personality.</p> - -<p>She smiled—and Humphrey remembered that smile, -and the hair, that was dull brown in shadow and gleaming -with golden threads in the sunlight, and the eyes, -that were either grey or blue, and very large. And then, -Beaver came and took him to lunch.</p> - -<p>They went to a Fleet Street public-house, and -lunched off steak and bubble-and-squeak for a shilling, -and all through the lunch Humphrey was thinking of -other things—especially a smile.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Beaver, "got over your hump?"</p> - -<p>"I suppose so," Humphrey answered. ("I wonder -what her name is?")</p> - -<p>"Life's not so bad when you get used to it?" Beaver -remarked, contemplating his inky thumbs. "The trouble -is that just as you're getting used to it, it's time to die. -Eh?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey's thoughts were wandering again. ("I -believe those eyes were saying something to me?") -Beaver continued in his chatter, and occasionally -Humphrey, catching the sense of his last few words, -agreed with a mechanical "Yes," or a nod ("Why did -she smile at me?"), and at last he blurted out, "I say, -Beaver, what's the name of the girl that sits nearest the -door in your office?"</p> - -<p>"O lord! I don't know their names," said Beaver; -"I've got other things to think about. What d'you -want to know for?"</p> - -<p>"She's like some one I knew in Easterham," Humphrey -replied, glibly.</p> - -<p>"I'll find out for you, if you like."</p> - -<p>"No—don't bother. It doesn't matter at all."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> - -<p>The next day he was walking down Fleet Street -when he perceived her looming through the crowd. He -was conscious of a queer emotion that attacked him, a -sudden dryness of the throat, and a quickening of all the -pulses of his body. His whole being became swiftly -taut: he almost stood still. And, as she bore down -upon him, he saw that she was not so tall as he had -imagined, but her face looked divinely attractive under -the shadow of the spreading hat, and because the sun -was shining her hair glittered like a halo. Now, she was -close to him, and he found himself praying to God that -she would look at him, and smile again; and the next -moment he felt that the ground would sink beneath him -if she did so, and he longed to look the other way, but -could not. The people passing to and fro knew nothing -of the terrific disturbance that was going on in the mind -of the young man walking down Fleet Street. Now -they were level—he raised his hat—it was over, and the -memory of her smile had sunk yet deeper within him. -Yes, she had remembered him, and nodded to him, and -that smile—what did it mean? It was not an enticing -smile, it was an almost imperceptible movement of the -closed lips, yet it held some magic in it. It seemed to -him that though they had never spoken, she knew all -about him; she came across his life, smiling in silence, -and he was aware that something triumphant and -fresh had come into his life, with her passing, just -as he knew for a certainty that, before long, he -would learn the secret of her smile, when he spoke to -her.</p> - -<p>He went back to work, curiously elated and happy -for no reason at all that he could understand. Things -were unaltered, and yet, somehow or other, they were -different. He felt, suddenly, as if years had been added -to his age; he felt that he had met something real in -life at last, and, when he came to analyse it, it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -nothing but an intangible smile, and the glance of two -grey eyes.</p> - -<p>That night, as he was on his way home, he chanced -to meet Wratten. This tall man with the high forehead -and curly hair was one of the puzzles of the office. He -was a man who held aloof from his fellows, and because -of that, they thought he was morose. Humphrey had a -tremendous admiration for him, since the night when -Wratten had helped him. He seemed so very splendid: -he did daring things, and he never failed. The secret -of his success was a brutality that stultified all his better -feelings when he was on business. And he was a man -who never left his quarry, though it meant waiting hours -and hours for him.</p> - -<p>"Hullo," said Wratten, "where are you off to?"</p> - -<p>"Home," said Humphrey; "where are you?"</p> - -<p>"I'm going home too. I live at the Hampden Club -at King's Cross."</p> - -<p>They were near Guilford Street "Won't you come -up, Wratten, and have a drink in my rooms—I live -here, you know."</p> - -<p>"I don't take anything stronger than lemonade," -said Wratten.</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed, and unlocked the door. He -felt it an honour to have Wratten as a guest, if only for -a few minutes. They went upstairs, and Humphrey -apologized for the bulrushes. Wratten laughed: "Why -don't you suggest to Rivers that you should write -a story about the dangers of bulrushes in sitting-rooms: -interview a doctor or two, and make 'em -say that bulrushes accumulate dust. Invent a new -disease, 'Bulrush Throat.' That'll make your landlady -nervous."</p> - -<p>"By George," Humphrey said, "I will; that's a fine -idea." Doubtless, you remember the scare that was -raised a few years ago when <cite>The Day</cite> discovered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -the terror that lurked in the sitting-room bulrush; -you remember, perhaps, the correspondence, and the -symposium of doctors' views that followed, and <cite>The -Day's</cite> leading article on the mighty matter. Humphrey -Quain set the ball rolling, and was careful to leave -marked copies of <cite>The Day</cite> in places where Mrs -Wayzgoose was certain to see them, and the bulrushes -disappeared very soon afterwards. Thus is history -made.</p> - -<p>"I owe you a lot of thanks," Humphrey said, "for -the way you helped me the other night."</p> - -<p>It was the first time they had referred to the matter -of the street suicide.</p> - -<p>"I didn't want you to be let down," said Wratten. -"The life's rough enough as it is, a little help goes a -long way. But you steer clear of too much drink, -Quain. That's the ruin of so many good men...."</p> - -<p>"I couldn't help it."</p> - -<p>"Of course you couldn't—most men are drunkards -from habit and not from choice. But you can take it -from me, there's no room in Fleet Street for a man who -drinks too much. They used to think it was fine -Bohemianism in the old days, when a man wasn't a -genius unless he was drunk half the time. Don't you -believe it. It's the sober men who do the work and win -through."</p> - -<p>"It depends on what you mean by winning through."</p> - -<p>"Well, there are many ways.... I suppose we've -all got different ideas and ideals. I want to rear a -family and keep a wife."</p> - -<p>"You aren't married then?"</p> - -<p>"Not yet. I'm going to be married ... soon," said -Wratten, simply. "I think marriage is the best thing -for us. We want something to humanize our lives. It -is the only chance of happiness for most of us ... the -knowledge that whatever happens, however hard the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -work may be, we come home ... and there's a wife -waiting. I know plenty of journalists who would have -gone under if it were not for the wives. Splendid wives! -They sit at home patiently, knowing all our troubles, -comforting us, and keeping us cheerful. By God! -Quain, the journalists' wives are the most beautiful and -loyal women in the world...."</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled—and this was the man they -thought was morose!</p> - -<p>"I get maudlin and sentimental when I think of -'em. They know our weaknesses, and our mistakes, -and they bear with us. They smooth our hair and -touch our faces, and all the misery of the day goes -away with the magic of their fingers. They make little -dinners for us, that we never eat, and they never let us -see how unhappy they are, too ... I know, I know ... -I've seen so many journalists' homes, and they're all the -same ... they're simply overgrown children who let -themselves be mothered by their wives."</p> - -<p>Humphrey thought of the girl he had passed that -day in the street.... "I wish I were you," he said. -"It must be rather fine to have some one pegging away -at you always to do your best: it must be rather fine to -have a smile waiting for you at the end of the long day's -work."</p> - -<p>"Fine!" said Wratten, "it's the only thing that's -left to us. We're robbed of everything else that matters. -We haven't a soul to call our own, and we can't even -rule our lives. Time, that precious heritage of every one -else, doesn't belong to us. We're supposed to have no -hearts, we're just machines that have always to be working -at top speed ... but, thank God, there's one -woman who believes in us, and who is waiting for -us always."</p> - -<p>"It's funny you should talk like this," Humphrey said, -"to-night, of all nights...." He was thinking again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -of himself and the girl who had crossed the path of his -life.</p> - -<p>Wratten knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and -coughed with that little dry cough that was characteristic -of him. "Oh! I don't know," he said. "Nothing funny -when you come to think about it. I thought you might -have heard it in the office. I'm being married to-morrow. -By the way, I wish you'd come along and be best man: -I haven't had time to fix up for one."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.V" id="II.V"></a>V</h3> - -</div> - -<p>It was just an incident of almost less importance than -the daily work, this business of getting married. But -it was an incident that left a singular impression on -Humphrey. Wratten's marriage was a prosaic affair, -in a registry office, horribly formal, without the idealizing -surroundings of a church and the grand solemnity of the -marriage service. It took place at ten o'clock on a -rather cold morning in June. Wratten himself was -extremely nervous, and it was his nervousness that made -his manner almost brusque; he must have been a gloomy -lover, and yet, as Humphrey saw the dark-eyed bride he -was wedding, and marked the pride in her eyes as she -looked up to him, and the fluttering of her lips as she -whispered things to him, he knew that somewhere in -this rugged blunt nature of Wratten there was a vein of -golden tenderness and beauty.</p> - -<p>The marriage was oddly depressing: perhaps it was -that the shadow of coming disaster hovered over them; -perhaps Humphrey heard Wratten's words echoing in -his ears, "They sit at home patiently ... knowing all -our troubles, and they never let us see that they, too, -are unhappy."</p> - -<p>Humphrey did his duty as best man: there was a -girl friend of the bride there, and he looked after them -all, and cracked jokes, and made them sign their names -in the right places, and Wratten had half a dozen little -commissions for him to carry out. He had been so -busy yesterday, that there had not been time to clear up -everything.</p> - -<p>When it was all over, and Wratten stood on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -threshold of a new life, with his wife at his side, and a -glad, proud smile on his handsome face, they came out -of the registry office, and the girl friend emptied a bag -of confetti over them, as they stepped into the cab that -was to take them to Waterloo—they were going to -Weymouth for a honeymoon. Some of the coloured -pieces of paper fell on Humphrey's coat collar.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, good luck," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>Wratten clasped his hand very tightly. Once again -he smiled, and gave his little dry, nervous cough. -"Good-bye, old man," he said affectionately. "Thanks -awfully for coming. I think I'm going to be happy at -last," and the cab drove away.</p> - -<p>Humphrey saw the girl friend into an omnibus. -"Didn't Maisie look splendid." He noticed that the -girl friend wore an engagement-ring on her finger, and -thenceforth he lost all interest in her.</p> - -<p>He went to the office as usual, but he did not tell -any one that he had been to Wratten's wedding. Now, -he could feel quite at home in the reporters' room, and -he even had a desk which, by custom, had become his -own. He was more sure of himself than he had been a -few months ago, though, in his inmost heart, he was still -a little afraid of Rivers.</p> - -<p>It was Ferrol who gave Humphrey confidence in -himself. He called him into his room, and asked him -bluntly how he liked the work.</p> - -<p>"Very much," Humphrey replied, his eyes glistening -brightly, and again Ferrol was reminded of the long -years that had passed, when romantic days were his. -The boy was shaping well. That was fine, thought -Ferrol. He meant Humphrey to have every chance; -he wanted to see what stuff was in him.</p> - -<p>"That's good," said Ferrol, stroking his moustache. -"Mr Rivers gives a satisfactory account of you."</p> - -<p>The passion that ruled him, the passion for making<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -men and reputations, was strong upon him just then. -He saw Humphrey as raw material, and he meant to -mould him into a finished article after his own heart. -He would make no mistakes, it should be done slowly, -step by step; he would leave Humphrey to fight his own -battles, and only if he fell bloody and wounded, would -he come forward and succour the boy.</p> - -<p>"I hope you'll keep it up," he said. "Don't get into -trouble, but come to me if you do." He smiled and still -caressed that fierce moustache. "I suppose you've -heard I'm an ogre—don't believe any tale you hear. -Just come straight to me when you are in any difficulty."</p> - -<p>Humphrey came out of the room, exhilarated, and -almost drunk with pride and happiness. It was Ferrol's -magic again: a few words from him were like drops of -oil to creaking machinery—they instilled fresh energy -and desire into men, and made their hearts ardent for -conquest. It was worth working night and day to have -smooth words of praise from Ferrol himself, to know -that he was watching you, powerful in his invisibility.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That afternoon, as he was returning from some engagement, -he saw the girl with the smile coming towards -him again. Afar off, it seemed, he was aware of her -coming. It was as if her presence sent silent messages -to him, vibrating through the air. Long before she -appeared he had looked expectantly before him, knowing -that she would approach him. Something in his -mind linked up this neat blue-clad figure with the -episode of the morning, and the little registry office, and -Wratten saying, with that radiant smile of his, "I think -I am going to be happy at last."</p> - -<p>And, quite on the impulse of the moment, he made -up his mind. She passed him, and left him all a-quiver -with excitement, and then he turned and overtook her. -His heart was beating quickly in the rhapsody of it all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -She stopped, noticing him at her side, hesitating, -nervous.</p> - -<p>"I say...."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" She smiled, and he saw her cheeks flush with -colour, and at once he noted her wonderfully slender -throat and the mysterious beauty of her breathing.</p> - -<p>He was tongue-tied for a moment. She had stopped -and he was speaking to her, and he was lost in the -miracle of those few seconds, when he realized that in -all the loneliness of this vast London, they had met and -spoken at last. They stood in a little island of their -own making, while people coming and going broke in a -hurried surge all about them. The newsboys ran up -Fleet Street calling the hour of the latest race, and, -above all, came the noise and restlessness of the traffic -beating up and down the street.</p> - -<p>"I say ..." Humphrey began, "it's awfully rude -of me to stop you like this...."</p> - -<p>She smiled again. "Not at all," she said, in a gentle -voice.</p> - -<p>"Could you tell me if Mr Beaver happens to be in -the office now?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I don't think he is," she said. "Why not come up -and see?"</p> - -<p>"N—no—it doesn't really matter." Humphrey -laughed nervously. "I shall see him this evening. We -dig together, you know."</p> - -<p>"Then it doesn't matter...?" she said.</p> - -<p>"It doesn't matter," Humphrey agreed.</p> - -<p>He waited forlornly: now she would pass away -again, always elusive, just flitting in and out of his life -like this, a disturbing factor.</p> - -<p>But still she waited, and Humphrey was emboldened.</p> - -<p>"I say ..." he stammered. "Won't you come and -have a cup of tea?"</p> - -<p>She glanced upwards at the clock.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do come," he said, half turning to lead the way. -"There's a Lyons just near here."</p> - -<p>"Oh, well ..." she laughed and followed him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"My name's Quain," he said, as they were drinking -their cups of tea. "Humphrey Quain." He waited -longingly, hoping that she would understand why he -had told her his name.</p> - -<p>She drooped her eyes; everything she did was -exaggerated in Humphrey's imagination. She gave -him her name as if she were yielding up part of herself -to him.</p> - -<p>"Mine is Filmer."</p> - -<p>It was terribly unsatisfactory just to know that.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you'll think me rude..." he began.</p> - -<p>"Oh! you must guess...."</p> - -<p>"I never could. I should guess wrong."</p> - -<p>"Try," she coaxed. "It begins with L."</p> - -<p>He guessed Lily the second time, and she corrected -him. "You're nearly right," she said, "it's Lilian."</p> - -<p>"Lilian," he echoed, admiringly.</p> - -<p>"It's a hateful name," she pouted.</p> - -<p>"It's a lovely name," he said.</p> - -<p>"Do you really think so?"</p> - -<p>"Rather!"</p> - -<p>"Why?" she smiled again.</p> - -<p>What an absurd question to ask. Why, because—but -how could Humphrey tell her, when they had -hardly known each other for a quarter of an hour.</p> - -<p>"I hope you didn't think it rude of me stopping you -like that," he ventured, after a pause.</p> - -<p>"Oh no ... though I suppose you think it's dreadful -of me to be sitting with you like this."</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, Humphrey considered the whole -thing was extraordinarily dashing—that he should be -sitting facing her over a cup of tea; to have learnt her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -name—Lilian Filmer—Lilian, beautiful name!—and to -be carrying it off so calmly.</p> - -<p>"Not at all," he said.</p> - -<p>Her next words fell like a shower of cold water over -him.</p> - -<p>"You're such a boy," she said, with her eyes smiling -indulgently at him.</p> - -<p>He resented that, of course. "I'm twenty-one," he -said loudly. "You're not more than twenty-one, I'm -sure."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I'm not," she answered, taking a tiny -watch from her bosom. She sighed. "I must go."</p> - -<p>"Look here," said Humphrey, "are we going to -meet again?"</p> - -<p>"What do you want to see me again for?"</p> - -<p>"I just want to," Humphrey said. "I'm all alone."</p> - -<p>"Alone in London," she laughed. "Tragic boy ... -oh, how miserable you look. Don't you like being -called a boy?"</p> - -<p>"I don't mind what you call me, so long as you'll let -me see you again. To-morrow's Saturday...."</p> - -<p>"Oh! I can't manage to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Well, on Sunday, then."</p> - -<p>"I never go out on Sundays."</p> - -<p>"On Monday," said Humphrey, desperately.</p> - -<p>She considered the matter. "I know I'm engaged -on Monday evening."</p> - -<p>"We'll have lunch together."</p> - -<p>"Very well," she said.</p> - -<p>And, after that, they shook hands quite formally, -and parted in Fleet Street. He had been in heaven for -twenty minutes.</p> - -<p>There were three days to Monday.</p> - -<p>Lilian!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.VI" id="II.VI"></a>VI</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Out of this period of his career, Humphrey rescued -memories of moments of ineffable happiness. They -came intermittently, between long blanks of doubt and -painful uncertainty, when his mind was troubled with -unsatisfied yearnings and half-understood desires. He -was able one day to look back upon it all, with an air of -detached interest, like a man looking at a cinematograph -picture, and he saw meetings, and partings, and all the -ferment of his wooing of Lilian.</p> - -<p>There was something intimate and secret about their -meetings that pleased his palate, hungry for adventure, -and this was a part of life that belonged wholly to them; -he was indeed taking a part in the great game.</p> - -<p>They met on the Monday at the hour appointed, and -it seemed extraordinarily unreal, like a dream within a -dream, that she should be wonderfully alive and smiling -by his side. Fleet Street, the office, Rivers, and the -long toil of the day were forgotten in a moment, such was -the miracle of her being. It seemed impossible to him, -on that day, that unhappiness and failure could darken his -world. There was something eternal about her that -moved him with strong, unquenchable desires for triumph -and conquest. Her voice vibrated through him like the -throb of a war-march, urging him to great endeavour.</p> - -<p>So commonplace their greeting; so utterly inadequate -to express the prodigious flutterings of his -heart! They should have met alone in some solitary -forest, when all the colours of the world were rushing -to the clouds, in the hours of the sunset. He -could have led her to a resting-place of moss and fern,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -and whispered to her all the thoughts that were in his -mind....</p> - -<p>But here in the world of everyday, what romance -could survive the prosy clamour of it all. There was -nothing to say but "Good-morning," and halting, nervous -things about the weather, and the theatre, and each other's -work. Anything of deeper import must be told by sighs -and silences.</p> - -<p>And thus, they parted again, after their lunch in a -dingy Italian restaurant in the Strand, he with all his -longings unfulfilled, and with a deeper sense of something -that had been lacking in his life. Why could he not -have told her all that he had felt? Why was it necessary -for him to mask and screen his emotions with absurd -talk that only seemed to waste precious opportunities? -She rose before him in his imagination, amazingly distinct -and real, no longer a shadow, but a real person. He -conjured her presence at will before him, and she -appeared as he liked to see her best, with her eyes grey -and thoughtful, and the sunlight gilding her hair where -it swept up from her white brow. Thus, when she was -not there, he lived with her, and told her all the things -he dared not say to her.</p> - -<p>And nobody knew of these exquisite moments but -himself. To mention her to Beaver, now, would be -sacrilege. There was but one man who, he thought, -would understand what was passing through him, and -that was Wratten, who was away on his honeymoon.</p> - -<p>They met several times during the next few weeks; -it seemed to him that she would not consent to meet him -if her heart did not echo his own. And yet, she gave no -sign. There was always an air of chastened constraint -about them both. He helped her adjust her fluffy feather -boa once, and his hand brushed her cheek, and he -remembered the feel of it, smooth and soft, like the -touch of the downy skin of a peach.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> - -<p>All the time, of course, in the intervals of these -meetings, there was the same breathless round of work -to be done. Sometimes he would have to cancel their -arrangements because he was given an assignment just -at the very hour they had set apart for themselves—it -was done by a hurried scrawl on office paper—"Dear -Miss Filmer, I'm so sorry," and so forth. Once he had -written "Dearest," but he tore it up, fearing he might -lose her for ever. He could not risk offending her. He -knew that she was rigorously strict in certain conventions.</p> - -<p>"I say ... may I call you Lilian?" he had asked -one day, and she had glanced at him with a stricken look, -and said, "Oh—please, please don't, Mr Quain." She -had even laid her hand upon his, with a persuasive gesture. -It was a distinct pat—the sort of pat one bestows when -a child is to be coaxed into goodness.</p> - -<p>She was very perplexing.</p> - -<p>Her manner could alter in the most unexpected and -unaccountable manner. One day she might be quite -gay, and he would feel that now it was merely a question -of moments before he could storm her heart and carry -it: and the next time he saw her she would be strangely -distant, as though she regretted the progress they had -made. Or else, she would be provokingly casual, and -wound him deliberately in his weakest spot. She would -call him a boy, with a little smile and play of the eyebrows. -Ah! that rankled more than anything she said -or did, for the whole happiness of his life depended on his -being taken seriously, and at his own valuation—and -he valued himself as a man of the world, with the -experience of double his years.</p> - -<p>It was, perhaps, this attitude of hers towards him -that made him tell her of his work, which, in these days, -became so magnified in importance to him. When by -virtue of <cite>The Day</cite> he got behind the scenes of any -phase of London life, he used to make a point of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -telling her just how it was done, in a rather cock-a-whoop -manner.</p> - -<p>"Do you know," she said, "we have in our office thirty -men who are doing the same thing, and, in all London, -there are hundreds more?"</p> - -<p>That crushed him entirely. She thought him vain. -They very nearly quarrelled seriously.</p> - -<p>One day Jamieson, the dramatic critic of <cite>The Day</cite>, -met him in the office. Jamieson was a tubby little man -with a high Shakespearean forehead, who exuded cheeriness. -He was a professional optimist. He used to -depress the reporters' room with his boisterous happiness: -he was so glad that the flowers were blooming, and the -grass was green, and that there were children, and the joy -of life, and so forth.</p> - -<p>He accosted Humphrey with twinkling eyes. -"Glorious day, Quain," he said; "makes you feel glad -that you're alive, doesn't it? Ah! my boy, it's fine to -see the streets on a day like this—full of pretty girls in -their spring dresses."</p> - -<p>"I don't get time to think about the weather, -unless I'm writing about it," said Humphrey, with a -laugh.</p> - -<p>"Buck up, my boy," said Jamieson, patting him on -the back. "You want to look on the bright side of things -on a day like this.... By the way, would you like to -have two stalls for the Garrick to-morrow. It's the same -old play they've had for two hundred nights—they only -want a paragraph for <cite>The Day</cite>. I've got a first night -on at His Majesty's."</p> - -<p>Humphrey accepted the tickets gladly, for he had a -vision of an evening at the theatre with Lilian, and -Jamieson went on his way, leaving in his wake a trail of -chuckling optimism. It happened to be a Saturday night, -when he was quite free, and so he arranged with Lilian -to meet her at Victoria—she lived at Battersea Park—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -then they would have some dinner before they went to -the theatre.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In those days Humphrey had not risen to the luxury -of an opera hat; he wore a bowler hat, and his coat-collar -buttoned up over the white tie of his evening-dress. He -thrust his hands into his pockets and waited at Victoria -Station for her. She was to meet him at a quarter to -seven, and it was now five minutes to the hour and she -had not come. He stood there, absolutely white with the -tension of the passing moments. It seemed that he had -been waiting an eternity, and he had lived through a -thousand moments of disappointed expectation. Others -who had been waiting there when he came had long since -claimed those whom they had come to meet, and walked -them off with smiles and laughter. He was still waiting.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Seven o'clock!</p> - -<p>What on earth could have happened?</p> - -<p>Visions of possible disasters crossed his mind: a -train wreck and a cab accident; or perhaps she was ill -and was not coming. There would be no way of communicating -with him, and he would have to go on waiting. -Or, perhaps, she had repented of her consent to -make the evening glorious for him. The suspense was -really terrible. There was nothing to do except to -watch the newsboys cheerily gathering the magazines -and papers together into piles, and shuttering the bookstall. -He saw people running for trains, and whenever -the hiss of steam announced the arrival of another train, -he hurried to the wicket-gate to peer into the recesses of -the crowd that struggled through it, in the hope of seeing -her face a second before she actually appeared in person.</p> - -<p>At five past seven he was still moodily waiting.</p> - -<p>It was cruel of her to keep him dallying with patience -like this. She must have known that he would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -waiting for her on the moment. How little she cared if -she could not even be punctual to the time they had -arranged. He began to feel stale and dusty, as if he -had been in his evening-dress for years.</p> - -<p>He made up his mind to be very angry with her -when she came.</p> - -<p>And lo! she was at his side: more wonderful than -ever, so wonderful that he scarcely recognized her. She -had come through the crowd at the wicket-gate, floating -towards him, it seemed, like a cloud of filmy, fluffy white. -Her face was radiantly flushed and smiling, and he -sprang towards her with a cry of relief and gladness.</p> - -<p>"Here I am," she announced. "I wondered if you'd -be here." (As if he had not been waiting heart in mouth, -for all that time.)</p> - -<p>She wore no hat, but her hair was done in a way that -he had never seen before. It seemed to change her -strangely. If anything, it made her look more beautiful, -as it rose in little waves from her forehead and fell about -her ears in wayward threads of sparkling brown. And -there was a black velvet ribbon that went in and out -among the glory of her hair.</p> - -<p>He slipped his hand beneath her white cloak that was -fastened tightly to her chin, to guide her through the -clumsy throng of station people. Her arm was warm -and bare, as soft as satin, and there was something -sacred in the very touch of it.</p> - -<p>It was an occasion for a cab. They chattered on the -way of everyday things, though all the time, with her -by his side, so close, so beautiful, he could only think of -Paradise.</p> - -<p>"I thought you were never coming," he said, with a -dry throat.</p> - -<p>"Was I so late?" she asked, with a laugh. "I -couldn't help it. I ran like mad, and just saw the train -going out of the station."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> - -<p>He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, but -just then they arrived at the little restaurant in Soho -where they were going to have dinner. He went in with -her, supremely conscious that every one was staring at -them. There was a stuffy smell of hot food, and the -tables were crowded with diners—very few of them in -evening-dress. He was passed on from waiter to waiter -until a table was found, and then Lilian unfastened her -white cloak, and he helped her to take it off, with a queer -sensation of awe and wonder. She stood before him -transformed, another Lilian from the one he had known -in the street where they worked. He was amazed that -she did not realize how this white display of her neck -and arms and gently breathing throat was dazzling him -with its splendour. He was amazed that she could sit -there, revealing her richest beauty for the first time, and -be totally unembarrassed—as if it were the most ordinary -thing in the world....</p> - -<p>The dinner was no doubt excellent, but Humphrey -could not eat. He made a pretence of it, but he felt it -was violating the ecstasy of these moments to eat before -her. He only wanted to sit and look at her. He drank -quite a lot of wine, almost a whole bottle in fact, for she -took just half a glassful with water. It was cheap stuff, -masquerading under the vague label of "Margaux," and -it sent his imagination rioting. He was conscious of -being deliciously extravagant when he ordered coffees -and liqueurs, though the whole bill came to little more -than twelve and six. Then they went to the theatre, -and he bought her chocolates, and they sat in the stalls, -side by side, for nearly three hours. He tried to appear -normal—impossible! He knew what was coming: he -fought against it for quite a long time, but some primeval -instinct in him was stronger than his will—his hand -sought hers, when the lights were low, and closed upon -it. If she had withdrawn her hand, the whole castle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -his dream would have come crashing about his ears. -But she did not: she let it rest there. Once or twice he -glanced at her sidewise, but she seemed oblivious of him. -Her gaze was fixed on the players, her lips parted with -pleasure; the pendant that hung from her neck stirring -gently with the movement of her bosom. She was enjoying -the play, but Humphrey could pay no attention -to it. He could only think of her. How real was all -this: how every moment counted as a moment of -pure, throbbing enjoyment. And he thought of Rivers, -and the office, and Selsey and the sub-editors' room, -messenger boys and the tape machines—what did it all -matter beside the incomparable happiness of these -moments. Knowledge came to him subconsciously: it -was for this that one worked and suffered.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As they were going in the cab together to Victoria -through St. James's Park, where the lamps make a necklet -of yellow round the dark shadows of the trees, and the -moon was white in her face, he leaned towards her and -kissed her on the lips. She gave a little dry sob, and -her head drooped on his shoulder, so that he could bend -over her and kiss her with all the impetuous longing of -youth. And suddenly she shook herself free with an -extraordinary melting look of tenderness and pity in her -eyes. He thought she was angry, but she only smiled -and patted his cheek.</p> - -<p>And he felt as if he had passed through the portals of -a new world, whose music beat gloriously on his ears, and -whose colours leapt before his eyes in flashes of brilliance.</p> - -<p>"Lilian.... Lilian," he whispered, calling her by -her name for the first time.</p> - -<p>"It's only for to-night," she said.... "Why did you -kiss me?"</p> - -<p>"Lilian," he said again.</p> - -<p>They came out into the glare of the streets near<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -Victoria: romance dropped away from her as the Park -was left behind. She sat upright and fumbled with her -hair.</p> - -<p>"You oughtn't to have kissed me.... I oughtn't to -have...."</p> - -<p>The discussion of it was horrible to him. It jarred. -He, too, came suddenly back to reality.</p> - -<p>"It was only for to-night, of course," she said, with a -nervous laugh.</p> - -<p>"It's not!" he said, positively. "It's for to-morrow -and for all time."</p> - -<p>They drew up at the station. It was all over. The -idyll ended in a clatter of horses' hoofs and hissing of -steam, and engines whistling, and the hurrying to catch -the last train.</p> - -<p>"Look here ..." said Humphrey, as he stood by -the carriage door.</p> - -<p>"I'm not angry," she whispered. "It was my fault."</p> - -<p>The guard blew his whistle and waved his flag. -Humphrey's heart was bursting with the hideous intrusion -of modernity.</p> - -<p>"Good-night," she said. "Good-night and thank -you. It's been beautiful."</p> - -<p>There was just a second left to him, and he made -use of it. She was leaning out of the window, and he -swung himself on to the footboard and whispered—</p> - -<p>"Lilian—I love you. I'll write to you to-night."</p> - -<p>Before she could reply, there were cries of "Stand -away there," and the train swung out of the station.</p> - -<p>That night Humphrey wrote his first love-letter, and -told her all the things he had been wanting to say for -weeks.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.VII" id="II.VII"></a>VII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>They became engaged.</p> - -<p>It was a secret, furtive affair, for Lilian desired it. -He gave her his signet ring—a present from his father—and -she wore it, though not on her engagement finger, -in case people should ask questions. She gave Humphrey -a photograph of herself—in evening-dress—which he -carried about in his pocket-book, to take out and look -at frequently. He wrote to her every night—even when -they had met during the day—long, long letters full of -very high-sounding sentiments and praise of her. -Heavens! the pages he covered with great promises. -Her letters were not of the same quality: they were -rather snappy and business-like, and held in them no -romance or sentiment. Now and again she called him -"dear" in her letters, and sometimes "dearest," but they -were for the most part inadequate letters, that made him -feel as if he were being cheated out of the full measure -of his love-affair.</p> - -<p>She told him that she was five years older than he -was, and it only puffed him with greater pride, to think -that he had conquered her in spite of his youth.</p> - -<p>In very truth, it was a conquest! For days and days -she had withstood the eager battery of his assault on her -heart. "No," she had said gently, "you're a dear boy -and I like you ... but let's be friends."</p> - -<p>He went through all the phases of anger, sulkiness, -despair and gloom, pleading with her daily, until the -final exultation came. He used to see her home as far -as Battersea, whenever his work allowed him freedom. -There was a narrow, dark lane through which they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -walked, so that he could talk in the darkness of his love -for her. Always, before they parted, she allowed him -to kiss her. She kissed him too, and often they stood, -with beating hearts, and lips met in one long kiss. He -drew her to him, yielding and supple, and told her that -she must marry him. She could resist no more, she let -her head sink on his shoulder, and his finger caressed -her chin and neck, and they stayed thus fettered with -the exquisite moments of love.</p> - -<p>"I will be so good to you," Humphrey murmured.</p> - -<p>"Yes ... yes ..." she whispered, her last resistance -gone. And that was how they became engaged.</p> - -<p>But out of the glamour of their love and kisses there -emerged the grey talk of practical things. "We don't -know anything about each other," she cried.</p> - -<p>"I know you.... I feel that I have known you all -my life!" he insisted. "Don't you feel like that towards -me?" he asked, anxiously.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I do," she said, and Humphrey went into -raptures over it. "Isn't it wonderful," he said, "to think -that only a few weeks ago we were really strangers, and -now you have been in my arms—how can we be -strangers, Lilian, and kiss as we do?"</p> - -<p>"Have you told your mother yet?" he asked, one -day.</p> - -<p>"No—not yet," she said.</p> - -<p>"Oughtn't I to meet her?"</p> - -<p>"I suppose so—wait a little longer," she pleaded. -"Have you told your aunt?"</p> - -<p>"You asked me not to. I'd love to take you down -to her—she'd like you, I'm certain. It wouldn't matter -if she didn't."</p> - -<p>They made plans, of course: nothing was settled -about the day of their marriage. It was a question -whether life was possible for them both on three pounds -a week. "I'm sure to get a rise, soon," said Humphrey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -"I'll go and ask for one, and tell Ferrol I'm going to -be married. We can live splendidly on four pounds a -week. Heaps of people live on less."</p> - -<p>"I don't know.... It's mother I'm thinking of," -she confessed.</p> - -<p>"What about mother?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I'm wondering what she'll do without me."</p> - -<p>"There are your sisters," he said. "How many are -there, let me see"—he ticked them off—"Mabel, Florence -and Edith. That's enough for her to go on with."</p> - -<p>Her face grew wistful. "Yes—that's enough," she -echoed, her eyes not looking at him. "I ought to have -told you, Humphrey, long before this, but mother's -rather dependent on me and Edith. There's Harry, of -course, but he's still at the Technical Institute—he'll be -able to help some day. Florence is still at school—and -Mabel—Mabel's got something the matter with her -hip."</p> - -<p>"Well, what about your father?"</p> - -<p>She winced. "Father—father doesn't help much. -He's—he's an invalid."</p> - -<p>Humphrey was young, and this was his first love, and -the more obstacles there were to overcome, the greater -seemed the prize to him. "We could send your mother a -little money each week ..." he said. "It won't cost -so much when you're not there."</p> - -<p>"Yes, we could do that. And I could still go on -with my work."</p> - -<p>"What," he cried, horrified, "you go to the Special -News Agency after we're married?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, why not?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lilian dear, I don't want you to do that. I -want you to have a home of your own, just to sit there -and arrange it as you like, and do nothing but loll in an -arm-chair all day until I come home in the evening, -and then we'll loll together."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> - -<p>She laughed. "You are a funny boy," she said. "I -suppose you think a house doesn't want looking after. -It's much harder work than typewriting."</p> - -<p>"But don't you want a <em>home</em>," he persisted, mournful -disappointment in his voice.</p> - -<p>"Of course I do, dear; I know what you mean—I was -only teasing you. But, I do think, for the beginning, I -ought to go on with my work. It's so much safer. -Supposing you get out of work, then I could keep things -going for a time."</p> - -<p>"I'm hanged if I'm going to live on you," he said -indignantly.</p> - -<p>They compromised by agreeing to the purchase of -a typewriter—Lilian was to found a little business of her -own that could be done at home. Plenty of people -wanted typewriting, and she could earn almost a -pound a week, she said, that would be enough for -mother....</p> - -<p>These practical discussions were very bitter to -Humphrey: they robbed the whole thing of the last -vestige of beauty; they depressed him, he knew not -why. She did not mean it, but everything she said, -that had nothing to do with endearment and love, made -him feel hopeless. He was only really happy when -they rested as children in one another's arms, talking -delightful nonsense between their kisses, and not thinking -at all of the plans of their lives that puzzled them so -much when they came to talk about them.</p> - -<p>It was about this period that Wratten came back -from his honeymoon, and asked Humphrey to come and -dine with him at home, always assuming that neither of -them would be kept by work. "Tommy Pride is coming -if he can, and I've asked Willoughby." It happened -that Humphrey was the only one of the invited guests -from the office who was able to come. The news of -a Regent Street burglary published in the afternoon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -papers, made Willoughby champ his false teeth—a -habit of his when he was excited—run his hand through -his tangled hair, and depart in mysterious ways. Tommy -Pride was sent to a lecture that began at eight. "Just -my luck," he said to Humphrey, with a wry smile. -"The missis will be disappointed."</p> - -<p>So Wratten and Humphrey went out together. "I -say," said Humphrey, on the way, "don't tell any one, -but I'm engaged to be married."</p> - -<p>"No—are you?" Wratten said. "Congratulations. -When did that happen?"</p> - -<p>"Quite recently." Out came the photograph.</p> - -<p>"You're a lucky fellow. When are you going to get -married?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know yet—we haven't decided. Do you -think we can live on three pounds a week?"</p> - -<p>"Is that all you get, old man—you're worth more: -it's a bit of a tight fit." Humphrey wondered what -Wratten's salary was. Perhaps Wratten guessed his -thoughts, for he said: "I don't like telling people what -I get—there's a sort of secrecy about it—but, if you -don't let it go any further, I'll tell you—I get ten pounds -a week."</p> - -<p>Humphrey felt himself shrink into insignificance -before that mighty sum. Ten pounds seemed a tremendous -salary to earn—no wonder Wratten had married. -It was too much for one man's needs.</p> - -<p>"I say, that's pretty good," he said, admiringly.</p> - -<p>"Oh! you'll be worth more than that, some day," -Wratten said. "You're the kind of chap that gets on, -I can see.... That's why I shouldn't be in a hurry to -marry if I were you," he added; "I've seen lots of fellows -stick in the mud by marrying too early. It doesn't give -them a chance. Marriage helps in some ways, and -holds back in others ... a man is not so independent -when he marries. He has to think of others besides<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -himself. Unless, of course, his wife has a little means -of her own."</p> - -<p>He has to think of others besides himself!</p> - -<p>That point of view had never come to Humphrey -before. Why, he was marrying solely to please himself. -Marriage seemed to him, then, necessary to the fulfilment -of his dreams. Lilian was a mere excuse. He -told her that he wanted to make her happy, blinding -himself to the fact that he wanted to make himself -happy. He was going to use her as a motive for his -life, that was all. She would urge him on to success, -encourage him, look after him, comfort him when he -was in need of it—he had never thought of her at all, -except as an accessory to his life. Of course, if anybody -had told Humphrey this, at the time, he would have -denied it, vehemently; protested his eternal love; sworn -that she was always uppermost in his mind; and that -it was his most ardent desire to work for her happiness. -Love not only blinds us to the imperfections of -others, but twists the vision we have always held of -ourselves.</p> - -<p>Wratten had taken a flat at Hampstead—a little box -of a flat—at a ridiculously high rent, but to Humphrey, -as he came into the sitting-room, it appeared as an ideal -home. There was an air of repose and rest about it, the -walls papered in a soft green, chintz curtains drawn over -the windows, a carpet of a shade of green deeper than the -walls, and old furniture about the room.</p> - -<p>The artistic nature is always hidden below the practical -journalist, and it comes to light in different ways. With -some men it shows itself in a love of old books; with -others, it bursts out in the form of writing other things -than ephemeral newspaper "copy"; and with nearly all, -the artist in them shakes itself free from its hiding-place -and shines clear and strong in the home. There is no -time for art during the day; no need for it, indeed. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -standard of what is good is not made by the reporter, -but by the paper for which he writes.</p> - -<p>And here, in Wratten's home, Humphrey found the -vein of the artist in him, in his perception and appreciation -of old furniture. He fondled his pieces. "Here's a -nice little rocking-chair," he said. "Don't see many of -these now."</p> - -<p>"I like this," said Humphrey, touching another old -chair.</p> - -<p>"Ah! yes, that's a beauty," Wratten replied. "I -picked that up in Ipswich frightfully cheap. It's an old -Dutch back chair of the seventeenth century." He tilted -it up and ran his palm over the perfect curve of the -cabriole legs, entirely absorbed in the pleasure of touching -the chair.</p> - -<p>"I didn't know you went in for this sort of thing," -Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"I've been getting things like this together for years -... they're so restful, these old things. Can you imagine -anything more peaceful than that book-case?" and he -pointed to a beautiful Empire book-case, with rows of -books showing through the latticed glass and brass -rosettes for handles to the drawers that rested on claw -feet.</p> - -<p>The change in Wratten was really remarkable. -Although he was still serious, and his face in repose was -gloomy, he seemed to have lost his brusque manner. -Marriage had undoubtedly softened him.</p> - -<p>Mrs Wratten came into the room and welcomed -Humphrey. Wratten slipped his arm through his wife's, -and she looked up at him and smiled at him.... -Humphrey saw himself standing thus, in his own home, -with Lilian close to him, his companion for ever. It all -seemed so very desirable. This little home was very -compact and peaceful, thousands of miles removed from -the restlessness of Fleet Street....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> - -<p>While they were talking, a young man and a woman -were ushered into the room by the little maid-servant. -The likeness between the two was unmistakable—they -were obviously brother and sister. The young man was -the taller of the two, very slender, with the thin and -delicate hands of a woman. Humphrey noticed the long -fingers tapering to the well-kept nails. The face was the -face of an ascetic, thin-lipped and refined. The eyes were -peculiarly glowing, and set deeply beneath the overhanging -eyebrows; the nose was finely chiselled; the nostrils -sensitive and curling, with a faint suspicion of superciliousness. -He was introduced to Humphrey as Kenneth -Carr, and Humphrey knew the name at once. Kenneth -Carr had the reputation of being a brilliant descriptive -writer; he was on the staff of <cite>The Herald</cite>, but, besides -that, he had written several historical biographies, many -novels, and was at work on a play. He belonged to a -type which is a little apart from Fleet Street, with its wear -and tear—a shy, scholarly man, who found that historical -biographies and novels did not yield sufficient income, -and, therefore, the grinding work of everyday journalism -was preferable to pot boiling. Fleet Street was, to him, -a stepping-stone. He would have been happier in the -editorial chair of a weekly paper, or writing essays for -<cite>The Spectator</cite> and the <cite>Saturday Review</cite>, but, as it was, -he threw in his lot with Fleet Street, and did his work so -well that he stood at the top of the ladder. But Fleet -Street had left its mark on his face—it was pale and thin, -and the eyes had a strained, nervous look in them.</p> - -<p>"Awfully good of you to ask us," he said to Mrs -Wratten. "Elizabeth and I don't go out much, she gets -so tired from her slumming."</p> - -<p>His sister smiled—Humphrey saw that the handsome -features of Kenneth Carr became beautiful in his sister's -face. The sharp lines about the nose and mouth were -softened, her eyes were bluer and larger, her face rounded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -more fully, and devoid of the hollows which made the -face of Kenneth so intellectual. The likeness between -brother and sister finished with the lips—hers were very -red, and were faintly parted, so that one had a glimpse -of her teeth, like a string of white pearls. She wore her -hair in two loops from a parting in the centre, and she -had a habit of carrying her head a little forward, so that -the outward curve of her neck was emphasized in its -perfect grace.</p> - -<p>"What does your brother mean by slumming, Miss -Carr?" Humphrey asked as they sat at dinner.</p> - -<p>"He calls it slumming," Elizabeth Carr laughed, -"but it isn't exactly that. I'm rather fond of the people -who have no chance in life. I want to make a chance -for them." She spoke banteringly, but her eyes had a -curious way of growing large and earnest as if they were -anxious to counteract the lack of seriousness in her -voice. "I'm trying to make a thoroughfare through the -Blind Alley," she said. "Isn't it dramatic? Can't you -imagine me with pick and shovel, Mr Quain."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean by the Blind Alley?" he asked.</p> - -<p>She suddenly became grave. "Of course, you've never -thought of that—have you? It's just a phrase.... -Some day I'll explain to you fully. It's where the -people who have no chance live."</p> - -<p>"How do you help them?"</p> - -<p>"We don't help them much, at present—we're only -beginning. It's a life's work," she said, earnestly, "and -it's a work for which a life would be gladly given. -You've asked me the question I'm always asking myself—How -is it to be done?"</p> - -<p>"Does your brother help?"</p> - -<p>"Kenneth—oh, as best he can. It's the apathy that -we want to overcome. That's what makes the Blind -Alley." She laughed. "We'll do it some day—I don't -know how—but we'll do it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> - -<p>Kenneth Carr's voice drawled across the table. -"Look out, Mr Quain, or Elizabeth will have you in her -toils. I'll bet she's talking slumming to you. You -can't be a social reformer and a reporter, you know, -nowadays. The two don't hang together."</p> - -<p>"Kenneth!" his sister said, with pretended -indignation.</p> - -<p>"Look at me! She's making me compile a book -about poverty that'll be nothing but statistics—who -wants them outside blue books. She's got me in her -toils."</p> - -<p>The phrase amused Humphrey: he thought of -Lilian, and began comparing her with the woman next -to him. Of course, they were not alike; the comparison -irritated him, why compare people so entirely different. -One might know Elizabeth Carr for years, and yet never -<em>know</em> her; Lilian was different. She seemed simpler, and -yet.... He wondered if Lilian had ever heard of the -Blind Alley, or bothered about the people who have no -chance.</p> - -<p>When the dinner was finished, and they were all -settling down to chatter, the telephone bell rang. -Wratten went to answer it. "It's the office," Mrs -Wratten said, with disappointment in her voice.</p> - -<p>Wratten came back. "I'm frightfully sorry," he -said. "The office wants me ... Collard's arrested." -He went over to his wife. "I shall be late, dear, don't -sit up," he said.</p> - -<p>"Who's Collard?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh! the Company promoter—reg'lar crook—but -he might have waited until the morning to be arrested."</p> - -<p>"Filthy luck!" he grumbled, as he reappeared, -shouldering himself into his overcoat. "Having to -leave all you people like this.... Can't be helped."</p> - -<p>The maid came in with coffee. Wratten gulped a -thimbleful, kissed his wife, and went out. The evening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -seemed to have lost something of its pleasure with his -sudden departure. They fell to talking over the ways -of work and the calls of the office. It was as if Fleet -Street had suddenly asserted itself, and shown the -futility of trying to escape from it even for a few hours.</p> - -<p>"Poor Mr Wratten," Elizabeth Carr sighed, "I do -think they're heartless."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you help us, Miss Carr?" Humphrey -said, with a laugh. "We're in the Blind Alley too."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.VIII" id="II.VIII"></a>VIII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The weeks passed into August, and Humphrey took -eagerly all the work that was given to him by Rivers. -He became a mental ostrich, assimilating all sorts of -knowledge. One day, perhaps, he would have to describe -a cat show at the Crystal Palace, the next he might be -attending a technical exhibition at the Agricultural Hall -and Olympia, and have his head stuffed with facts and -figures of this and that industry. He was acquiring -knowledge all day long, but it was only superficial; there -was no time to go deeply into any subject, and indeed, -his one object was to unburden his mind of all the -superfluous things he learnt during the day. If reporters -were to keep a book of cuttings of everything they wrote—and -they know the value of their work sufficiently not -to do that—they would be amazed, looking back over -ten years (those cuttings would fill several mighty -volumes), at the vast range of subjects they touched upon, -at the inside knowledge they had of the little—and even -big—things of life; of the great men with whom they -had come into contact, perhaps for a few minutes, -perhaps for a day; of the men they had even helped to -make great by the magic of publicity—they would be -astounded at the broadness of their lives, at the things -they had forgotten long ago, and perhaps they would -pity themselves, looking over their cuttings, for the -splendid futility of it all.</p> - -<p>You remember Kipling's poem of "The Files," bound -volumes of past years; which are repositories of all lost -endeavours and dead enthusiasm. Heaven help us -when we can write and achieve no more, and the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -work of our youth and manhood lies buried, forgotten, -in the faded yellow sheets of the files.</p> - -<p>But Humphrey Quain at this period, just like every -other young man, whether he be a haberdasher or a -reporter, did not contemplate the remote future. He -was young, and his brain was clear and fresh, and he -wrote everything with a pulsing eagerness, as though -it were his final appeal to posterity. He found his style -improving, as he read, and his understanding broadened. -He wrote in the crisp style that suited <cite>The Day;</cite> he had -what they call the "human touch"—that was a phrase -which Ferrol was very fond of using. Rivers began to -entrust him with better things to do: now and again he -was sent out of London on country assignments. That -was a delightful business, to escape for a day or so from -the office routine, and be more or less independent in -some far-away town or village. You were given money -for expenses, and told to go to Cornwall, where something -extraordinary was about to happen, or some one -had a grievance, or else there was some one to interview, -and you packed a handbag, and went in a cab to -Paddington, and had lunch on the train, and stopped at -the best hotel, and generally tried to pretend that you -were holiday making. But, more often than not, the -idea of a holiday fell away when you got to the -place, and you had to bustle and bother and worry to -get what you wanted. Then you had to write your -message, and that meant generally being late for dinner, -or perhaps it was the kind of story that kept you hanging -about and made it necessary to telephone news late -at night.</p> - -<p>But going out of town held a wonderful charm for -Humphrey—it gave him a sense of responsibility. It -made him feel that the office trusted him; somehow or -other he felt more important on these country jobs, as if -he bore the burden of <cite>The Day</cite> on his own shoulders.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was the charm, too, of writing the story in -the first person, instead of adopting the impersonal -attitude that was the rule with London work; and the -charm of fixing the little telegraph pass to the message, -which franked it at press rates to <cite>The Day</cite> without pre-payment. -Sometimes there were other men on the same -story, and they forgathered after work, and as all -journalists do, talked shop, because they cannot talk of -anything without it touches the fringe of their work. -The men he met were, for the most part, thoroughly -experienced and capable, they were tremendously -enthusiastic, though they tried to appear blasé, because -it was considered the correct thing among themselves. -They never discussed each other's work, nor told of what -they had written. Even when they met in the morning, -though they had all read their colleagues' messages in -the papers, and compared them with their own, they -kept aloof from all reference to the merits or demerits of -these messages. But it used to rejoice Humphrey's -heart to see, sometimes, how older men who were -inclined to patronize him as a beginner and a junior the -night before, treated him as one of themselves in the -morning at the breakfast-table. And he nearly burst -with pride when he first saw his messages headed: "From -<cite>The Day</cite> Special Correspondent." Even though he were -no further afield than Manchester or Birmingham, it -seemed to place him in the gallant band of great ones -just as if he were a Steevens, a Billy Russell, or an -Archibald Forbes.</p> - -<p>And all the time he was learning,—learning more -swiftly than any one else can learn, in the school of -journalism, where every hour brings its short cut to -knowledge and worldly wisdom.</p> - -<p>The occasional separations from Lilian, however, -modified a little the charm of going away. These orders -to go out of town had a habit of coming at the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -undesirable moments, generally upsetting any plans -they had made together for spending an enjoyable -evening somewhere.</p> - -<p>"When we are married," said Humphrey, on the -eve of a departure for Canterbury to describe the visit -of a party of priests from France and Italy who were -making a pilgrimage to the Cathedral, "when we are -married, you shall come away with me. It's not bad -fun, if the job isn't hard."</p> - -<p>"I wish you didn't have to go away so often," she -pouted.</p> - -<p>There was a hint of conflict, but Humphrey was too -blind to see it. He only wished he had to go away -more often, for the measure of his success on <cite>The -Day</cite> was in proportion to the frequency of special -work they gave to him. "All will be well when we are -married," he said, comforting her.</p> - -<p>His love-story wove in and out of his daily work. -The date of their marriage had not yet been fixed, -because Ferrol was away somewhere in the south of -France, and that business of the extra pound a week -on his salary could not, of course, be settled until -Ferrol came back. It seemed, too, that Lilian was -in no hurry to be married; she loved these days of his -wooing to linger, with their idyllic moments, and -rapturous embraces, and the wistfulness of all too -insufficient kisses.</p> - -<p>For the period of engagement was to them a period -of licensed kissing. Nor was it always possible to meet -beneath the moon. Humphrey grew cunningly expert -in finding places where they could kiss in broad daylight. -There was an Italian restaurant in the Strand (now pulled -down for improvement), which had an upstairs dining-room -where nobody but themselves ever seemed to go, -and then there was the National Gallery, surprisingly -empty, where the screens holding the etchings gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -them their desired privacy, and on Saturday afternoon -they went in the upper circles of theatres, sometimes, -on purpose not to see the play, but to sit in the deserted -lounges during the acting, and enjoy each other's company. -Their love-affair was tangled by circumstance; -scamped and impeded—they made the best of it, and -lived many hours of happiness.</p> - -<p>And then, one day, when he least expected it, she -said: "I suppose you ought to come down and see -mother."</p> - -<p>Humphrey went out to Battersea to the home of his -betrothed. The circumstances of his visit were not -happy. It was raining, and there is no city in the world -so miserable as London when it rains. The house was -in a rather dreary side-street, a long distance from -Battersea Park, a mere unit in the army of similar -houses, that were joined to one another in a straight row, -fronted by railings that had once been newly painted, -but were now grimed and blackened. These houses -appalled one: they were absolutely devoid of any kind -of beauty, never could they have been deemed beautiful by -their architect. They were as flat-fronted and as hideously -symmetrical as a doll's-house; nor, apparently, did the -people who dwelt in them take any pains to lessen the -hideousness of their exteriors: ghastly curtains were at -every window, curtains of mid-Victorian ugliness, leaving -a cone-shaped vacancy bounded by lace. In the windows -of the lower floors one caught a glimpse of a table, with a -vase on it, and dried grass in the vase, and behind the glass -panes above the front doors there was, in house after -house, as Humphrey walked down the street, a trumpery -piece of crockery or some worthless china statuette, or the -blue vase of the front window, with more grass in it, or -a worse abomination in the shape of a circular fan of -coloured paper.</p> - -<p>Number twenty-three, to be sure, where Lilian lived,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -was, as far as the outside view was concerned, different -from the other houses, in that there were real flowers in -the window, instead of dried grass. Humphrey felt wet -and miserable when he reached it; the rain had dripped -through a hole in his umbrella, and had soaked the -shoulder of his coat. He went up the steps and pulled -the bell. He waited a little while, and happening to -glance over the railings into the area, he saw a girl of -rather untidy appearance look up at him, and quickly -vanish, as if she had been detected in something that she -had been forbidden to do. The girl, he noticed, had the -same features, on a smaller scale, as Lilian: he supposed -she was Florence. Then he heard footsteps in the -passage, and through the ground-glass panels of the -door he could see a vague form approaching. The next -moment all memory of ugliness and squalor and the dismal -day departed from him, as Lilian, the embodiment -of all the beautiful in his life, stood before him, smiling a -welcome. How she seemed to change her personality -with every fresh environment in which they met! She -was the same Lilian, yet vaguely a different one here, -with her brown hair done just as charmingly yet not in -the same way as she did it when they went to theatres in -the evening. She wore a white muslin blouse, without a -collar, and round her neck was a thin gold chain necklace -which he had given her. Though he did not realize -it at the time, his joy in her was purely physical; the -mere sight of her bared neck and throat and the warm -softness of her body was sufficient to make him believe -that he loved her as he could never love anybody else; -he sought no further than the surface; she was pretty, -and she was agreeable to be his wife. He did not stop -to think of anything else.</p> - -<p>"So it's really you!" she said, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>As though she had not been expecting him!</p> - -<p>He murmured something about the weather as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -shook his dripping umbrella. She could invest commonplaces, -courtesy phrases, with reality. Her eyes were -tender as she said, "You poor thing." It was really fine -to have some one so interested in your welfare that her -eyes could show pity over a few rain-spots.</p> - -<p>"You must come in and dry yourself over the fire. -We had a fire because it is so wet."</p> - -<p>She closed the door. He took off his coat and hat, -and suddenly he caught her silently to him (her eyes -spoke of caution, and looked towards the door, leading -from the passage), and they kissed hurriedly and -passionately. She disengaged herself, and began to talk -about trivialities in a high tone. "I have not told any -one yet," she whispered. "It is still a secret—so you -needn't be afraid of mother." She led the way into the -room. Somebody was sitting on the sofa, against the -light.</p> - -<p>"Mother," said Lilian, "this is Mr Quain."</p> - -<p>"Oh," said Mrs Filmer, rising and coming forward to -shake hands with him, "how do you do?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey sat down in a gloomy, black horsehair -chair by Mrs Filmer, who returned to a sofa that belonged -to the same family. They began to talk. It was plain -that Lilian's mother had been coached by her. She -seemed to pay him a deference altogether disproportionate -to the occasion, if he were to be considered as a mere -casual visitor, a friend of Lilian. She was a faded woman -of fifty years or so, the personification of the room itself, -for everything within those four walls was irrevocably -lost and faded—the photographs in their ugly frames -were yellow and old-fashioned; the pictures on the walls, -chiefly engravings of thirty years ago, in bevelled frames -of walnut wood, were spotted with damp; the furniture -was absolutely without taste, a mixture of horsehair and -mahogany, and the piano had one of those frilled red -satin fronts behind a fretted framework. There was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -blue plush <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">portière</i>, with a fringe of pom-poms down one -side of it, hanging from a brass rod over the door.</p> - -<p>It was difficult for him to believe that she was Lilian's -mother: that she had actually brought into the world -that beautiful, supple being whom he loved. Had she -ever been like Lilian? He could trace no resemblance -to her in this little thin woman who sat before him, her -hands, with the skin of them warped and crinkled, crossed -in her lap, her hair sparse and faded, with threads of -brown showing among the grey, and the fringe of another -tint altogether. She did not even talk as Lilian did: -she was too careful of aspirates. He saw that she was -altogether inferior to Lilian. She talked of nothing—nothing -at all. And all the time she was talking, and -he was answering her, he was aware, dimly, of Lilian's -presence, somewhere in the background; he was conscious -of her watching him, studying him.</p> - -<p>The weather was terrible for the time of the year.</p> - -<p>They wanted to move out of this house; it was too -large for them.</p> - -<p>It was so nice for Lilian to have such a comfortable -office to work in.</p> - -<p>But it was a long way to come home, when the -weather was bad.</p> - -<p>The weather was very bad to-day.</p> - -<p>The summer, one supposed, was breaking up.</p> - -<p>After all, it was not so very out of season.</p> - -<p>Mr Quain must find his work very interesting.</p> - -<p>And so on.</p> - -<p>Tea was brought in by a girl who was Lilian on a -smaller scale. "Edith, this is Mr Quain," said Lilian; -and to Humphrey, "This is my sister Edith." She put -the tray down, and shook hands limply. He noticed -that she had precisely the same coloured eyes as Lilian's, -but they were weaker, and she did not carry herself well. -She seemed but a pale shadow of the splendid reality<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> -of Lilian. Then Florence, the other sister, came into -the room; she was the young girl whom Humphrey had -seen over the railings as he stood on the doorstep. She -was undeveloped, but her face and figure bore great -promise of a beautiful womanhood. Her hair was of a -reddish colour, and hung in a long plait down her back. -Her face was quite unlike Lilian's: he judged that she -resembled her father.</p> - -<p>"You look dreadful, child," said Lilian, with a laugh. -"Go and wash your face, little pig."</p> - -<p>Florence made a grimace, and tossed her pigtail. -"It's freckles," she said, hopelessly. "I've been scrubbing -away for ten minutes." She looked at Humphrey -appealingly, with a smile in her eyes—they all had that -smile he knew so well.</p> - -<p>"I think you're too hard on your sister, Miss Filmer," -he said to Lilian, with mock gravity. (How odd the -Miss Filmer sounded.) "She looks radiant. I noticed it -was freckles at once." Florence went to Lilian and put -her arm round her waist. They were evidently very -sisterly. Edith was busy pouring out tea ("One lump -or two, Mr Quain"); Mrs Filmer sat with her hands -crossed in her lap looking out of the window into the -garden beyond. Humphrey took a cup of tea across to -her; she was too effusive in her thanks; begged him to -sit down, and urged Florence to look after Mr Quain. -Just then the front door clicked. "There's Harry," said -Edith, putting down the teapot, and running to the -door. A short, well-built young man appeared. His -hair was the reddish colour of Florence's hair, and his -face was frank and boyish. He was about nineteen -years old, just the age of discrimination in ties and socks, -and the flaunting of well-filled cigarette cases. He and -Edith were apparently the greatest friends, doubtless -because there was only two years' interval in their ages. -Nevertheless, he pulled Florence's pigtail affectionately<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -and gave her a brotherly kiss; pecked Lilian on the -cheek ("What a horrid collar you're wearing, Harry," -she said, "and you simply reek of tobacco"), and kissed -his mother on her forehead. Then Lilian introduced -him to Humphrey Quain, and they shook hands and -regarded each other furtively, with a constrained silence.</p> - -<p>Humphrey felt that the whole family must know of -the relations between Lilian and himself, though not -one of them spoke about it. But they all treated him -with a certain deference, and gave him a status in the -house, which invested him with a superiority that seemed -to match Lilian's. For there was no doubt of her -superiority in this household, now that they were all -gathered together. She seemed so stalwart and broad -beside them; a creature apart from them all. She did -not appear to belong to them, and yet she was, indisputably, -of them. They were so commonplace, and she -was so rare—at least, that was what Humphrey thought. -He watched her as she moved about the room bearing -plates and cups, noiselessly, gracefully; she gave him a -new impression of domesticity as she wandered about -in her own home without the hat that he was accustomed -to see her wearing. And she gave him, furthermore, -an appearance of strength and character, as though she -had acquired the right to rule in this household by the -might of her own toil which chiefly supported it. While -she was in the room, it lost some of its faded quality, -and when she left it to take a cup of tea and a piece of -cake to Mabel, the third sister, who was an invalid lying, -he understood, on a couch upstairs, the room became -desolate, and the most insistent person was the faded -mother with her querulous voice.</p> - -<p>They made him look at picture-postcard albums and -photographs, and some of Florence's drawings, while -Lilian was absent. Florence wanted to be a fashion -artist, and though her drawings were incredibly bad and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -scratchy, he felt it was necessary for him to say that they -showed promise.... How had Lilian grown to be -Lilian in these surroundings, he wondered—surroundings -of such frank ugliness and shabby gentility?</p> - -<p>He glanced out of the window which gave a view of -a narrow oblong garden at the back, where a few stunted -wallflowers struggled to live. A patch of unkempt grass -ran between the high walls, and there a broken wicker-work -chair faced the windows. As he looked out he saw -a man stumbling over the grass towards the side door: -he caught a glimpse of the soiled and frayed clothes, and -feet clothed in down-at-the-heel slippers, of a grey face -with shrunken cheeks, and pale blue eyes that peered -weakly from beneath grey wiry eyebrows. The man -came across his vision like a spectre, trailing his slippered -feet one after another, and swaying a little as he walked. -He was fascinated by the sight, and suddenly his attention -was distracted by Lilian. She had come back to the -room, and was standing at his side. Her eyes had -followed his, and she knew what he had seen. "Will -you have some more tea?" she said, abruptly, touching -him on the shoulder. He turned away hastily: his eyes -met hers; they held a challenge in them, as though she -were daring him to speak of the man in the garden. -It was as if he had probed into a carefully hidden -secret.</p> - -<p>He knew, without being told, that this aimless, -shambling man with the slippered feet was the father. -He was given in a moment the explanation of this room; -the mother; the invalid child; and the air of subdued -failure that brooded over the house. He saw Lilian as -a regenerating, purifying influence, trying to lift them -out of the slough. Their eyes met, and though no word -was passed between them, he understood everything.</p> - -<p>He wished that he had not come to this house. This -family depressed him, and made him feel afraid of Life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -It was an odd thought that haunted him: they would -be his relations when he married Lilian.</p> - -<p>But when, after the leave-takings, she came to the -door to help him on with his coat and let him out, he -realized that she was unchanged, that she was still -splendid for him, and as desirable as she had always been. -He felt something of a hero, because he was going to -rescue her from this dreadful home of hers....</p> - -<p>The memory of the father dogged his thoughts as -he came away. He wished he had not gone to the house.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.IX" id="II.IX"></a>IX</h3> - -</div> - -<p>At eight o'clock, on a chill morning, the women in the -red-brick cottages of Hyde, which are built round the -Hyde collieries, felt the earth quiver beneath their feet, -and heard a low roar, reverberating about them. Their -hands went up to their beating hearts; they rushed to -their windows that overlooked the grey wastes where the -shafts of the mines stood gaunt against the horizon; -they saw a burst of flame leap from the upcast shaft of -No. 3 mine; leap vividly for a swift moment, and leave -behind it a vision of a twisted cable-rope, and twisted -iron, and the flame that vanished swiftly bore with it the -souls of two hundred men: their husbands, their sons—their -men. They gathered their shawls about them, and -ran, with their clogs clattering on the cobbled streets, to -the pit-mouth, joining a stream of men, whose eyeballs -shone whitely from the grime and black of their faces—they -ran with terror clutching at their hearts and fear at -their heels, and every lip was parched and dry with the -horror and dread of the moment. There had been a -disaster to No. 3 pit: an explosion; a fire—"What is it? -Tell us?" They crowded round the mine offices, besieged -the mine manager: "For the love of Heaven, for the mercy -of Mary, for the sake of Christ—tell us! We must -know ... we are the wives, the daughters, the mothers -of those who went below to their work in the blackness -of the coal.... No need to tell us: we know, now; we -see the thin cloud of smoke, with its evil smell, floating -above the shaft ... the engine-room is silent. The -ventilation fan is not working. It has been shattered, -with the lives of all those who matter, by this explosion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, we will wait. Some of our men are sure to -have escaped; they know the workings. They will find -their way to the Arden mine shaft adjoining, and come -up in the cages. Perhaps they all will, and no lives will -be lost. We will wait...."</p> - -<p>At eleven o'clock the little tape machines in the -newspaper offices printed out letter by letter the message -that was sent by the Hyde reporter, who overslept himself -that day, and did not hear the news until ten. "An -explosion occurred in the No. 3 mine of the Hyde Collieries -this morning. Two hundred men were working at the time, -and it is feared that there has been a serious loss of life."</p> - -<p>"Off you pop," said Rivers to Wratten, who had just -arrived at the office. "This looks big. I think you'd -better have some one with you. Boy, tell Mr Quain to -come up."</p> - -<p>Half an hour later Wratten and Quain were on their -way in a cab to Euston, Humphrey thrilling with the -adventure of being chosen to accompany Wratten, looking -forward to a new experience. "Horrible things, -these mine disasters," said Wratten. "I hate 'em," as if -any one in the world was so misguided as to like them.</p> - -<p>"Are they difficult to do?" asked Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Sometimes ... it depends. If there's a chance of -rescue, you've got to hang about sometimes all night. -They get on my nerves. This'll be your first, won't it?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," Humphrey said. It seemed strange to him -that they should be discussing such an appalling disaster -so dispassionately; considering it only from their point -of view. There was no sense of tragedy, of deep gloom, -in their talk. It was all part of their business—a lecture, -a murder, an interview, a catastrophe—it was all the -same to them. They were merely lookers-on.</p> - -<p>When they arrived at Euston, a tall man, whose chief -characteristics were gold-rimmed spectacles and a black -moustache, came towards them. He wore a red tie and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -carried a heavy ash stick in his hand. "What—ho! -Wratten," he said, jovially, "coming up?"</p> - -<p>"Hullo, Grame," said Wratten, "anybody else here -yet?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! the whole gang. We're for'rard in a reserved -compartment."</p> - -<p>Kenneth Carr, white-faced and breathless, arrived at -the last moment. "Hullo!" he said, "isn't this awful.... -Two hundred men! I'll join you as soon as possible."</p> - -<p>"Poor Kenneth!" Wratten remarked to Quain, as -they followed Grame to the carriage. "He really feels -this quite keenly. He realizes the immensity of the -tragedy to which we're going to travel. It's a mistake. -It hampers one."</p> - -<p>"I should have thought it would make you do better -work," Quain answered, "if you really felt the tremendous -grief of it all."</p> - -<p>"Not a bit. It makes you maudlin. You lose your -head and go slobbering sentimental stuff about. Remember, -you're no one—you don't exist—you're just a -reporter who's got to hustle round, find out what's happened, -and tell people how it happened. Never mind -how it strikes you—<cite>The Day</cite> ain't interested in you -and your sensations—it wants the story of the mine -disaster."</p> - -<p>"But—" Humphrey began.</p> - -<p>Wratten turned on him savagely. "Oh! Good God! -don't you think <em>I</em> feel it too? Don't you think I hate -the idea of never being able to write it as I see it? By -God! I wouldn't dare tell the story of a mine disaster -as I see it. <cite>The Day</cite> would never print it—it would be -rank socialism."</p> - -<p>There were five other reporters in the carriage. Two -of them Humphrey had met before: Mainham, who wore -pince-nez, looked like a medical student, and spent every -Saturday at the Zoological Garden, where he discovered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -extraordinary stories of crocodiles, who suffered from -measles; he was, in a way, the registrar of births, deaths -and marriages among the animals; and Chander, a thin-faced, -thin-lipped young man, who wore long hair, whose -conversation was entirely made up of a long chain of -funny stories.</p> - -<p>Chander faced the little tragedies of his work daily, -but he kept himself eternally young by pretending only -to see the humorous side of things. For instance, he -once spent a whole morning in the rain and slush of a -January, trying to verify some story. He tramped the -dismal pavements of a dirty street off Tottenham Court -Road, in search of a certain man in a certain house, -finally gave it up in disgust, and discovered that he should -have gone to another street of the same name by King's -Cross. That would have disheartened the average man: -but Chander turned it into a funny story—it is good to -have the Chander point of view.</p> - -<p>The other reporters were Thomas, who worked for -<cite>The Courier</cite>—a penny paper—a well-ordered, methodical, -unimaginative man, who had a secret pity for the poor -devils who had to work for halfpenny papers; and a big -broad-shouldered man, whose name was Gully. His -face at a glance seemed handsome enough, until you -noticed the narrow eyes and the coarseness of the heavy -under lip. He had brought a pack of cards with him -and wanted to play nap.</p> - -<p>"Good heavens!" said Kenneth Carr, irritably, -"try and behave as if you had some decency left. -We're going to a mine disaster. There's two hundred -dead men at the other end of the journey."</p> - -<p>"Well, you do talk rot," Gully replied. "Are they -relations of yours?" He sniggered at his joke, and asked -Mainham to play. Mainham said he couldn't play in -the train, but Thomas was willing. Chander, who knew -that Kenneth Carr loathed Gully and all that he stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -for, joined the party out of sheer good-nature. He hated -quarrelling.</p> - -<p>"Why look on the black side of things, Carr?" he said. -"Perhaps they're not dead at all. We needn't go into -mourning until we know everything, and we don't know -anything except what the early editions of the evening -papers had. And newspapers are so inaccurate."</p> - -<p>"Ass!" said Kenneth, with a grin, for he and Chander -were good friends, and he understood Chander's tact.</p> - -<p>Gully shuffled the cards. "I hope they're dead," he -said, "because then we shall be able to get back to-morrow."</p> - -<p>Kenneth Carr, Grame and Wratten looked at each -other. Wratten gave his head a little toss, and made a -clicking noise that meant, "What can you expect, after -all, from Gully."</p> - -<p>"Charitable soul," Chander said, admiringly. "What -a sweet temperament you have. Won't it be sad if you -find 'em all alive and ready to kick!"</p> - -<p>Kenneth Carr, Wratten, Mainham and Humphrey -went into the dining-car, as the express rocked northwards -towards Luton. The journey was full of apprehension -for Humphrey; he had never been on such a big -story as this, and, though he knew he had to do nothing -but obey Wratten, there was still a doubt of success in -his mind. It interfered with his appetite. He marvelled -that the other men could eat their food so calmly, as -though they were going on a pleasure trip, and talk of -ordinary things. Of course, they were thoroughly used -to it. It was as common an incident in their lives as -casting up columns of figures is to a bank clerk, or the -measuring of dead bodies to an undertaker.</p> - -<p>After luncheon, Mainham left them to go back to -the carriage, and the three friends were alone over -cigarettes and coffee.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry I lost my temper with Gully," Carr said, -after a pause.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, we all know Gully." Wratten smiled and -sipped his coffee.</p> - -<p>"Don't get like Gully," Kenneth said to Humphrey, -"even if you feel like him. It's bad; it's the Gullys that -have brought such a lot of disrespect on journalism. -He's the type of journalist whom people think it necessary -to give 'free' cigars to, and 'free' whiskies and -sodas; 'free' dinners, even. They think it is the correct -thing to give 'free' things to us, as one throws bones to -a dog. It's the Gullys who take everything greedily -and never disillusion them."</p> - -<p>"But don't you think you're too sensitive?" Humphrey -ventured. "It seems to me that the work we do demands -a skin thick enough to take all insults. Look at the -things we have to do sometimes!"</p> - -<p>"It's our business to take risks," Wratten interposed. -"I don't mind what I do, so long as there's a good story -in it. If it's discreditable, the fault isn't with me. I'm -only a humble instrument. It's <cite>The Day</cite> who's to blame—<cite>The -Day</cite> and the system. I do my duty, and any -complaints can be made to Neckinger or Ferrol, with or -without horsewhip. That's my position."</p> - -<p>"You see," Kenneth Carr said, musingly, "there are, -roughly, three classes of reporters. There's the man who -is keenly alive to the human side of his work and talks -about it, as I'm afraid I do; there's the man who feels -just as keenly and shuts up, as you and Wratten and -Mainham and hosts of others do; and there's the chap, -like Gully, who hasn't an ounce of imagination, and gloats -over things like this mine disaster, because he's a ghoul. -I envy people like you and Wratten. You do the best -work because, although you feel pity and sorrow, you -never allow these feelings to hamper your instincts of -the reporter."</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled. "Wratten doesn't." The time -passed in recounting some of Wratten's audacious doings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -His bullying a half-suspected murderer into a confession; -his brutal exposure of a woman swindler—he had -answered an advertisement for a partner in some scheme -or other, found the advertiser was a woman with a -questionable commercial past, pretended he was <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">bona -fide</i>, and, when he had obtained all his material, ruthlessly -exposed her in <cite>The Day</cite>. There was the case of -the feeble-minded millionaire, who was kept a prisoner -in his house. There was the case of the Gaiety girl who -married a lordling, and Wratten pried into their private -lives, forced the lordling into an interview, and wrote a -merciless story that made London snigger. He was -absolutely callous in his work, yet so human and tender-hearted -out of it. Humphrey, since that night when he -had been helped by him, had looked up to Wratten as -the type of the ideal reporter, with courage unlimited, -who never flinched, even when the work was most unsavoury -and humiliating.</p> - -<p>He was not popular with the reporters of the papers: -he kept himself away from them, and restricted his -friendship to one or two men. The reason of his -unpopularity was simply because others feared him as -a rival, and Humphrey found, later, that there was merit -in that sort of unpopularity. The strong men are never -popular.</p> - -<p>The train had now sped past Rugby, and the green -valleys and chequered landscapes ran by in a never-ending -panorama. The sunshine held with them as far -as Crewe, and then, as they came into an unlovely -stretch of land bristling with factory chimneys, the -clouds gathered, and the greyness settled over the day. -The three friends sat silently now: Wratten and Carr, -seated opposite, were looking out of the window, and -Humphrey over Carr's shoulder caught glimpses of the -little world to which they were journeying. He saw the -great brick chimneys everywhere now, breathing clouds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -of foul black smoke, and then, wherever he looked, the -strange-looking gearing-wheels of the coal-mine shafts -came into view. Some of them were quite near the -railway line, and he could see the light twinkling -between their spokes as the great shaft wheels moved -round, hauling up invisible cages. There were tangles -of iron-work, and buildings of grimy brick, and, as they -rushed on, they passed gaunt sidings where coal-stained -trucks waited in a long line.</p> - -<p>They were in a world of brick and iron and coal: -down below them, beneath the throbbing wheels of the -express, the earth was a honeycomb of burrows, where -half-naked men sweated and worked in the awful heat -and close darkness. This was a hard world, spread -around them, a world where men lived hard, worked -hard, and died hard. A world without sunshine,—all -grimy iron and coal and brute strength. And again -Humphrey could not help feeling the pitiful artificiality -of his own work, that mattered so little, compared with -this real and vital business of dragging coal from the -heart of the earth to warm her children.</p> - -<p>They had to change at Wigan: the bookstalls were -covered with placards of Manchester and Bolton newspapers -telling of the horror of the disaster. They bought -copies of every paper, and saw the whole terrible story, -hastily put together, and capped with heart-rending -headlines. They would have to wait thirty minutes for -the train to Hyde: Wratten twitched Humphrey's -sleeve and drew him aside. "Look here," he said, "I -don't know what the other fellows are going to do. -Trains are no good to me—I mayn't be able to get back -to Wigan to wire, and the Hyde post-office will be a -one-horse show. I'm going to get a motor-car. Come -on." So they left the group. Social friendship was at -an end: there were no "Good-byes," each man was -concerned with himself and his own work.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> - -<p>Motor-cars were not used by newspapers at that -time to the extent that they are used to-day; they were -doubly expensive, and even a little uncertain, but <cite>The -Day</cite> was always generous with expenses when it came -to getting news.</p> - -<p>They went outside, and Wratten hailed a dilapidated -four-wheeler. "Drive to a motor garage—quick," he -said.</p> - -<p>"Won't t' old hoss do, guv'nor?" asked the cabby, -with the broad Northern accent.</p> - -<p>"No, it won't, and look slippy," growled Wratten. -The old cab rattled over the stones and down a steep -hill.</p> - -<p>"This is a pretty dull hole," Humphrey said, looking -out at the town, which seemed to be oozing coal from all -its pores.</p> - -<p>"Yes," Wratten said shortly. "I'm trying to think -out a plan. You'd better come with me to Hyde, and -after we've got some stuff for the main story, you can -hang on, and I'll bump back here in the car, and put it -on the wire. Then I'll come back to the mine and -relieve you. You'll probably have got some interviews -by then, and we can run them on to the story."</p> - -<p>They arranged for the motor-car, and during a ten-minutes' -wait, Wratten dashed off to the post-office. -"Always call at the post-office when you get on a job -like this, and tell them what you're going to send. -Besides, the office may have some instructions for you -in the poste restante. And always wire your address -to the office. We'd better stop at the Royal. I daresay -every one else will be there, but it can't be helped."</p> - -<p>They set out in the evening for the mine. The car -took them through the mean streets of Wigan and the -outlying villages, where the shadow of disaster hung -like a black curtain over the houses. The streets were -strangely silent: groups of men stood at the street<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -corners, talking in constrained voices, and women with -shawls over their heads flicked across the roads, grey -and ghostlike, the slap of their clogs breaking harshly -into the silence. Now and again they passed a beer-house, -brilliantly lit, and from here came sounds of -voices, and high nervous laughter. "They always get -drunk on days like these," Wratten said. "They have -to forget that death is always sitting at their shoulders."</p> - -<p>And now there was a stretch of open country, yet -even the fields had not the bright green of the Southern -fields. The very grass was soiled with the coal, and the -mines and the tall chimneys made a ring round their -horizon. Humphrey moved uneasily in the car: the -brooding spirit of tragedy that hovered over the place -was beginning to seem intolerable. It was all so grey, -so appallingly dismal and squalid. Here were the -houses with the blinds drawn over their windows—whole -streets of them—houses where there was no man -to come home now. Here were women leaning over -the railings of the patches of gardens, staring before -them into the desolate future. Fatherless babes crawling -about the dusty pavements and gutters, unheedingly, -knowing nothing of the disaster that had scorched and -withered the mankind of their world.</p> - -<p>They turned down a side-street, and came out upon -an open space filled with a mighty crowd of people. -Behind them was the gate that led to the colliery, and -far away, above their heads, Humphrey saw the winding -wheel above the shaft, twisted and broken, the shaft -itself jagged and castellated where the force of the -explosion had torn the brickwork, and the cable-ropes -shattered and tangled, as if some giant hands had -wrenched it loose and made a plaything of it.</p> - -<p>The crowds before the gate parted as they heard -the noise of the motor-car. They made a narrow lane, -just wide enough for the car to creep through. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -gate was guarded by a police-sergeant, who, overcome -by the sight of the motor-car, opened the way, and -saluted: Wratten, bulky with rugs and wraps, touched -the peak of his cap. The car drew up outside the -offices, and they set out to walk up the black hill to the -pit-mouth.</p> - -<p>Desolation, utter and dismal; the lowering sky -stained and splashed with the red of the dying sun; -dark masses gathering below the purple pall of clouds; -the ground barren and black with coal beneath the feet: -these were Humphrey's first impressions as they walked -up the hill, with thousands of envious, resentful eyes -regarding them from the crowds that huddled beyond -the railings. Nobody questioned them; nobody asked -them what right they had to be there. They were part -and parcel of the scheme—the literary undertakers, or, if -you like, the descendants of the bards of old, the panegyrists, -come to sing their elegies to the dead.</p> - -<p>The full force of the tragedy came, as a blow between -the eyes, when they reached the pit-mouth. Those -women, waiting patiently throughout the day,—and -they would wait, too, long into the night, keeping up -their vigils of despair—who could forget them? Who -could look at their faces without feeling an overwhelming -gush of pity flooding the heart; those eyes, red-rimmed -and staring intensely, eyes that could weep no more, -for their tears were exhausted, and nothing but a stony -impassive grief was left! The shawls made some of the -faces beautiful, Madonna-like, framing them in oval, but -others were the faces of dolorous old women, grey-haired, -and mumbling of mouth. And some of them laid their -forefingers to their lips, calling the world in silence to -witness their stupendous sorrow. They stood there -compact and pitiful: thinking of God knows what—perhaps -of the last good-bye, of a quarrel before parting, -of a plan for the morrow, of all the little last things<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -that had been done by their men, before death had -come.</p> - -<p>And, permeating everything, into the very nostrils of -all of them, there crept a ghastly smell of gas and coal-dust—a -smell that brought to the vision of the imaginative -the shambles in the twisting galleries of coal below -their feet; great falls of black boulders, nameless tortured -hulks that once were men—living, loving, laughing—lying -haphazard as they fell to the same gigantic fist -that smote the iron wheel above the shaft, and crumpled -the brickwork as if it were cardboard.</p> - -<p>They had to see it all: they met other reporters -wandering in and out—dream-people in a world of -terrible reality. Their companions of the train were -all there: Kenneth Carr, surveying that wall of women -silently; Mainham, talking to the mine-manager, whose -black and sweating face told of many descents into the -mine; Gully, buttonholing a woman with a baby in her -arms, and making notes in his notebook; Grame, plodding -to and fro in the coaly mire, for it had been raining -that morning in the North: all working, all observing, -all gathering facts. It was not their business to moralize, -to link up dead men and disasters with the idea of these -desolate women and humanity at large. That was the -leader-writer's work. Their business was to get the news -and say how it happened. They dared not even expose -criminal negligence, or inhuman cruelty, or savage conditions -of work—and libel laws were there to restrain them.</p> - -<p>And they all felt—yes, I believe even the brutal -Gully felt it for a moment—the unspeakable horror of -the tragedy, the injustice not of men dying like this, -but having to live like this; great waves of sympathy -and pity came over them, and they pitied themselves for -their impotence. Ah! if they could have told the -millions that would read their writings in the morning, -the thoughts that were in their minds....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> - -<p>Humphrey saw it all. He saw the gaunt, drear shed -where the flickering lamp-light played over a dozen -shapeless bundles sewed up in white. A man came to -the shed—this business of identification was no woman's -work—the policeman in charge whispered something: -they went in together; the policeman turned back the -sheet—O God! is it possible that a face once human -could look like that! Turn down the sheet. We cannot -recognize him. All we know is that the bundle of -clothes seared from his body is his; that pocket-book -is his too, and we recognize the bone crucifix that he -bought one Easter-tide in Manchester.</p> - -<p>"Hold up.... Thanks, matey, the light's a bit -dim...."</p> - -<p>An odour of carbolic mingled with the stench of the -coal-dust; a blue-clad nurse with a scarlet cross on her -arm moved among the white bundles, and she seemed -to bring with her a promise of exquisite peace after pain, -and rest and eternal sleep. Outside, a grim black wagon -lumbered up the hill, and, as the wind flapped its canvas -doors open, one saw its load of coffins....</p> - -<p>Now the rescue party was going down again. They -emerged from a brick shanty, through whose windows -Humphrey could see the shelves which were meant to -hold the miners' lamps—there was a pathos in those -empty shelves. These men were going down to dare -death: they looked inhuman fantastic creatures, with -goggled helmets over their heads, and great knapsack -arrangements of oxygen and nitrogen to breathe, for -one breath of the air in the mine below meant stupor -and sleep everlasting. There were five men, and as -they passed the group of dolorous women, they must -have felt the tremor of hope and deep gratitude that -shot through the fibre of every despairing one. Here -were the sexes in their elemental state, stripped of all -the artificial trappings of civilization; men were doing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -the work of men; women giving them courage with the -blessings of God that they murmured.</p> - -<p>The leader of the rescue gang carried a little canary -in a cage; the little yellow bird piped and sang, and -hopped about his perch. The little yellow bird was the -centre of all their faith in God's mercy: for if the bird -could live in the air of the mine, there was still some -hope for their men.</p> - -<p>Slowly the cage descended the shaft that was unbroken. -The sunset blinked between the spokes of the -gearing-wheel, slower and slower—they were at the -bottom of the mine. Now, they were in that inferno -of vaporous blackness, with death stalking them, a -gaunt, cloudy monster, who had but to puff out his -cheeks and breathe destruction. There would be -enormous falls of coal and timber to combat; they -would have to crawl on their bellies, and stagger along, -stooping to the broken roofs of the galleries, and always -there was the startling danger of a jar knocking their -knapsacks, or breaking the mouthpieces through which -they breathed their precious elixir of life.</p> - -<p>Up above, the night was coming, and a rain as soft -as tears began to drift downwards. The women waited. -Salvation Army officers moved among them, enticing -some of them into the shelter of the silent machine-room. -"Of what use is tea and coffee to us? Give us -our men. No food or drink shall pass our lips until -our men have kissed them, or we have kissed their still -faces."</p> - -<p>Up above, a preacher preached of the infinite mercy -of God, and the gospel of pain and sorrow by which -the Kingdom of Heaven is reached. He stood there -with his arms outstretched, like a black cross silhouetted -against the darkening sky, his low, mournful, dirge-like -voice blending with the gloom.... Down below, in the -reek and the stench, the rescuers' hands are bloody with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -tearing their way through obstacles, and their pulses are -hammering in their heads ... and they have seen -sickening things.</p> - -<p>Now the wheel begins to move again. Doctors -hurry to the door of the cage—lint, bandages, stretchers, -evil and glittering instruments that kill pain with pain, -all the ghastly paraphernalia of Death. They are -coming up!... They are coming up!... A silence, -so swift and sudden, that it is as if the great multitude -had whispered "Hush," the tinkle of the bell marking -the stages of the ascent is clearly heard by people waiting -on the bank. The cage appears.... The men -stagger out, one by one, helmets removed, their faces -grimed and sweaty, their eyes white and staring out of -the black grotesquery of their faces, their lips taut and -silent.</p> - -<p>And one of them carries a cage in his hand, a cage -with an empty perch, and a smother of wet and draggled -feathers huddled into one corner. A world without the -song of a bird—no hope! ... no hope.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"I shall have to dash back to Wigan now, and get -my stuff on the wires," said Wratten. "Will you wait -here and I'll come and relieve you. Pick up any stuff -you can. Facts." Humphrey wandered about the -dismal pit-mouth—sometimes he was challenged by -the police, and ordered to keep within a certain area. -He found a cluster of reporters by a lighted lamp. One -of them had received an official communication from -the mine-manager, and he was giving it to his colleagues. -Humphrey took it down in his note-book. Then there -was another flutter. A piece of flimsy paper was fixed to -a board outside the lamp-house. A message from the -King.</p> - -<p>Now, the wires were humming with words, thousands -upon thousands of words sent by the writers to all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -cities of the kingdom. And in all the offices the large -square sheets of the press telegraph-forms were being -delivered. Humphrey saw the picture of <cite>The Day</cite> -office: Selsey sitting at the top of the table, the boy -handing him the pile of news from Wigan, a sub-editor -cutting it down, here and there—always cutting down. -Perhaps, you see, some great politician was making a -speech at the Albert Hall, and space was needed for -three columns, with a large introduction.</p> - -<p>It was nine o'clock. Another rescue party had gone -down. The women still waited, their faces yellow now -in the flare of lamps. It seemed to Humphrey that he -had left London centuries ago ... that he had never -met Lilian at all. It was as if that morning his life -had been uprooted, and it would have to be planted -again before it could absorb the old interests and influences.... -He was hungry and cold. There was no -chance of getting food. If he were a miner, or had any -real part in this game, the Salvation Army would have -given him tea and bread ... but he was a reporter, an -onlooker, supposed to be watching everything, and, in a -sense, physically invisible.</p> - -<p>A car panted up.... It was Wratten. "Here I -am, Quain. Anything happened? Official communication. -Oh yes, and the King's telegram. Better send -them off. Hop into the car and then send it back -for me. I'll wait."</p> - -<p>"Wait?" Humphrey said. "What about food?"</p> - -<p>"I've got some sandwiches. I'll wait here until two. -Never know what will happen. Rescuer might get killed. -It's happened before. Fellow might be brought up alive."</p> - -<p>"But it's going to rain like blazes."</p> - -<p>"Is it?... Off you get. You can turn in. I'll -keep the deck."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was nearly eleven when Humphrey had sent his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -telegram to London. The post-office was open by a -side door for the correspondents, and some of them were -still writing. Cigarettes dangled from their lips. They -had an opened note-book on one side and a pile of -telegraph-forms on the other—not the forms that -ordinary human beings use, but large square sheets, -divided up into spaces for a hundred words on a page. -Fifteen of them made a column in <cite>The Day</cite>—Wratten -had covered thirty forms.</p> - -<p>Humphrey went back to the hotel. His friends -were in the coffee-room amazing the waitress with -their appetites for cold meat and pickles and beer at -half-past eleven. The tension was over, and the reaction -was setting in. Their faces were strained, and they all -seemed unnaturally good-humoured. They laughed at -anything, clutching at any joke that would make them -forget the dismal horrors of their day. Kenneth Carr -looked more pallid than ever.</p> - -<p>"Where's Wratten?" he asked, as Humphrey came -into the room.</p> - -<p>"Still waiting up there," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"What's the good of waiting?" Gully put in. "If -anything happens, the Agency men will send it through, -and, anyway, it's too late for the first edition."</p> - -<p>"I reckon I've done my day's work; me for the soft -bed," Chander remarked. "By the way, I found five -separate men who've got five separate shillings out of -me. Each swore he was absolutely the first person to -arrive on the scene and no one else there. It's a sad -world. Good-night."</p> - -<p>Kenneth Carr left shortly afterwards, and the others -remained drinking and telling stories. Humphrey had -been chary of drinking since his adventure that evening -when he was on his first murder story, but to-night he -drank with the rest. They were all urged by the same -motives. They wanted to forget the black pit-mouth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -and the women, and the smell of the coal-dust.</p> - -<p>That night Humphrey woke up suddenly and heard -the rain drumming against the window. He wondered -if Wratten were back from the mine. He fell asleep -again, and dreamed of a gaunt building, where a blue-clad -nurse, with the face of Lilian, hovered about white, -shapeless bundles.... And in London the dawn was -coming westwards over Fleet Street, and the vans were -rattling to the stations, so that all that had been written -would be read over millions of breakfast-tables everywhere -in the kingdom.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.X" id="II.X"></a>X</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Since his visit to Lilian's home, he had come to a -definite decision about his marriage. It would have to -be privately done, and the news kept from his aunt -until they were wedded. In spite of the increasing -breadth of his life, he had not yet shaken off the narrow -influence of Easterham; his aunt still remained as a -factor to be considered in his scheme of things. If he -told her, beforehand, she would ask all sorts of questions. -Who were the Filmers? What did Mr Filmer do? -(He winced at even this imagined question.) Were -they <em>really nice</em> people? That was the greatest quality -that anybody could have in his aunt's estimation—the -quality of being <em>really nice</em>. It was a vague, impalpable -quality that defied definition, though Humphrey knew -that, somehow or other, his aunt would arrive at the -conclusion that the Filmers had not that desirable -attribute, if she could by any chance visit them.</p> - -<p>Of Lilian, of course, there could be no doubt.... -She was rare and exquisite, so different altogether from -the rest of her family. Nobody could help loving her, -and he knew that she would survive the Easterham -inquisition. But he saw at once that Mrs Filmer and -his aunt would never, never blend. She would find -out at once that Mrs Filmer was not "really nice."...</p> - -<p>He and Lilian talked it over, whenever they could -meet. She did not share his hurry to be married. "It -is sweet like this," she said once. There was an odd, -wistful note in her voice. Then she looked at him fondly, -and, "Oh! what a boy you are, Humphrey," she said. -He did not object to that so much now. He smiled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -indulgently—he had not been many months in Fleet -Street, but he seemed to have absorbed the experience -of as many years.</p> - -<p>He was changing, so gradually, that he could not note -the phases of his development himself. He felt that he -was leaving all his old associations far behind. It was -as if some driving power were within him, rushing him -forward daily, while most of the other people round him -stood still. There was Beaver, for instance—he seemed -to have left Beaver long ago, though they were still at -their old Guilford Street lodgings. But, somehow, Beaver -seemed now just a milestone, marking the passage of a -brief stage in his life. Soon, he knew, Beaver would -be out of sight altogether. There was Tommy Pride—another -milestone; he had run on and caught up with -Wratten and Kenneth Carr, and these were the people -who were influencing him now....</p> - -<p>And there was that great ambition, growing into a -steady flame: ambition burning up every other desire -within him; ambition leading him by ways that mattered -not so long as they led at last to conquest.</p> - -<p>Lilian was to help him: she was to be a handmaiden -to ambition. The picture of the journalistic homes that -he had seen made him long to found one of his own. -This life of lodgings and drifting was profitless—he -wanted a home; permanence and peace in this life of -restless insecurity. Very often he dreamed of his home—where -would it be?—they would have to be content -with rooms at first, an upper part, perhaps, but the rooms -would be their own, and they could shut the door on -the world, and live monarchs of their own seclusion for -a few hours, at least, every day. There were walls lined -with books, too, in his picture of the home, and Lilian, -in an arm-chair of her own, set by the fireplace, and -the blinds down, and the light glittering on the golden -threads in her brown hair.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p> - -<p>He told Lilian of his dreams, and she shook her -head and smiled.</p> - -<p>"It's a nice picture, isn't it?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Don't you see it too?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Sometimes. I used to see it quite a lot at one -time. Before I knew you."</p> - -<p>He showed chagrin. "Oh! wasn't I in it?"</p> - -<p>"How could you have been when I hadn't met you? -I forget who was the ideal for me at the moment. Lewis -Waller, perhaps, or William Gillette." She laughed. -"Silly Humphrey, it's the picture you're in love with, -and you can put anybody in the arm-chair."</p> - -<p>He protested against it, yet all the while he was -wondering how she could have known that! He had -not considered that point of view himself, nor would he -now. It was Lilian he wanted; she was just as beautiful -as ever, and nobody else was within his grasp.</p> - -<p>He sighed. "I do wish we could settle about—about -our marriage. Let's fix it up for next week."</p> - -<p>She pretended to be horrified. "Only a week to -prepare in! Look at the things I've got to buy. My -bottom drawer isn't half full."</p> - -<p>"Well!" he said, hopelessly, "when are we going -to get married? Do let's try and fix a day."</p> - -<p>He could not understand why, sometimes, she would -seem so eager and delighted with the prospect of -marriage, and at other times she would be in a mood -for indefinite postponement, as though she wished to -keep him for ever lingering after her with all his thirst -for love unquenched.</p> - -<p>He could not know that she was beginning to realize, -with that intuition which no man can fathom, that her -dreams had been but dreams, and the love that they -thought everlasting but the passing shadow of a moment.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When he got back to the reporters' room that evening—he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -had been reporting the visit of a famous actress -to a Home for Incurables—Willoughby met him with a -grave face.</p> - -<p>"Heard about Wratten?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"No—what is it?" Humphrey said, feeling that evil -news was coming.</p> - -<p>"Double pneumonia—they thought it was a chill at -first ... he got it at that mine disaster last week. -You were there, weren't you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. He would insist on staying out all night ... -it was raining...."</p> - -<p>"That was Wratten all over," Willoughby said.</p> - -<p>Humphrey winced. "Don't say 'was,'" he said, -almost fiercely. "Wratten's going to get better. It's -impossible for him to die ... why, he is only just begun -to live ... and there's his wife ... and, perhaps...."</p> - -<p>He stopped short. Nobody could quite understand -what Wratten meant to him. Not even Wratten himself.</p> - -<p>"I didn't know you and Wratten were very thick," -Willoughby said. "He's a good chap, but so devilish -glum."</p> - -<p>"None of you know Wratten—I don't suppose I -do—but I know that he's the whitest man in the Street."</p> - -<p>He went out to Hampstead that night, after work, -but the nurse who came to the door said that he could -not see Mrs Wratten, she was in the sick-room—Mr -Wratten was dangerously ill; but he was going on as -well as could be expected.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.XI" id="II.XI"></a>XI</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Ferrol was back in his room, among his buttons, after -a long holiday abroad. There was always a subtle -difference in the office when he returned after these -occasional absences; and not only in the office, but in -the whole Street, where men would say to each other, -"Ferrol's back, I hear ... wonder what <cite>The Day</cite> will do -next." For Ferrol always returned to his paper with -some new scheme, some new idea that he had planned -while he was away—he seemed to be able to see weeks -ahead, to know what people would be talking about, or, -if he could not be certain as to that, he would "boom" -something in <cite>The Day</cite>, and its mighty circulation would -make people talk about anything he wanted them to -discuss. They were doing nearly a million a day—think -of it! Ferrol, sitting in his office, could touch a button, -give some instructions, and send his influence into -nearly a million homes. He could move the thoughts of -hundreds of thousands; throw the weight of <cite>The Day</cite> -into a cause and carry it through into success. He -could order the lives of his readers, in large matters -or small matters. That famous Batter Pudding campaign, -for instance, is not forgotten, when <cite>The Day</cite> -found a crank of a doctor, who declared that our national -ill-health was due to eating Batter Pudding with roast -beef. Batter Pudding was on every one's lips, and in no -one's mouth. People stopped cooking Batter Pudding. -Ferrol touched a button and they obeyed. Nor must -we forget the wonderful campaign on the "Bulrush -Throat," by which Humphrey was able to oust the -bulrushes from Mrs Wayzgoose's sitting-room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span></p> - -<p>Yet, sometimes, in <cite>The Day</cite> campaigns, there was a -spark of greatness and a hint of nobler things, that -seemed to reflect the complex personality of Ferrol -himself; Ferrol groping through the web of commercial -opportunism which was weaving round him, striving -after something ideal and worthy. A man has been -wrongly arrested and condemned—Ferrol stands for -justice; the columns of <cite>The Day</cite> are opened to powerful -pens; the nation is inflamed, there are questions in -the House, the case is re-opened and the conviction -quashed. Nameless injustices and cruel dishonesty -would flourish if <cite>The Day</cite> were not there to expose such -things. You must balance the good against the evil, and -perhaps the good will outweigh the evil, for Ferrol, when -he touched the buttons, did many good things, and the -nearest approach to evil he made was in doing those -few things that were transparently foolish....</p> - -<p>Something in <cite>The Day</cite> had arrested his attention -that morning. (He always read the paper through, -page by page, from the city quotations to the last word -on the sporting page.) The article in question was not -an important one: it was a few hundred words about a -party of American girls who were being hustled through -London in one day—the quickest sight-seeing tour on -record. The account of their doings was brightly -written, with a flash of humour here and there; and, you -know, it had the "human touch."</p> - -<p>Who wrote it? The button moves; pink-faced -Trinder starts nervously from his desk in the ante-room, -and appears shiny, and halting in speech. He is sent on -a mission of investigation, while Ferrol turns to other -matters: the circulation department wants waking up. -Ferrol actually travelled in his car all the way from his -house in Kensington, and for every contents bill of -<cite>The Day</cite> he saw three of <cite>The Sentinel</cite>. Gammon, the -manager of the circulation department, appears, produced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -magically by touching a button. "This won't do, you -know." There are explanations, though Ferrol doesn't -want explanations—he wants results; which Gammon, -retiring in a mood for perspiration, promises. There -has been a slight drop in advertisement revenue—Ferrol -has a finger in every pie. "Dull season be damned," -says Ferrol to the advertisement manager—a very great -person, drawing five thousand a year, commissions and -salary, and with it all dependent on Ferrol. In two -minutes Ferrol has produced a "scheme"—an idea -that may be worth thousands of pounds to the paper. -"Splendid," says the advertisement manager. "Get -ahead with it," says Ferrol....</p> - -<p>In ten minutes it is as if there had been an eruption -in every department of the grey building. The fault-finding -words in the red room with the buttons drop -like stones in a pool, making widening rings, until they -reach the humblest junior in every department—Ferrol -is back, and the office knows it!...</p> - -<p>Trinder reappears. Mr Quain wrote the article -... and Ferrol suddenly remembers.</p> - -<p>So the boy has been doing well. Both Neckinger and -Rivers approve of Humphrey. "Not a brilliant genius, -thank God!" says Rivers, "but a good straightforward -man. Very sound."</p> - -<p>Thus is Ferrol justified once more in his perception -for the right man. His thoughts travelled back once -more to Easterham, to the days when he himself was -Humphrey's age, to the days of Margaret, and the white -memories of his only romance. Strange that the vision -of her should always stand out against the thousand -complexities of his life after all these years. He saw -her just as he had last seen her, eyes of a deep darkness, -and black hair that seemed by contrast to heighten the -dusky pallor of her skin. A child that was too frail to live, -and yet she had inspired him in these long distant days.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was astonishing to think that she had had a -separate life of her own; that she had married and -passed out of the scheme of things. She was dead, and -yet she came knocking like this at queer, irregular -intervals, at the door of his life.</p> - -<p>And Ferrol was drawn with a strange attraction -towards this boy who was her son; he came as if he -were a message from Margaret, holding out her hands -to him, across the unfathomable abyss of Space -and Time. "Now you can repay," she seemed to -say.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Well, Quain," said Ferrol, as Humphrey came into -the room.</p> - -<p>Ferrol masked his sentiments behind the crisp, hard -voice that he always cultivated in the office. Nobody -could have guessed from his treatment of Humphrey -that he regarded the boy with any particular favour. -Ferrol knew well enough how to handle men: they -must be made always to believe that they are firm and -independent, and it does not do to let them see the -props and supports that hold them up.</p> - -<p>Humphrey was busily searching for the reason of -this summons to Ferrol's room. It was only the third -time that he had been in this broad red room, yet -already his nervousness vanished, he no longer feared -his greatness, or the comprehensive power of the man -with the black moustache and the strong hands that -held in their grip all the fortunes of <cite>The Day</cite>. He -stood there, by Ferrol's desk, so changed, so different -from the timid Humphrey who had felt the floor sinking -beneath him when he faced, for the first time, this man -whose potentiality he could not grasp. There was -little outward difference, save, perhaps, the lips compressed -a little tighter, and a frown that came and went, -but inwardly the timid Humphrey had gone, and in its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -place there was a bolder Humphrey, whose mind was all -the better for the bruises of battle.</p> - -<p>"Well, Quain," said Ferrol, moving papers about his -desk, and regarding Humphrey all the time with those -penetrating grey eyes.</p> - -<p>"You sent for me, sir?" Humphrey asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes." Ferrol paused. "Getting on all right?" he -blurted out.</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled—Getting on! The phrase had -been on his lips on that day when he had first appeared -in the red room. He thought of all the things that had -been crowded into his life since then. Of all that he had -seen; of all the people he had met; of the glimpses into -the greatness and the pettiness; the worthiness and the -unworthiness; the virtue and the vice and the vanity of -it all. As he thought thus, he saw a blurred composite -picture of the past months, figures flitting to and fro, -men striving in the underworld of endeavour, work, work, -and a little love, and, in the background, a whimsical -picture of his aunt who preached the stern gospel of -Getting On, without knowing what it really meant.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to have you put on better work," Ferrol -said. How the boy's eyes sparkled and lit up his face! -"Mr Rivers is quite satisfied. You shall do some of the -descriptive work. Think you'll be able to do as well as -John K. Garton one day?"</p> - -<p>John K. Garton!—he was the great descriptive writer -of <cite>The Day</cite>, the man who signed every article he wrote, -who was never seen in the reporters' room, except when -he looked in for letters; a being who seemed to Humphrey -to belong to quite another sphere, above Wratten, above -Kenneth Carr, above all the reporters in salary and -reputation. He was one of Ferrol's products: all England -knew of him, and read his work as special correspondent, -yet Ferrol could put a finger on a button, you know....</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed. "Oh, I don't know, Mr Ferrol,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> -he said, awkwardly. "My work would probably be quite -different, I couldn't write in his style."</p> - -<p>"That's right," said Ferrol. "Try and find an individual -style of your own. No room for imitators here. -Still, there's plenty of time to talk about that. I just -wanted to let you know I've had my eye on you." -Ferrol nodded, Humphrey turned to go.</p> - -<p>Then he remembered he was going to ask Ferrol for -a rise in salary. He came back to the desk.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr Ferrol," he said, "I ought to tell you, I'm -going to be married."</p> - -<p>Ferrol pushed his pad aside. What a fool he had -been to think he could constitute himself the only influence -in this boy's career. How was it he had overlooked -the one important factor—a woman. It came so suddenly, -this revelation of Humphrey's intimate life, and all at -once Ferrol found himself swayed with an unreasoning -dislike of this unknown woman—it was an absurd feeling -of jealousy.—Yes, he was jealous that anybody should -exercise a greater influence than himself over Humphrey, -now that he had decided to push him forward to success.</p> - -<p>"Married!" he said, harshly, "you damned young -fool!"</p> - -<p>The words came as a blow in the face. Humphrey -flushed, and found that he could not speak. He thought -of Ferrol's soft words that had opened up such illimitable -visions of the future, and then, quite unexpectedly—this.</p> - -<p>"Somebody in Easterham?" asked Ferrol.</p> - -<p>"Oh no! Nobody in Easterham. She lives in -London. She's in Fleet Street."</p> - -<p>"A woman journalist?"</p> - -<p>"No—she's a typist."</p> - -<p>"You damned young fool!" Ferrol repeated. "What -do you want to get married for?"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.XII" id="II.XII"></a>XII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>In the silence that followed, Humphrey stood bewildered. -The harsh note in Ferrol's voice surprised him; what on -earth could it matter to Ferrol whether he married or -not. And Ferrol must have read his thoughts, and seen -his mistake at once.</p> - -<p>"Of course," he said, "it's no business of mine. Your -life's your own. Only I think you're too young for that -sort of thing. Why, you haven't seen the world yet. -You haven't a father, have you?"</p> - -<p>"No," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Well"—Ferrol's voice softened—"you won't mind -my advising you then."</p> - -<p>"No," said Humphrey again: already he seemed to -feel Lilian slipping from his grasp.</p> - -<p>"I'm looking at it simply from the business point of -view. No man has a right to marry until his position is -made—least of all a reporter."</p> - -<p>"But she would help me," Humphrey pleaded. "She -would be able to help me. She would ..." he broke -off.</p> - -<p>Ferrol completed the sentence for him. "Keep you -straight. Yes, I know. I've heard it all before. The -man who needs a woman to keep him straight is only -half a man."</p> - -<p>"But," continued Humphrey—and he thought of -Wratten and Tommy Pride—"we don't get much out -of life—we're at work all day long, there's absolutely -nobody ... I mean, there's nothing left in it all ..." -he spread his hands wide. "At the end there's nothing -... emptiness." He stammered broken sentences<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -that had a queer impressiveness in them. "I'm nothing -... it seems to me ... all this life, rushing about all -day ... and everything forgotten to-morrow ... -there's nothing that lasts ... nothing except...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you think you'll get happiness," Ferrol said. -"Perhaps you will. But every moment of happiness is -going to cost you years of misery. As soon as you -marry, what happens? You are no longer independent. -You've got to lie down and take all the kicks. You've -got to submit to be ground down; to be insulted by -men whom you dare not strike back, as you would, if -you had only yourself to think of.... And then, you -know, in a year's time, you've got to work ... double -as hard, and to watch every penny, and to save.... -Why, you young fool, don't you see that if you're going -to get on in this business, you mustn't have any other -wish in life but to rise to the top. Everything must be -put aside for that—you must even put aside yourself. -You must have only one love—the love of the game; -the love of the hunter for his quarry."</p> - -<p>What made Ferrol talk like this.... What had -happened to Humphrey that he should be there, standing -up to Ferrol, fighting the question of his marriage? -Something new and unexpected had thrust itself into -their relations, and Humphrey could not understand it.</p> - -<p>"But that's what I want to do," he said; "we should -do it together."</p> - -<p>"Yes. How?" said Ferrol, a little brutally again. -"Shall I tell you? I know you young men who marry -the moment you see a marrying wage. It's all very well -for you—you may progress—you may develop—you're -bound to, for men knock about and gather world experience. -But what of the woman at home?—cooped -up in her home with babies? Eh? have you thought -of that? Where would your home be? You haven't -got as far as that, then. The woman stands still, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -you march on. She can lift you up, but you can't lift -her up. And then the day comes that you're a brilliant -man—the most brilliant man in the Street, if you like...." -Ferrol smiled. "Oh! you never know. Think of John -K. Garton, and Mallaby, and Owers.... And you're -different. You can link up the things of life. You can -perceive and appreciate pictures and fine music and the -meaning of everything that matters ... and for the -woman who has not been able to progress, nothing but -popular songs, chromographs, and ignorance of anything -but the petty little things of to-day. Then you hear -people saying, 'How on earth did he come to marry -her?' There's always an answer to that. <em>He</em> didn't -marry her. It was another man—the man he was twenty -years ago—who did it. Do you see?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked about him forlornly. His dreams -were crumbling before the onslaught of Ferrol's remorseless -less words. The powerful magnetism of this man held -him: he felt sure that Ferrol was right.... Ferrol -was only voicing the thoughts that he himself had feared -to express. Above the inward turmoil of his mind, he -heard again the voice of Ferrol, forceful and insistent:</p> - -<p>"You are not the man you will be in twenty years' -time. There's no reason," he added hastily, "why I -should take all this trouble over you ... no reason at -all ... it's no concern of mine. Other people on my -staff can do as they please—for some men marriage is -the best thing ... I don't interfere. I'm not interfering -now. I'm only giving my point of view."</p> - -<p>"Yes ... I know," Humphrey said, and somehow -or other he seemed to feel an extraordinary sympathy -for Ferrol; he seemed to understand this man. At that -moment he would have stood forth for Ferrol and -championed him against a world of hatred!</p> - -<p>"Only I thought ..." Humphrey began. "You -see, she supports her family...."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> - -<p>"O Lord!" Ferrol groaned. "It's worse than I -imagined."</p> - -<p>"Besides, she's ... she's clever ... we have the -same tastes."</p> - -<p>"Of course you have. But your tastes will alter. -You're going to progress.... And she's going to progress, -too, on different lines.... A woman's line of -progress is different ... and in twenty years' time!"</p> - -<p>The telephone bell rang. Ferrol took up the -receiver.</p> - -<p>"Well, that's all," he said to Humphrey. And -then: "I don't take this trouble with every one."</p> - -<p>Humphrey groped for words. "No ... I understand -... I see what you mean.... You don't -think...."</p> - -<p>Ferrol nodded. "You can do what you like, of -course."</p> - -<p>He put the receiver to his ear and began talking -rapidly.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.XIII" id="II.XIII"></a>XIII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Lilian knew the letter by heart now, she had read it -through and through so often. She had received it -early that morning, when, as usual, she ran downstairs -at the postman's knock, so as to take that precious letter, -that came daily, from the floor where it lay as it had -been dropped through the slit in the door. Of late, the -sisters and brother had noticed the hurry to capture the -first post, and there had been a little good-humoured -chaffing over the breakfast-table, where they all sat -together—the father and mother took their breakfast -upstairs in bed, in keeping with their slatternly lives.</p> - -<p>"Going to be a blushing bride soon, Lily?" said -Harry, with a wink to Edith.</p> - -<p>"Don't be silly!" Lilian said, crumbling her letter in -her pocket.</p> - -<p>"What's he like? Is it that nobleman who came -here a few weeks ago? If so, I don't think much of his -taste in ties!"</p> - -<p>"It's better than your taste in socks," retorted Lilian.</p> - -<p>"Aha!—a hit, a palpable hit. Guessed it at once. -Pass the butter, Edie."</p> - -<p>"Do tell us all about it," Florence urged.</p> - -<p>"The family wants to know," pleaded Harry.</p> - -<p>"Lilian—are you really...."</p> - -<p>Her hands closed over the letter which she had just -read. She turned her head away and pretended to be -busy at the coffee-pot. They were all joking among -themselves, and they did not notice the tears glisten in -her eyes.</p> - -<p>"There's nothing to tell," she said, in a hard voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, we don't believe that!" Harry said. "Young -ladies wot gets letters in masculiferous handwritings -every morning...."</p> - -<p>She rose abruptly and looked at the clock. Then—wonderful -Lilian!—she laughed and threw them all off -the scent. "You children are too talkative," she said, -with pretended loftiness. "I mustn't stop chattering -with you or I shall miss the eight-forty." She put on -her gloves with precision, and took up her little handbag, -and adjusted her hat, just as if nothing had -happened to disturb the ordinary course of her life; -and, then, with the usual kiss all round, she let herself -out of the house.</p> - -<p>Oh, she kept herself well in hand throughout the -journey to town—nobody knew, and nobody must know. -It was only a secret between herself and her heart. She -looked out with dry eyes over the dismal plain of -chimney-pots with which the train ran level, the cowls -spinning in the wind ... the chimney-pots stretched -row upon row, far away, until, with a hint of the open -sea, adventure and wide freedom, the masts and rigging -and brown sails arose from the ships lying in the docks. -But when she came to the office she rushed upstairs, and -in the little room where they hung their cloaks and hats, -all her pent-up emotions broke loose with a torrent of -tears. She wanted to empty her eyes of tears so that -there should be none left, and she wept without control, -silently, until she could weep no more. It was just like -a short, sharp storm on a day that is oppressive and -heavy; the air is all the cooler and sweeter for it, fresh -breezes play gently over the streets, the world itself seems -eased after its outburst.</p> - -<p>She could smile again. She bathed her red eyes in -the cold water of the basin, and performed some magic -with a powder-puff. Nobody would have guessed, as she -sat tap-tapping at her typewriter, with the sunshine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -touching her hair with its golden fingers, that a thunderstorm -had shaken her nature a few minutes earlier. It -was all over now; only the letter remained, and she knew -the letter by heart, she had read it so often.</p> - -<p>A difficult letter to write! Well, not really, for that -which comes from the heart is easy to write. It is insincerity -which presents difficulties, and in this business -Humphrey had not been insincere. He had not made -any cold calculations as to the future; he had not -weighed the pros and cons of it all. After the letter was -written and posted, the vision of her reproachful face -haunted his dreams, and he felt that he had lost something -irretrievable—something of himself that had gone -from him, never to return.</p> - -<p>He was only considering himself. He saw the sudden -possibilities of the future which Ferrol had opened for -him; the true proportions in which he had painted that -picture of the days to come. The fear of these responsibilities -attacked him and made him a coward.</p> - -<p>He saw, at once, that he could not marry Lilian, and -he told her so in a tempestuous, passionate letter, with -ill-considered phrases jumbled all together, treading on -one another's heels, as fast as the ideas tumbled about -in his mind.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I cannot do it, Lilian, dear," he began. "We should -never be happy together. I can see that. I don't know -what you will think of me; you cannot think any worse -of me than I think of myself. I feel a blackguard; I -feel as if some one had given me a beautiful, priceless vase, -and I had hurled it to the floor and smashed it. It is -not that I love you any the less, but I cannot ask you to -share this life of mine. When I first knew you, I thought -it would be beautiful if we could be married—everything -seemed so easy to accomplish. But now I see that years -must pass before I win my way, and that marriage for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -us would be an unhappy, uphill affair. Forgive me, forgive -me, Lilian. I cannot tell you all my thoughts on -paper. But meet me just once more in the old restaurant -in the Strand, where I can explain to you all that I want -to say, and plead for your forgiveness. Oh, my sweet -Lilian, you will understand and help me, I know.</p> - -<p> -"<span class="smcap">Humphrey.</span>"<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p>This was the letter, written on the impulse of the -moment, which Humphrey sent to her. Incredible that -it should be dropped in the ordinary way into a pillar-box, -to lie for hours with hundreds of other letters, to -pass through many hands until it finally came into the -hands of the postman at Battersea Park, who delivered -it, without any emotion, with a score of bills and receipts -and circulars.</p> - -<p>Well, it was done, and, while Humphrey was waiting -for his work in the reporters' room of <cite>The Day</cite>, Lilian's -mind was busy with the new development of affairs. -Now, she could review everything calmly, she felt in -her heart that Humphrey was right, but there was the -sense of wounded pride with her. He had thrown her -over! He did not even ask her to wait for him—yes! -she would have waited—he was hasty to unburden himself -and win his freedom again. Yet she knew that she -could not wait—she was older than he—she would be too -old in ten years' time. The flower of her life would be -full for a few years, and then she knew he would see that -her glory was waning.... All this was no surprise to -her. Instinctively she seemed to have known that this -would be the outcome of her love affair. Strange! how -she accepted it without any more demur than the natural -outburst of tears—and what were those tears, after all, -but tears of self-pity, as she looked upon herself and saw -that she was poor and patient and loveless?</p> - -<p>They met in that same Italian restaurant in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> -Strand to which Humphrey had first taken her on that -day, months ago, when the glamour was upon him. The -proprietor knew them for more or less regular customers, -and they always had the upstairs room, which was invariably -empty.</p> - -<p>This dreadful business of the waiter taking his hat -and stick, setting the table in order, offering the menus, -and recommending things, with a greasy smile, and -knowing, dark eyes! They had to mask their feelings, -and to play the old part, and pretend that they were -going to have lunch.</p> - -<p>She noticed that Humphrey's face was pale, the -lines about his mouth less soft than usual. His eyes -were strained, and he looked at her wistfully, not quite -sure of his ground, wondering whether there would be -a scene.</p> - -<p>She could read him thoroughly. She knew that he -really felt mean and uncomfortable, that she had but to -use her woman-wit to recapture him at once—snare -him so completely that never could he escape again. -She knew that the very sight of her weakened him in -his resolve, a kiss on the lips, and her fingers stroking -his hair and face, he was hers, and the world well lost -for him.</p> - -<p>But that was not Lilian's way. A strange, deep -feeling of pity was in her heart as she marked the pallor -of his face. She would have mothered him, but never -cajoled him. "He is only a boy," she thought sorrowfully, -"with a boy's destructiveness. This, that he thinks -is an overwhelming tragedy, will be only a mere incident -in a few years' time." And she smiled at her thoughts.</p> - -<p>Her smile awoke only the faintest echoes of dying -memories within him: her smile that had once thrilled -him, and sent his heart beating faster, and made his -throat so curiously parched—incredible that such things -had happened once!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You are not angry," he said, timidly, with a touch -of tragedy in his voice.</p> - -<p>"Angry?" she echoed. (He feared she was going -to make light of the whole affair, and trembled at the -idea of her mocking him: he might have known that -that also was not Lilian's way.) "Angry," she repeated. -"No, Humphrey. I'm not angry."</p> - -<p>"There's no excuse," he began, hopelessly, "I've got -nothing to say for myself.... It seems to me ... it -seems best that it should be ... for both of us, I -mean."</p> - -<p>"I think it's better for me," she said, softly. "There's -no good making a tragedy of it. Things always turn -out for the best."</p> - -<p>He fidgeted uneasily. "I was thinking it over last -night.... Oh, my head aches with thinking.... -You see, what can we do, if we married. Everything's -up against us ... it's all fighting and risks, and uncertainty. -I don't mind for myself" (and Humphrey -really believed this, for the moment), "it's you that I'm -thinking of ... it wouldn't be fair. I could ask you -to wait..." he did not finish.</p> - -<p>Now, really, Humphrey's arrogance must be taught -a lesson. Behold, Lilian gathering her forces together -to crush him—ask her to wait, indeed! as if he were her -last chance. And then something in his eyes checked -her, something wistful and intensely pathetic. Splendidly, -Lilian spared him. He was so easy to crush ... perhaps -she still liked him a little, in spite of everything.</p> - -<p>"No," she said. "There's no need to do that. We'll -each go our own ways."</p> - -<p>The waiter, after discreet knocking at the door, came -between them with plates of food and clatter of knives -and forks. They regarded him silently, and when he -was gone, they made a feeble pretence of eating.</p> - -<p>"I ought to have known better," she said, returning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -to the business again with a wry smile. "I ought to -have known it couldn't have lasted."</p> - -<p>"It isn't that I love you any the less," he said, unconsciously -quoting a phrase in his letter. "I don't know -how to explain my attitude.... I love you just the -same ... but, somehow...."</p> - -<p>"Don't, don't explain," she interrupted. "I understand. -Of course it's impossible if you think like that. -And, of course, Humphrey, there's no need to talk of -love...." She laughed a little, and then, really, she -could not spare him any more. "Oh, what a boy you -are!"</p> - -<p>He flushed hotly. "I know you've always looked -upon me as a boy," he said. "You think I'm a child ... -but it takes a man to do what I'm doing ... it takes -courage to face it out ... it hurts."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you <em>are</em> a boy," she said, with a little hysterical -laugh. "Of course you're only a boy." She pushed her -plate away from her. "Don't you see what you've done—you've -broken up everything."</p> - -<p>And she put her head on her arms outstretched on -the table, and sobbed and sobbed again.</p> - -<p>He watched her shoulders tremble with her sobs, and -heard her accusing words repeat themselves in a pitiful -refrain in his ears. At that moment he touched, it -seemed, the lowest depths of meanness. He felt -awkward and foolish.... She was crying, and he -could do nothing. "Lilian ... Lilian," he pleaded, -touching her hand that was flat on the table. "Don't—I -didn't mean to." Heavens! if she did not stop, he -would snatch her to him, and kiss her hotly, and let -Ferrol and the world and all its success go by him -for ever.</p> - -<p>The waiter saved the situation. His knock came as -a warning, and when he entered the room with more -plates and a greasier smile, he found the lady at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -window flinging it open widely and complaining of the -heat, the gentleman looking moodily before him, and -the food barely touched.</p> - -<p>"You no like the fricassee, sare?" he said, turning -the rejected food with his fork.</p> - -<p>"It's all right," Humphrey said, in a voice that the -waiter knew to mean "Get out." "No appetite to-day."</p> - -<p>Lilian turned from the window, as the door closed -behind him. Her eyes and lips were struggling for -mastery over her emotions, and the lips conquered -with a wan, watery smile. She placed her hand on -Humphrey's shoulder. "There," she said, wiping her -eyes, destroying the tension with a prosy sniff. "It's -all over—I didn't mean to be so silly."</p> - -<p>The miserable meal went on in silence. There was -nothing more to be said. He was thinking of all this -pitiful love-affair of his, how it ran unevenly through -the fabric of work and hopes, beginning at first with a -brilliant pattern—a splash of the golden sunrise—and -gradually becoming worn, until now all the threads were -twisted and frayed. After this, they would part, never -to meet again on the old terms, never to recapture the -thrill of early love. Odd, how she who had lain so close -to his heart, enfolded in his arms, would have to pass -him in the street henceforth, perhaps with only a nod, -perhaps without any recognition at all. And nobody -would know, nobody would guess of their shipwrecked -love.</p> - -<p>"I'm glad I never told mother," she said once, voicing -her thoughts. She took a little package from her pocket: -it held the few trinkets he had given her, wrapped up in -tissue-paper—a brooch or two, a thin gold necklace with -a heart dangling from it, and his own signet ring.</p> - -<p>"No ... no ..." he said; "for God's sake, keep -those. I should be happier if you kept them."</p> - -<p>She shook her head gently. "I could not keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -them," she said. "They were little tokens of your -love ... they belong to you now."</p> - -<p>There was a pause. The clock chimed two. The -disillusion was complete, all the fine draperies of love -had been wrenched away—they were so flimsy after -all—and behind them reality stood, sordid and -ashamed. She tried to strike a note of cheerful -fatalism.</p> - -<p>"Well, what must be, must be," she said, reaching for -her cloak. He sprang to his feet to help her, remembering -how, in other days, his hand had touched her cheek, -and he had urged her lips towards him, that he might -kiss her. How calm and self-possessed she was now. -How magnificently she mastered the situation—a false -move from her and the moments would become chaotic. -He was uneasy, awkward and embarrassed ... one -moment, ready to snatch her to his arms and begin all -over again; the next, alertly conscious that he was unencumbered, -that henceforth there was no other interest -in his life but work—free!</p> - -<p>Now she was ready to go.</p> - -<p>"I won't come down with you," he said, "I'll say -good-bye now." He could not face a parting in the -street. He watched her gather her things together, her -bag, her umbrella, her gloves ... she smiled at him, -and now the smile was a riddle: he could not guess her -thoughts: contempt or pity?</p> - -<p>Suddenly she bent down towards him, stooped over -him, with her face aglow with a divine expression, -virginal and tender, the light of sacrifice in her eyes, the -sweet pain of martyrdom on her lips; she bent towards -him and kissed him lightly on the forehead.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, Humphie dear."</p> - -<p>She had never spoken with a voice like that before, -she had never shown how much she loved him, and all -the misunderstandings, the torment, the doubts and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -uncertainties were washed away as his thoughts gushed -forth in a great appreciation of his loss.</p> - -<p>The next moment she had gone.</p> - -<p>He was alone in the room, with her good-bye ringing -in his ears. Idly he fingered a little packet of tissue-paper, -opening it and laying bare the little pieces of -metal that were all that remained to him of his love.</p> - -<p>He touched the presents that he had given to Lilian—each -one held memories for him.... The gold signet -ring had belonged to his father.... If only Daniel -Quain had been there, with his world-wisdom and -philosophy....</p> - -<p>Tears, Humphrey? Surely, not tears! Think how -splendidly free you are now; think of the moment of -triumph when you can go to Ferrol and tell him that -you are no longer hampered; see how straight the path -that leads to conquest.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="II.XIV" id="II.XIV"></a>XIV</h3> - -</div> - -<p>That night, in a little box of a flat in Hampstead, a -man was fighting his last battle, with the fingers of -Death at his throat and the arm of Love for his support. -It was a sharp, short battle, ended when the night itself -finished, and the dawn came through the chinks in the -shutters, as pale and as cold as a ghost.</p> - -<p>This was the end of Leonard Wratten, whom so few -people understood, who had always kept his own counsel, -so that only he himself knew of his own struggles and -ambitions—they were just like Humphrey's, just like -those of every other man in the Street. He had not -asked much of life, and all that he asked for was given -him, and then snatched away.</p> - -<p>They talked about it in the Pen Club, and in the -offices. "Overwork," they whispered. "He was just -married." Ferrol rose to the occasion: wrote handsome -cheques for Mrs Wratten, straightened out affairs, sent -her flowers, arranged for her to take a sea-cruise ... -did all that he possibly could, except bring Leonard -Wratten striding back to life again.</p> - -<p>But there was one in Fleet Street who followed the -coffin to the cemetery, who seemed to feel that he alone had -understood Wratten. ("It's always the best fellows that -are taken," they said, when he was gone, as they say of -every one.) And, as he came away from the cemetery -in the sunshine when the coffin had been lowered into -the grave, and scattered with lilies, he knew that he had -lost friendship inestimable, for it had not had time fully -to develop and ripen.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p> - -<p>Wratten's death, and the break with Lilian, came -hard upon each other: he felt that the roots of his life -were stirred, two influences of such potent possibilities -had gone from him. He knew that a phase of his life -was closed.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III<br /> - -<small>ELIZABETH</small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.I" id="III.I"></a>I</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The Pen Club stands far away from Clubland up a -narrow court that leads from Fleet Street, into the maze -of the little streets and courts that finally emerge on -Holborn.</p> - -<p>It is the hidden core of newspaper land. It lurks -behind the newspaper offices with discreet ground-glass -windows, unpretentious, and obscurely peaceful. No -porter in brass-buttoned uniform guards its doors—indeed, -it has but one, and that a door with a lustrous, -black-glass panel, with a golden message of "Members -Only" lettered upon it. Strangers and messengers are -requested to tap gently on the window of a little pigeon-hole -at the side.</p> - -<p>Oliver Goldsmith once lived in the house that is now -the Pen Club; Dr Johnson lived a few courts away, -and strode down Fleet Street to the "Cheshire Cheese," -little dreaming that Americans would follow in his -footsteps as pilgrims to a shrine. Its courts have had -their place in the history of our letters, but all that is -past, for journalism affects a contempt for literature, and -literature walks by with a high head. If you want -literature, and art, and high-thinking, you must go -further west, along the Strand, where you may find a -club that still clings to the traditions of Bohemia: but if -you want to meet good fellows, jolly, generous, foolish -men, wise as patriarchs in some things, and like children -in others, then you must join the Pen Club.</p> - -<p>All around it are the flourishing signs of the -journalists' trade. Here a process-block maker; there -a lesser News Agency; round the corner a large printing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -works, and almost opposite it the vibrating basements of -<cite>The Day</cite>. You can see the props of the scenery—take -a stroll through the courts, and you see the back-doors -of all those proud newspaper offices, great rolls of paper -being hoisted up for to-morrow's issue, dismal wagons -piled high with yesterday's papers, tied up in bundles, -"returns"; unsold papers that will be taken back to -the paper-mills and pulped: food for the philosopher -here!</p> - -<p>Humphrey Quain joined the Pen Club when he had -been three years in Fleet Street. It was Willoughby, the -crime enthusiast of <cite>The Day</cite>, who put his name down; -Jamieson, the dramatic critic, seconded him.</p> - -<p>Two years had made very little outward difference -in Humphrey. He had perhaps grown an inch, and his -shoulders broadened in proportion, but his face was the -same frank, boyish face that had gazed open-mouthed -in Fleet Street on that January day. Yet there was -some slight change in the expression of the eyes; they -had become charged with an eager, expectant look; -observation had trained them to an alertness and a -strained directness of gaze. Inwardly, too, the change in -him was imperceptible. He had lost a little of that cocksure -way of his, and acquired, by constant mingling with -men older than himself, a point of view and an understanding -above his years. In worldly knowledge he had -advanced with large and sudden strides: some call it -vice and some call it experience. A young man, thrust -into the whirlpool of London, finds it difficult to avoid -such experience, and so Humphrey had allowed himself -to be tossed hither and thither with the underswirl of it -all, learning deeper lessons than any man can teach.</p> - -<p>He had come out of this period with a sense of -something lost, yet never regretting its loss. Sometimes -a bitter spasm of shame would overtake him when he -thought of the sordid memories he was accumulating.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -He could have wished it all undone, and he looked back -on the Humphrey Quain of Easterham, and saw himself -singularly unsmirched, and innocent—knowing nothing, -absolutely nothing. After all, he thought, was this -knowledge? Does all this go towards the making of a -man, as the steel is tempered by the fire? Humphrey -did not know ... he took all that life offered him: the -good and the bad, the folly with the wisdom.</p> - -<p>That affair of his with Lilian Filmer was now nothing -more than a memory. They had never spoken since -their wretched meeting in the Strand restaurant. It -was strange, too, how rarely they had met, when in the -old days scarcely a day seemed to pass without the -sight of her in Fleet Street. She still worked in the -Special News Agency Office, and yet, during the two -years that had passed since their parting, he had not -seen her more than four or five times, and then only in -the distance. Once he found himself marching straight -towards her in the crowd of the luncheon-hour walkers: -panic seized him; he did not know what to do. She -was walking proudly with the erect carriage of her body -that he knew so well—and then, almost mysteriously, -she had disappeared. Perhaps she had seen him, and -avoided a direct meeting by turning down a side street -or by passing into a shop. For a year he always walked -on the other side of the street during the luncheon hour. -At the back of his mind she lived as vividly as she had -lived in the days when she had been the most important -factor in his existence. There were times when the -thought of her rendered him uneasy; he felt he had not -been true to himself, there was a reproachful blot on -his escutcheon.... Strange! how lasting his love had -seemed that night when he had kissed her in the cab -after the theatre. He could look back on it all now -dispassionately. There had been progress in the office. -His salary was now eight pounds a week. He remembered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -the day when he had gone to Ferrol, and said, a -little miserably, for the strain of the breaking with Lilian -pressed hardly on his heart in those days: "I've broken -off my engagement." In these words he had dedicated -himself to Ferrol and <cite>The Day</cite>. Nothing more was -said. Ferrol nodded in a non-committal sort of way. -A few weeks later Humphrey was sent to the East Coast -on special work. He did well, and the increase in -salary came to him at last.</p> - -<p>With this he lifted himself out of the old ruck of his -life. The money opened up unbounded vistas of wealth -and new possibilities to him. He decided to leave -Beaver and Guilford Street. Beaver, as an influence, -had served his turn in shaping Humphrey's career. It -was Beaver who first showed him the way to London, -and now, at odd intervals, Beaver occurred and recurred -across his vision, still biting his nails, and still with ink-splashed -thumbs. No stress of ambition seemed to disturb -Beaver's placidity. He was content to plod on and -on, day after day, a journalistic cart-horse, until he -dropped dead in his collar. That was how it seemed to -Humphrey, who never credited Beaver with any great -aspirations, yet that shaggy man had a separate life of his -own, with his own dreams, and his own aims, which one -day were destined to touch the fringe of Humphrey's life.</p> - -<p>Humphrey took a small flat in Clifford's Inn, a place -of sleep and peace and quiet then, as it is now, out -of the noise of Fleet Street. It was a "flat" only by -courtesy, for in reality it was made up of two rooms and -a box-room. The larger was his sitting-room, and the -smaller—a narrow, oblong room—he used as a sleeping -apartment. Very little light, and scarcely any air, came -through the small latticed windows, but the rooms held -a mediæval charm about them, and he was free for ever -from the landladies and grubbiness of lodgings. He -paid a pound a week for his rooms in Clifford's Inn.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> - -<p>Every evening when he was free in London, -Humphrey went to the Pen Club. The place had a -fascination for him, which he could not shake off. One -could not define this fascination, this influence which the -Club wielded over him.</p> - -<p>It grew on him gradually, until an evening spent -without a visit to the Club seemed empty and insufficient. -There was nothing vicious about the Club—it was just -a meeting-place, where one could eat and drink. Within -its four walls there was peace unutterable; and the -world stood still for you when you passed the threshold. -Other clubs have tape machines spitting out lengths of -news: telegrams pasted on the walls; chairs full of old -gentlemen reading newspapers with dutiful eagerness—the -Pen Club was a place where you escaped from news, -where nobody was interested in news as news, but -merely in news as it stood in the relation to the doings -of their friends. There was no excitement over a by-election, -nobody cared who would get in on polling day; -nobody thrilled over a revolution in a foreign state; -mention of these things only served as a peg on which to -hang discussions of personalities. "I expect Williamson's -having a nobby time in St Petersburg," or "Who's down -at Bodmin for <cite>The Herald</cite>—Carter?—I thought so. -Jolly good stuff in to-day."</p> - -<p>And when news did touch them, it touched them -personally, and altered the tenor of their lives perhaps -for many days. At any minute something would happen, -and a half-dozen of them would be wanted at their -different offices. They would just disappear from the -Club for a few days, and return to find that a fresh set -of events had dwarfed their own experiences completely. -They were never missed. A man might be absent in -Morocco for half-a-year, living through wild happenings, -with his life hanging on a slender thread—a hero in the -eyes of newspaper readers—but nobody in particular in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -the eyes of the Pen Club, where every one found his level -in the fellowship of the Pen. They came and went like -shadows.</p> - -<p>Humphrey found all types of journalists in the Pen -Club—odd types off the beaten track of journalism, -guarding their own cabbage-patch of news, and taking -their wares to market daily. There was Larkin, for -instance, who took the railway platforms as his special -province. He was a tall, thin man, with friendly eyes -smiling behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. No Duke or -Duchess could leave London by way of the railway -termini without Larkin knowing it. Those paragraphs -that appeared scattered about all the newspapers of -London, telling of the departure of Somebody and his -wife to Cairo or Nice marked the trail of Larkin's day -across the London railway stations. Then there was -Foyle, a chubby, red-faced man, with a jolly smile, who, -by the unwritten law of Fleet Street, chronicled the -fires that happened in the Metropolis. A fire without -Foyle was an impossible thing to imagine. There was -Touche, who dealt only in marriages and engagements; -and Ford, who had made a corner for himself in the -Divorce Courts; Chate, who sat in the Bankruptcy -Court; Modgers, who specialized in recording the wills -and last testaments of those who died; and Vernham, -lean, long-haired, and cadaverous, who was the Fleet -Street authority on the weather. These men and others -were the servants of all newspapers, and attached to -none. In some cases their work had been handed down -from father to son; they made snug incomes, and though -they were servants of all, they were masters of themselves.</p> - -<p>And all these men were just like children out of -school, when they met in the Pen Club: there was no -grim seriousness about them—they kept all that for -their work. They had insatiable appetites for stories, -for reminiscences of their craft. They knew how to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -laugh. It was well that they did, for, if they had taken -themselves seriously, they would never have been able -to face the caricatures of themselves which hung on the -walls. These caricatures, drawn by a cartoonist on one -of the dailies, were things of shuddering satire: they -were cruelly true, grotesque parodies of faces and mouths, -legs and arms. If you wanted to know the truth of a -member, all you had to do was to consult the wall, and -there you saw the man's character grimacing at you in -colours.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Humphrey had been away from London for a week, -and he came back to find the Club seething with excitement. -The moment he crossed the threshold he was -aware of something abnormal in the life of the Club.</p> - -<p>It was the last night of the Club elections for the -Committee—a riotous affair as a rule. All round the -room there was the chatter and buzz of members discussing -the new spirit in the Club.</p> - -<p>As member after member dropped in, the excitement -grew. It was a historic election. For the first time the -youngest members of the Club had been nominated to -stand on the Committee. The older members, the men -who had watched the Pen Club grow from one room in -the second floor of a house to two whole houses knocked -into one, looked on a little sorrowfully. They had not -become accustomed to the new spirit in the Club. -Among themselves, they said the Club was going to -the dogs. These young men were making a travesty -of the whole business. They had no reverence for -traditions. After all, the election of a Chairman and a -Committee was a grave affair. It was amazing how -seriously they took themselves.</p> - -<p>Presently Chander appeared selling copies of <cite>The -Club Mosquito</cite>, a journal produced specially for the -occasion, which stung members in the weakest spots of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -their personalities. There were caricatures and portraits -of all the "Young Members" who were going to save -the Club, as they put it, from the moss and cobwebs of old -age. Really, these young men were very ruthless. They -invented Election songs, and they sang boisterously:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"We're going to vote all night,</div> -<div class="verse">We're going to vote all day."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Privileged sub-editors, dropping in for a half-hour -from their offices, found themselves caught up on the -tempest of exhilaration. "Hallo, here's Leman—have -you voted yet, Leman?" and a paper would be fetched -and Leman would be made to put a cross against -thirteen names, with thirteen people urging him to -have a drink. Bribery and corruption!</p> - -<p>Humphrey abandoned himself to the merriment of -the evening. He constituted himself Willoughby's -election-agent, and canvassed for votes with shameless -disregard for the Corrupt Practices Act. Sharp, the -sporting journalist, was busy making a book on the -result. That eminent war-correspondent, Bertram -Wace, issued a manifesto, demanding to know why -he should not be Chairman. The price of <cite>The Club -Mosquito</cite> rose to a shilling a copy when it was known -that all the proceeds were to go to the Newspaper Press -Fund.</p> - -<p>Humphrey found himself left alone with the excitement -eddying all round him. He was able to survey -the scene with an air of detached interest. It reminded -him of his school-days: all these men were young of -heart, with the generous impulses of boys; they had the -spirit of eternal youth—the one reward which men of -their temperament are able to wrest from life.</p> - -<p>He saw Willoughby, with his black hair in a disordered -tangle over his eyes, joining in the war-song of -the Young Members.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> - -<p>As he looked at all these men, chattering, laughing, -grouped together here and there where some one was -telling an entertaining story, he saw the smiling aspect -of Fleet Street, the siren, luring the adventurous -stranger to her, with laughter and opulent promise. -To-morrow they would all begin their nervous work -again, struggling to secure a firm foothold in the niches -of the Street, when a false move, a mistake, would bring -disaster with it; but they thought nothing of to-morrow; -they lived in a life of to-days....</p> - -<p>He saw Tommy Pride come into the Club. Two -years had left their mark on Tommy's face. New -reporters had appeared in the Street, and somehow -Tommy found himself marking time, while the army of -younger men pressed forward and passed him. He -could not complain; he felt that if he asserted himself, -Rivers or Neckinger would tell him bluntly that they -were cutting down the staff—the dreadful, unanswerable -excuse for dismissal. He knew that his mind was less -supple than it was years ago; the stress and the bitterness -of competition was sterner now than in those days -when they posted assignments overnight. So, too, his -pen went more slowly, finding each day increasing the -difficulty of grappling with new methods. Tommy -Pride had lived in To-day, and now To-morrow was -upon him.</p> - -<p>"Stopping for the declaration of the poll, Pride?" -asked Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Not me," said Tommy, picking a bundle of letters -from his pigeon-hole. "I've had a late turn to-night -and the missis will be sitting up."</p> - -<p>"Well, what about a drink?"</p> - -<p>Tommy shrugged his shoulders wearily. "Oh—a -whisky and soda," he said. "What a row these fellows -are making." Willoughby attacked him with a voting -paper, and Humphrey noticed how Pride's hand—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -hand that had written millions of words—trembled as he -made crosses against the names. It was as if each finger -were attached to thin wires; it reminded Humphrey of -those toy tortoises from Japan, that danced and shook -in a little glass case. And he thought: "Will my hand -be like that one day?"</p> - -<p>The torrent of talk flowed all round him; gusts of -boisterous laughter marked the close of a funny story. -In all the stories there was a note of egotism. He saw, -suddenly, why these men were not as other men. They -were profound egotists, they lived each day by the -assertion of their own individuality. The stronger the -individuality of the man, the greater his chance of -success. And these men, he saw, though they all worked -in a common school, were absolutely different from one -another. They were different, even, in breeding: there -were men whose voice and pose could only have been -acquired at one of the 'Varsities; there were men who -lacked the refinements of speech; keen, eager men, and -men whose eyes had lost their lustre, who seemed -weary with work; mere boys, self-assertive and confident -with the wisdom of men of the world, and older -men with grey heads and bald heads.</p> - -<p>They surged about him, and came and went, in twos -and threes, some of them departing to their homes in -the suburbs, north and south, whither trains ran into -the early hours of the morning.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had been long enough in Fleet Street to -know them all: if you could have taken the personalities -of these men and blended them together, the composite -result would have closely resembled the personality of -Tommy Pride—who was now drinking his second glass -of whisky. They were men of tremendously active -brains—not one of them but had an idea for a new paper -that was worth a fortune if only the capital could be -procured—and all of them longed intensely for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> -cottage in the country after the storm and stress of -Fleet Street; they could not talk seriously without being -cynical, for though they saw the real side of life, the -pompous make-believe of the rest left them without any -illusions.</p> - -<p>"Better wait for the result now," Humphrey said to -Tommy. "It'll be out in a few minutes."</p> - -<p>"All right," said Tommy, glancing at the clock. -"Green's offered me a lift in his cab. Have a drink, -Quain. I had the hump when I came in—feel better -now."</p> - -<p>They all trooped upstairs, where the Young Members -were making discordant noises. They sang new and -improvised quatrains. You would have thought that -not a care in the world could exist within those cheerful -walls.</p> - -<p>There was a shout of "Here they are." The vote-counters -came into the room. One of them they hailed -affectionately as "Grandpa." Humphrey had seen him -before, walking about Fleet Street, with his silver beard -and black slouch hat set on his white hair, but to-night -he felt strangely moved, as the old man came into the -room, smiling to the cheers. What was it? Some -association of ideas passed through his mind, some linking -up of Ferrol, young, powerful, master of so many -destinies, with the picture before his eyes....</p> - -<p>These thoughts were overwhelmed with a tumult of -shouting. The old man was reading out the names of -the members of the new Committee.</p> - -<p>The Young Members had won.</p> - -<p>"Come on," said Tommy Pride, "let's get off before -the rush."</p> - -<p>As they passed out of the Club into the cool air of the -night, Tommy suddenly recollected Green and his offer -of a cab. "Oh, never mind," he said; "can you lend -me four bob for the cab; I'm rather short." Humphrey<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -passed the money to him, and, drawn by the jingle of -the coin, as a moth is to candle, a man lurched out of -the shadows of the court.</p> - -<p>The gas-light fell on the unshaven face of the man, -and made his eyes blink feebly: it showed the pitiful, -shabby clothes that garbed the swaying figure.</p> - -<p>"Hullo, Tommy," said the man. He smiled weakly -not sure of his ground.</p> - -<p>"Good God!" said Tommy.</p> - -<p>Eagerness now came into the man's face; a terrible -eagerness, as if everything depended on his being able -to compress his story into as few words as possible, -before Tommy went. There was no beating about the -bush.</p> - -<p>"I say, old man, lend me a bob, will you?... Didn't -you know?... Oh, I left two years ago.... Nothing -doing.... Yes, I know I'm a fool.... Honest, this -is for food.... Remember that time we had up in -Chatsworth, when the Duke...? Seen anything more -of that fellow we met in Portsmouth on the Royal visit?... -What was his name?... Can't remember it ... -never mind, I say, old man, <em>can</em> you spare a bob?"</p> - -<p>Tommy passed him one of the shillings he had just -borrowed from Humphrey. "Why don't you pull up," -he said; "you can do good stuff if you want to."</p> - -<p>"Pull up!" said the man. "Course I can do good -stuff. I can do the best stuff in Fleet Street.... -Remember that story I wrote about...."</p> - -<p>There was something intensely tragic in this sudden -kindling of the old, egotistical flame in the burnt-out -ruin of a man. The cringing attitude left him when he -spoke of his work.</p> - -<p>"Well, you'd better get home..." Tommy said. -"What's the missis doing?"</p> - -<p>"She's trying to make a little by typewriting now.... -Thanks for the bob...." He shambled down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -court towards Gough Square. "So long." His footsteps -grew fainter, until the last echoes of them died away.</p> - -<p>Tommy Pride came out with Humphrey into Fleet -Street.</p> - -<p>There came to them, as it comes only to those who -work in the Street, the fascination of its night. The -coloured omnibuses, and the cabs, and the busy crowds -of people had left it long ago, and the lamps were like a -yellow necklace strung into the darkness. Eastwards, -doubly steep in its vacancy, Ludgate Hill rose under the -silent railway bridge to St Paul's; westwards, the Griffin, -the dark towers of the Law Courts, and the island -churches loomed uncertainly against the starless sky. -The lights shone in the high windows of offices about -them, and they caught glimpses of men smoking pipes, -working in their shirt-sleeves—Liverpool, Manchester, -Sheffield, Leeds, were waiting for their news. The carts -darted up and down the street with loads of newspapers -for the trains. There was a noise of moving machinery. -A ragged, homeless man slouched wretchedly along the -street, his eyes downcast, mumbling his misery to himself. -Two men in grimy clothes were delving down -into the bowels of the roadway, and dragging up gross -loads of black slime. They worked silently, seeing -nothing of the loathsomeness of their work. Over all, -above even the noise of the machinery, there came the -cleansing sound of swiftly running water, as the street-cleaners, -with streaming hoses, swept the dust and the -muck and the rubble of the day into the torrents of the -gutter.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.II" id="III.II"></a>II</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Humphrey took rooms in Clifford's Inn, because that -was where Kenneth Carr lived. The two came together, -though their natures were opposite, and their friendship -had ripened.</p> - -<p>Carr was an ascetic, denying himself most of the -ordinary pleasures of life, sacrificing himself to the work -of his heart; his mind was calm, with a spiritual beauty; -he was a man of singularly high ideals. This contrast -with Humphrey's frank materialism, his love of pleasure -and lack of any deep, spiritual feeling, seemed only to -draw their friendship closer. Then there was the -memory of Wratten. They often talked together of -him, and, as for Humphrey, he never found himself face -to face with a difficult piece of reporting without -imagining what Wratten would have done. Most people -in Fleet Street had forgotten him long ago, but on -Humphrey's mind he had left an indelible impression.</p> - -<p>"I wonder what it was about Wratten that makes us -remember him still," Humphrey said one day. "I had -only known him a few months."</p> - -<p>"I don't know," Kenneth said. "It's like that, I've -noticed. Sometimes a man, out of all the others you -meet, comes forward, and you feel instantly, 'This man -is worth having as a friend.' The charm of Wratten was -that there were two Wrattens: one, the glum, churlish -man, with whom nobody could get on, and the other, the -self-revealing Wratten we knew."</p> - -<p>They smoked in silence. Presently Kenneth threw -his cigarette into the fireplace.</p> - -<p>"I suppose I'll have to get on with my book."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why don't you come out ... come to the Club?"</p> - -<p>"Not me, my son. I'm happier here. I want to get -a chapter done."</p> - -<p>"What's the good of writing novels ... they don't -pay, do they?"</p> - -<p>"Pay! They pay you for every hour you spend -over them," said Kenneth. "I should go brooding mad -if I couldn't sit down for an hour or so every night and -do what I like with my people. The unhappiest -moments of my life were when, to oblige Elizabeth, I -gave up novel-writing for a time, and took to poverty -statistics."</p> - -<p>Humphrey glanced up at the mantelpiece. A portrait -of Elizabeth Carr was there, in a silver frame, set -haphazard among the litter of masculine knick-knacks—ash-trays, -a cigarette-box and a few old pipes. It was a -portrait that had always attracted Humphrey; the sun -had caught the depth of her eyes and the shadows about -her throat. He was never in the room without being -conscious of that portrait, and often, when he was not -thinking of her at all, he would find himself looking upwards -at the silver frame to see, confronting him, the -eyes of Elizabeth Carr. She, herself, never seemed to -be quite like the photograph. She came, sometimes, to -see Kenneth, and, at rare intervals, Humphrey's visits -coincided with hers.</p> - -<p>She did not live with her brother. She was more -fortunate than he, because she had been left an income -which was large enough for all her wants. She had -always wished to help Kenneth with a small allowance, -but he declared he would not touch a penny of her money. -"I'll fight my own battles," he said.</p> - -<p>There was something in her attitude towards -Humphrey—a vague, impalpable something—that left -him always uneasy; perhaps it was a subtle display of -deference—he could not define it, but he felt that she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -comparing him, in her mind, with Kenneth, and that he -was worsted in the comparison. She would move about -in the little room, preparing tea for them, her presence -bringing an oddly domestic air into the rooms, and -Humphrey would help her, and she would be jolly and -laugh when he was clumsy, but all the time it was as if -she were holding him away from her with invisible hands.</p> - -<p>And, when he looked at her photograph, he saw -behind the clear beauty of the face, with its smile of -tenderness and large eyes that never left him, an Elizabeth -Carr divinely meek ... utterly unlike the Elizabeth -Carr he knew, who carried herself with such graceful -pride and seemed so far above him.</p> - -<p>He took up the portrait for a moment. "She hasn't -been here lately?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Who?" asked Kenneth, at his writing-table.</p> - -<p>"Your sister ... you were speaking about the -statistics you did for her."</p> - -<p>"Oh? Elizabeth. No. She's been pretty busy with -her work."</p> - -<p>"Slumming, eh?"</p> - -<p>"That's about it. I don't know half her schemes. -Wonderful girl, Elizabeth. Now I come to think of it, -I've got to go down to Epping Forest to-morrow. Some -bean-feast she's giving to a thousand slum kids. There's -sure to be a ticket in your office, why don't you ask to -do it?"</p> - -<p>"I will," said Humphrey. "A day's fresh air in the -forest would do me good."</p> - -<p>And he did. Things happened to be slack that day -in Fleet Street, and Rivers thought there would be plenty -of human interest in the story, "though, of course, it's a -chestnut," so that was how Humphrey found himself on -the platform at Loughton Station an hour later.</p> - -<p>The morning was rich with the warmth and colour of -June. The clear fresh smell of the country was all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -about him. The scent of the flowers, the sight of the -green fields dappled with the yellow and white of -kingcup and daisy, the pale sky above him with the sun -beating down from the cloudless blue, called him back -to Easterham, and the life that now seemed centuries -away. Throughout all the comings and goings of -years, throughout the change, and the unrest of men -and women, the old Cathedral close would be unaltered. -The rooks would still clamour and circle about the -beeches, and the ivy would grow more thickly. Looking -back on Easterham, now on the odd market-place, and -on the streets that wandered out to the hedgerows and -meadow-lands towards the New Forest, he looked back -on a picture of infinite peace.</p> - -<p>A bird's song and the croon of bees as they swung -in their flower-cradles; a horse galloping freely in a field, -and cattle browsing in the sunshine—were not all these -of more worth than anything else in life?</p> - -<p>Unnoticed, he had relinquished everything to Fleet -Street. The poison of its promise had drugged him. -He could appreciate nothing outside its narrow area ... -news! news! and the talking of news; fifty steps round -to the Pen Club, and fifty steps back to the office; all -the day spent in that world of bricks and mortar, which -had once seemed so vast, and was now to him nothing -more than a very much magnified Easterham.</p> - -<p>He had not even sought out London. He remembered -regretfully the evening of his first ride with Beaver, -through the crowded streets to Shepherd's Bush, when -he had promised himself nights and days of enchantment -in the new wonder of London. And the wonder -was still unexplored. As it was with London, so it was -with everything. His acquaintance and knowledge was -superficial. There was no time for deep study, and the -Past could not live with the Present hammering at its -doors urgently day after day. Just so, too, with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -cities in every part of England. He had travelled -much, but he came away from every place taking with -him only the knowledge of the whereabouts of the -hotel, the post-office and the railway station.</p> - -<p>A sense of waste filled him; he saw behind him the -years, crowded with events, so crowded with movement -that he could retain nothing of their activity. And he -saw before him a repetition of this, year after year, and -again year after year, a long avenue of waiting years, -through which he passed, looking ever forward, seeing -nothing, remembering nothing, and coming through -them all empty-handed, unless....</p> - -<p>Unless what? He saw the impasse waiting for him. -What was there to be done to avoid it? He might rise -to the highest point in reporting—climb up laboriously, -only to find at the top of the ladder that others were -climbing up after him to force him down the steps on -the other side.</p> - -<p>Kenneth Carr was rescuing the flotsam of the years. -These books of his, though they brought little money, -were something permanent; they were the witnesses of -endeavour; they remained as things achieved out of the -reckless squandering of the hours.</p> - -<p>And Humphrey knew that for him there would be -nothing left except the dead files of <cite>The Day</cite>, nothing -more profitable than that, a brain worked out, weak eyes -and a trembling hand. Yes, and as he looked about -him on the glory of the country, and heard the breeze -making a sea-noise among the trees, he felt that there -was something everlasting here, if he could only grasp -it. He could not explain it. He only knew that looking -upwards into the lucent depths of the green leaves -of a tree, and catching now and again the glimpse of the -blue sky beyond, seemed to remove the oppression that -weighed his soul, and release his mind from perplexity.</p> - -<p>He smiled. The old phrase came echoing back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -him. "Two pounds a week and a cottage in the -country," he thought. Eternal, pitiful, unfulfilled -desire.</p> - -<p>The whistle of the approaching train woke him from -his thoughts. "I'm an ass," he said to himself. "I -couldn't live a day without being in the thick of it."</p> - -<p>He walked back to the station, just in time to see -the train coming round the bend of the platform, giving -a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs and eager faces at -the windows. The stillness of the station was suddenly -shattered into a thousand noisy pieces. The children -tumbled over one another in their haste to be the first -to see all that there was to see.</p> - -<p>There was a mighty sound of shrill voices, chattering, -laughing, and calling to one another: a confused picture -of pallid-faced children, darting from group to group, -seeking their child-friends, and arranging themselves in -marching order. The teachers herded them together -like hens marshalling their elusive brood. Humphrey -surveyed the scene with an eye trained to the observation -of detail.</p> - -<p>He saw the painful cleanliness of the children, as -though they had been scrubbed and washed for days -before their outing. He saw behind the neatness of the -pink ribbon and the mended boots, a vision of faded -mothers, fumbling with hands shrivelled by laundry work, -or fingers ragged with sewing, at these parting touches -of pathetic finery. And, behind the vision of the -mothers, he saw that whole sordid underworld hung -round the neck of civilization.... These children, -pinched and haggard, were left to live in the breathless -slums, with only charity to help them. The State made -laws for them: but there was no law to make them grow -up otherwise than the generation of neglect which -produced them.</p> - -<p>They were too young to know the difference between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> -happiness and misery. They could only sing and march -away, an army of rags and patched neatness, because for -one whole day their young limbs were to have the -freedom of the country. They thought of that one -day, and not of the other three hundred and sixty-four -days of squalor and want.</p> - -<p>"Hullo—here you are, then," Kenneth Carr appeared -out of the crowd of children. "Seen Elizabeth—I've -lost her."</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked along the platform, and he saw -Elizabeth Carr bending down and talking to a little -girl. She looked tall and beautiful, among all the harsh -ugliness for which these children stood. Her figure, as -she stooped to the little ones, seemed to shine with grace -and merciful pity. She saw Humphrey, and nodded to -him, as he raised his hat. Then she came up leading the -child.</p> - -<p>"Look," she said, and though her eyes were lit with -anger, her voice was gentle. "Look at this child's dress—and -the father's earning thirty shillings a week."</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked. The child was dressed -grotesquely, so grotesquely that it appealed more to -the sense of the ludicrous than to the sense of pity. -Her main garment was an absurd black cape sparkling -with sequins, that undoubtedly belonged to her mother's -cloak; it reached to below the child's knees. Beneath -this was a tattered muslin blouse of an uncertain, faded -colour, and beneath that—nothing. Elizabeth lifted the -cape a little and showed undergarments made of string -sacking. The child had neither shoes nor stockings.</p> - -<p>"Isn't it a shame!" she cried, sending the child to -join the rest. "Doesn't it revolt you?"</p> - -<p>"Poverty!" said Humphrey. "What can one do?"</p> - -<p>"Do!" retorted Elizabeth. "What's the good of -having compulsory education, if you don't have compulsory -clothing. I know the parents of that child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> -They could dress that child if they wanted to. Oh," -and she clenched her fists, "it makes me feel so -helpless."</p> - -<p>They talked about it on the way to the forest, as they -followed in the wake of the children.</p> - -<p>"The wicked folly and the shame of it," she said. -"Does nobody realize the ruin and wreckage that belongs -to big cities? Thousands on thousands of lives ended -before they began. The parents don't know, and won't -know.</p> - -<p>"And what becomes of those who live? These -children here will go through their school-days, and -then—what? A small percentage of them may get on, -the rest will become casual labourers, dock-hands, and -loafers."</p> - -<p>They passed a long, ill-clad youth lounging along -the road. His face was brutally coarse, and he walked -with a slouch.</p> - -<p>"There's one of them," Elizabeth went on. "Now, -I know that boy: he used to come to these outings -three years ago. He's left school now, and he has -tramped down from London for the sake of a meat-pie -or a mug of tea. Lots of them do that, you know," she -said to Humphrey. "He's never learnt a trade. Of -course, he learnt history and geography, and all -that, and he got a place, I think, as an errand-boy. -There's no interest in running errands—so he just loafs -now; and he'll loaf on through life, until he's an old -man, sleeping on the Embankment, or on the benches -on the Bayswater side of the Park. Perhaps he'll have -a few spells in prison—anyhow, he's doomed. Lost. -And so are nearly all these children here to-day."</p> - -<p>The strength of her convictions amazed Humphrey. -He had never heard Elizabeth talk like this before. He -wondered why she, so beautiful and frail, should mingle -with the ugliness of life. When they came to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -forest, and Kenneth wandered off alone, she told -him.</p> - -<p>"It's because behind all this sordidness there is something -that is more than beauty—there are magnificent -tragedies here, that make my throat dry. There are -struggles to live of which nobody ever knows. And, -sometimes, you know, when I come from one of my -slums and stand by the theatres as they are emptying, -and see the lighted motor-cars, and all these other -women with jewels round their necks and in their ears, -I want to laugh at the folly of it all.</p> - -<p>"They don't know ... they never can know, unless -they go down to the depths, and look."</p> - -<p>Humphrey was silent.</p> - -<p>"And nobody can do anything, you know, except -this sort of thing. It's a poor enough thing to do, but -it's something to know you're helping."</p> - -<p>"I think this work is noble," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"Oh no—not noble. It would be noble if we could -do something lasting—something permanent."</p> - -<p>They were sitting now on the soft grass, and he -looked sidewise at Elizabeth Carr, and saw the fine -outline of her profile. There was great beauty in her -face, in the delicate oval of her chin, in the shadows -that played about her throat, showing soft and white -above the low collar of lace. That low lace collar and -unornamented dress gave to her a touch of demure -simplicity. She had the fragrance of lavender: he -could imagine her—(seeing her now, with her eyes and -lips tender, and her hands meekly clasped in her lap)—standing -in a room of chintz and Chippendale, tending -her bowl of pink roses by the latticed window opened -to the sunshine.</p> - -<p>He sat by her absorbing her serenity; there was -repose and rest in the unconscious pose of her body. -He had suddenly found the Elizabeth Carr of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -photograph on Kenneth's mantelpiece: her presence -seemed to bring him peace.</p> - -<p>The noise of the children rioting in their happiness -made her smile.</p> - -<p>"Come," she said, "let us go and join them."</p> - -<p>They walked across the open space in the forest, the -soft grass yielding to their feet, and came upon the -whole exulting landscape. On all sides of them the -ragged little ones, released for a day from the barren -prison-house of alley and by-way, ran and romped in -the freedom of unfettered limbs, uttering shouts of -triumph and gladness. This picture of merriment unchecked, -cheered the heart with its bright movement. -Here was life, overflowing, bubbling, swirling in little -eddies among the trees and undergrowth, running free -over the green meadow-lands with all the chattering -animation of childhood.</p> - -<p>Out of the main stream they found strange types of -children, odd-minded little things, full of cunning and -mother-wit that they had learnt already, knowing the -world's hand was against them. Some of them clutched -pennies in grimy fists: money saved in farthings for -weeks in anticipation of this treat. Others secreted -about their person portions of the meat-pie which was -given them for lunch. They would take this home as -an earnest of altruism.</p> - -<p>Impossible to forget the shadow of misery that overhung -all their lives; impossible to see these ragged -children, who had hopeless years before them, without -realizing the mad folly and the waste of citizenship.</p> - -<p>Splendid Empire on which the sun never sets! Will -the historian of the future, discovering in the ruins -of the British Museum Humphrey's account of that day -in Epping Forest, place his finger on the yellow paper -with its faded ink, and cry: "This is where the story of -the Decline and Fall of Britain begins."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> - -<p>They went to see the children take their tea. They -sat at long plank tables under the corrugated iron roof -of the shed-like pavilion. The girls were in one vast -room, the boys in another. Their school-teachers rapped -on the table, and the jabber and chatter faded away into -a silence. Then the voice of one of the school-masters -started singing—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Praise God, from whom——"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>and the hymn was taken up by the voices, singing -vociferously—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;</div> -<div class="verse">Praise Him, all creatures here below;</div> -<div class="verse">Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;</div> -<div class="verse">Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>There was nothing half-hearted about it; they made -a great clamour of their thanks, and their shrill treble -made echoes within echoes against the iron roof and -wooden walls of the room in which they sat. And -Humphrey, always the looker-on, saw the imperishable -pathos of this and all that lay behind it, and for a moment -he felt pity tug at his heart. Then, as if ashamed of his -weakness, he turned to Elizabeth and saw that she was -watching him. She laid a gloved hand on his sleeve for -the fraction of a second; it was an impulsive, unconscious -movement, the merest shadow of a caress.</p> - -<p>"I did not know you could feel like that," she said -softly.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.III" id="III.III"></a>III</h3> - -</div> - -<p>In those days Humphrey, trained in the school of -experience, took his place in the ranks of Fleet Street, -that very narrow community, where each man knows the -value of his brother's work.</p> - -<p>He was being shaped in the mould. The characteristics -of the journalist were more strongly marked in him -than they had ever been. He was self-reliant and resourceful, -he had acquired the magic faculty of making -instant friendships; he had developed his personality, -and there was about him a certain charm, a youthful ingenuousness -of expression that stood him in good stead -when he was at work. People liked Humphrey; among -his colleagues in the Street, he was not great enough for -jealousy, nor small enough to be ignored. He steered -the middle course of popularity.</p> - -<p>He had been long enough now on <cite>The Day</cite> for Ferrol -to perceive his limitations. Humphrey did not know—nobody -knew—that Ferrol from his red room was watching -his work, noting each failure and each success, -watching and weighing his value. And it was with -something of regret that Ferrol realized that in Humphrey -he had found not a genius, but merely a plodding -conscientious worker, perhaps a little above the average. -For, in spite of Rivers, who found that genius and reporting -do not go hand in hand, Ferrol was always -searching alertly for the miraculous writer whose style -was individual; whose writing would be discussed in -those broad circles where <cite>The Day</cite> was read.</p> - -<p>One sees Ferrol hoping for that spark of genius to -glow in Humphrey, dreaming, whenever his thoughts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -took him back, of days now so dim that they seem never -to have existed, and faced only with disappointment. -Up to a certain point he could make Humphrey—but no -further. Perhaps, after all, the boy might show his worth -in work of broader scope.... Ferrol plans, and plans, -rearranging the men in his employ, moving a man here, -and a man there, a god with life for a chessboard and -human lives as the men.... One sees Humphrey, -young and vigorous, doing his daily work....</p> - -<p>It was an extraordinary life, full of uncertainties and -sudden surprises ... a life of never-ending energy, with -little rest even in sleep, for into his dreams there crept -all the tangle of the day's happenings. Disaster swept -all round him, but he seemed to be lifted above all evil -by the magic of his calling. The king can do no wrong: -no journalist ever seemed to be hit by the hazards of -life. Murders, the collapse of houses, railway smashes, -roofs falling in and burying people in the rubble, shipwrecks -and terrible fires.... Humphrey was always -on the spot, sooner or later, with a dozen others of the -craft....</p> - -<p>He was outside the range of the things that really -mattered. Politics and the problems that touched -deeply the lives of the people did not come his way. -They fell into the hands of the lobby correspondent, -the man in the Press Gallery of the House, or the -sociological writers who stood somewhat aloof from the -routine of the Street.</p> - -<p>But, on the whole, the life was glorious, in spite of -its bitter moments.</p> - -<p>"I shall have to chuck it, you know," Kenneth Carr -said, one day. "This life is too awful: it's the system -that's wrong, there is no system."</p> - -<p>That was Kenneth's point of view. Of course there -was no system. Is there any system in life?</p> - -<p>"We're all sick men, in Fleet Street," sighed Kenneth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -"We're sick and we're growing old. Our nerves are -broken with the continual movement and unrest. There's -no time allowance made for our stomachs: I tell you, -we're all sick men in Fleet Street, brain, nerve and -stomach."</p> - -<p>At such times, Humphrey would laugh and defend -the Street and its work, just to cheer Kenneth up.</p> - -<p>"Don't you go and drop out," he urged. "I shall be -left without a friend."</p> - -<p>The next day they met each other on the platform at -Paddington. There was to be a Royal week in Windsor. -A foreign monarch had come to England.</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you think of the life to-day?" Humphrey -asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's all right," Kenneth laughed. "I suppose -I wanted a little fresh air and sunshine.... I shall -get it in the forest."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.IV" id="III.IV"></a>IV</h3> - -</div> - -<p>He was reading a letter in the bold, firm handwriting of -Elizabeth Carr.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Mr Quain</span>," she wrote, "I don't think I -ever thanked you for the article you wrote of our day in -the forest with the children. I asked Kenneth to tell -you how glad I was, but I expect he forgot all about -it. I think your article was most <em>sympathetic</em>, though I -wish you hadn't made quite so much of that unfortunate -child who was dressed so grotesquely. I will tell you -what I mean when I see you, for I am writing to know -if you can come to dinner here. I'm sorry Kenneth -won't be able to come—he's away in Lancashire on that -dreadful strike. Thank Heaven—he'll be leaving it all -soon."</p></blockquote> - -<p>There was a postscript.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Of course, I know the nature of your work will not -let you say 'yes' definitely, but I've made the day -Saturday, on purpose to give you a chance. And if I -don't have a wire from you, I shall expect you."</p></blockquote> - -<p>It was quite a month since he had spent that day in -Loughton with Elizabeth Carr, and though he could not -name offhand the things he had done since then, day -by day, that day and its incidents remained sharply -defined in his memory.</p> - -<p>Had he really taken more than usual care to write -his account of their doings? Or, was it that the vision -of her, and the recollection of her earnest eyes, inspired -him to better work? Or, had there been nothing very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -special about the story after all, and was her letter -merely a courtesy?</p> - -<p>The fact remained that he was flattered to receive -the letter with its invitation. Kenneth had certainly -forgotten to deliver her message. He looked upon it as -something of a triumph for him: very patiently he had -waited for a word from Elizabeth Carr.</p> - -<p>There was that extraordinary remark of hers when -he had watched the children sing their grace. He had -asked her what she meant by it, and she had declined -to say. He had felt humiliated by her words: did she -imagine that he had no heart at all? She seemed to -think that because he was a reporter on a halfpenny -paper, he must be absolutely callous.</p> - -<p>He re-read the letter. She was curiously captious. -She seemed ready to take offence now because he had -made a "story" out of that wretched child clad in its -mother's cape and bedraggled blouse. Well, of course, -she wasn't a journalist. She couldn't be expected to -see human interest from the same point of view as <cite>The -Day</cite>. He wrote, accepting her invitation provisionally.</p> - -<p>In the days that followed, thoughts of Elizabeth -Carr recurred with disturbing persistency. He recalled -the odd way in which she had come into his life: first -at that evening at the Wrattens, when Lilian Filmer -had been his foremost thought, then, intermittently, at -Kenneth Carr's, something unusually antagonistic in her -attitude to him; and now she had come into the heart -of his work, bringing with her a touch of intimacy. She, -who had always averted herself from him, was now asking -him to be her guest.</p> - -<p>She, who had always seemed to ignore him, was, of -a sudden, extending towards him tentacles of influence, -vague and shadowy; he was uneasily aware of their -presence.</p> - -<p>He read her letter several times before the Saturday<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -came—the gentle perfume of it reminded him of her -own fragrance. He was sensitive to praise and appreciation, -and he dwelt often on those words which spoke -of his work. It was pleasant to know that he had at -last shown Elizabeth Carr what he could do. She was, -he knew, judging him always by Kenneth's standard, in -life as well as writing, and of course every one knew that -Kenneth's ideals were high, that his writing was brilliant.... -So Kenneth was going to leave Fleet Street. It was -the first that Humphrey had heard of it. "I shall have -to chuck it," Kenneth had said, and he was going to keep -his word. He contemplated the prospect with melancholy. -Kenneth was a good friend; his departure would -leave an intolerable gap in London life. The chats and -the evening meetings would be gone.... They would -pass out of each other's daily life....</p> - -<p>Thus Saturday came, and Humphrey found himself -free to carry out his acceptance of Elizabeth's invitation.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had always imagined that Elizabeth lived -in a flat with some woman-friend: he was surprised when -he found the address led to a little white house, one of a -row of such houses, in a broad, peaceful road at the back -of Kensington High Street. It was one of those houses -that must have been built when Kensington was a -village; it was like a cottage in the heart of London. -The Virginian creeper made its drapery of green over the -trellis-work that framed the window, and the walls were -green with ivy. An elderly woman opened the door to -his knock, and he found himself in a low-ceilinged hall, -with a few black-and-white drawings on the walls, and -a reproduction of Whistler's Nocturne.</p> - -<p>He was ushered into the sitting-room. Even if he -had not known that it was her house, he could have -chosen this room, out of all the rooms in London, as the -room of Elizabeth Carr. Wherever he looked, he found -a reflex of her peace and gentle calm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<p>In the few moments of waiting he took in all the -details of the room: the soft-toned wall-paper, with a -woodland frieze of blue and delicate shades of green, -the old Japanese prints on the walls, and the little -leather-bound books on the tables here and there. He -had sat so many times in the rooms of different people -whom he went to interview, that his observation had -trained itself mechanically to notice such details. He -heard a rustle on the stairs, the door opened gently, and -Elizabeth Carr came into the room.</p> - -<p>She looked as beautiful as a picture in the frame of her -own room. So had he imagined her, her hair looped back -from its centre parting piled in gleaming coils just above -the nape of her neck, leaving its delicate outline unbroken; -a long necklet of amethysts made a mauve rivulet -against the whiteness of her bosom till it fell in a festoon -over her bodice, and blended with the colour of her dress, -amethystine itself. And in her hair there gleamed a -comb beaten by a Norwegian goldsmith, and set with -moonstone and chrysoprase.</p> - -<p>She came forward to greet him, moving with the -subtle grace of womanhood. Her charm, her frank -beauty, filled him with a peculiar sense of unworthiness -and embarrassment. Before the wonder of her, before -the purity of her, everything else in life seemed incomprehensibly -sordid.</p> - -<p>"I am so glad you were able to come," she said. -She looked him in the eyes as she spoke, and there was -this, he noticed, about Elizabeth Carr: she meant every -word she said—even the most trivial of greetings took -on significance when she uttered them. Her words gave -him confidence.</p> - -<p>"It was good of you to ask me...." There was a -slight pause. "I nearly missed the house," he said with -an inconsequential smile. "I always thought you lived -in a flat."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Did you?" she replied. "Oh no!—(Do sit down—I'm -expecting some more visitors shortly.) I've had -this house for a long time." She sighed. "It's an -inheritance, you know, and I thought I'd live in it -myself, instead of letting it. Kenneth and I have dreadful -squabbles—he says it's too far out for him, and wants -me to keep a flat with him in town—and I loathe flats. -I've got a small garden at the back, and it's blessed in -the summer. There's a walnut tree and a pear tree just -wide enough apart to hold a hammock."</p> - -<p>"A hammock in London!" cried Humphrey; "I envy -you! Think of our Clifford's Inn."</p> - -<p>"I really don't know how you people can live on the -doorsteps of your offices. I'm sure it's not good for you. -Anyway, Kenneth's giving it up."</p> - -<p>"I hadn't heard of it before your letter."</p> - -<p>"It was only settled a few days ago. Grahams, the -publishers, liked his last book well enough to offer him -a good advance; and the book's sold in America—he's -got enough to get a year's start in the country, and so -he's going down there to write only the things he -wants to."</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled in his cocksure way. "Aha! -he'll soon get sick of it, Miss Carr."</p> - -<p>Elizabeth Carr's fingers strayed into the loops of her -amethyst necklace; the light shone on the violet and -blue gems as she gathered them into a little heap, and -let them fall again. Her brows hinted at a frown for a -moment, and then they became level again.</p> - -<p>"Nothing would make you give up Fleet Street, I -suppose?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"No ... the fever's in me," he said. "I couldn't -live without it."</p> - -<p>"Are you so wrapped up in it?"</p> - -<p>"Well," said Humphrey, "I suppose I am. It's -rather fine, you know, the way things are done. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> -ought to go through a newspaper office and see it at -work ... all sorts of people, each of them working -daily with only one aim—to-morrow's paper...."</p> - -<p>"And you never think of the day when Ferrol -doesn't want you any more?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you know," Humphrey said, with a smile, -"it's difficult to explain. We just trust to luck. After -all, lots of men have drifted into journalism; when they're -done, they drift back again."</p> - -<p>"I see," Elizabeth Carr said, nodding her head -gently. "And there are always fresh men to drift."</p> - -<p>"I suppose so."</p> - -<p>"And, you're quite content."</p> - -<p>Humphrey shrugged his shoulders. "What else -can I do?"</p> - -<p>The bell rang. "Ah! what else!" she exclaimed, -rising to meet her visitors.</p> - -<p>The new-comers were introduced to Humphrey. -One was a tall, thin man, with remarkable eyes, black -and deep-sunken, and the thin mobile lips of an artist. -His name was Dyotkin; he spoke English fluently, with -a faint Russian accent. The other was a woman whose -youthful complexion and features of middle age were in -conflict, but whose hair tinged with grey left no doubt of -her years. Although her dress was in excellent taste, it -suggested an unduly overbearing wealth. Humphrey -recognized her name when he heard it: Mrs Hayman. -She was one of the philanthropists who helped Elizabeth -in her work.</p> - -<p>They went into dinner, to sit at a little oval Chippendale -table just big enough for the four of them; Dyotkin -and he faced one another, sitting between Elizabeth and -Mrs Hayman.</p> - -<p>"Your work must be very interesting," Mrs Hayman -said.</p> - -<p>Humphrey smiled. That was the commonest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> -remark he heard. Those who did not know what -the work was, perceived dimly its interest, but not one -of them could ever be made to understand the intense, -eager passion of the life.</p> - -<p>"It is interesting," Humphrey said. "Miss Carr -knows a good deal of it."</p> - -<p>"I suppose you go everywhere—it must be splendid."</p> - -<p>"When you talk like that, I, too, think it must be -splendid. Sometimes, it's very funny."</p> - -<p>"Still, it's nice to see everything, isn't it? And I -suppose you go to theatres and concerts."</p> - -<p>"Oh no! I'm not a critic. That's another man's -work. I'm just a reporter."</p> - -<p>"I don't know how you get your news. What do you -do? Go out in the morning and ask people? And -isn't it dreadfully difficult to fill the paper?"</p> - -<p>It was always the same; nobody could understand -the routine of the business. Everybody had the same -idea that newspaper offices lived in a day of tremulous -anticipation lest there should not be enough news. -Nobody understood that the happenings in the world -were so vast and complex, that their sole anxiety was -to compress into four pages the manifold events that -had happened while the earth had turned on its axis for -one day.</p> - -<p>"Now, yesterday, for instance?" Mrs Hayman said, -with an inviting smile. "What did you do yesterday?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yesterday was an unpleasant day. I had to -go to Camberwell late at night. A man had given himself -up somewhere in Wales. He said he'd murdered -Miss Cott—you remember the train murder, three years -ago.... He kept a chemist's shop in Camberwell, we -found out. So I had to go there. I got there dreadfully -late. The door was opened by a girl. Her eyes were -swollen and red. She was his daughter, I guessed.... -I can tell you, I felt awkward."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I should think so," Elizabeth said. He looked at -her, and saw that she was annoyed.</p> - -<p>"What did you do—go away?" Mrs Hayman asked.</p> - -<p>"Go away? Good gracious, no. I interviewed her."</p> - -<p>"Interviewed her!"</p> - -<p>"Well, I talked with her, if you like. They were -very pleased at the office."</p> - -<p>"I think it's repulsive," Elizabeth remarked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, come!" Humphrey remonstrated.</p> - -<p>The dinner was finished. It occurred to Humphrey -that he had fallen from grace.</p> - -<p>"We will go into the next room," Elizabeth said, -"and Mr Dyotkin shall play to us." As she passed by -him, Humphrey went forward and opened the door for -her. Dyotkin and Mrs Hayman lingered behind. He -passed into the adjoining room with Elizabeth. He -wanted to defend himself.</p> - -<p>"You're a little hard on me, you know," he said.</p> - -<p>"I don't understand how you can do it," she said.</p> - -<p>"Do what?"</p> - -<p>"Forget all your finer feelings, and make a trade -of it."</p> - -<p>"I don't make a trade of it," he said, hotly. "You -cannot separate the good from the bad. You must take -us just as we are—or leave us."</p> - -<p>The words came from him quietly, almost unconsciously, -as though in an unguarded moment his tongue -had taken advantage of his thoughts. She turned her -face sideways to his, and he was conscious of a queer -look in her eyes—an expression which was absolutely -foreign to them. He saw doubt, uncertainty and surprise -in the swift glance of a moment. "I ought not to -have said that," he thought to himself. And, then, hard -upon that, defiantly, "I don't care what she thinks; it's -what I thought."</p> - -<p>The expression in her eyes softened. Though he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> -had said nothing more, it was as if he had subtly communicated -to her that which was passing in his mind.</p> - -<p>"Yes," she said, with softness in her voice, "we must -take the good with the bad, but we must separate the -sincere from the insincere. I saw you that day in the -forest when your eyes showed how you felt the pity of -it all—and yet, you see, you did not put that in <cite>The -Day</cite>. You did not write as you felt."</p> - -<p>So that was her explanation. How could he make -her comprehend the conflict that was for ever in his -mind, and even his explanation could not redeem him in -her eyes.</p> - -<p>John Davidson's verse ran through his mind like a -dirge:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Ambition and passion and power,</div> -<div class="verse indent2">Came out of the North and the West,</div> -<div class="verse">Every year, every day, every hour,</div> -<div class="verse indent2">Into Fleet Street to fashion their best.</div> -<div class="verse">They would write what is noble and wise,</div> -<div class="verse">They must live by a traffic in lies!"</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Ah, but it was wrong of her to take that view. As -if one could ever tell the truth in a world where the very -fabric of society is woven from lies and false conceptions. -How could he tell her and make her believe that he was -thrilled, and that his throat tightened at things that he -saw—and yet he never dared give way to his emotions, -and write them. Why, the most vital things in his life -were not the things he wrote, but the things he did not -write.</p> - -<p>Though his mind was rioting with indignation, he -laughed. "We mustn't take our work too seriously," he -said. "It's too ephemeral for that. Things only last a -day."</p> - -<p>She did not answer. She turned from him without -a word. He had meant to anger her, and he had -succeeded. There was a chatter of voices in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> -passage and Mrs Hayman came into the room with -Dyotkin. Elizabeth went towards him.</p> - -<p>"Won't you play something?" she begged.</p> - -<p>Dyotkin sat down by the piano. The seat was too -low; he wanted a cushion, or some books, and Elizabeth -went to fetch them.</p> - -<p>The sight of her waiting on Dyotkin filled Humphrey -with an increasing annoyance. It jarred on him somehow. -He attempted to help in an ungainly way, but -Elizabeth, without conveying it directly, held aloof from -his assistance. He settled himself in the arm-chair by -Mrs Hayman ... and Dyotkin played.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had no knowledge of music. He did not -even know the name of the piece that was being played, -but as the fingers of Dyotkin struck three grand chords, -something stirred within his soul, and, gradually, a vague -understanding came to him, and he followed and traced -the theme through its embroidery. And the following -of the theme was just like the following of an ideal. -At times he was lost in waves of seductive sounds, that -charmed him and led his thoughts away, and then, -suddenly, the chords would emerge again, out of the -bewildering maze of melody clear and triumphant, again, -and yet again; he could follow them, though they were -cunningly concealed beneath intricate patterns.</p> - -<p>And then, for a moment, he would lose them, but he -knew that they were still there, if he sought for them, -and so he stumbled on; and, behold, once more as the -dawn bursts out of the darkness, the familiar sounds -struck on his ears. And now they were with him -always: he hearkened to them, and they were fraught -with a strange, delicious meaning. "I have thought -this," he said, in his mind.</p> - -<p>Here was something far, far removed from anything -of daily life. He was uplifted, exalted from earthly -things. The wonder of the music enchanted him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -Ah! what achievements were not possible in such -moments! He felt grandiose, noble and apart from -life altogether.... The music ceased. He sighed as -one awaking from the glory of a dream. He looked up, -and his eyes, once again, met the eyes of Elizabeth, -deep and tender and unspeakably divine.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.V" id="III.V"></a>V</h3> - -</div> - -<p>It is impossible to point a finger at any date in this -period of the career of Humphrey Quain and say, -"This is the day on which he fell in love with Elizabeth -Carr." For the days merged gradually into weeks and -months, and they met at irregular intervals, and out of -their meetings something new and definite came to -Humphrey.</p> - -<p>There was no sudden transition from acquaintance -to friendship, from friendship to love. He could not -mark the stages of the development of their knowledge -of one another. But before he was aware of its true -meaning, once again the spirit of yearning and unrest -took hold of him.</p> - -<p>This time, his love was different from that abrupt -love-affair with Lilian Filmer. Then untutored youth -had broken its bounds, and love had swept him from -his foothold. He had been ardent, passionate in those -days, the fervour of love had intoxicated him; but now, -with this slow attachment, his love was a different -quality. Lilian, coming fresh upon the horizon of his -hopes, bringing with her the promise of all that he -needed in those days, had made a physical appeal to -him. Always there was working, subconsciously, in his -mind, the thought of her desirability. She offered him -material rewards; they were attracted to each other by -the mutual disadvantages of their surroundings.</p> - -<p>Their meeting, their abortive love-affair was the -expression of the everlasting desire of the companionship -of sex: they were, both of them, groping after -things half-understood, towards a goal that looked -glamorous in the incomplete vision they had of it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> - -<p>But Elizabeth Carr appealed to the intellectual in -him. No doubt the old primeval forces compelled him -towards her, but they were far below the surface of his -thoughts whenever the vision of Elizabeth rose before -him. He could not describe the hold she had on his -imagination. Her influence had been so subtly and -gently exercised, that he had not noticed the power of -it, until now he was dominated by the thought of her. -The finer spirit that lies dormant in every man, except -in the very basest, put forth its wings and awoke. In -little questions of everyday honour he began to see -things from Elizabeth's point of view: little, trivial -questions of his dealings with mankind which jarred on -Elizabeth's own code of morality. Unquestionably, he -was better for her influence, better from the spiritual -standpoint, but weaker altogether when judged by the -standard of everyday life. Elizabeth preached the -gospel of altruism not directly, but insidiously, and he -found himself adopting her views.</p> - -<p>Hitherto his had been the grim doctrine of worldly -success: those who would be strong must be ruthless -and remorseless; there must be no halting consideration -of the feelings of others. Though he did not realize it, -his absorption of Elizabeth's ideals was weakening him, -inevitably.</p> - -<p>The charity of her work, with its gentle benevolence, -was reflected in all her life. She gained happiness by -self-sacrifice, and peace by warring against social evils. -Their characters and temperaments conflicted whenever -they met, and yet, after each meeting, it seemed to -Humphrey that their friendship was arising on a -firmer basis. Sometimes the shock of their opposing -personalities would leave behind it quarrelsome echoes—not -the echoes of an open quarrel, but the unmistakable -suggestion of disagreement and dissatisfaction. -He blundered about, trying to fathom her wishes, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -her individuality remained always to him a problem, -inscrutably complex.</p> - -<p>There were times, it seemed, when their spirits were -in perfect agreement, when he was raised high in the -wonder of the esteem in which she, obviously, held him. -Those were the times when he came first to realize that -he loved her: and the audacity of his discovery filled -him with dismay. He knew that she was altogether -superior; she lived exalted in thought and deed in a -plane far above him. They met, it is true, over tea, or -at a theatre, just as if they both inhabited the same -sphere, but, in spite of that, they were as separate -planets, whirling in their own orbits, rushing together -for an instant, meeting for a fraction of time, and soaring -away once more until again they drew together.</p> - -<p>And, even when understanding of her seemed nearest -to him, she suddenly receded from his grasp. A change -of voice, a change of expression, a movement of her -body—what was it? He did not know. He only knew -that something he had said had separated them: she -could become, in a moment, distant and unattainable, -another woman altogether, coldly antagonistic.</p> - -<p>Yet, by the old symptoms, he knew that he loved -her. She persisted in his thoughts with an alarming -result. He found himself pausing, pen in hand, at his -desk in the reporters' room, thinking, "Would Elizabeth -be pleased with this?..." And an impulse that needed -all his strength to combat seized him to abandon the set -form into which <cite>The Day</cite> had cast his thoughts, to criticize -and to express his own individual impression, whether -they accorded or not with the views held by <cite>The Day</cite>. -This was altogether new and disturbing. He was a mouthpiece -whose mere duty was to record the words of others -by interviews, or a painter to present pictures and not -opinions. Conscience and convictions were luxuries that -belonged to the critics of art, and the leader-writers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> - -<p>There came to him days of unqualified unhappiness, -when he was possessed by doubts. For the first time -he mistrusted the value of his work: he began to see -that the fundamental truths of life were outside his -scope. Cities might be festering with immorality and -slums; vice might parade openly, but these things could -never be touched on in a daily newspaper. Nobody was -to blame, least of all those who controlled the newspaper, -for it is not the business of a daily to deal with the -morals of existence.... It is not easy to analyse his -feelings ... but, as a result of all this vague tormenting -and apprehension, the old thrill at the power and -wonder of the office which throbbed with daily activities -forsook him, leaving in its place nothing but the desolating -knowledge of the littleness and futility of it all.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The phase passed: the variety of the work enthralled -him again. He travelled to distant towns and remote -villages, and whenever he was in the grip of his work, -all thoughts of Elizabeth Carr departed from him. He -obtained extraordinary glimpses into the lives of other -people; he acquired a knowledge into the working of -things that was denied to those who only gleaned their -knowledge second-hand from the things that he and -others wrote. He saw things all day long: the plottings, -the achievements and the failures of mankind.</p> - -<p>The other men of the Street flitted into his life and -out again at the decree of circumstance. For a week, -perhaps, half-a-dozen of them would be thrown together -in some part of England. They met at the hotels; they -formed friendships, and they parted again, knowing, with -the fatalism of their craft, that they would forgather -perhaps next week, perhaps next year. There was no -sentiment in these friendships.</p> - -<p>There were the photographers, too. A new race of -men had come into Fleet Street, claiming kinship with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> -the reporters, yet divided by difference of thought and -outlook upon news. They were remarkable in their -way, the product of the picture daily paper. And their -coming marked the doom of the artist illustrators in the -newspapers. They were the newest of the new generation, -shattering every conception even of the younger -men of the manner in which a journalist should perform -his duty. The photographers were drawn, as a class, from -the studios and operating-rooms of the professional photographer. -They forsook the posing of babies and young -men in frock coats for the photographic quest of news.</p> - -<p>Their finger-tips and nails were brown with the -stain of iodoform, and for them there was no concealment -of their profession, for they went through life with -the burden of their cameras slung over their shoulders. -Their audacity was astounding, even to Humphrey and -his friends, who knew the necessity of audacity themselves.</p> - -<p>They ranged themselves outside the Law Courts, or -the Houses of Parliament, or wherever one of the many -interests of the day centred, and when a litigant or a -Cabinet Minister appeared, a dozen men closed towards -him, their cameras at the level of their eyes, and a dozen -intermittent "clicking" noises marked the achievement -of their quest. They saw life in pictures; a speech was -nothing to them but the open mouth and the raised -arm of the speaker; the poignancy of death left them -unmoved before the need of focus and exposure.</p> - -<p>The difficulties of their work seemed so immense to -Humphrey that reporting seemed child's play beside it. -For not only had they actually to be on the spot, to overcome -prejudices and barriers, but, once there, they had to -select and group their picture, and to reckon with the -light and time. And though the photographers and the -reporters were far removed from one another by the -external nature of their work, though neither class saw -life from the identical standpoint, yet they were interdependent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> -and linked by the same ceaseless forces -working towards one common end....</p> - -<p>Sometimes, also, in out-of-the-way places, Humphrey -met men who reminded him of his days on the <cite>Easterham -Gazette</cite>, men with attenuated minds who were even -more absorbed in their work than the London reporter. -They had a shameless way of never concealing their -identity: they were always the "reporter"; some of -them never saw the dignity of their calling, they were -careless of speech and appearance, seeming to place -themselves on the level of inferior people, and submitting -to the undisguised contempt of the little local authorities, -who spoke to them scornfully as "You reporters."</p> - -<p>Yet, among these, Humphrey found scholars and -men of strange experience. Their salaries were absurdly -low for the work they did—thirty shillings to two pounds -a week was the average; their lives were a thousand -times more dismal and humdrum than the lives of the -London men. And, in spite of these, many London -men sighed for the pleasant country work. Whenever -Humphrey heard a man speak of the leisure and peace -of country journalism, he told them of Easterham and -its dreadful monotony.</p> - -<p>He had interior glimpses, too, of other newspaper -offices; not a town in the kingdom without its sheet of -printed paper, and its reporter recording the day or the -week. These offices held his imagination by their sameness. -Whether it was Belfast or Birmingham, Edinburgh -or Exeter, their plan was uniform. There was always -the narrow room, with its paper-strewn desks or tables -at which the reporters sat; always the same air of hazy -smoke hovered level with the electric-light bulbs; the -same type of alert-eyed men, with the taut lips and -frown of those who think swiftly, came into the room, -smoking a cigarette or a pipe (but rarely a cigar), and -brought with them a familiar suggestion of careless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> -good-fellowship as they sat down to the work of -transcribing their notes. And, always, wherever he -went, the pungent smell of printer's ink was in his -nostrils, the metallic rustle of shifting types from the -linotype room, and the deep, rumbling sound of -machinery in his ears.</p> - -<p>Ah, when he got down to the machines that moved -it all, he probed to the depths of the simple greatness. -Those big, strong men who worked below it all, and -lived by the labour of it, made a parable of the whole -social system. Of what avail would all their writing be, -if it were not for the men and the machines below?</p> - -<p>Once he went down the stone steps to the high-roofed -basement of <cite>The Day</cite>. He went at midnight, -just when the printing was about to begin. It was as if -he had penetrated into the utmost secrecy of the office. -Here were the things of which nobody seemed to think; -here, again, were men in their aprons stained with grease -and oily ink; men with bare, strong arms lifting the -curved plates of metal, and fixing them to the cylinders; -each man doing his allotted work, oiling a bearing here, -tightening a nut there, moving busily about the mighty -growth of machinery that filled the brightly lit room. -The sight of that tangle of iron and steel confused his -thoughts. He understood nothing of it all. Those -great machines rose before him, towering massively to -the roof, tier upon tier of black and glittering metal, -with rods and cranks, and weird gaps here and there -showing their bowels of polished steel. The enormous -rolls of paper which he had seen carried on carts and -hoisted many a time into the paper-department of the -office, were waiting by each machine, threaded on to a -rod of steel. Their blank whiteness reflected the light -of the electric lamps.</p> - -<p>And then, suddenly, a red light glowed, and somebody -shouted, and a man turned a small wheel in the wall—just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> -as a motor-car driver turns the wheel of the steering -gear—and the great machines broke into thunderous -noises. The din was appalling. It was loud and continuous, -and the clamour of it deadened the ears.</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked and saw the white reels of paper -spinning, and, through the forest of iron and steel, he -could trace a cascade of running whiteness, as the paper -was spun between the rollers, up and down and across, -until it met the curved plates of type, and ran beneath -them, to reappear black with the printed words. And -the columns looked like blurred, thin lines in the incredible -rapidity of the passing paper. The moments were -magical; he tried to follow the course of this everlasting -ribbon of paper, but he could not. He saw it disappear -and come into his vision again. He saw it speed and -vanish along a triangular slab of steel, downwards into -the invisible intricacies that took it and folded it into -two and four and eight pages, cut it and patted it into -shape, and tossed it out, quire after quire, a living, printed -thing—<cite>The Day</cite>.</p> - -<p>And everywhere, wherever he glanced at the turbulent, -roaring machines, little screws were working, silent -wheels were spinning, small, thin rods were moving -almost imperceptibly to and fro, to and fro. He saw -great rollers touching the gutters of ink, transmitting -their inky touch to other rollers, spinning round and -round and round; and the paper, speeding through it all, -from the great white web to the folded sheets that were -snatched up by waiting men and bundled into a lift, upwards -into the night where the carts were waiting.</p> - -<p>And the force of the noise was dreadful, and the -power of the machines perpetual and relentless as they -flung from them, with such terrible ease, hundreds and -hundreds of thousands of square, folded papers.</p> - -<p>They looked as if they could crush the lives of men -in the swift snare of their machinery.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.VI" id="III.VI"></a>VI</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Whom should he meet one day, but Beaver!</p> - -<p>Beaver of the inky thumbs and the bitten nails, who -had, somehow, eluded him, though they both worked in -the narrow Street. Nothing astonishing in this, for the -work of Beaver lay in circles different from his own. He -never came outside the radius of meetings, inquests, the -opening of bazaars and the hundred and one minor happenings -that are to be found in "To-day's Diary." But -here he was, utterly unchanged from the Beaver with -whom Humphrey had lived in Guilford Street, with Mrs -Wayzgoose, her wasteful coal-scuttles and her bulrushes.</p> - -<p>They met in a chop-house by Temple Bar, a strange -place, where the lower floor was packed with keen-faced -men from the Courts of Justice over the way and the -Temple at the back. They sat crowded together, -abandoning all comfort in the haste to enjoy the luxury -of the chops and steaks for which the house was famed.</p> - -<p>There were no table-cloths on the round tables, where -coffee-cups and plates of poached eggs and rounds of -toast jostled each other. Only in England would people -sit with joy and eat cheek by jowl in this fashion, with -the smell of coffee and hot food in their nostrils, and the -clatter of plates and knives and forks in their ears.</p> - -<p>Upstairs men played chess and dominoes over coffee -and rolls, cracking their boiled eggs with difficulty in -the cramped space.</p> - -<p>Humphrey heard a voice hail him as he threaded his -way between the tables. He looked back and saw -Beaver waving a friendly fork at him.</p> - -<p>"Hullo!" cried Beaver, shifting his chair away a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> -inches, and seriously incommoding a grey-haired man so -absorbed in his game of chess that his coffee was cold -and untouched. "Come and sit here," cried Beaver.</p> - -<p>They shook hands. "Well, how goes it?" Humphrey -asked. "Still with the nose to the grindstone?"</p> - -<p>"That's it," Beaver said. Their positions had been -changed since the days of Easterham, when Beaver -seemed miles above him in worldly success. He remembered -the day Beaver left for London, to embark -on a career which shone clear and brilliant in Humphrey's -imagination. "Write in!" Those had been Beaver's -last words. "Write in. That's what I did." The vision -of it all rose before him now, as he sat by Beaver: the -dingy office, with the scent of the fishmonger next -door, the auctioneer's bills on the walls, with samples -of mourning and wedding cards, and tradesmen's invoice -headings, to show the excellence of the <cite>Gazette's</cite> -jobbing department. And now—? He was conscious -of a change in Beaver's attitude towards him.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had taken his place in Fleet Street -among the personalities, among the young men of -promise and achievement. He had even seen his name -signed to occasional articles in <cite>The Day</cite>—glorious thrill, -splendid emotion, that repaid all the long anonymous -hours of patient work!</p> - -<p>"You're getting on!" Beaver said. There was -admiration unconcealed in his eyes and voice. "Great -Scott! It seems impossible that you and I ever worked -together on that rotten Easterham paper. That was a -fine story you did of the Hextable Railway Smash."</p> - -<p>"I've got nothing to complain of," Humphrey replied, -hacking at a roll of bread. "It hasn't been easy work. -Yours isn't, for the matter of that."</p> - -<p>Beaver laughed. "Oh, mine—it isn't difficult, you -know. I get so used to it, that I can report a speech -mechanically without even thinking of the speaker."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's a safe job, you know," he said, after a pause. -"A life job."</p> - -<p>Humphrey knew what Beaver's exultation in the -safety of his job meant.</p> - -<p>There were men in Fleet Street, husbands of wives, -and fathers of families, who lived and worked tremblingly -from day to day, never certain when a fatal envelope -would not contain the irrevocable "regret" of the editor -that he could no longer continue the engagement.</p> - -<p>Why, it might happen to Humphrey himself, for -aught he knew. Truly, Beaver was to be envied after all.</p> - -<p>"But don't you think you'd do better on a daily -paper?" Humphrey said. "I could tell Rivers about -you, you know. There might be room on <cite>The Day</cite>."</p> - -<p>"I'm taking no risks. I'm going to stop where I -am. You see—er—" Beaver became suddenly hesitant, -and smiled foolishly. "What I mean to say is—I'm -engaged to be married."</p> - -<p>He leant back in his seat and contemplated the -astonishment in Humphrey's face.</p> - -<p>"No—are you really!"</p> - -<p>"Fact," retorted Beaver. "Been engaged for the -last year."</p> - -<p>Beaver going to be married! The news touched -Humphrey oddly: Beaver could be earning very little -more than Humphrey had earned at the time when he -had almost plunged into married life, and there was no -desire on Beaver's part to reach out and grasp greater -things; he was in a life job, untouched by the wrack and -torment of ambition, and the craving for success. Oh, -assuredly, Beaver was not to be pitied in the equable -calmness of his life and temperament.</p> - -<p>"Well, I congratulate you, old man—though I never -thought you were the marrying sort."</p> - -<p>Beaver took the congratulations blushingly. "Nor -did I, until I met Her."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> - -<p>He spoke of "Her" in an awed, impressive manner, -as though She were some abnormal person far removed -from all other people in the world. Humphrey tried to -figure the girl whom Beaver had chosen. He thought -of her as a rather plain, nice homely sort of person, -with no great burden of intellect or imagination.</p> - -<p>Beaver's hand dived into an inside pocket, and out -came a leather case. This he opened, and displayed a -photograph, reverently.</p> - -<p>"That's her!" he said, showing the portrait.</p> - -<p>Humphrey kept his self-possession well. Neither -by a look nor a word did he betray the past: there was -nothing in his manner to show Beaver that the girl -whose portrait he held in his hand was she whose lips -had clung to his in the young, passionate kisses of -yester-year.</p> - -<p>But, as Humphrey looked on the face of Lilian -Filmer, the same Lilian, even though the photograph -was new, and the hair was done in a different fashion, -an acute feeling of sorrow came over him, bringing with -it the remembrance of aching days, of the early beginnings, -of those meetings and partings, and hearts that -strained, and he saw the reflection of himself, foolish and -cruel, mistaking the shadow for the substance, struggling -and struggling, all for nothing ... for not even as -much as Beaver had gained.</p> - -<p>She looked at him out of the eyes of her photograph, -and about her lips there still hovered that smile which -had always been a riddle to him; a smile of indulgent -love, or contempt? Who knows—a woman's smile is -the secret of her sex. Yet now, it seemed, her lips were -curved in triumph. This was her revenge on him, that -he should go for ever loveless through the world, while -she should steal into a haven of welcome peace.</p> - -<p>Beaver's voice brought him back to physical things. -She would kiss Beaver's shaggy-moustached lips, and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> -arms would catch her in an embrace.... How soon -she had forgotten ... he thought, unreasonably.... -She might have waited.... She might have understood....</p> - -<p>"Well?" said Beaver, awaiting praise. "You've had -a good old look."</p> - -<p>"She's awfully nice and charming," Humphrey -answered, returning the photograph. "She's like somebody -I know."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you've probably seen the original, old man, -when you used to come and call for me. She used to -be one of the girls in our office."</p> - -<p>He had forgotten that lunch in the Fleet Street -public-house, when Humphrey had asked for the name -of the girl.</p> - -<p>Used to be one of the girls in the office! Then -Lilian had left. He wondered what she was doing, and -an impulse that could not be withstood, compelled him -to find out whether she had ever mentioned him to -Beaver.</p> - -<p>"By George!" he said. "I remember, now. Miss -Filmer, her name was, wasn't it?"</p> - -<p>"That's it, Miss Filmer. Did you ever speak to her, -then?"</p> - -<p>He was treading on uncertain ground. It was clear -that she had never spoken of him. He felt that she -had forgotten him, absolutely and completely.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I think so—just casually, now and again."</p> - -<p>"Well, I never!" said the innocent Beaver. "That's -interesting. I'll tell her I met you."</p> - -<p>"Oh, she wouldn't remember me or my name," -Humphrey answered, hastily. "It was only just 'How-d'ye-do' -and 'Good-day' with us.... So she's left the -office now."</p> - -<p>"Yes. It's rather a sad story. Her father died, you -know. He was a chronic invalid—paralysis, I think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> -Anyhow, we don't speak of it much, and I've never -pressed her. But the father who was so useless in life, -has been the salvation of the mother by his death. Odd, -isn't it? He was insured for a good round sum, and -Lilian's mother—did I tell you her name was Lilian?—has -bought a little annuity, so that Lilian's free. She -used to slave for her mother and the rest of the family -until they grew up. That's why she worked overtime -at the office. 'Pon me soul, I'd rather be the lowest -jackal in Fleet Street than some of these poor little -typist girls at eighteen bob a week.... Well, time's -up. I've got to be at the Mansion House at three: the -Lord Mayor's taking the chair at some blooming meeting -to raise a fund for something, somewhere. What are -you doing to-day?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm on the Klipp case at the Old Bailey."</p> - -<p>Humphrey came away profoundly disturbed. Something -entirely unexpected had happened. Lilian had -lived as the vaguest shadow at the back of his mind, -just as he had last seen her, when she bent down to kiss -him, and now this picture would have to be erased. He -shuddered at the thought. She was Beaver's "girl": -she would be Beaver's "missis."</p> - -<p>After all, what did it matter? He and Lilian had -long since parted; there had been little in common -between them. He might have married her, and been as -Beaver; she might have married him, but never, never, -could she have held the magic and the inspiration of -Elizabeth Carr.</p> - -<p>His mind, always susceptible to outside influences, -brooded on the new fact that had come into his life. -Unconsciously, as a natural sequel to his thoughts, he -began to dream of his new love, and to see himself -happier than he had ever been, with Elizabeth for ever -at his side. The same motives that impelled him to -Lilian after that scene in the registry office, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> -Wratten was married, now urged him towards Kenneth -Carr's sister....</p> - -<p>And, of course, one day, Beaver would have to -mention his name to Lilian. She would probably smile -and say nothing. "He's engaged now," Beaver would -say. "There won't be any bachelors left, soon." And -that would be his message to Lilian.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.VII" id="III.VII"></a>VII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>On a Saturday evening some weeks later, Humphrey -sat in the dismantled room in Clifford's Inn, in which he -and Kenneth Carr had shared so many hours of grateful -friendship.</p> - -<p>The room looked forlorn enough. Square gaping -patches on the wall marked the places where pictures -had once hung; the windows were bared of curtains and -the floor was dismal without the carpet, littered with -scraps of paper and little pieces of destroyed letters. -Trunks and boxes ready for the leaving were in the -small entrance hall, now robbed of its curtains and its -comfort. A pair of old boots, a broken pipe, a row of -empty bottles and siphons, a chipped cup or two—these -alone formed the salvage which the room would rescue -from Kenneth's presence.</p> - -<p>"This," said Kenneth, taking the pipe-rack from the -mantelpiece, "this, my son, I give and bequeath to you." -He laughed, and tossed it over to Humphrey, who caught -it neatly.</p> - -<p>Kenneth waved his arm comprehensively round the -room. "Now if there's any other little thing you fancy," -he said, "take your choice. I'm afraid there's nothing -but old boots and broken glass left. You might fancy a -bottle or two for candlesticks."</p> - -<p>"The only thing of yours I coveted was your green -edition of Thackeray, and you took jolly good care to -pack that before I came," Humphrey remarked.</p> - -<p>"I'll send you one for your next birthday. I shall -be rolling in money when I get to work. Meanwhile, -just hold this lid up, while I put these photographs in."</p> - -<p>The light glinted on the silver of the frames.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> -Humphrey knew nothing of two of them, but the third -was a photograph that he had always observed. He -could see it now as it lay, face upwards, in Kenneth's -hand—the photograph of Elizabeth, very sweet and -beautiful, with soft eyes that seemed to be full of -infinite regret.</p> - -<p>"Do you know, old man," he said, "I wish you'd -let me have that photograph."</p> - -<p>"Which one?"</p> - -<p>"The one of Elizabeth." Closer acquaintance had -led to the dropping of the formal "Miss" and "Mister."</p> - -<p>"What will Elizabeth say: it was a special and -exclusive birthday present to me, frame and all."</p> - -<p>"You can easily get another one. Keep the frame -if you want to. Honest, I'd like to have the photograph. -It would remind me of you and all the jolly talks we've -had."</p> - -<p>"Best Beloved," laughed Kenneth, jovially, "I can -refuse you nothing. It is yours, with half my kingdom." -He slipped the photograph from the frame. "You -know, I feel exhilarated at the thought of leaving it all. -I walk on air. I am free." He slammed the lid on the -last box and pirouetted across the room.</p> - -<p>"Thanks," said Humphrey, placing the photograph -in his letter-case.</p> - -<p>"Think of it," Kenneth cried, "from to-morrow I'm -a free man—free to write as I will: free to say at such -and such a time, 'Now I shall have luncheon,' 'Now I -shall have dinner,' or, 'Now I will go to bed.' Free to -say, 'To-morrow week at three-thirty I shall do such -and such a thing,' in the sure and certain knowledge -that I shall be able to do it. Henceforth, I am the -captain of my soul."</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, you feel pretty chirpy now, but just you -wait. You wait till there's a big story on, and you read -all the other fellows' stories—you'll start guessing who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> -did this one, or who got that scoop—and you'll wish -you were back again."</p> - -<p>"Not I! I shall sit in the seclusion of my arm-chair, -and gloat over it all the next morning. And I shall -think, 'Poor devils, they're still at it—and all that they -think so splendid to-day will be forgotten by to-morrow.' -I've had my fill of Fleet Street.... Besides, I don't -quite break with it."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Didn't I tell you? Old Macalister of <cite>The Herald</cite> -is a brick. He's the literary editor, you know, a regular -spider in a web of books. He's put me on the reviewers' -list, so you'll see my work in the literary page of <cite>The -Herald</cite>. And it's another guinea or so."</p> - -<p>"Good old Macalister," Humphrey said. "The literary -editors are the only people who give us a little -sympathy sometimes. I believe that whenever they see a -reporter they say: 'There, but for the grace of God, go I.'"</p> - -<p>Kenneth surveyed the room. "There," he said, -brushing the dust of packing from him. "It's finished. -In an hour I shall be gone."</p> - -<p>"What train are you catching?"</p> - -<p>"The eight-twenty. I shall be in the West Country -two hours later, and a trap will be waiting to take me -to my cottage. You should see it, old man—just three -rooms, low ceilings and oaken beams, and a door that -is sunk two steps below the roadway. Five bob a week, -and all mine for a year. There's a room for you when -you come."</p> - -<p>"Sounds jolly enough!..." Humphrey sighed. -"By George, I shall miss you when you've gone, Kenneth," -he said. "There'll only be Willoughby left. It's -funny how few real, social friendships there are in the -Street, isn't it? Fellows know each other and all that, -and feed together, but they always keep their private -family lives apart...."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to crow. -I <em>am</em> sorry to leave. I'm pretending to be light-hearted -and gay, as a sort of rehearsal for Elizabeth—she'll be -here soon—but, really and truly, I feel as if I were -leaving part of myself behind in Fleet Street. Say -something ludicrous, Humphrey; be ridiculous and -save me from becoming mawkish over the parting."</p> - -<p>"I can't," Humphrey admitted miserably. "It gives -me the hump to sit in this bare room, and to think of -all the talks we've had—"</p> - -<p>"You've got to come here on Monday again, and see -that Carter Paterson takes away the big box."</p> - -<p>"I shall send a boy from the office: I won't set foot -in the room again.... Wonder who'll live here next?" -he added inconsequently.</p> - -<p>"Donno," Kenneth replied, absently looking at his -watch. "They're not bad rooms for the price. I say, -it's time Elizabeth were here."</p> - -<p>Their talk drifted aimlessly to and fro for the next -quarter of an hour. They had already said everything -they had to say on the subject of the journey. A feeling -of depression and loneliness stole over Humphrey: his -mind travelled to the days of his friendship with Wratten, -and he was experiencing once more the sharp sense of -loss that he had experienced when Wratten died.</p> - -<p>There came a knock at the door, and Elizabeth -appeared, bringing with her, as she always did, an atmosphere -of gladness and peace. Her beautiful face, in the -shadows of her large brimmed hat, her brilliant eyes, -and the supple grace of her figure elated him: he came -forward to greet her gaily. Sorrow could not live in -her presence.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "But I've kept the -cab waiting.... Well, have you two said your sobbing -farewells?"</p> - -<p>Kenneth kissed her. "Don't make a joke of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> -sacred moments ... we were on the verge of a tearful -breakdown. My tears spring from the fact that he has -given me no parting gift."</p> - -<p>"Good Lord! I forgot all about it." Humphrey -produced from his pocket a small brown-paper parcel. -"It's a pipe—smoke it, and see in the smoke visions of -Fleet Street."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm hanged!" said Kenneth, conjuring up a -similar parcel; "that's just what I bought for you. A -five-and-sixpenny one, too."</p> - -<p>"Then I've lost," Humphrey said, with mock gloom. -"Mine cost six-and-six. He'll have to pay the cab, -Elizabeth, won't he?"</p> - -<p>"If you two are going to stand there talking nonsense -Kenneth will miss the train. Come along! I'll carry the -little bag. Can you both manage the big one?"</p> - -<p>Both of them cunningly kept up their artificially high -spirits. Even when Kenneth switched off the electric -light, and the room was in darkness, except for a pallid -moonbeam that accentuated the bareness of the floor -and walls, they parodied their own feelings. They were -both a little ashamed of the sentimental that was in them.</p> - -<p>But as the cab drove out of Fleet Street, they were -silent. The lights were flaming in the upper rooms, but -the offices of <cite>The Herald</cite> and <cite>The Day</cite> and the rest of -the large dailies were unlit and silent, for Sunday gave -peace to them on Saturday night. But Fleet Street itself -was still alive, and the offices of the Sunday papers were -active, and the noise of the presses, without which no day -passes in the Street, would soon be heard....</p> - -<p>Half an hour later, under the great glass roof of Paddington -Station, the last farewells had been said.</p> - -<p>Nothing but a "So long, old man," and a "Good-bye" -and a tight handshake marked the breaking of another -thread of friendship. Humphrey watched the train curve -outwards and away into the darkness with that queer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> -emotion that always comes when one is left standing on -a railway platform, and a lighted train has moved out, -full of life behind its lit windows, leaving in its place a -glistening, empty stretch of rails.</p> - -<p>Elizabeth was fluttering a valedictory handkerchief -to the shadows. Humphrey touched her arm gently.</p> - -<p>"Shall we go now?" he said.</p> - -<p>"I suppose we'd better." These were awkward, uneasy -moments. He would have liked to have told her -how much he felt the passing of Kenneth, but he was -afraid of hurting her, for he knew that she, too, was -saddened at his departure.</p> - -<p>"You'll let me see you home, won't you?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Would you? Thanks, so much."</p> - -<p>They passed out of the station, and he called a -hansom. His hand held her arm firmly as he helped -her into the cab. She thanked him with her eyes. The -moment was precious. It seemed that he had taken -Kenneth's place; that, henceforth, she would look to -him for protection.</p> - -<p>They rode in silence through the lamp-lit terraces, -where the white houses stood tall and ghostly, flinging -their shadows across the road. There was nothing for -him to say. He knew that their thoughts were running -in the same groove. The sudden clear ray of a lamp -flashed intermittently as the cab came into the range of -its light, and he could see her face, serene, thoughtful, -and very beautiful. It made him think of the photograph -that lay in his pocket, against his heart.... She was -very close to him, closer than she had ever been before, -so close that he had but to put out his arms and draw -her lips to his. Never again, he thought, would she be -as close to him as she was at this moment. And the -memory of Lilian intruded ... and with the memory -came a vision of just such a ride homewards in a -hansom.... Ah, but Elizabeth was of a finer fibre,—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> -higher being altogether. His body tingled at his -thoughts. His imagination ran riot in the long silence, -and he did not seek to check it.</p> - -<p>He was seized by an indefinite impulse to hazard all -his future in the rashness of a moment, to take her and -kiss her, and tell her that he loved her.</p> - -<p>"Here we are," she said, with a sudden movement as -the cab jolted to a standstill.</p> - -<p>He sighed. How calm and remote she seemed from -love.</p> - -<p>"You must come in for a moment and have -something."</p> - -<p>He hesitated from conventional politeness.</p> - -<p>"The drive has been cold," she said. "I will ask -Ellen to mix you a whisky and soda; and I daresay -she's left some sandwiches for us."</p> - -<p>"For us!" There was an inestimable touch of intimacy -about those words.</p> - -<p>"Thanks," he said (was his voice really as strange -and as husky as it sounded to his ears?) "Thanks—if -I won't be keeping you up."</p> - -<p>Again, that suggestion of close acquaintance and -absolute familiarity, as she let herself and him into the -house with her latchkey, and closed the door softly on -the world outside. It was all nothing to her. She -moved about with perfect self-possession, unaware of -the agitation within him.</p> - -<p>"Let me turn up the light," she said, leading the -way into the sitting-room.</p> - -<p>He stumbled against something in the feeble light.</p> - -<p>"Mind," she cried, laughingly. "Don't knock my -treasures over."</p> - -<p>And then, suddenly, the room was in utter darkness.</p> - -<p>He heard her make an impatient murmur of annoyance. -"There! I've turned it the wrong way.... -Don't move ... I know where the matches are."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> - -<p>He heard the rustle of her dress, and her breathing, -and the faint fragrance of her pervaded the darkness. -He stood there in the black room with the blood surging -in his veins, and pulses that seemed to be hammering -against the silence. He could feel the throbbing of his -temples. She moved about the room, and once she -came near to him, so near that her hair seemed to float -across his face with a caress that was soft and silken ... -clearly in his brain he pictured her, smiling, pure and -beautiful ... this darkness was becoming intolerable. -He made a step towards her....</p> - -<p>And the room was lit with a brightness that blurred -his sight with the sudden transition from darkness. He -saw her standing by the gas-bracket, with a look of -concern on her face.</p> - -<p>"Humphrey!" she cried, "is anything the matter -with you?"</p> - -<p>He was standing in a direct line with the oval mirror -on the wall, and he caught the glimpse of a white face, -with straining eyes and blanched lips, that he scarcely -recognized as his own. She came to his side, tenderly -solicitous.</p> - -<p>He could bear it no longer. The words came from -him in faltering sentences.</p> - -<p>"Elizabeth," he cried. "Don't you know ... I love -you, I love you."</p> - -<p>Her face flushed with perfect beauty.</p> - -<p>"Oh—Humphrey ..." she said.</p> - -<p>And by the intimation of her voice, half-reproachful, -and yet charged with infinite pity and love, he knew that, -if he were bold enough, he could take her and hold her -for evermore.</p> - -<p>"I love you.... I love you ..." he said, drawing -her unresistingly towards him. And there was nothing -in life comparable to the exquisite happiness of that -miraculous moment when her lips met his.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.VIII" id="III.VIII"></a>VIII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>He seemed to have reached out and touched the very -summit of life in that swift moment of supreme excellence. -His whole being vibrated with the splendour of -living. He felt as he had felt that night when those -three grand chords struck by Dyotkin had stirred the -depths of his soul....</p> - -<p>And then his moment faded away into the irrevocable -past, as she disengaged herself with a gentle, graceful -movement, and they stood facing each other in -silence. He saw her eyes, inexpressibly mild and soft, -droop downwards, as she bent her head; he marked the -colour mounting up her cheeks, flushing faintly the -whiteness of her neck, and her fingers straying nervously -in the thin, golden loop of the chain that fell across her -bosom.</p> - -<p>The wonder of his emotions dazed him. All that he -could realize was that, in the space of a second, their -relations had been absolutely changed. Henceforth, she -appeared to him in another aspect. Quite suddenly and -swiftly they had become isolated from all the countless -millions in the world by the sorcery of a kiss. It seemed -unreal and absurd to him. He wanted to laugh.</p> - -<p>"You had better sit down," she said in a low voice, -that had a note of appeal in it. "I hear Ellen -coming.... It will not do to let her notice anything...."</p> - -<p>Astonishing, he thought, how tranquil and undisturbed -she could remain. She could talk to Ellen as if -nothing at all had happened; she could hand him sandwiches -and prattle about little things as long as Ellen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> -was in the room, and even when the door closed on -Ellen she seemed loath to let him speak.</p> - -<p>But he stopped her, emboldened by the privilege of -his love. He went over to her and, placing his hands -on each side of her face, drew her forehead towards his -kiss, and looked at her with sparkling, victorious eyes.</p> - -<p>"You have made me happier than I have ever been," -he said. "I will be very grateful and good to you."</p> - -<p>Her eyes met his searchingly. "You will, really?" -she asked.</p> - -<p>"Really," he said, and he kissed her again.</p> - -<p>Now they could talk—he had so much to say. With -her acceptance of his pledge, her smiling "Really," and -his reply, he became normal again. His thoughts descended -from their eminence and came back to their -matter-of-fact, everyday plane.</p> - -<p>"Tell me," he said, with a lover's vanity, "when did -you first know that I loved you?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know ..." she said. "Perhaps to-night."</p> - -<p>"Only to-night!" he echoed, disappointed. "Oh, I -have loved you long before this. I think it began when -we went to the forest together that day with the children.... -I shall be able to help you with your work," he -cried, buoyantly, "or will you drop it now?"</p> - -<p>She laughed merrily. "How you hurry things on!" -she said. "Give me time to think, like a good boy. -We're not going to be married to-morrow, are we?"</p> - -<p>"No ... no," he protested, "I didn't mean that. -Let's have a really long, lovely engagement. Give me -months in which I can do all sorts of things for you; -we'll see things together that I've never seen before—museums -and picture-galleries. Do you know, there's -hundreds of things in London I've never seen."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>"I put off the seeing until I go there with my love."</p> - -<p>The consummate joy of the hour infected him. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> -walked up and down the room promising great things -... vanity and egotism tinged his talk.</p> - -<p>"I shall get on, you know. I shall do something -great in Fleet Street, one day. There's no knowing -where I shall stop. And then there are the books I mean -to write. Oh yes! Kenneth's sown the seeds of book-writing -in me. And plays ... plays are the things to -make money with...."</p> - -<p>"You won't need money," she said, kindly. "I have -enough for both of us."</p> - -<p>"Dearest," he answered. (It seemed the most -natural thing in the world, now, that he should call her -"dearest.") "You must not say that.... You won't -mind waiting, just a little, will you? Until I feel I can -come to you and say that I do not need your money.... -I can't explain it ... I should never be happy if I took -a penny from you."</p> - -<p>She took his hand and caressed it. "I like you all -the better for that, Humphrey." (He noticed that she -did not use the word "love.")</p> - -<p>He saw the future splendid, and roseate. He thought, -with a smile, of Ferrol. Ferrol could not check him -now. He had made his own identity, he was conscious -of his own will to achieve that which he set out to do. -Besides, there was such a difference between Lilian and -Elizabeth.</p> - -<p>He emerged from the house, a new being in a new -world, living in the amazement of the last hour.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.IX" id="III.IX"></a>IX</h3> - -</div> - -<p>It seemed strange to him that, with such a change in -his life, the old work should proceed unaltered: he -stood in Rivers' room, listening to Rivers' talk and -banter as the news-editor gave him his work to do; he -came before Selsey at night, copy in hand; he mingled -with the reporters in their big, bare room, talking of the -day's paper, and discussing their jobs and their troubles -with them; he came into that close, personal contact -with men whom he knew, and men who knew him, and -yet there was always an abyss that divided his two -lives.</p> - -<p>So it was with all of them: in their friendship they -seemed to say, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no further"; -their homes, their private sorrows and eager hopes, the -real lives that they lived, in fact, were left behind them -with the closing of their house-door, and they came to -the office different beings.</p> - -<p>Those matters that touched their innermost lives -were never discussed. Occasionally, the birth of a baby -in the home of a reporter or a sub-editor would bring a -queer suggestion of humanity and ordinary life into -their affairs: sometimes, the news would filter through -of a wife seriously ill in some home at Herne Hill or -Wimbledon, and there were solicitous inquiries (Ferrol -would send down the greatest specialist in one of those -deep, generous moods of his), for the rest they displayed -no interest in each other's private affairs.</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, it was assumed, by the law of -the Street, that they had no private lives of their own. -It is impossible to imagine Humphrey saying: "If you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> -please, I am engaged to be married, may I have the -evening off," if at seven in the evening anything from a -fire at the docks to the kidnapping of a baby occurred.</p> - -<p>Therefore he told no one of the new wonder that -had come into his life, not even Tommy Pride, who, by -the way, had of late taken to sending out for a glass of -whisky and soda, and doing his work with the glass -before him on the table. They looked at each other in -the reporters' room, and sighed, "Poor old Tommy."</p> - -<p>Least of all would he tell Ferrol. He would have -liked to have gone to Ferrol, and told him, but he -remembered Ferrol's outburst. He was older now, and -he could not trust himself to listen calmly to the old -arguments. And he felt that it would be a slur on -Elizabeth if he were forced to plead the cause of his -marriage....</p> - -<p>So the days followed each other, and he was happy -with that mixed happiness which is, perhaps, the most -perfect. After the first great moment when he had -declared his love, their relations had fallen back to their -original groove. It was safer thus: one could not live -always on the exalted plane of that moment.</p> - -<p>His love-affair with Elizabeth Carr was of a different -calibre from that with Lilian. It was truer, and rested -on a firmer basis of friendship, but it lacked the ardour, -and the passionate moments and kisses of the days -when love held the ascendancy over his work....</p> - -<p>Once, when he was moved with most eager desire -during one of their lonely meetings, he caught her to -him, and kissed her, and he was conscious of an -unspoken reproach in her lips and eyes, that took from -him, for the moment, all the savour of his love.</p> - -<p>It seemed to him that he was most successful when -he was not playing the lover, when they met just as if -they were rather exceptional friends instead of betrothed, -and this irked him from time to time. He wanted to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> -love, and be loved, he wanted to give all and take all. -But when, in those rare moods, she answered his -kisses recklessly, she was splendidly beautiful and -magnificent, atoning lavishly for all that she had withheld -from him.</p> - -<p>In one thing this wooing ran parallel with the wooing -of Lilian: there were the same interruptions and postponement -of plans; Fleet Street for ever intruded, and -always there was the remorseless, inexorable conflict -between his love and his career.</p> - -<p>After an unfortunate week of shattered plans for -spending an evening together, she sighed impatiently. -"I wish you would give up Fleet Street," she said. -"You could do better work."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" he said, light-heartedly, "one day I will. -I'll sit down and write my book. But it's too soon yet."</p> - -<p>She looked at him with doubt in her eyes. She -seemed to be feeling her way through the dark corridors -of his mind.</p> - -<p>"But surely you don't like the work," she said.</p> - -<p>He laughed. "Some days I don't, and some days -I do. Some days I think it loathsome, and some days -I think it glorious.... We're all like that."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A day came when he thought it glorious, when Fleet -Street gave him of its best, a swift reward for his -allegiance.</p> - -<p>He was in the reporters' room one evening, talking -the latest office gossip with Jamieson and Willoughby, -which concerned the marriage of <cite>The Day's</cite> Miss Minger, -with young Hartopp of <cite>The Gazette</cite>. It was an event -in Fleet Street, marking, in its way, the end of the epoch -of the woman reporter.</p> - -<p>"I don't think a reporters' room is a fit place for a -woman," Willoughby said. "They're all right for their -special work—cooking and dress and weddings, and all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> -that—but hard, right-down chasing after stories is man's -work."</p> - -<p>"I didn't mind Miss Minger," remarked Humphrey. -"She was a jolly good sport, but women have us at a -disadvantage. Remember that time when we all fell -down on the gun-running story at Harwich, and Miss -Minger sailed in, smiled her prettiest, and squeezed a -scoop out of them."</p> - -<p>"Ah, well," Jamieson said. "They're all the same -... marriage, you know, and a happy home, with jolly -children. They soon find out that it's better to let -hubby do the reporting.... Hullo, young man -Trinder, what do you want?" he said, breaking off -as the pink-faced secretary stood in the doorway.</p> - -<p>"<em>You're</em> wanted," Trinder said, nodding to Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Me!" said Humphrey. "What's up?"</p> - -<p>"Ferrol wants you."</p> - -<p>"My word!" said Willoughby. "Are you going to -be sacked, or is your salary to be raised?"</p> - -<p>"Our blessings on you," cried Jamieson, as he followed -Trinder out of the room, upstairs, and along the -corridor to Ferrol's door.</p> - -<p>Ferrol stood with his hat and coat on waiting for him.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Quain," he said, shortly. "Get your things -and come along. I want to talk to you."</p> - -<p>Humphrey paused, bewildered. "Hurry up," said -Ferrol. He took his watch from his pocket, glanced at -it, and clicked its case hurriedly. "I've got to be back -here at ten."</p> - -<p>"Very well, sir," said Humphrey. He ran back to -the reporters' room, and gathered together his hat and -his coat and his stick.</p> - -<p>"What's up?" chorused Jamieson and Willoughby.</p> - -<p>"Lord knows!" he gasped. "<em>He</em> wants me to go -somewhere or the other with him."</p> - -<p>"Most certainly you are either going to be sacked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> -or have your salary raised," remarked Willoughby. -"But if you are going to be made editor, be kind to us -when you are all-powerful."</p> - -<p>"Ass!" laughed Humphrey, in reply.</p> - -<p>He went back. Ferrol made a noise of satisfaction, -and led the way out of his room, carefully switching off -the lights. Down the stairs they went, side by side, -Humphrey walking beside the mighty Ferrol, just as -he did in his dreams. Down the stairs they went, and -the men coming up—his colleagues—raised their hats to -Ferrol, for they always gave him respect, and the heart -of him throbbed with the strangeness of it all.</p> - -<p>The commissionaire saluted stiffly, and gazed at -Humphrey with a new esteem. A small boy in uniform -darted with haste before them, and opened the door of -a limousine car, reflecting the lights of the night in its -lacquered brilliance. The chauffeur touched the polished -peak of his hat. It seemed that everybody paid homage -to Ferrol, greatest of all men in the eyes of Humphrey -Quain.</p> - -<p>For this man was the symbol, the personification of -the Street and the paper for which he had worked with -all his heart, with all his might, and with all his soul.</p> - -<p>He stood aside to let Ferrol step into the car first, -but Ferrol, with a smile, urged him into the lighted -interior. He received an impression of superlative -comfort and riches in that small, blue-lined room with -its little electric lamp overhead. There were rugs of -deliciously soft camel-hair, and, as he settled in the -yielding cushions, his outstretched feet struck something -hard, that gave warmth instantly, even through -the leather of his boots. A silver cone-shaped holder, -filled with red roses, confronted him; their very scent -suggested ease and luxury. There were touches of -silver everywhere: an ash-tray at his right hand, a whistle -attached to a speaking tube, and a row of books in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> -silver case—an A B C Railway Guide, a diary, an address -book, and a postal guide. They gave the Ferrol touch -of concentrated energy, even in these surroundings of -comfortable, upholstered rest.</p> - -<p>The car sped along with a soft movement, almost -noiseless, except for the low purring of its engines. -Through the windows, past the strong face of Ferrol, he -caught glimpses of a wet world with people walking -upon their own reflections in the glistening pavements, -of ragged beggars slouching along with hunched-up -shoulders, of streaming crowds passing and repassing, -ignoring entirely the passage of this splendid, immaculate -room on wheels, never questioning the right of those -people within it to the shelter which was denied to them.</p> - -<p>And he felt extraordinarily remote from all these -people: an odd thrill of contempt for them moved him -to think: "What fools they are not to get cars for -themselves." It was as if he had been suddenly translated -to another world: a world inhabited by a superior -race of men and women, almost god-like in the power -of their possessions, who looked down on other struggling -mortals from their exalted plane, with a vision -blurred by warmth and security.</p> - -<p>The silence enchanted him. If Ferrol had spoken, -the spell of that journey would have been snapped. The -silence enabled him to enjoy to the full the extraordinary -sensation of being whirled along in the darkness by the -side of Ferrol towards some unknown destiny. The -discipline had made him always regard Ferrol with awe; -but now, as he sat wrapped in the warm rugs of the -motor-car, the social barriers dropped. He wondered -why Ferrol was doing this.</p> - -<p>The speed of the car slackened gradually. He -caught a glimpse of railings and the lights shining among -the trees, bringing back to him the old memories of his -first impression of the park. But they were on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> -Kensington side, and the breadth of the park from -Bayswater to Kensington made all the difference. Here -there seemed to be a culture and dignity in the very -houses themselves: they did not suggest the overbearing, -self-made prosperity of that broad road that ran parallel -with it on the other side of the trees and meadows.</p> - -<p>A servant stood by the open door of the car. His face -was implacably dignified. His white shirt-front and tie -were splendidly correct for his station, in that he wore -three obvious bone studs and a black tie. He held the door -of the house open, and Humphrey followed Ferrol inside.</p> - -<p>He had been to many houses such as this as a -reporter, when he had waited with a sense of social inferiority -in halls hung with old masters, and furnished -with rare old oak ... at those times the servants had -treated him with a mixture of deference and contempt. -But this was different: respectful, eager hands relieved -him of his coat and hat; vaguely he knew he had to -follow one of the owners of these hands up a broad staircase, -along a soft carpeted passage, to a room which, -suddenly flooded with light, showed its possession of a -basin fitted with shining silver taps. He washed luxuriously; -the towels were warm to the touch. He felt at -peace with the world.</p> - -<p>Down the stairs again, with a portrait on the white -panelled wall for each step, to the inner hall lined with -tapestries and brocade, where a bronze statue held an -electric torch aloft to light the way to the dining-room.</p> - -<p>Ferrol was standing by the fire. "Chilly to-night," -he said, as Humphrey came into the room. His voice -echoed in the spacious loneliness of the room.</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Humphrey, "it is." He hesitated a -moment, and then added "sir." It seemed the correct -thing to do, though Ferrol and he might have been, for -all that had happened in the last half-hour, excellent -personal friends, of equal status in the world.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Come and warm yourself," said Ferrol, motioning -him to a high-backed chair by the fire. Humphrey sat -down, and put his hands to the fire. This room with its -bright lights and its high ceiling filled him with a -realization of his own comparative poverty. The walls, -again, reflected the artistic in Ferrol.</p> - -<p>His glance wandered to the table. Dishes of -delicacies in aspic and mayonnaise gave colour to the -white glitter of glass and silver. A bowl of great -chrysanthemums rose out of the centre-piece of crystal, -whose lower tiers were crowded with peaches, apricots, -green figs, grapes, and other exotic fruits....</p> - -<p>A whimsical vision came to him of a sausage-shop -in Fleet Street where, often, kept late on a job, without -opportunity for dinner, he had sat on a high stool at the -counter eating sausages and onions and potatoes as -they came hot from the sizzling trays of fat in the -window. The thought made him smile.</p> - -<p>"What's the joke?" asked Ferrol, smiling too.</p> - -<p>Humphrey went a diffident pink. After all, why -shouldn't he tell Ferrol? He was quite right: the great -man bubbled with laughter. He saw the ingenuousness -of the thought. It endeared Humphrey to him.</p> - -<p>"Ah, young man," he said, "I know that shop."</p> - -<p>Humphrey's eyebrows raised.</p> - -<p>"I've passed it many a time and seen the inviting -sausages. By God!" he continued, bringing his fist down -on the mantelpiece, "I'd give you everything on the -table, every night of your life, if I could go in and sit -at the counter and eat them." He laughed. "So don't -you be in too much of a hurry to give up sausages."</p> - -<p>A servant appeared, bearing a silver soup-tureen. -Ferrol sat at the top of the table, and Humphrey took -the seat at his right hand. The soup was clear and -delicious, possessing a faint, elusive flavour of sherry. -While he was eating, he became aware of the butler<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> -pouring light-coloured wine into a high stemmed glass. -He looked up and saw Ferrol regarding his wine glass.</p> - -<p>"It's all I drink," said Ferrol. "A little hock with -dinner. In my day, many a fellow was ruined with too -much drink. Are they as bad now?" he asked.</p> - -<p>It was a strange experience to have Ferrol question -him on the doings of the Street.</p> - -<p>"Oh no!" he said, hastily, "there's not much of that -now. Perhaps a half dozen or so here and there, but -nothing serious." (But he thought of the shaking hand -of Tommy Pride as he spoke.)</p> - -<p>"None of my men drink, eh?" Ferrol said. It was -more of an assertion than a query. "Do you know -we've got the finest staff in London—in England."</p> - -<p>During the whole of that delightful dinner Humphrey -listened to Ferrol talking about the men with whom he -worked. He knew them all: knew all that they had -done, and all that they were capable of doing. He -asked Humphrey's opinion on this man and that man, -and listened attentively to the reply. Sometimes Humphrey -made a joke, and Ferrol laughed.</p> - -<p>And, as the dinner progressed, and the clear, cold -wine invigorated his mind and warmed his perceptions, -he conceived a greater liking for this man, who was so -human at the core of him. In the office one saw him -with the distorted, disciplined view, as an unapproachable -demi-god, surrounded by people who sacrificed his -name to their own advancement. Ah! if one could -always be on these terms of privileged intimacy with -him, what a difference it would make in the work. If -one dared tell Ferrol of the obstacles and the petty -humiliations that obscured the path to good work for -the sake of the paper....</p> - -<p>"Tell me," said Ferrol, suddenly, pushing bunches of -black grapes towards him—"tell me about Easterham, -and your life there."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p> - -<p>Now, what could there be in Easterham and its -monotonous life to interest Ferrol, thought Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he told him of Easterham, and the -<cite>Easterham Gazette</cite> on which he had worked. That -amused Ferrol vastly. And he had to answer oddly -insistent questions—to describe the Market Square, -and the Cathedral close, with its rooks and ivy. It -astonished him to find how interested Ferrol was in -these little things, and almost before he was aware of -it, he found himself speaking of personal matters, of -things that touched his own inner, private life, of his -aunt (with her stern gospel of "Getting On"), of the -mother whom he did not remember, and of Daniel -Quain, his father.</p> - -<p>And as he talked on, he saw suddenly that Ferrol -was listening in a detached manner, and it occurred to -him that he had rather overstepped the limits of a reply -to a polite inquiry. He became confused and shy. His -reminiscences withered within him. Ferrol tried to urge -him along the old track.</p> - -<p>"He's only doing it out of politeness," thought -Humphrey. "I shan't tell him any more. He's making -fun of me."</p> - -<p>He cracked walnuts in silence and sipped at the -port. (Ferrol touched neither nuts nor wine.) He did -not interpret that air of detached interest with which -Ferrol had listened to him as meaning anything else -but boredom.</p> - -<p>He did not know that, as he was speaking, the old -years came back again to Ferrol, bringing with them -once again the vision of Margaret and those secret -walks outwards from Easterham, under the white moon -of romance and love and supple youth that could be -his never more.</p> - -<p>Ferrol sighed.</p> - -<p>"You ought to be very happy," he said. "I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> -the happiest time of my life was when I was reporting."</p> - -<p>"Were you ever a reporter?" asked Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes! I didn't buy <cite>The Day</cite> at once."</p> - -<p>He rose and went to a cabinet to fetch silver and -enamelled boxes of cigars and cigarettes. The cigarettes -were oval and fat.</p> - -<p>"I don't think you've had enough scope," said -Ferrol, handing him a lighted match. "You've done -well ... not as well as I hoped ... but perhaps you'd -do better elsewhere."</p> - -<p>A peculiar sensation attacked Humphrey in the -regions of his throat and heart. ("Most certainly you -are to have your salary raised or be sacked.") He -waited tensely.</p> - -<p>The butler came into the room, apologetically.</p> - -<p>"Half-past nine, sir," he said; "the car's waiting, -sir."</p> - -<p>"Oh—yes. I forgot. I've got to be back at the -office.... All right, Wilson.</p> - -<p>"Let me see—what was I saying.... Oh yes, -broader scope. Can you speak French?" he asked -abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Just what I learnt at school.... I can read the -papers."</p> - -<p>"You'll easily pick it up.... Look here, I'll give -you a lift back to Fleet Street. Do you want to go -there?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Humphrey, and then, suddenly, for some -odd reason, he thought of Elizabeth. He was not very -sure of his geography, but the street in which she lived -could not be far from here. "I think I'd rather walk, if -you don't mind.... I've got a call to make." He wanted -to tell Elizabeth how splendid Ferrol had been to -him.</p> - -<p>"Oh well! It doesn't matter. Come and see me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> -at twelve to-morrow. I'm going to send you to -Paris."</p> - -<p>"Paris!" echoed Humphrey, as if Ferrol had promised -him Paradise.</p> - -<p>"Paris," repeated Ferrol. "We're changing our -correspondent."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="III.X" id="III.X"></a>X</h3> - -</div> - -<p>He did not go to Elizabeth that night: he walked, in a -dream, past Knightsbridge and up Piccadilly, contemplating -the fulfilment of all his dreams. Everything -seemed possible now. He was a young man—and Ferrol -was going to give him Paris; he was a young man—and -Elizabeth had given him her love. The sequence of this -thought was significant.</p> - -<p>It would be very fine to tell her.... At last he was -lifted out of the rut into a field of new endeavour. From -Paris the path led to other cities, of course—to Petersburg, -Vienna, and Rome. One day he would see them -all. Life became at once very broad and open.</p> - -<p>He walked on, an un-noteworthy figure in the throng -of people that moved along Piccadilly, his thoughts -surging with the prospects of his new life.</p> - -<p>"Humphrey Quain ... Paris Correspondent of <cite>The -Day</cite>."</p> - -<p>He murmured that to himself. Glorious title! -Splendid Ferrol. How noble was this work in Fleet -Street, holding out great promises to those who served it -well, and sacrificed everything on its altar. How could -one abandon a calling where fortune may change in a -moment?</p> - -<p>He passed through astonishing ranks of women whose -eyes and lips simulated love: one or two of them spoke -to him in foreign accents. He passed on across the -Circus where the lights of the Variety Theatres made a -blur of yellow in the nebulous night.</p> - -<p>His steps led him again to Fleet Street, and he -walked with the joy of a man treading the soil of his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> -country. It was always the same when he passed the -Griffin: deep satisfaction took hold of him at the sight -of the signs in all the buildings, telling of newspapers all -the world over, in this narrow Street in which the lives -of him and his kind were centred. The fascination of -the Street was perpetual. It belonged to him. It -belonged to all of them. At every hour of the day and -night there were always friends to be met.</p> - -<p>He turned into the cheery warmth of the Pen Club—friends -everywhere and Fleet Street smiling! There -was laughter at the wooden counter, where Larkin was -telling some story to a group of men.</p> - -<p>"Well, the next day I thought I'd go up and -inquire after his lordship's health. The butler was very -kind. 'Come in,' he said. 'His lordship's expecting -you.' So up I went, thinking I was going to get a fine -story—he was supposed to be dangerously ill in bed, -mind you."</p> - -<p>Humphrey joined the group and listened. ("Have a -drink?" said Larkin, turning to him. "It's my shout.")</p> - -<p>"Well," continued Larkin, "when I got to the room, -there was his lordship in pants and undervest—you know -how fat he is—with dumb-bells in his hands and whirling -his arms about like a windmill. 'Do I <em>look</em> like a dying -man?' he said, dancing lightly on his toes. 'Go back, -young man, and tell your editor what you've seen. -Good-morning.'"</p> - -<p>"Talking of funny experiences," said one of the -others, "I remember—" And so it went on, story after -story, of real things happening in the most extraordinary -way. It was all this that Humphrey enjoyed, this inter-change -of experiences, this telling of stories that were -never written in newspapers, that belonged alone to -them.</p> - -<p>Presently Tommy Pride came in. "Hullo all!" he -said, "Hullo! young Quain—been busy to-day?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> - -<p>They sat down together, and Humphrey noticed that -Tommy's face had changed greatly, even in the last few -months. The flesh was loose and colourless, and the -eyes had a nervous, wandering look in them.</p> - -<p>"Ferrol's going to send me to Paris—he told me so -to-night," Humphrey blurted out.</p> - -<p>"Splendid," said Tommy. "Good for you." And -then a look of great pathos crept into his eyes, and he -seemed to grow very old all at once. "I wish I had all -your chances," he said wistfully. "I wonder what -will be the end of me.... I hear they're making -changes."</p> - -<p>"Don't you bother," Humphrey said. "Ferrol knows -what you're worth.... But, I say, Tommy, you don't -mind, do you ... aren't you taking too much of <em>that</em>," -he pointed to the whisky glass.</p> - -<p>"Oh, hell! What does it matter," said Tommy. -"What does anything matter.... I'm a little worried -... they're thinking of making changes," he repeated -aimlessly.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was all settled in a few minutes the next morning. -The Paris appointment was definitely confirmed: he -was to leave immediately. He hastened to Elizabeth -to tell her the wonderful news. It never occurred to -him that she could be otherwise than pleased and proud -at his success. But her manner was recondite and -baffling.</p> - -<p>"Have you accepted the post?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Why, of course," he said. "How could I refuse -such a chance."</p> - -<p>She regarded him dubiously. "No—you could not -refuse it. I don't blame you for not refusing it. I -think I know how you feel...."</p> - -<p>"It's splendid!" Humphrey cried. His voice rang -with enthusiasm. "Fancy Ferrol singling me out. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> -will be the making of me.... It might lead to anything."</p> - -<p>"But weren't you only going to stay in journalism -for another year, Humphrey?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course, when I said that, I couldn't foresee -that this was going to happen.... Elizabeth," he -said suddenly, with a great fear on him, "do you want -me to give it up now?"</p> - -<p>"No ... no," she said in haste. "You don't understand. -It's so difficult to make you see. I wasn't prepared -for this...." She laughed for no reason at all. -"I am glad of your success. I am glad you're happy.... -Of course, you don't expect me to come to Paris, -like this, at a moment's notice. You must give me -time."</p> - -<p>He smiled with relief. "Why, of course, I didn't -imagine I could carry you away at once.... But after -a few months, perhaps. It will take me a few months -to get used to the work."</p> - -<p>"Yes," she agreed, "after a few months. We -shall see."</p> - -<p>Her face was strangely sorrowful. Her attitude -perplexed him. It hurt him to find that she did not -share in his rejoicings. It took away some of the -savour of his success.</p> - -<p>He thought he was the master of his destiny. He -could not discern the hand of Ferrol moving him again -towards a crisis in his life.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="PART_IV" id="PART_IV"></a>PART IV<br /> - -<small>PARIS</small></h2> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.I" id="IV.I"></a>I</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The noise of Paris came to him through the open -windows, a confusion of trivial sounds utterly different -from the solid, strong note that London gave forth. It -was the noise of a nursery of children playing with toys—he -heard the continuous jingle of bells round the -necks of the horses that drew the cabs, the shouts of -men crying newspapers, the squeaking horns of motor-cars, -and, every afternoon, at this hour, the sound of -some pedlar calling attention to his wares, with a -trumpet that had a tinny sound.</p> - -<p>At intervals the voice of Paris, modified by the -height at which he lived and the distance he was from -the Grands Boulevards, sent a shout to him that reminded -him of London. That was when a heavy -rumbling shook the narrow street which was one of the -tributaries of the Boulevards, as a monstrous, unwieldy -omnibus, drawn by three horses abreast, rolled upwards -on its passage to the Gare du Nord. The horses' hoofs -slapped the street with the clatter of iron on stone, and -the passing of the omnibus drowned every other sound -with its thunder, so that when it had gone, and the -echoes of its passage had died away, the voice of Paris -seemed more mincing and playful than before.</p> - -<p>Humphrey had been in Paris six months now, but -the first impression that the city gave had never been -erased from his mind.</p> - -<p>At first the name had filled him with a curious kind -of awe: Paris and the splendour of its art and life, and -the history which linked the centuries together; all the -history of the Kings of France which he did not know,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> -and the rest that he knew with the vagueness of a -somewhat neglected education—the bloody days of the -Revolution, the siege, the Commune; Paris, the cockpit -of history and the pleasure-house of the world. There -was some enchantment in the thought of going to Paris, -not as a mere visitor, but as a worker, one who was to -share the daily lives of the people.</p> - -<p>And he had arrived in the evening of a February -day, in the crisp cold, bewildered by the strangeness of -the station. The huge engine had dragged him and his -fellows—Englishmen chiefly, travelling southwards, and -eastwards, and westwards in search of sunshine—across -the black country of France, into the greener, sweeter -meadows of the Valley of the Loire, with tall poplars on -the sky-line, through the suburbs with their red and -white houses looking as if they had been built yesterday, -to the vaulted bareness of the Gare du Nord. There, as -it puffed and panted, like a stout, elderly gentleman out -of breath, it seemed to gasp: "I've done my part. -Look after yourselves."</p> - -<p>To leave the train was like leaving a friend. One -stepped to the low platform and became an insect in a -web of blue-bloused porters, helpless, eager to placate, -afraid of creating a disturbance. It seemed to Humphrey -in those first few moments that these people were inimical -to him; they spoke to him roughly and without the -traditional politeness of French people. The black-bearded -ticket-collector snatched the little Cook's -pocket-book from his hand, tore out the last tickets, -and thrust it back on him, murmuring some complaint, -possibly because Humphrey had not unclasped the -elastic band. There was bother about luggage too; -Heaven knows what, but he waited dismally and hungrily -in the vast room, with its flicker of white light from the -arc-lamps above the low counters at which the Customs-men, -in their shabby uniforms, seemed to be quarrelling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> -with one another, their voices pitched in the loud key -that is seldom used in England.</p> - -<p>He was required to explain and explain again to -three or four officials; something of a minor, technical -point, he gathered, was barring him from his baggage. -His French was not quite adequate to the occasion; but -it was maddening to see them shrug their shoulders -with a movement that suggested that they rejoiced in -his discomfiture.... It was all straightened out, somehow, -by a uniformed interpreter, a friendly man who -came into Humphrey's existence for a moment, and -passed out of it in a casual way, a professional dispenser -of sympathy and help, expecting no more reward than -a franc or so for services that deserved a life-long -gratitude.</p> - -<p>But when the cabman had shouted at him, and the -blue-bloused porters (one had attached himself to each -of his four pieces of baggage) had insisted on their full -payment, and after there had been an exchange of abuse -between the cabman and an itinerant seller of violets, -whose barrow had nearly been run down, Humphrey -looked out of the window and caught his first glimpses -of Paris ... of the light that suggested warmth and -laughter.</p> - -<p>He saw great splashes of light, and through the -broad glass windows of the cafés a vision of cosy rooms, -bustling with the business of eating, of white tables at -which men and women sat—ordinary middle-class -people. The movement of their arms and shoulders -and heads showed that conversation was brisk during -their meal; they smiled at one another.</p> - -<p>As the cab sped softly along on its pneumatic tyres, -he saw picture after picture of this kind, set in its frame -of light. "I shall like living here," he thought. Chance -decreed that the Rue le Peletier was being repaired, -and the cab swung out of the narrower streets into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> -vivid and wonderful brilliance of the Boulevard des -Italiens.</p> - -<p>The street throbbed with light and life. He was in -a broad avenue with windows that blazed with splendid -colour in the night. The faces of the clocks in the middle -of the avenue were lit up; the lamps of the flower and -newspaper kiosks made pools of shining yellow on the -pavement; and above him the red and golden and -green of the illuminated advertisements came and went, -sending their iridescence into the night. It was not -one unbearable glare that startled the eyes, but a blend -of many delicate and fine luminous tints: one café was -lit with electric lights that gave out a soft pale rose -colour, another was of the faintest blue, and a third a -delicate yellow, and all these different notes of light -rushed together in a lucent harmony.</p> - -<p>Music floated to him as he passed slowly in the -stream of bleating and jingling and hooting traffic. He -saw the people sitting outside the cafés near braziers of -glowing coal, calmly drinking coloured liquids, as though -there were no such thing as work in the world.</p> - -<p>And that was the thought that gave Humphrey his -first impression of Paris. These people, it seemed, only -played with life. There was something artificial and -unreal about all these cafés: they played at being angry -(that business at the Customs office was part of the -game), an <em>agent</em> held up a little white baton to stop the -traffic—playing at being a London policeman, thought -Humphrey. He wondered whether this sort of thing -went on always, with an absurd thought of the Paris -he had seen at a London exhibition.</p> - -<p>The cab veered out of the traffic down a side-street -between two cafés larger than the rest, and, at the last -glimpse of people sitting in overcoats and furs by the -braziers, he laughed in the delight of it. "Why, they're -playing at it being summer," he said to himself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p> - -<p>Six months had passed since that day, and he had -seen Paris in many aspects, yet nothing could alter his -first impression. The whole city was built as a temple -of pleasure, a feminine city, with all the shops in the Rue -Royale or the Avenue de l'Opera decked with fine jewels -and sables. Huge emporiums everywhere, crowded with -silks and ribbons and lace; wonderful restaurants, with -soft rose-shaded lights and mauve and grey tapestries, -as dainty as a lady's boudoir. Somewhere, very discreetly -kept in the background, men and women toiled -behind the scenes of luxury and pleasure ... those -markets in the bleak morning, and the factories on the -outskirts of the city, and along the outer Boulevards one -saw great-chested men and narrow-chested girls walking -homewards from their day's work. But there was -pleasure, even for these people: the material pleasure -of life, and the spiritual pleasure of art and beauty. -The first they could satisfy with a jolly meal in the -little bright restaurants of their quarter with red wine -and cognac; and of the second they could take their -fill for nothing, if they were so minded, for it surrounded -them in a scattered profusion everywhere.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Humphrey, in the Paris office of <cite>The Day</cite>, on the -fourth floor of an apartment building in the Rue le -Peletier, sat dreaming of all that had happened in the -past six months. Wonderful months had they been to -him! They had altered his whole perception of things. -Here, in a new world and a new city, he was beginning -to see things in a truer proportion. Fleet Street receded -into the far perspective as something quite small -and unimportant; the men themselves, even, seemed -narrow-minded and petty, incapable of thinking more -deeply than the news of the day demanded.</p> - -<p>Humphrey, from the heights of his room in Paris, -began to see how broad the world was, that it was finer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> -to deal with nations than individuals, and from his view -Fleet Street appeared to him in the same relation as -Easterham had appeared to him in London.</p> - -<p>The clock struck five. Rivers and Neckinger and -Selsey would be going into the conference now in -Ferrol's room to discuss the contents of the paper.</p> - -<p>"Anything big from Paris?" some one would be -asking, or "What about Berlin?"... And he knew -that every night they looked towards Paris, where -amazing things happened, and he, Humphrey Quain, -was Paris. That splendid thought thrilled him to the -greatest endeavour. He was <cite>The Day's</cite> watchman in -Paris, not only of all the news that happened in the -capital, but of all the happenings in the whole territory -of France.</p> - -<p>A pile of cuttings from the morning's papers were -on his desk. Here was a leading article on the Franco-German -relations from the <cite>Echo de Paris</cite>—an important -leading article, obviously inspired by the Quai D'Orsay. -There was a two-column account of the Hanon case—an -extraordinary murder in Lyons which English readers -were following with great interest. There was a budget -of "fait-divers," those astonishing events in which the -fertility of the Paris journalist's imagination rises to its -highest point. They supplied the "human interest." -He had received a wire from London to interview a famous -French actress, who was going to play in a London -theatre, and that had kept him busy for the afternoon. -The morning had been devoted to reading every Paris -paper.</p> - -<p>At five o'clock Dagneau arrived with the evening -papers, bought from the fat old woman who kept the -kiosk outside the Café Riche. He let himself into the -flat with a latch-key, and appeared before Humphrey, a -young man, immaculately dressed, with a light beard -fringing his fat cheeks. Humphrey could never quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> -overcome the oddness of having a bearded man as his -junior. Dagneau was only twenty-two, but he had -grown a beard since he was twenty; that was how -youths played at being men. Humphrey called -Dagneau "the lamb."</p> - -<p>"Hullo," he said. "Anything special?"</p> - -<p>Dagneau's pronunciation of English was as bad as -Humphrey's pronunciation of French, but in both -cases the vocabulary was immense.</p> - -<p>"They're crying 'Death of the President' on the -Boulevards," said Dagneau.</p> - -<p>Humphrey leapt up. "Great Heavens! You don't -say so!" he shouted, going to the telephone.</p> - -<p>"Be not in a hurry, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mon vieux</i>." (Though Dagneau -was his assistant, they dropped all formalities between -themselves.) "It is in <cite>La Presse</cite>."</p> - -<p>"But—"</p> - -<p>"Calm yourself. <cite>La Presse</cite> is selling in thousands. -The news is printed in great black letters across the -front page."</p> - -<p>"Is it true?" gasped Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"It is true that the President is dead—but it is the -President of Montemujo or something like that in -South America, and not M. Loubet."</p> - -<p>Dagneau laughed merrily and slapped the papers on -the table. He took Humphrey by the shoulders and -shook him playfully.</p> - -<p>"I—would I let my old and faithful Englishman -down?" he asked. The newspaper phrase spoken as -Dagneau spoke it sounded delightful.</p> - -<p>"By George, you gave me a shock," Humphrey -laughed. "I thought I'd been dozing for an hour with -the President dead. Dagneau, you are an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">espèce de</i>—anything -you like."</p> - -<p>"Any telegrams from London?"</p> - -<p>"One to interview Jeanne Granier. I've done it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> -Will you go through the evening papers? Look out -for the <cite>Temps</cite> comments on the Persian railway ... -they're running that in London. And the latest stuff -about the Hanon case. I'll run round to <cite>Le Parisien</cite> -and see what they've got."</p> - -<p>He went down the winding staircase, past the -red-faced concierge and his enormous wife, who -knitted perpetually by the door ("<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pas des lettres, -m'sieu</i>," she said, in answer to his inquiring look), and -so into the street. A passing cabman held up his whip -in appeal, and, as moments were precious now, -Humphrey engaged him. They bowled along through -the side-streets, and at the end of each he saw, repeated, -the glorious opal and orange sunset over Paris: those -magnificent sunsets that left the sky in a smother of -golden and purple and dark clouds edged with livid -light behind the steeple of St Augustine. They came -to the building of <cite>Le Parisien</cite>, with whom <cite>The Day</cite> had -an arrangement by which Humphrey could see their -proofs evening and night, in exchange for extending the -same privilege to the London Correspondent of <cite>Le -Parisien</cite> at the offices of <cite>The Day</cite>.</p> - -<p>He crossed the threshold into the familiar atmosphere -of Fleet Street. Hurry and activity: young -Frenchmen writing rapidly in room after room. Some -of them knew him, looked up from their work and -nodded to him. From below the printing-machines -sent tremors through the building, as they rolled off the -first edition for the distant provinces of France, and for -the night trains to every capital of Europe. The same -old work was going on here: the same incessant quest -and record of news.</p> - -<p>He went to the room of Barboux, the foreign editor.</p> - -<p>"Good-evening," said Barboux, black-bearded, fat and -bald-headed. He pronounced "evening" as though it -were a French word, and it came out "événandje."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p> - -<p>Barboux offered Humphrey a cigarette he had just -rolled with black tobacco, and asked him most intimate -questions of his doings in Paris, so that Humphrey had -either to acknowledge himself a prude or a Parisian.</p> - -<p>"All the same," said Barboux, "Paris is a wonderful -city, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hein?</i>"</p> - -<p>"It is," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Barboux continued: "Is it not the most beautiful, -the most wonderful, the most entrancing city in the -world, young Englishman?"</p> - -<p>"All except London," replied Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Rosbif—Goddam—I box your nose," laughed -Barboux.</p> - -<p>It was a set form of dialogue that took place every -night between them, without variation, a joke invented -by Barboux.</p> - -<p>A man in an apron—a French version of the type in -<cite>The Day's</cite> printing-office—brought in a budget of proofs.</p> - -<p>"There is nothing that is happening, ain't it?" remarked -Barboux, who always rendered <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">n'est ce pas</i> in -this literal fashion.</p> - -<p>"Apparently not," Humphrey agreed, glancing -through the proofs. "When do they expect the verdict -in the Hanon case?"</p> - -<p>Barboux touched a bell. A young man appeared. -His hair was fair and long, his clothes were faultless to -the crease in the trousers turned up in the English style -over patent-leather shoes with the laces tied in big -bows. Barboux introduced him: "M. Charnac will tell -you about the Hanon case."</p> - -<p>The young man bowed in a charming manner, and -spoke in a soft, delicious French, with a voice that was -charged with courtesy and kindness.</p> - -<p>"They do not expect a verdict to-night, m'sieu. The -court has adjourned. I've just had the finish of our -correspondent's message."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span></p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Merci</i>," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pas de quoi</i>," said Charnac, bowing.</p> - -<p>Humphrey rose and bowed with the ultra politeness -that was now part of his daily life. They shook hands.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Enchanté d'avoir fait votre connaissance</i>," and -Charnac bowed once more.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Enchanté</i>," mumbled Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Barboux was at the telephone, saying impatiently, -"Ah-lo.... Ah ... lo." Humphrey put on his hat, -Barboux extended his left hand—the greatest sign of -friendship that a Frenchman can give, since it implies -that he knows you too well for you to take offence at it.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">À demain</i>," said Humphrey, as he went away.</p> - -<p>When he came back to the office, work began in -earnest. First of all he had to select from the budget -of news on his table those items that would be most -acceptable to English readers. That was no small -matter on days when there were many things happening. -It required sound judgment and a knowledge of what -was best in news. Then there was always the question -of the other correspondents of London newspapers: -what were the other fellows sending?</p> - -<p>He and Dagneau talked things over, and, finally, -when they had decided what to transmit to London, the -work of compiling the stories began. It was necessary -to build up a coherent, comprehensive story out of the -cuttings before him, in which all the points of the -different papers should be mentioned. Dagneau helped -him, making illiterate translations of leading articles, that -needed revising and knocking into shape. Perhaps, -even at the eleventh hour, a telegram might arrive from -the London headquarters, setting them a new task, -rendering void all the work they might have done.</p> - -<p>After two hours' writing Humphrey laid down his -pen. "Come along, my lamb," he said to Dagneau; -"let us go to dinner."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then they put on their hats and coats and went to -Boisson's, a few doors away in the Rue le Peletier, where -Père Boisson presided over a pewter counter, spread -with glasses and bottles, and Mère Boisson superintended -the kitchen, and Henri, the waiter, with a desperate -squint, ran to and fro with his burden of plates, covering -many miles every night by passing and repassing from -the restaurant tables to the steamy recesses behind the -door.</p> - -<p>This was the part of Paris life that pleased Humphrey -most.</p> - -<p>They received him with cheery <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bons soirs</i>, and -Henri paused in his race to set the chairs for them, and -arrange their table. Yards of crisp bread were brought -to them, and a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">carafon</i> of the red wine from Touraine, -whither M. Boisson went on a pilgrimage once a year to -sample and buy for himself.</p> - -<p>Little French olives and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">filet d'hareng saur;</i> soup -with sorrel floating in it; fish with black butter sauce; -a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">contre-filet</i> or a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vol au vent</i> deliciously cooked; Roquefort -cheese, and, to wind up with, what M. Boisson called -magnificently <cite>Une Belle Poire</cite>—this was the little dinner -they had for something under three francs, and, of course, -there was special coffee to follow, and, as a piece of -extravagance, a liqueur of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mandarin</i> or <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">noyeau</i>.</p> - -<p>"This is better than Fleet Street," said Humphrey, -inhaling his cigarette and sipping at the excellent coffee. -Boisson in his shirt-sleeves and apron came over to -them and spoke to them with light banter. He also -had a joke of his own: he conceived it to be the highest -form of humour to interject "Aoh—yes—olright," several -times during the conversation.</p> - -<p>Madame Boisson waddled towards them, with an -overflowing figure, and said, as if her future happiness -depended on an answer in the affirmative, "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vous avez -bien diné, m'sieu</i>."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p> - -<p>The smell of food was pleasant here: there was no -hurry; men and women concentrated all their attention -on eating and enjoying their meal. The light shone on -the glasses of red and white wine. It was a picture -that delighted Humphrey.</p> - -<p>And Dagneau was telling him of his adventures on -the previous night with a little girl, the dearest little -girl he had ever met, kissing the tips of his fingers to -the air, whenever his emotions overcame him ... and -Humphrey smiled. This was a side of Paris of which -he knew nothing. His thoughts went back to London -where Elizabeth lived, beautiful and austere. "I must -write to Elizabeth to-night," he thought.</p> - -<p>At nine-twenty Dagneau caught the eye of Henri -and made an imaginary gesture of writing on the palm -of his left hand. "That's the way to get a perfect -French accent," he said to Humphrey. Henri nodded -in swift comprehension and appeared with a piece of -paper on which illegible figures were scrawled. They -paid and went away, with the Boissons and Henri calling -farewells to them. Happy little restaurant in the -Rue le Peletier!</p> - -<p>They got back to the office just as the telephone bell -was making a rattling din. Humphrey sat down and -adjusted over his head the steel band that held the -receivers close to his ears. Then, pulling the telephone -closer to him, and spreading out before him all that he -had written, he waited.</p> - -<p>And, presently, sometimes receding and sometimes -coming nearer above the hum and buzz that sounded -like the wind and the waves roaring about the deep-sea -cables, he heard the voice of Westgate coming from -England. "Hallo ... hallo ... hallo.... That -you, Quain.... Can't hear you.... Get another -line ... buzz—zz—zz ... oooo. Ah! that's better." -Westgate's voice became suddenly clear and vibrating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> -as though he were speaking from the next room. But -Humphrey could see the little box in the sub-editors' -room, where all the men were working round Selsey, and -the messenger-boys coming and going with their flimsy -envelopes; he could see the strained, eager face of -Westgate, as he waited, pencil in hand ... and he -began.</p> - -<p>He shouted the news of Paris for fifteen minutes, and -at the end the perspiration wetted his forehead, and -Westgate's good-night left him exhausted. Sometimes, -when the wires were interfered with by a gale, the fifteen -minutes were wasted in futile shouting and endeavour -to be heard in London; sometimes Westgate would say -bluntly: "Selsey says he doesn't want any of that -story," when he began to read his carefully prepared -notes. Those were desperate minutes, shouting to -London against time.</p> - -<p>"All well?" asked Dagneau, when he finished.</p> - -<p>"I suppose so," Humphrey answered. "Westgate -was in great form to-night—he was taking down at the -rate of a hundred and twenty words a minute...." He -rose and stretched himself. "Will you pay the late call -at the newspaper offices? I'll be at Constans in case -anything happens."</p> - -<p>Out again into the bright glamour of the Boulevards -to Constans at the corner of the Place de l'Opera, in the -shadow of the opera-house, to meet the other correspondents, -and wait on the events of Europe, and drink -brandy and soda or the light lager-beer that was sold -at Constans.</p> - -<p>It was a place where most of the Paris correspondents -gathered, and, sometimes, the "Special Correspondents" -came also. They were lofty people, who had long since -left the routine of Fleet Street; the princes of journalism, -who passed through Paris on their way to St Petersburg, -to Madrid—to any part of Europe or the world where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> -there was unrest; war correspondents, and special commissioners; -men who had letters of introduction from -diplomat to diplomat, who talked with kings and -chancellors, and interviewed sultans. They flitted -through Paris whenever any big news happened, in twos -and threes, only staying for a few hours at Constans to -meet friends, and then on again by the midnight expresses....</p> - -<p>They were a jolly lot of fellows who met in those -days at Constans: O'Malley of <cite>The Sentinel</cite>, the fair-haired -scholar who spoke of style in writing, and could -speak French with an Irish accent and knew how to -ask the waiter to "Apporthez des p'hommes de therrey"; -Punter, who represented the Kelmscotts' papers, talked -French politics late into the night, and wore a monocle -that never dropped from his eye—not even in those -exciting moments when Michael, his coal-black eyes and -hair betraying his ancestry, crossed his path in argument.</p> - -<p>At midnight Dagneau came in with word from the -outside world. All was quiet. So Humphrey went -back to the hotel in the Rue d'Antin, where he rented -a room on the fifth floor by the month for eighty francs, -including the morning roll and bowl of coffee. He -wrote his letter to Elizabeth: he wanted her to come to -Paris and share his life with him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.II" id="IV.II"></a>II</h3> - -</div> - -<p>He wanted her very much to share in the delight of -those days. It was all so new and beautiful to him, so -different from London. He went about the city, sometimes -alone, sometimes with Dagneau for a companion, -to the Louvre, where the Venus de Milo filled him with -awe and wonder, or to the Luxembourg, with its statuary -set among the green trees. In the afternoons, when he -had any spare time, he would take a book and read in -the Tuileries, or on one of the seats in the Champs -Elysées, where the fat Norman and Breton nurses, with -their broad coloured ribbons floating from their <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coifs</i>, -wheeled perambulators up and down, or took the children -to the Punch and Judy shows. And on Sundays in the -season, there were the races at Longchamps, with a drive -homewards in the cool of the evening, through the Bois, -where his cab was one of a long line of vehicles making -a moving pageant of the human comedy, with laughing -bourgeois families riding five and six in a cab, and -aristocracy and opulent beauty, artificial and real, rolling -by in victorias and electric broughams.</p> - -<p>Those rides down the Avenue du Bois to the Arc de -Triomphe made him feel very poor: the women, lolling -back in silken comfort, seemed lifted above the everyday -world, away from all thought of squalor and sordidness. -They were the rare hot-house flowers of society; the -cold wind of life's reality would wither them in a day. -So they passed before him, exquisitely beautiful and -remote, looking with languid interest at the rest of the -people in the incomparable vanity of their silk and lace -and diamonds....</p> - -<p>Yet again, his work took him behind the scenes of -Parisian life, into places that are not familiar to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> -casual visitor to Paris. He would sit in the Chamber of -Deputies to make notes of an important debate, or to -watch the rigid semicircle of French legislators break -up into riotous factions, with the tintinnabulation of the -President's bell adding to the din. This would appear -in <cite>The Day</cite> with the head-line, "Pandemonium in the -French Chamber." Perhaps it was necessary to interview -a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">juge d'instruction</i> in his private room at the -Palais de Justice, or to pass through the corridors of -the Surété—France's Scotland Yard—to inquire into a -sensational murder mystery.</p> - -<p>And he found, too, that in Paris he had a certain -standing as a journalist that was denied him in London. -He was registered in books, and the seal of approval -was given to him in the shape of a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coupe-fil</i>, which -was a card of identity, with his portrait and the -name of <cite>The Day</cite> on it—a magic card that enabled him -to do miraculous things with policemen and officials; -it was a passport to the front row in the drama of life. -There was no need in Paris to haggle with policemen, -to wink at them, and win a passage through the crowd -by subterfuge as in London: this card divided a way -for him through the multitude.</p> - -<p>So that now, when he felt that he had established -himself in his career, when his salary was more than -adequate for the needs of two, the strong need of -Elizabeth came to him. The brilliant gaiety of Paris -swirled about him, and tried to entice him into its -joyous whirlpool. He knew the dangers that beset -him: he knew the stories of men who had been dragged -into the whirlpool, down into the waters that closed -over their heads, bringing oblivion.</p> - -<p>And he looked towards the ideal of Elizabeth, as he -had always looked towards the ideal of the love which -she personified, to save him from the evil things that -are bred by loneliness and despair.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.III" id="IV.III"></a>III</h3> - -</div> - -<p>One Saturday night, when there was nothing else to -do, he went up to Montmartre, and walked along the -Boulevard de Clichy, past the grotesque absurdities of -the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cabarets</i> that are set there for the delectation of -foreign and provincial strangers: <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cabarets</i> that mock at -death and heaven and hell with all the vulgarity and -coarseness that exists side by side with the love of -beauty, art and culture in Paris.</p> - -<p>For a franc you could watch the old illusion of a -shrouded man turning to a grisly skeleton in his narrow -coffin; or you could see a diverting burlesque of the -celestial realms, and observe how sinners were burnt in -a canvas hell with artificial flames. Humphrey had -seen all these during his first week in Paris: he had -laughed, but afterwards he had been ashamed of his -laughter. They were a little degrading....</p> - -<p>He passed them by to-night, in spite of the enticing -blandishments of the mock mute, the angel and the -devil by the doors of their haunts. He wandered -aimlessly along this Boulevard, where women crossed his -path, looking very picturesque, without any covering to -their heads, shawls across their shoulders and red aprons -down to the fringe of their short skirts. There was -something savage and primitive about these women: -they lacked the frankness and gaiety of the coster-girl -in London; they were beautiful, with an evil and -cruel beauty. Vicious-looking men slouched from the -shadows. Their looks could not conceal the knives in -their pockets. They were as rats in the night, creeping -from pavement to pavement, preying on humanity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p> - -<p>The door of a café chantant opened, as Humphrey -came abreast with it, and the sound of a jingling chorus, -played on a discordant piano, arrested his steps. The -man who was coming out, thinking that Humphrey was -about to enter, held the door open for him politely. -Something impelled Humphrey forward.</p> - -<p>He went inside.</p> - -<p>The room was heavy with tobacco smoke; it floated -in thin clouds about the lights and drifted here and there -in pale spirals as it was blown from the lips of the -smokers. His vision was blurred by the smoke at first, -and, as he stood there blinking and self-conscious, it was -as though he had intruded into some private and intimate -gathering. It seemed that every one in the room was -staring at him. The impression only lasted a moment. -He perceived a vacant chair by a table and sat down, -with the bearing of one to whom the place was familiar.</p> - -<p>All around him the men and women were sitting. -There was an air of sex-comradeship that, in spite of its -frankness, was neither indecent nor blatant. The people -were behaving in the most natural way in the world. -Sometimes a woman nestled close to a man and their -hands interlaced; sometimes a man sat with his arm -round the waist of a girl. Mild liquids were before -them—the light beer of France, little glasses of cherries -soaked in brandy, glasses of white and red wine. Their -eyes were set towards the small stage at the end of the -room, a narrow platform framed in crudely-painted -canvas, representing trees and foliage; while at the back -there was a drop-scene that showed a forest as an early -Japanese artist might have drawn it, with vast distances -and a nursery contempt for perspective.</p> - -<p>His eye wandered to the walls painted with scroll-work -and deformed cupids and panels of nude women, -so badly done that they appealed more to the sense of -humour than to the sexual. The pictures on the walls<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> -seemed to leave the men and women untouched; they -concentrated all their attention on the entertainment. -The only person in the place who showed any sign of -boredom was the gendarme who sat by the door, the -State's hostage to its conscience. Nothing, said the State, -in effect, can be indecent if one of our gendarmes is there. -This was not one of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cabarets</i> where the poet-singers -of Montmartre chant, with melancholy face, their witty -doggerel or their fragrant pastorals; where people came -to hear the veiled obscenities of political satire or allusions -to passing events; this was a second-rate affair, a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tingel-tangel</i>—a -species of family music-hall.</p> - -<p>A waiter in an alpaca jacket, a stained apron wound -skirt-wise round his trousers, approached Humphrey with -an inquiring lift of his eyebrows. He removed empty -glasses dexterously with one hand and slopped a cloth -over the table with the other.</p> - -<p>"M'sieu, desire...?"</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Un fin</i>," answered Humphrey.</p> - -<p>The waiter emitted an explosive <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bon</i> and threaded -his way through the labyrinth of chairs to a high wooden -counter, where a fat man, with his shirt-sleeves rolled -back to his elbow, stood sentinel over rows of coloured -bottles. The light shone on green and red liqueurs, on -pale amber and dark brown bottles placed on glass -shelves against a looking-glass background, that reflected -the bullet shape of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">patron's</i> close-cropped -head.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the pianist had finished his interlude, and -there was a burst of applause as a woman appeared on -the stage. She wore an amazing hat of orange and white -silk, in which feathers were the most insistent feature. -There was something extraordinarily bold and flaunting -in her presence. Her neck and shoulders and bosom -were bare to the low cut of her bodice, and the cruel light -showed the powder that she had scattered over her throat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> -and shoulders to make them white and enticing; it -showed the red paint on the lips and the rouge on the -cheeks, and the black on her eyelashes and eyebrows. -The crude touches of obvious artifice destroyed her -beauty. Her waist was compressed into a painful smallness, -and her skirt was flounced and reached only to the -knees.</p> - -<p>She sang a song that had something to do with a -soldier's life. "Tell me, soldier," she sang, "what do -you think of in battle? Do you think of the glory of -the Fatherland and the splendour of dying for France?" -And the soldier answers: "I think only of a farm in -Avignon, and a maiden whose lips I used to kiss on the -old bridge; I think only of my old mother and how she -will embrace me when I come home."</p> - -<p>When she sang the simple song, though her voice -was false, and her gestures stereotyped, the rouge and -the powder and the paint were forgotten for a moment. -She was one of those unconscious artists belonging to a -people who have art woven into the warp and woof of -their daily life.</p> - -<p>The audience took up the chorus. She nodded to -them with an audacious smile. The pianist, with his -cigarette stub hanging from his lips, under cover of the -volume of voices, forsook the treble for a moment, and -reached out with his hand for a glass of beer that rested -above the piano.</p> - -<p>It was the strange, fumbling motion of his hand that -caught Humphrey's eye, trained to observe such details. -He looked closer, and saw that the pianist's eyes were -closed, and the lashes were withered where they met the -cheek. He was blind; he never saw the faces and -figures of the women who sang, he only heard the -voices; he could see nothing that was harsh and cruel. -And the picture of the blind pianist at the side of the -garish stage, improvising little runs and trills and spinning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> -a web of melody night after night, stirred Humphrey -with an odd emotion.</p> - -<p>There was a pause. The door opened and closed as -people came and went. Humphrey sipped at the -brandy; the fiery taste of it made his palate and throat -smart. The price of the entertainment was one franc, -including a drink.</p> - -<p>Suddenly the pianist struck up a well-known air. A -slim girl, in the costume of the district, slouched on to -the stage, her hands thrust into the pockets of her apron. -Her hair was bundled together in careless heaps of -yellow, her eyes were pale blue and almost almond-shaped, -her features finely moulded, with a queer distinction -of their own. And when she took one hand -out of her apron pocket, he saw that the fingers were -long and exquisitely tapered, and tipped with pink, -beautiful nails that shone in the light. Those finger-nails -betrayed her. They were not in keeping with the -part.</p> - -<p>She started singing, walking the small stage with a -swaying motion of her body; her young form was lithe -and graceful; her movements tigrine. And as she sang -her lilting chorus, her pale eyes gazed from their narrow -slits at Humphrey, not boldly or coquettishly, but with -an indeterminate appeal, as though she felt ashamed of -her song.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Quand je danse avec mon grand frisé</div> -<div class="verse">Il a l'air de m'enlacer</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Je perds la tête</div> -<div class="verse indent6">'Suis comme une bête!</div> -<div class="verse">'Y a pas chose—'suis sa chose à lui</div> -<div class="verse">'Y a pas mal—Quoi? C'est mon mari</div> -<div class="verse indent6">Car moi, je l'aime</div> -<div class="verse indent6">J'aime mon grand frisé."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The audience sang the swinging chorus, and she -moved sinuously to and fro with the rhythm of it. -Humphrey sat there, and he seemed to lose consciousness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> -of all the other people in the room—the smell of the -smoke, and the jingle of the piano, and the ill-painted -pictures on the walls faded away from him; all his -senses seemed to merge and concentrate on the enjoyment -of this moment. She was singing on the stage for -him, her narrow eyes never left him.</p> - -<p>And her song was a pæan in praise of the brute in -man.</p> - -<p>She acted her song. Her face was radiant with the -joy of being possessed, and her eyes shone as she -abandoned herself to the words:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Quand je danse avec le grand frisé</div> -<div class="verse">Il a l'air de m'enlacer...."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Then her wonderful hands with their glinting finger-nails -went up to her head, and she half-closed her eyes, -as though she were swooning:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Je perds la tête...."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Now her eyes were opened, and they glared wildly, -and her lips trembled, and her slim body quivered with -animal hunger:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"'Suis comme une bête."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And now, she smiled, and pride was on her face; one -hand rested on her hip, and she swaggered up the stage, -as the words fitted into the opening lilt:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"'Y pas chose—suis sa chose à lui</div> -<div class="verse">'Y pas mal—Quoi? C'est mon mari...."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Her face became at once miraculously tender. She -expressed great and overpowering love—a love so strong -that it swept everything before it—a love that was without -restraint, passionate, fierce and unquenchable. Her -arms were outstretched. Her dark blouse, opened at the -neck, revealed her white throat throbbing with her song:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"Car moi, je l'aime</div> -<div class="verse">J'aime mon grand frisé."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p> - -<p>And when she sang "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Je l'aime</i>," she invested the -words with passion and renunciation.</p> - -<p>They clamoured for another verse, crying "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bis ... -Bis</i>," in throaty tones, but she only came on to bow to -them, and walk off again with that swaying stride.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh, bien!</i>" said a voice at Humphrey's elbow, -"she is very good, our little Desirée, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hein</i>?"</p> - -<p>He turned half round in his chair. At first he did -not recognize the immaculately clothed young man, with -the fair, long hair, who smiled at him, and then he recollected -that they had met in the office of <cite>Le Parisien</cite>.</p> - -<p>"M. Charnac, isn't it?" Humphrey asked. "I -didn't know you at once.... Yes, she's very good. -What's her name?"</p> - -<p>"Desirée Lebeau," Charnac answered. He looked -at Humphrey again, still smiling.</p> - -<p>"Do you often come here?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"This is the first time.... I was wandering about.... -I just dropped in."</p> - -<p>Humphrey noticed that Charnac was not alone. A -pretty girl dressed becomingly in black, with a touch of -red about her neck, sat by his side.</p> - -<p>"Allow me to present a friend, Margot," Charnac -said to the girl. "He is an Englishman—a journalist," -he added. And to Humphrey he said:</p> - -<p>"Mlle. Margot Lebeau. She is the sister of our little -Desirée."</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">M'sieu est Anglais</i>," said the dark-haired girl in a -piping voice. "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ah! que ça doit être interessant d'être -Anglais.</i>"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.IV" id="IV.IV"></a>IV</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The entertainment was near its end. A dainty figure -came from the heavy curtains that hung from each side -of the proscenium and hid the entertainers from the -audience. Humphrey recognised Desirée, though she -had forsaken her stage-costume and wore a simple dark-blue -dress, with a black fur boa held carelessly about her -shoulders. She came towards them with a smile, stopping -on the way, as one or two men, of a better class than the -bulk of the audience, hailed her. She bent down to them, -and whispered conversations followed. She laughed and -slapped the face of one man—an elderly man with a red -ribbon in his button-hole. It was a playful slap, just the -movement that a kitten makes with its paw when it is -playing with long hanging curtains.</p> - -<p>Charnac pushed out a chair for her invitingly. She -came to them with a smile hovering about her lips, and -a look of curious interest in her pale eyes as she saw -Humphrey. She shook hands with Charnac, and kissed -her sister Margot, and then, with a frank gesture, without -any embarrassment, she held out her hand to Humphrey -and said:</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bon soir, p'tit homme.</i>"</p> - -<p>There was a quality of friendship in her voice; her -whole manner suggested a desire to be amiable; she -accepted Humphrey as a friend without question, and, -as for Charnac, she treated him as if he were one of the -family, as a brother. The women in the room stared at -the party every few moments, absorbed in the details of -Desirée's dress, and the men glanced at her with smiles -that irritated Humphrey.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It is a little friend of mine—an Englishman," -Charnac said to Desirée.</p> - -<p>"An Englishman!" said Desirée, in a way that -seemed to be the echo of her sister's remark a few -minutes earlier. "I have a friend in England." She -spoke French in a clipped manner, abbreviating her -words, and scattering fragments of slang through her -phrases.</p> - -<p>"Is that so?" Humphrey said. "What part of -England?"</p> - -<p>"Manchestaire," she replied. "His name was Mr -Smith. You know him?"</p> - -<p>Humphrey laughed. "I'm afraid I don't—Manchester's -a big place, you know."</p> - -<p>"Is it as big as London?"</p> - -<p>"Oh no. Not as big as London."</p> - -<p>"I should like to go to London. I have a friend -there—a girl friend."</p> - -<p>"Oh! where does she live?"</p> - -<p>"I forget the name of the street—somewhere near -Charing Cross—that's a railway station, isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>Silence fell between them while a comedian, dressed -as a comic soldier, sang a song that made them all -laugh; though Humphrey could not understand the -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">argot</i>, he caught something of the innuendo of the song. -Strange, that in France and Germany, in countries -where patriotism and militarism are at their highest, the -army should be held up to ridicule, and burlesqued in -the coarsest fashion. The song gave Humphrey an -opportunity of studying Desirée's face. He saw that the -yellow hair was silky and natural; her eyebrows were -as pale as her hair, and when she laughed, her red lips -parted to show small white teeth that looked incredibly -sharp. She was not beautiful, but she held some -mysterious attraction for him. She was of a type that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> -differed from all the women he had met. Though her -face and figure showed that she was little more than -twenty, her bearing was that of a woman who had lived -and learnt all there was to know of the world. One -slim, ungloved hand rested on the table, and he noted -the beauty of it, its slender, delicate fingers, and the -perfect shape of her pink, shining nails. In the making -of her, Nature seemed to have concentrated in her hands -all her power of creating beauty.</p> - -<p>The song finished to a round of applause.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il est joliment drôle</i>," said Desirée to Charnac. "Ah! -zut ... I could do with a drink."</p> - -<p>"We won't have anything here," Charnac said. -"They only sell species of poisons. Let's go and have -supper at the Chariot d'Or.... Will you join us, Mr -Quain?"</p> - -<p>Why not? It was a perfectly harmless idea. Every -experience added something to his knowledge. And -yet, he hesitated. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, -a feeling of uneasiness awoke in him. Charnac would -pair off with Margot, and he would have to sit with -Desirée during the meal. The thought carried with it a -picture of forbidden things. Conscience argued with -him: "You really oughtn't to, you know." "Why not? -What harm will it do?" he urged. Conscience was -relentless. "You forget you have a duty to some one." -"Nonsense," he said, "let's look at the thing in a broad-minded -way. It won't hurt me to have supper with -them, surely."</p> - -<p>Desirée laid a hand upon his sleeve gently.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tu viens—oui</i>," she asked, in a low, caressing voice. -Their eyes met. He saw the pupils of her narrow eyes -grow larger for a second, as though they were striving to -express unspoken thoughts. Then they receded and -contracted to little, dark, twinkling beads set in their -centre of pale blue circles.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oui</i>," he said, with a sigh.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>They came out into the noisy night of the Boulevard. -They walked together, Charnac and Margot with linked -arms. The lower floors of the night restaurants were -blazing with light, but in the upper rooms the drawn -blinds subdued the glare, and transformed it into a warm -glow. Cabs and motor-cars came up the steep hill from -the Grands Boulevards below for the revelry of supper -after the theatre. The great doors of the Chariot d'Or -were continually moving, and the uniformed doorkeeper -seemed to enjoy the exercise of pulling the door open -every second, as women in wraps, accompanied by men, -crossed the threshold.</p> - -<p>They went upstairs into a long brilliant room, all -gold and glass and red plush, with white tablecloths -shining in the strong light. In the corner a group of -musicians, dressed in a picturesque costume—it might -have been taken from any of the Balkan States, or from -imagination—played a dragging waltz melody.</p> - -<p>A dark woman sat by them, wearing a Spanish dress, -orange and spangled, the bodice low-cut, and the skirt -fanciful and short, showing her thin legs clad in black -open-work stockings. She regarded the room with an -air of detached interest, unanswering the glances of the -men. She was the wife of the first violinist.</p> - -<p>Charnac led the way to a table; he placed himself -next to Margot on the red plush sofa-cushions, and -Humphrey sat with Desirée. While Charnac was -ordering the supper and consulting their individual -tastes, Humphrey glanced round the room at the men -who sat at the little tables with glasses of sparkling -amber wine before them, some of them in evening-dress, -with crumpled, soft shirt-fronts, others in lounge -suits or morning-coats. Not all had women with -them, but the women that he saw were luxurious,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> -beautiful creatures, with indolent eyes and faces of -strange beauty.</p> - -<p>The lights gleamed under rose-coloured shades on -the table, on the silver dishes piled high with splendid -fruits, on bottles swathed tenderly with napkins, set in -silver ice-pails, on tumblers of coloured wines and -liqueurs.</p> - -<p>"It's pretty here, eh?" said Desirée.</p> - -<p>"It's not so bad. I've never been here before. Do -you come often?"</p> - -<p>"Oh no! not often: only when Margot brings -Gustave to come and fetch me after I've been singing."</p> - -<p>She clapped her hands gaily as the waiter set a -steaming dish of mussels before them. The house was -famed for its <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">moules marinières</i>. "I adore them," she -said, unfolding her serviette, and tucking it under her -chin. Charnac ladled out the mussels into soup-plates. -Their blue iridescent shells shone in an opal-coloured -gravy where tiny slices of onion floated on the surface. -Her dainty fingers dipped into the plate, and she fed -herself with the mussels, biting them from the shells with -her sharp white teeth. She ate with an extraordinary -rapidity, breaking off generous pieces from the long, crisp -roll of bread before her, and drinking deeply of her red -Burgundy.</p> - -<p>She was simply an animal. Margot ate in much the -same way, with greedy, quick gestures, until her plate -was piled high with empty mussel shells. And, during -the meal, they chattered trivialities, discussing personal -friends in a slangy, intimate phraseology.</p> - -<p>The sharp taste of the sauce, with its flavour of the -salt sea-water, made Humphrey thirsty, and he, too, -drank plenty of wine; and the wine and the warmth -sent the colour rushing to his cheeks, and filled him -with a sense of comfort. The whole atmosphere of the -place had a soothing effect on him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span></p> - -<p>The orchestra started to play a Spanish dance, and -the woman in orange rose from her seat, and tossing -her lace shawl aside, moved down the aisle of tables -in a sidling, swinging dance, castanets clicking from her -thumbs, marking the sway and poise of her body above -her hips. It was a sexual, voluptuous dance, that stirred -the senses like strong wine. Now she flung herself -backwards with a proud, uplifted chin. One high-heeled -satin shoe stamped the floor. Her eyes flashed -darkly and dangerously; she flaunted her bare throat -and bosom before them; now she moved with a lithe -sinuous motion from table to table, one hand on her hip, -and the other swinging loosely by her side.</p> - -<p>There was something terrible and triumphant in her -dance to the beat of the music with its rhythm of a -heart throbbing in passion.</p> - -<p>"Bravo! bravo!" they cried, as the dance finished. -"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bis</i>," shouted Charnac, lolling back in his seat with his -arm round Margot's shoulder.</p> - -<p>"She dances well," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Desirée turned her pale eyes on him. "I can dance -better," she said, and before he had realized it, she was -up and in the centre of the room, and everybody laughed -and clapped hands, as Desirée began to dance with -stealthy, cat-like steps. Her face was impudent, as she -twined and twisted her thin body into contortions that -set all the men leering at her. It was frankly repulsive -and horrible to Humphrey; she seemed suddenly to -have ceased to be a woman, just as when she had started -to eat. She was inhuman when she sang and ate and -danced.</p> - -<p>The blur of white flesh through the smoke, the odour -of heavy scents, and the sight of Desirée writhing in her -horrid dance, sickened him. He saw her white teeth -gleaming between her lips, half-parted with the exhaustion -of her dance, he saw her eyes laughing at him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> -as though she were proud and expected his applause, -and he felt a profound, inexplicable pity for her that -overwhelmed his disgust.</p> - -<p>She flung herself, panting, into her seat, and pushed -back her disordered yellow hair with her hands. "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oh -la! ... la!</i>" she cried, laughing in gasps, "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">c'est fatiguant, -ça</i> ... my throat is like a furnace." And she clicked -her glass against the glass that Humphrey held in his -hand, and drained it to the finish.</p> - -<p>"Why did you do that?" asked Humphrey, huskily.</p> - -<p>"Do what?"</p> - -<p>"Dance like that—in front of all these people?"</p> - -<p>"Why shouldn't I, if I want to?"</p> - -<p>"I don't like it," he said, wondering why he was -impelled to say so.</p> - -<p>"Well, you shouldn't have said she dances well," -Desirée replied.</p> - -<p>"I must be going," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, not yet," Charnac said. "Let's all go -together."</p> - -<p>"No," he pushed his chair away with sudden resolution. -"I must go."</p> - -<p>"But, my dear—" Desirée began.</p> - -<p>"I must go," Humphrey repeated, slowly. It was -like the repetition of a lesson. "I must go now."</p> - -<p>"Oh, well—" Charnac said.</p> - -<p>The waiter appeared with a bill. "You will allow -me to pay?" Humphrey asked Charnac.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mais non, mais non, mon ami</i>," he replied, good-naturedly. -"It was I who asked you to come, wasn't -it? Another night it will be your turn."</p> - -<p>"Another night," echoed Margot, in her high-pitched -voice. "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">J'adore les Anglais, ils sont si gentils.</i>"</p> - -<p>"And why cannot you stop?" Desirée asked.</p> - -<p>He avoided her eyes. Never could he explain in -this room, with its scent and its music and its warmth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> -that turned vice into happiness and made virtue as -chilling and intractable as marble. He only knew that -he had to go. He made some excuse—any excuse—work—a -headache ... he did not know what he was -saying; he was only conscious of those narrow eyes -beneath pale eyebrows, and red parted lips, and the -soft hand that lay in his—the soft hand with the finger-tips -as beautiful as rosy sea-shells.</p> - -<p>They were not to blame; they could not be expected -to know his innermost life, nor why it was that he felt -suddenly as if he had profaned himself, and all that was -most sacred to him. But that finer, nobler self that -was always dormant within him, as eager to awaken to -influences as it was to be lulled to sleep by them, -became active and alert....</p> - -<p>There was a hint of dawn in the sky as he came out -into the empty street, his mind charged with a deep -melancholy. But, as the cool air played about his face, -he breathed more freely after the stuffy warmth of the -room, and he walked with a firm step, square-shouldered, -erect and courageous.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.V" id="IV.V"></a>V</h3> - -</div> - -<p>Some weeks later there came a letter which brought the -reality of things into his own life. It was a short and -regretful letter from a firm of Easterham solicitors, -announcing the death of his aunt.</p> - -<p>They informed him of the fact in a few, brief, -dignified words. There was an undercurrent of excuse, -as if they felt themselves personally responsible for the -sudden demise, and were anxious to apologise for any -inconvenience that might be felt by Mr Quain. He -gathered that his aunt had lived on an annuity, which -expired with her; that a little financial trouble—loans -to a brother of whom Humphrey had never heard—absorbed -her furniture and all her possessions, with the -exception of a watch and chain, which she had willed to -Humphrey. The funeral was to take place two days -hence—and that was all.</p> - -<p>The letter moved him neither to tears nor sorrow. -His aunt had been as remote from him in life as she was -in death. An unbridgeable abyss had divided them. -Never, during the years he had lived in Easterham, after -his father's death, had they talked of the fundamental -things that mattered to one another. He felt that he -owed her nothing, least of all love, for she remained in -his memory a masterful, powerful influence, trying to -fetter him down to a narrow life, without comprehension -of the broad, beautiful world that lay at her doors.</p> - -<p>He could see her now in her dress of some mysterious -black pattern, and always a shawl over her shoulder, her -white hair plastered close to her heavy gold earrings, her -lips thin and compressed, and her eyes hard-set, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> -she said, "You must Get On." She did not know, when -she urged him to go forward, how far he meant to go. -Her vision of Getting On was bounded by Easterham—what -could she know and understand of all the -bewildering phases he had undergone; the bitter heartaches, -the misery of failure, and the glory of conquest -in a world wider than a million Easterhams.</p> - -<p>But, as he thought of her dead, a strange feeling -came to him that now she could understand everything, -that she knew all, and was even ready to reach out in -sympathy to him. Her last pathetic message—a watch -and chain! The rude knowledge that he had gained of -the secret things of her life—how she lived, her loan to -the brother; it seemed that some hidden door which -they had both kept carefully locked had been flung -open widely—that his eyes were desecrating her profoundest -secrets.</p> - -<p>It was not the first time that Death had stirred his -life, but this was a sudden and unexpected snapping of -a chain that bound him with his boyhood. Always he -had been subconsciously aware of his aunt's presence in -the scheme of things; there had been ingrained in him -a certain fear of her, that he had never quite shaken off. -Behind the individuality of his own life she had lurked, -a shadowy figure, yet ready to emerge from the shadows -at a moment of provocation, and become real and distinct -and forbidding.</p> - -<p>And now he could scarcely realize that she was -dead—that he was absolutely alone in the world, though -there might be, somewhere, cousins and kinspeople -whom he had never seen.</p> - -<p>She had not been demonstratively kind to him in -life. The watch and chain she left was the first present -he could ever remember receiving from her. But he felt -that he could not absent himself from her funeral; it -would be a sad and desolate business in the Easterham<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span> -churchyard, with not many people there, yet he knew -that he could not pass the day in Paris without thinking -of her, lowered into the grave to the eternal loneliness -of death.</p> - -<p>He sent a telegram to London, and received a reply -a few hours later, giving him permission to leave Paris, -and the next day he travelled to England.</p> - -<p>The collection of papers and magazines rested unread -in his lap. He looked from the window on the -succession of pictures that flashed and disappeared—a -blue-bloused labourer at work in the fields, or a -waggoner toiling along a country lane; children shouting -by the hedgerows, and the signal-women who sat by their -little huts on the railway as the train sped by. He could -not read; sometimes, with a sigh, he sought a paper -(France had just caught the popular magazine habit -from England), turned the pages restlessly, and, finally, -leaning on the arm-rest, stared out of the window....</p> - -<p>The shuttle of his mind went to and fro, twining -together the disconnected threads of his thoughts into -a pattern of memories—memories of his youth and his -work and his aunt interwoven with the strong, dominating -thought of Elizabeth....</p> - -<p>His thoughts turned continually to Elizabeth; sometimes -they spun away to something else, but always -they were led back through a series of memories to that -night when he had kissed her for the first time.</p> - -<p>It was odd how this absence from her seemed to -have changed her in his mind. There had been an -undercurrent of disappointment in their relations, of -late. Her letters had been strangely sterile and unsatisfying. -She had written an evasive reply, after a -delay, an answer to his last letter begging her to come -to him....</p> - -<p>Yet he was eager to see her and to kiss her. He -felt that she was all that he had left to him in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> -the world: that she and his work were all that -mattered....</p> - -<p>A garrulous Frenchman lured him into conversation -during dinner; he was glad, for it gave him relief from -the monotonous burden of his thoughts ... and on -the boat he dozed in the sunshine of a smooth crossing.</p> - -<p>Once in England again, the delight of an exile -returning to his home provided new sensations. The -porters were deferentially solicitous for his comfort; -the Customs officers behaved with innate politeness, and -the little squat train, with its separate compartments, -brought a glow of happiness to him. He saw England -as a stranger might see it for the first time: he -observed the discipline and order of the railway station -that came not from oppression but from high organization -and planning. There were no mistakes made; -the boy brought his tea-basket and did not overcharge -him; the porter accepted sixpence and touched his hat, -not obsequiously, but in acknowledgment, without a -suggestion of haggling for more. It seemed incredible -that he should find this perfection, where a year ago he -could not see it....</p> - -<p>There were Frenchmen in the carriage, and he sat -with the conscious pride of an Englishman in his own -country. The train moved out, giving a glimpse of the -harbour and the sea breaking in white lines over the -sloping beach; and then through a tunnel that emerged -on fields. The first thing he noticed was the vivid -green of the country, and the way it was cut up and -divided into squares and oblongs: the small clumps of -low-set trees, the fat cattle, and the peace brooding -over the land. And then he noticed the little houses, -low-storied and thatched, with a feather of blue smoke -waving from their chimneys. The whole journey was -a series of new impressions that elated him. Stations -flashed and left behind a blurred memory of advertisements,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> -and names that breathed of yeoman England: -Ashford—Paddock Wood—Sevenoaks—Knockholt; and -then the advertisement-boards stood out of the green -fields, blatantly insisting on lung tonics and pills, -marking off mile after mile that brought him nearer to -London. The houses closed in on the railway line; -the train ran now through larger stations of red brick, -passing the peopled platforms with an echoing roar; -other crowded trains passed them, going slowly to the -suburbs they had left behind. A new note seemed to -come into the journey as the evening descended, and -the world outside was populous with lights.</p> - -<p>The memory of the clean, sweet country, with its toy -houses, was wiped away by a swift blot of darkness as -the train flashed through New Cross, and out into the -broad network of rails with which London begins.</p> - -<p>He saw the factories and the sidings and the busy -traffic of trains overtaking one another, running parallel -for a space, and then swaying apart as one branched off -to the south-eastern suburbs. He saw the smoke hanging -in thick clouds on the far horizon; masts and rigging -made spidery silhouettes against the sky; and the tall, -factory chimneys thrust out their monstrous tongues of -livid fire.</p> - -<p>The city was before him right and left, overgrown -and tremendous. They ran level with crooked chimney-pots -and the scarred roofs of endless rows of houses. -The upper windows were yellow with light, and he caught -glimpses of women before mirrors and men in their -shirt-sleeves. Dark masses of clouds rolled before the -moon. Something wet splashed on his cheek.</p> - -<p>A silent Englishman sitting next to him, said -moodily: "Raining as usual. I've never once come home -without it raining." He laughed as though it were a -bitter joke.</p> - -<p>Fantastic reflections wriggled on the wet, shining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> -approach to London Bridge—a swift vision of bus-drivers, -with oilcloth capes glinting in the rain, hurrying crowds, -and something altogether new—a motor-omnibus.</p> - -<p>Then the train, with a dignified, steady movement, -swung slowly across Hungerford Bridge, and he saw the -strong, resolute river, black and broad, flowing to the -bridges, within the jewelled girdle of the Embankment.</p> - -<p>The sense of England's greatness came to him, as -the landmarks of London were set in a semicircle -before him: the tall dome of St Paul's, the spires of -churches, the turrets of great hotels, grey Government -offices, culminating in the vague majesty of the Houses -of Parliament.</p> - -<p>How different the streets were from Paris! There -was a force and an energy that seemed to be driving -everything perpetually forward. This business of getting -to dinner—it was about half-past seven—was a terribly -earnest and crowded affair. The throng of motor-cars -and omnibuses jammed and flocked together in the -Strand, held in leash by a policeman's uplifted hand, and -when it was released, it crawled sluggishly forward. -Here and there, rare sight for Humphrey, one of the new -motor-omnibuses lumbered forward heavily, threatening -instant annihilation of everything. There was no chatter -of voices in the crowd—no gesticulation—the people -walked silently and hurriedly with a set concentration -of purpose.</p> - -<p>He went to a hotel in the Adelphi to leave his -bag. Then he came out, pausing for a moment irresolutely -in the crowd. It was too late, as he had foreseen, -to go to Elizabeth. He had made up his mind to see -her on his return from Easterham.</p> - -<p>An omnibus halted by him: he boarded it, and as he -passed the Griffin, he breathed deeply like a monarch -entering his own domain, for the scent of the Street was -in his nostrils and the old, well-known vision of the lit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> -windows passed before him, and a newsboy ran along -shouting a late edition. This was the only Street in the -world, he felt, that he loved; its people were his people, -and its life was his life.</p> - -<p>He turned into the Pen Club, to friendship, good-fellowship -and welcome. And all the old friends were -there—Larkin, retelling old stories, Chander spinning -merry yarns, and Vernham making melancholy epigrams. -Willoughby, he learnt, was away on a mystery in the -north, and Jamieson was at a first night.</p> - -<p>"By the way," said Larkin, "heard about Tommy -Pride?"</p> - -<p>"No. What's happened?"</p> - -<p>"He's left <cite>The Day</cite>."</p> - -<p>"Sacked?" asked Humphrey.</p> - -<p>Larkin nodded. "Rather rough on poor old Tommy. -Married, isn't he?"</p> - -<p>A picture of his first visit to the home of the Prides -leapt before Humphrey's eyes, and the comfort, the -cheeriness, that hid all the hard work of the week. The -news hurt him queerly.</p> - -<p>"What's he doing?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Well, not much. Tommy's not a youngster, you -know. I suppose the Newspaper Press Fund will tide -him over a bit."</p> - -<p>Larkin dropped the subject, to listen to a story from -Vernham. After all, it was the most casual thing in the -happenings of Fleet Street to them: it might happen to -them any day; it was bound to happen to them one day. -And there would always be young men ready to take -their places. Nobody was to blame; it was just one of -the chances of the inexorable system which made their -work a gamble, where men hazarded their wits and their -lives, and lost or won in the game.</p> - -<p>Humphrey knew more than they did what it meant -for Tommy Pride. He heard as a mocking echo now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span> -the old cry, "Two pounds a week and a cottage in the -country."...</p> - -<p>"Have a drink," Larkin said.</p> - -<p>He became suddenly out of tune with the place. -His perception of Fleet Street altered. He saw the -relentless cruelty of it, the implacable demand for sacrifice -that it always made. He visioned it as a giant -striding discordantly through the lives of men, crushing -them with a strength as mighty as its own machines that -roared in the night ... a clumsy and senseless giant, -that towered above them, against whom all struggles -were pitiful ... futile.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.VI" id="IV.VI"></a>VI</h3> - -</div> - -<p>"One lump or two?" asked Elizabeth, holding the -sugar-tongs poised over his cup of tea.</p> - -<p>"One, please," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>"Milk or cream?"</p> - -<p>"Milk."</p> - -<p>She handed him the cup in silence. There was -something in the frank, questioning look in her blue -eyes that made him avert his gaze. Their meeting had -not been at all as he had imagined it. He did not -spring towards her, boyishly, and take her in his arms -and kiss her. He had approached her humbly and -timidly when she stood before him, in all her white -purity and beauty, and their lips had met in a brief kiss -of greeting. Her manner had been curiously formal and -restrained, empty of all outward display of emotion.</p> - -<p>And now they sat at tea in her room with the conversation -lagging between them. As he looked round -at the room with its chintzes and rose-bowls, its old -restfulness reasserted itself. But to Humphrey it seemed -now more than restful—it seemed stagnant and out of -the world.... Somewhere, in Paris, there were music -and laughter, but here, in this quiet backwater of London, -one's vision became narrow, and life seemed a monotonous -repetition of days. He felt moody, depressed; -a sense of coming disaster hung over his mind, like a -shadow. Her quick sympathy perceived his gloom.</p> - -<p>"You ought not to have gone," she said, softly.</p> - -<p>"You mean to the funeral?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; you are too susceptible ... too easily influenced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span> -by surroundings. There was no need to come -all this way to make yourself miserable."</p> - -<p>"I don't know why I went," he said. "We never -had much in common, my aunt and I, but somehow ... -I don't know ... I couldn't bear the thought of not -being present at her funeral. I had a silly sort of idea -that she would know if I were not there."</p> - -<p>"You are too susceptible," she repeated. "Sometimes -I wish you were stronger. You are too much -afraid of what people will think of you. This death has -meant nothing at all to you, but you are ashamed to -say so."</p> - -<p>"It has meant something to me," he said. "I don't -mean that I felt a wrench, as if some one whom I loved -very dearly had gone ... I felt that when my father -died ... but her death has changed me somehow—here—" -and he tapped his breast, "I feel older. I feel -as if I had stood over the grave and seen the burial of -my youth."</p> - -<p>"It has made you gloomy," Elizabeth said. "I think -you would have been truer to yourself if you had remained -in Paris."</p> - -<p>He reflected for a few moments, drinking his tea. -He felt sombre enough in his black clothes and black -tie—dreary concessions to conventionality.</p> - -<p>"Ah, but I wanted to see you, Elizabeth," he said -earnestly. "It's terribly lonely without you."</p> - -<p>She leaned forward and laid her hand lightly on his, -with a soft, caressing touch. "It's good of you to say -that," she said, and then, with a frank smile, "tell me, -Humphrey, do you really miss me very much?"</p> - -<p>"I do," he said; and he began talking of himself -and all that he did in Paris. Elizabeth listened with -an amused smile playing about her lips. He told her of -his work and his play, growing enthusiastic over Paris, -speaking with all the self-centredness of the egotist.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It seems very pleasant," she said. "You are to be -envied, I think. You ought to be very happy: doing -everything that you want to do; occupying a good -position in journalism."</p> - -<p>He purred mentally under her praise. Already he -felt better; her presence stimulated him; but he could -not see, nor understand, the true Elizabeth, for the -mists of vanity, ambition and selfishness clouded his -vision at that moment. If only he had forgotten himself -... if only he had asked her one question about -herself and <em>her</em> work, or shown the smallest interest in -anything outside his own career, he might have risen to -great heights of happiness.</p> - -<p>This was the second in which everything hung in -the balance. He saw Elizabeth lean her chin in the -palm of her hand and contemplate reflectively the -distance beyond him. He marked the beauty of her -lower arm, bare to the rounded charm of the elbow, as -it rested on the curve of the arm-chair. So, he thought, -would she sit in Paris, and grace his life.</p> - -<p>And then, suddenly, her face became grave, and she -said, abruptly:</p> - -<p>"Humphrey, I want to talk to you very seriously. -I want to know whether you will give up journalism."</p> - -<p>He remembered her hint of this far back in the -months when she had first allowed him to tell her of his -love. He had thought the danger was past, but now -she came to him, with a deliberate, frontal attack on the -very stronghold of his existence.</p> - -<p>"Give up journalism!" he echoed. "What -for?"</p> - -<p>All the weapons of her sex were at her command. -She might have said, "For me"; she might have smiled -and enticed and cajoled. But she brushed these weapons -aside disdainfully. Hers was the earnest business of -putting Humphrey to the test.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Because I think you and I will never be happy -together if you do not. Because, if I marry you (he -noticed she did not say, 'When I marry you'), I should -not want your work to occupy a larger place in our lives -than myself. Because I hate your work, and I think -you can do better things. Those are my reasons."</p> - -<p>He stood up and walked to the window, looking out -on the trees that made an avenue of the quiet road. -A man with a green baize covered tray on his head -came round the corner, swinging a bell up and -down.</p> - -<p>"Well?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Oh but look here, Elizabeth," he began, "you -spring something like this on me suddenly, and expect -me to answer at once...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no! you can have time to think it over. -You've had nearly a year, you know."</p> - -<p>"How do you make that out?"</p> - -<p>"Have you forgotten? When you were going to -Paris—before you were going to Paris even—I tried to -show you that I wanted you to give up the work. I -remember you promised things. You said you'd write -books, or do essays for the weeklies...."</p> - -<p>"But, dear, you can't make a living writing books—unless -you fluke, or unless you're a genius; as for essays -for the weeklies, frankly, I don't believe I can do them—I'm -not brilliant enough."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you are," Elizabeth urged. (Fatal mistake -to make, it smoothed all his vanity the right way.) "I -believe in you, Humphrey. If I didn't believe in you, I -wouldn't be talking as I am now. And, besides, I've -told you before, I have enough for us both."</p> - -<p>Though she was offering him freedom; though, if he -wished, he could accept her offer and be rid for ever -from the torments of Fleet Street, he could not leave its -joys.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You don't understand," he said. "You couldn't -expect me to live on you...."</p> - -<p>"Why not? I should be prepared to live on you, if -I were poor."</p> - -<p>"That's different. You're a woman."</p> - -<p>She laughed. "We won't go into the side-issues of -arguments over ethics," she said. "You need not live -on me. You told me that you had saved four hundred -pounds. If we lived simply that would keep us both -for a start, and you could be adding to your income by -writing. Humphrey, don't you see I'm trying to rescue -you. I want you to do something fine and noble; I want -you to go forward."</p> - -<p>"Well, I've gone forward," he said. "I've made myself -in the Street. You don't know what you ask when -you want me to give it up. Nobody can understand it -unless he's been in the game. I can't think what it is—it -isn't vanity, because all that we write is unsigned; it's -sheer love of the work that drives us on."</p> - -<p>"But you hate it, too."</p> - -<p>"We hate it as fiercely as we love it..." he said, -simply. "One day we say to ourselves, 'We will give -it up.' That's what I say to you, now. I'm going to -give it up, one day."</p> - -<p>"That you have also promised before," she said, in -a gentle voice. "Let us talk it over between ourselves. -Why shouldn't you leave now?"</p> - -<p>He was cornered: he stood at bay, facing her beauty, -but behind it and above it he saw all the struggles and -endeavour and splendid triumph that awaited him in -the restless years to come, when each day would be a -battle-field, and any might bring him defeat or conquest. -He saw the world opening before him, and far-off cities -close at hand; he saw himself wandering through the -years, touching the lives of men; a privileged person, -always behind the scenes of life, with a hint of power<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> -perhaps.... And, in exchange, she offered him peace -and rest, both of which corroded the soul eager for war; -peace and rest and love, that would be so beautiful until -the years made them familiar and wearisome, until he -would be forced to go out again into the thick of the -battle ... and by that time his armour would be rusty, -and the years of peace would have blunted his sword.</p> - -<p>"Elizabeth," he said slowly, "I can't live in a room, -now. I can't always look out of the window on the same -scene. I must keep moving. Each day must bring me -a fresh scene, a fresh experience. I have grown so used -to change and movement that a week without it makes -life dull and unbearable. I'm not fit for anything else -but the work I do. I'm born to do that and nothing -else. Everything in life now I see from the point of -view of 'copy.'" He laughed, but there was a sob in -his laughter at his shameful confession. "Why, even at -the funeral, as I stood over the grave, and watched them -lower the coffin, I felt that I could write a splendid -column about it, and instead of feeling the solemnity of -it all, I found that I was watching the white surplices -against the green trees, and looking at the faces of the -people, and painting a picture in my mind...."</p> - -<p>He paused. Her eyes were downcast, and her -fingers played absently with the loops of the chain that -hung from her neck.</p> - -<p>"It's a habit," he went on. "It's grown on me, so -that I see life and its emotions as a series of things to be -written about. Why shouldn't I have thought as I did -at the funeral? I have been taught to do it, when I go -to the funerals of great men that I have to report. I'm -a journalist ... a reporter. I've seen men eat their -hearts out in a year, after they've left the Street light-heartedly. -The reaction comes suddenly. Things are -happening all around them, and they're out of it. And -they creep back, and try to get a job again. That's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span> -what Kenneth himself will do one day.... I don't want -to be one of those, Elizabeth. I want to go through -with it, right through to the failure at the end of all, and -when the failure comes, I'll build up again."</p> - -<p>She spread out her hands helplessly. "I see..." -she said, "I see...." That was all for a moment, and -then, again: "If you were doing something worthy, -I could understand; if you were producing art, I could -understand, too ... but this"—a copy of <cite>The Day</cite> was -on the table, and she held it in her hand—"this is unworthy. -This is all you produce with your infinite -labour."</p> - -<p>"It's not unworthy ... we have our ideals."</p> - -<p>She laughed, and her laugh stung him.</p> - -<p>"Humphrey, you have the ha'penny mind that does -not see beyond its own nose. You just live for the day -itself. Oh!" she cried, "if you knew how I hate your -Ferrol, and all that he stands for: all the ignoble things -in life, painting everything with the commercial taint of -worldly success. There was a beautiful picture bought -the other day for the National Gallery. I see it is to be -known as the '£60,000 picture.' That's the spirit -behind Ferrol ... we might be crying for great reforms—I -have not spoken of my work in all this—we -might be lifted up with the power at his command...."</p> - -<p>When she spoke of Ferrol, Humphrey remembered -all that had been done for him. What could she know of -Ferrol's personality, of his splendid force, of the thousand -generous acts that remained hidden, while only the -things were remembered that blackened his reputation. -His admiration for Ferrol was immeasurable. He saw in -the indomitable energy of the man something tangible -and positive among all the negative virtues of life. -Ferrol stood for achievement that crowned the indefatigable -years. And with it all, this superman could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span> -descend from his loftiness and be human and weave the -spell of his humanity about the lives of others.</p> - -<p>"You don't understand Ferrol," he said. "Very few -people do. But he has been kind to me ... there's -something in Ferrol that draws me to him. One day -you will see he will do all that you expect him to do, -but the time is not yet ripe for that. And you speak as -if Ferrol were the only man in England who owned a -newspaper. What of the others—have any of them done -as much good as he has done?"</p> - -<p>"Whatever good he has done, is done from motives -of gain."</p> - -<p>"I do not look at motives," he retorted. "I look -only at the effects of the action. If a bad deed is done -from good motives, it does not make the deed anything -but bad."</p> - -<p>They were standing face to face now.</p> - -<p>"Come, Elizabeth," he said, moving towards her. -"You do not know how I love you, and if you loved me, -you would not ask me to give up my work."</p> - -<p>Her face was white and beautiful, and her hand went -up to her heart with a womanly gesture. She spoke in -a low, deliberate voice.</p> - -<p>"In all that we have said, there has never been a -word of what giving up <em>my</em> work may mean to me. Yet -you would have me abandon it, and forsake all the good -we have tried to build up...."</p> - -<p>"You would have to give it up, one day, Elizabeth. -Besides, if you like," he said, desperately, "I'll go to -Ferrol and ask him to remove me from Paris back to -London. I'll do anything to meet you, I only want to -make you happy."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't keep on saying that sort of thing," she -said; "it irritates me. Those hollow repetitions of set -phrases—just because they're the right thing to say."</p> - -<p>"I think you are unreasonable," he began. "I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span> -worked all these years for success, and now, just -when I've won it, you wish me to throw everything -away."</p> - -<p>"I wish you to do nothing against your will. I -thought you would have seen my point of view. I -thought you would be ready to share in my work, which -is the work of humanity.... I am sorry. You see, we -clash. We shall be better alone."</p> - -<p>He stared at her with dull incomprehension. "We -clash. We shall be better alone." The words repeated -themselves over and over again in his brain. And his -mind suddenly went back to a little room in the Strand -and the tears of Lilian....</p> - -<p>"You mean that," he said, slowly. "You mean -that."</p> - -<p>She nodded. "Don't you see how impossible it -would be?"</p> - -<p>"You never loved me," he flung forth as a challenge. -"You could have helped me and understood me.... I -am not so bad as you think I am."</p> - -<p>A sad smile answered him. "I understand you so -well, Humphrey, that I know I shall never be able to -help you."</p> - -<p>He looked about him in weak hesitation. "I suppose -I must begin again," he said.</p> - -<p>"You ... you ... all the time it is you," she cried, -passionately. "And what about myself; must not I -begin over again, too?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry," he said, feeling the inadequacy of his -words. He longed intensely to be away from her now, -to be out in the open street where he could think. -This room was stifling. He went through the horrid -methodical business of parting as if it were all a dream. -He remembered glancing at the clock in a casual way, -and saying, "I'd better be going"; he remembered the -ludicrous search for one glove, he murmuring that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span> -didn't really matter, and she insisting on a search with -aching minuteness....</p> - -<p>He never saw her again; her life had impinged on -his, and left its impression, as many others had done. -He did not regret her as he had regretted Lilian, for she -had outraged his self-respect, and left him abashed and -humbled.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.VII" id="IV.VII"></a>VII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>He went back to Paris, and a week later the trouble -broke out in Narbonne.</p> - -<p>At first it did not seem very serious. One understood -vaguely that the wine-growers were in revolt. The -Paris buyers had been adulterating the vintages—making -one cask into a dozen—so that they came to a year when -there was such a glut of this adulterated wine on the -market, that the wine-growers of the South were left with -wine to spill in the gutters, and wine to give to the pigs—but -without bread to give to their children.</p> - -<p>Then there arose one of those men who flame into -history for a few vivid moments. A leader of men, -whose words were sparks dropped among straw; who -had but to say "Kill," and they would kill, until he bade -them stop.</p> - -<p>For a time, in a way essentially peculiar to France, -the ludicrous prevailed. Municipalities resigned, mayors -and all, and there was no giving nor taking in marriage, -no registration of births or deaths. Odd stories of the -despair of love—sick peasantry at postponed weddings—filled -the papers; the <cite>Assiette au Beurre</cite> published a -special number satirizing the situation. It was a good -joke in Paris—but at Perpignan and Montpellier twenty -thousand <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vignerons</i> were talking of bloody revolution, -and marching with blue and silver banners, and calling -on the Government to put a tax on sugar, so as to make -adulteration so costly that it should be profitless....</p> - -<p>And Humphrey in the Paris office distilled a column -a day from the forty columns that the French Special -Correspondents sent to their papers, while Dagneau, up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span> -at the Ministry of the Interior, garnered facts and official -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">communiqués</i>.</p> - -<p>Work was his salvation and his solace. Everything -of the past was wiped away from his mind when -Humphrey worked. The personal things affecting his -own private life became trivial beside the urgent importance -of keeping <cite>The Day</cite> well-informed. And thus -habit had fortified his power of resistance to external -matters that might have disturbed a mind less trained -to make itself subservient to the larger issue of duty. -In a week—a brief week—he had gone through -every phase of sorrow, anger, self-pity at his rejection. -He thought of writing—indeed, he went so far one night -as to compose a letter imploring Elizabeth for forgiveness, -promising everything she wished ... but, when it was -written, he tore it into little pieces. A mood of futile -oaths followed. He felt that he had been balked of -her by trickery. It led to violent hatred of her cold -austerity, her icy splendour. He put away the thought -of her from him. After all, what did it matter? They -would never have been happy together. Always she -was above him, distant and unattainable ... yet those -fine moments, when she had stooped down and lifted -him up, when gold and brilliance took the place of the -dross in his mind! How she filled him with dreams -of overwhelming possibilities, of ennobling achievements.... -Below the crust of the selfishness and -vanity of his life, there was a rich vein of good and -strong desire ready to be worked, if she had only known. -There were moments when his whole soul ached with -an intense longing to be exalted and free from the -impoverished squalor of its surroundings. He knew it, -and the thought of it made him unjust to Elizabeth. -She had not known of those constant conflicts which -endured over years that seemed everlasting,—a guerrilla -warfare with conscience.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></p> - -<p>They had not mattered. She had given his soul -back to him, to do as he liked with it; she had forsaken -him before he was strong enough to stand alone....</p> - -<p>The telephone bell rang. He adjusted the metal -band over his head. "Londres," said the voice of the -operator. His ears heard nothing but the voice of <cite>The -Day</cite> calling to him; his eyes saw nothing but the sheets -of writing at his side, and everything else faded from -his mind but the news of the night....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He put the receiver down, and almost immediately -the telephone bell rang, and he heard a voice telling him -that it was Charnac.... "Where have you been?" -asked Charnac. "One has missed you." Humphrey -explained his absence.</p> - -<p>"Can you come to supper to-night," Charnac called. -"Your little Desirée will be there." His voice came out -of the depths of space, calling Humphrey to the gaiety -of life. "Your little Desirée...." It brought to him, -vividly, her thin, supple figure; those strange blue eyes -that looked widely from beneath the pale eyebrows; -and the lips of cherry-red. The song that she had sung -that night had been lilting ever since in his mind:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">"... Je perds la tête</div> -<div class="verse">'Suis comme une bête."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>He saw her in all her alluring languor, secret, and -mysterious. And it was the eternal mystery in her -that attracted him. For a few moments he hesitated, -indeterminately, at the telephone. "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Eh bien, mon -vieux</i>," called Charnac's voice. "Will you come? -11.30 at the Chariot d'Or."</p> - -<p>"I'll come," said Humphrey.</p> - -<p>It was ten-thirty. Ripples of unrest stirred his -mind; he felt deeply agitated. He knew that he was -on the brink of a new and complex development in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span> -his life; and the future stretched before him, vague and -impenetrable, full of a promise of mournful and fierce -delights, of happiness inconceivable, and sorrow inexperienced. -No scruples retarded him now, and the -voice of conscience was stilled, but despite all this, an -indefinable mist of melancholy clouded his soul.</p> - -<p>Dagneau came briskly into the office. Humphrey -ceased brooding, and swung round in his chair.</p> - -<p>"Lamb," he said, "I'm going out to supper to-night."</p> - -<p>"Oh! la! la!" Dagneau laughed. "Who's the lucky -lady?"</p> - -<p>"Not for the likes of little lambs that have to stay -in the office and keep the fort."</p> - -<p>Dagneau made a grimace. "I suppose it isn't safe -for both of us to leave," he said.</p> - -<p>"No fear," Humphrey replied. "There's no knowing -what these fellows mayn't be up to in the South. Anyhow, -if anything urgent happens, come along to me. I -shall be in the Chariot d'Or until one o'clock."</p> - -<p>Dagneau was a good fellow, thought Humphrey, as -his cab climbed the hill to Montmartre. It was jolly -decent of him not to mind. He forgot the office now, -and thought only of the night's adventuring. There -was fully a half-hour to spare, so he idled it away on -the terrace of a café sipping at a liqueur. Every variety -of street hawker came to persuade sous from him: they -had plaster figures for sale, or wanted to cut his -silhouette in black paper, or draw a portrait of him in -pastels, or sell him ballads and questionable books, -bound in pink, pictorial covers. The toy of the moment, -frankly indecent, yet offered with a childlike innocence -that made it impossible for one to be disgusted with -the vendors, was thrust before him fifty times. They -showed him how it worked, and when he refused, they -brought from inner pockets picture-postcards which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> -they tried to show him covertly, until he drove them -away with the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">argot</i> he had learned from Dagneau.</p> - -<p>At the time appointed a cab climbed the steep Rue -Pigalle, and drew up before the Chariot d'Or. Charnac -sat in the middle comfortably squeezed in between -Margot and Desirée. They waved a cheery greeting -as they saw Humphrey, and he helped them down. -Without any question he linked his arm in Desirée's, -and led her up the brilliant scarlet staircase to the -supper-room. Her meek acceptance of him, and the -touch of her, gave him a strong sense of possession. -This woman acknowledged his right of mastery over -her, without a word being spoken, without any pleading, -or the bitter pain of uncertainty. From that moment -he felt she was his completely and unquestionably. -There was no need to woo her and win her; she was to -be taken, and she would yield herself up, as women -were taken and women yielded themselves up in the -earliest days of the earth.</p> - -<p>They went to their table. He had no eyes for anyone -but Desirée. She threw off her wrap, with a -gesture of her shoulders, and as it tumbled from them, -they shone white and shapely, and a rose was crushed -to her bosom, making a splash of scarlet on her white -bodice. She laughed and looked at him frankly, as if -there were to be no secrets between them, and once, -while the supper was being ordered, her thin hand -rested in his, and he was stirred to wild, delicious -emotion. Yes, she was all as he had imagined her; -she had not changed at all, and her yellow hair and -pale eyebrows and thin face culminating in her pointed -chin, reminded him of an Aubrey Beardsley picture—those -slanting eyes, and red lips eternally shaped for a -kiss, and the slender throat that rippled below the white -surface of its skin when she spoke, the thin bare arms, -and her hands, balanced on delicate wrists—those hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> -with their long dainty fingers and exquisite finger-tips. -The sight of her inflamed him.</p> - -<p>Their conversation was commonplace. Why, she -wanted to know, did he run away the last time they -met. He lied to her, and pleaded a headache.</p> - -<p>"And you won't run off this time?" she asked, with -a childish note of appeal in her voice.</p> - -<p>He sought her hand and held it in his own. She -drew it away with a little grimace. "You're hurting -me," she said.</p> - -<p>Occasionally Margot cut into their conversation. -She lacked the beauty of her sister, her figure was -stouter, and her face was not well made-up. She -treated Charnac with good-natured tolerance.</p> - -<p>During the supper—again the famous mussels—Desirée -asked Humphrey many questions about himself—they -were not questions which penetrated deeply into -his private life, indeed, she showed no desire to pry into -his surroundings. She wanted to know his tastes, and -his likes and dislikes, and when, sometimes, he said anything -that showed that they had something in common, -she laughed delightedly at the discovery.</p> - -<p>Her eyes held a wonderful knowledge in them, but -the boldness of their gaze did not suggest immodesty -to him. Her eyes seemed to say: "There are certain -things in life we never talk about. But I understand -them all, and I know that you know I understand." It -made him feel that there was nothing artificial about -their friendship; in one bound they had attained perfect -understanding, and it was miraculous to him.</p> - -<p>It was miraculous to him to sit there, with the music -surging in his veins, and to look upon this delicately-wrought -creature, beautiful, perfect in body, knowing that -when he wished he could take her in his arms, and she -would give herself to him without any hesitation. She -was utterly strange to him, and yet, by this miracle, their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> -lives were already commingled in swift intimacy. He -thought of the other two women who had influenced his -life: though he had kissed them, and spent long hours -with them, they seemed now irrevocably distant from -him, and never had he penetrated to the stratum of full -comprehension that lay below the surface of misunderstandings....</p> - -<p>He looked back on the years that were past, and he -could only see himself struggling and pleading and -breaking his heart to win that which was won now -without any contest at all. Was it love or passion that -he wanted from them. Ah! if we would only be frank -with ourselves, and admit that there is no love without -passion, there is no passion without love: that by -separating passion from love, it has become a degraded -and hidden thing.</p> - -<p>And Humphrey wanted love: the desire for love, -love inseparable from passion, had made a turbulent -underflow beneath the stream of his life. Twice he had -tried to grasp love, twice it had eluded him. He had -been despoiled by circumstance ... cheated by his own -conscience.</p> - -<p>It was miraculous to him now, that he should be -able to wrest his prize from life with so little struggle -after all. He looked at Desirée, and her eyes -smiled—how incredibly near they seemed to one -another, how the unattainable drew close to him and -smiled....</p> - -<p>He became aware of his name spoken aloud, and he -looked up and saw a waiter looking round the room, -with Dagneau at his side. Dagneau's face was strained -and anxious. He seemed out of breath. Suddenly he -caught sight of Humphrey, and hurried towards him. -He raised his hat to the group. "Pardon, mad'm'selle," -he said to Desirée, as he put a telegram before -Humphrey.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span></p> - -<p>The blue slips pasted on the paper danced before -his eyes.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Qu'est que c'est?</i>" Margot asked, fussily.</p> - -<p>"Ferrol wants you to go to Narbonne," Dagneau -said. "There's been shooting there.... I looked up -the trains. You can catch the one o'clock from the -Gare d'Orsay if you hurry."</p> - -<p>Humphrey stared stupidly at the telegram, and -Desirée touched him with her hand.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">C'est quelque chose de grave?</i>" she asked.</p> - -<p>He shrugged his shoulders. "Narbonne," he said to -Charnac, laconically.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Oh! nom d'un nom</i>—to-night?" asked Charnac. -"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">C'est embêtant, ça.</i>"</p> - -<p>And, suddenly, Humphrey grew peaceful again, and -all the turbulence of his thoughts calmed down and -flowed towards the one desire that he had made paramount -in his life—the desire of the journalist for news, -the longing of the historian for history.</p> - -<p>Fleet Street called to him from those blue strips -with their printed message. "Go Narbonne immediately -cover riots," and the signature that symbolized -Fleet Street—"Ferrol"—held in it all the power that -had made him a puppet of Fate.</p> - -<p>But Narbonne.... From all parts of Europe -the Special Correspondents would be converging on the -town. There would be great doings to describe, new -interests to make him forget rapidly.</p> - -<p>Dagneau helped him on with his coat. "Send on -my bag," he said, glancing at his watch. "I'm awfully -sorry," he added to Charnac. "You'll understand. Explain -to them, won't you? Dagneau, stop and finish -my supper."</p> - -<p>He forgot everything else ... what else mattered?</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Dis donc</i>," Desirée said, "are you going again?" -How surprisingly unimportant she seemed at this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> -moment. Her expression was half-suppliant, half-petulant. -"If you go," she said distinctly, "I will never -speak to you again—never."</p> - -<p>As if she could hold him back when others had -failed! But he was moved to show her tenderness. -A momentary pang of regret shot across him because -he had to leave her. "Don't be cross," he whispered. -"I shall be back in three days."</p> - -<p>She turned her head away impetuously. And he -realized that there never had been, nor ever could be, -anything in common between them.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Once, when he was dozing in the train speeding -southwards to Bordeaux, he woke up and laughed as he -remembered the ludicrous amazement on the face of -Desirée as he left her suddenly and gladly to take up -his work.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3><a name="IV.VIII" id="IV.VIII"></a>VIII</h3> - -</div> - -<p>The matters that occupied his mind belonged only to -his work. In the early morning at Bordeaux, when he -had to change, he bought a budget of morning papers, -and read them in the refreshment-room over his roll and -coffee. The news was alarming enough: people were -fleeing from Narbonne and the neighbouring towns. -Seven had been shot in a riot on the previous night; -the soldiery was in charge of the town, and martial law -had been proclaimed.</p> - -<p>The French journalists excelled themselves in -superlatives ... their stories were vain accounts of -personal emotions and experiences, for it is the fashion -with them to thrust their personality in front of the -news.</p> - -<p>Thereafter, on the journey to Narbonne, Humphrey -wondered how he was going to get his telegrams out of -the town, if it were besieged. He bought a map of the -district and studied it: it might be necessary to send a -courier to Perpignan, or back to Bordeaux, or, if things -were very bad indeed, there were carrier pigeons; the -Spanish frontier at Port Bou was not very far away -also ... perhaps, he could find some one to whom to -telephone. It was his business to get any news out of -Narbonne, and there would be no excuse for failure.</p> - -<p>The people in his carriage were talking of the -shooting.</p> - -<p>"I shouldn't like to be going there," one said.</p> - -<p>"It will be worse to-night," another remarked. -"Those Southerners lose their heads so quickly."</p> - -<p>It seemed odd to Humphrey that while they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span> -talking of it in this detached way, he alone, probably, -out of the whole train-load, was about to plunge into -the actualities of revolution of his own free will. For -the next few days he would be living with the grievances -of the wine-growers, learning things that were unknown -to him now. He would have to record and describe all -that happened. His was the power to create sympathy -in English households for the wrongs of these people -starving in the midst of their fertile vineyards.</p> - -<p>The brakes jarred the carriages of the train. Heads -were put out of the window. On the up-line a goods -train carrying flour had met with an accident. The -engine lay grotesquely on one side, powdered with -white flour, and the vans looked as if they had been out -in a snow-storm. The melancholy sight of the shattered -train slid past, as their own train jolted slowly on its -journey.</p> - -<p>"What is it—have they wrecked the train?" some -one asked.</p> - -<p>"No," another said, pointing to a paragraph in the -paper, "it was an accident. The engine ran off the -metals last night. It's in the <cite>Depêche de Toulouse</cite>."</p> - -<p>They all chattered among themselves. It was a -trivial affair, then—one had thought for a moment that -those sacred Narbonnais...!</p> - -<p>But there was something sinister in that wrecked -train with its broken vans and its engine covered in a -cloud of white. It seemed to presage disaster, as it lay -there outside the door of the town.</p> - -<p>The train stopped. "Narbonne" cried the porters. -Humphrey descended as though it was the commonest -thing in his life to enter garrisoned cities. The platform -was full of soldiers, some standing with fixed bayonets, -others sleeping on straw beside their stacked arms. -Officers strolled up and down to the clank of their -swords; outside, through the door of the station, itself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span> -guarded by an infantryman in a blue coat, with its -skirts tucked back, he caught a glimpse of horses tethered -to the railings.</p> - -<p>Nobody stopped him but the ticket-collector: in the -midst of all this outward display of militarism, the -business of the station went on as usual. Trains -steamed in and departed; expresses pounded through -on their way to Paris; porters were busy with parcels. -The hotel buses were drawn up outside, just as if nothing -in the world had happened to disturb the life of the -town. He chose the Hotel Dorade omnibus, and -away they went.</p> - -<p>The streets were lined with soldiers bivouacking on -the pavements. The avenue from the station was a -long line of stacked rifles, and soldiers in blue and red -lounging against the walls, smoking cigarettes, or lying -on the pavement, where beds of hay had been made. -Many of the shops were shuttered. He looked up, and -the flat roofs of the houses were like barracks, with the -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">képis</i> of soldiers visible between the chimney-pots. The -bus passed an open square—cavalry held it, and another -street, broad and long, leading from it, was a camp of -white tents.</p> - -<p>Sentries guarded the bridges across the river, and -though the main Boulevard was free of soldiers, he saw -a hint of power in the courtyards of large houses. The -walls were placarded with green and yellow posters, -addressed to "Citoyens," urging them to resist the -Government. The soldiers read them idly.</p> - -<p>And, in the midst of all this, the people of Narbonne -sat outside the cafés in the sunshine, under the red and -white striped awnings, drinking their vermouth or -absinthe!</p> - -<p>Later, after he had taken his room at the Hotel -Dorade, he walked about the town through the ranks -of the soldiers. Groups of people stood here and there,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span> -with grim faces and stern-set lips; they looked revengefully -at officers and mounted police, and whenever a -regiment marched into the town to the music of its -drums and bugles, it was greeted with hoarse shouts of -derision, and mocking cries of "Assassins!"</p> - -<p>At the corner of a street of shops he came upon a -little mound of stones set round a dark stain on the -cobbled road; a wreath was laid there, and a night-light -still burned under a glass cover. A piece of white -cardboard, cut in the shape of a miniature tombstone, -rested against a brick. He read the ill-written inscription -on the card:—</p> - -<div class="center"> -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/ilus_2.jpg" width="57" height="99" alt="Cross" /> -</div> -<span class="smcap">René Duclos</span><br /> -âgé de 29 ans<br /> -assasiné par le gouvernement.<br /> -</div> - -<p>There were seven other little memorial mounds in -the neighbourhood. Each one of them marked where a -victim had fallen to the soldiers' ball cartridge. One of -the cardboard tombstones bore a woman's name. Her -death was one of the inexplicable accidents of life: she -was to have been married on the morrow. On her way -she had been carried along in the crowd which was -marching towards the Town Hall ... and in a minute -she was dead.</p> - -<p>These signs of tragedy made a deep impression on -Humphrey's journalistic sense. He saw that the -soldiers had not dared to move the mounds that -reminded the people of the dreadful happenings in -their midst. And they were surrounded by little silent -crowds, who spelt out the inscriptions, sighed, and -departed with mutterings.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span></p> - -<p>A man with bloodshot eyes, and unkempt hair, his -chin thick with bristles, lurched across the road, and -stood by Humphrey, regarding him with a curious, -persistent gaze. Humphrey moved away, and the man -edged after him. He made for the main Boulevards -where the crowded cafés gave him a sense of safety. -He turned round, and saw that he was still being -shadowed.</p> - -<p>A voice hailed him from a café: he turned and saw -O'Malley, the Irishman of <cite>The Sentinel</cite>.</p> - -<p>"Hallo," said O'Malley, "been here long?"</p> - -<p>"Just arrived," Humphrey said. He was glad to see -a friend. That unkempt man who had followed him made -him feel uncomfortably insecure.</p> - -<p>"Where are you stopping?" O'Malley asked.</p> - -<p>"At the Dorade."</p> - -<p>"I'm there too: there's a whole gang of French and -English fellows here. Been having no end of adventures. -My carriage was held up outside Argelliers yesterday, -and they wanted to see my papers. As bad as the -flight to Varennes, isn't it?" He laughed, and they sat -down to drink.</p> - -<p>The unkempt man took up his position against the -parapet of the bridge opposite.</p> - -<p>Humphrey noticed that O'Malley wore a white band -round his arm with a blue number on it, and his name, -coupled with <cite>The Sentinel</cite>, written in ink that had -frayed itself into the fabric.</p> - -<p>"You'll have to get one of these," O'Malley explained. -"It isn't safe to be a stranger here. They're issued by -the People's Committee to journalists who show their -credentials. A lot of detectives have been down here, you -see, posing as journalists, and asking questions in the -villages, getting all sorts of information; that's how -they managed to arrest the ringleaders in the -villages."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It was a pretty mean trick," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"Mean—I should think it was. They nearly lynched -Harridge, the photographer, yesterday, and they chased -another so-called journalist to the river, and he had to -swim for his life, while the mob fired pot-shots at him -from the bridges. So now they've placarded the town -to explain that every real journalist has a white armband -with a number on it."</p> - -<p>Humphrey looked at the shaggy man opposite. -"Good Lord!" he said, "that's why that fellow's been -shadowing me...."</p> - -<p>"Yes. He's one of the Committee's spies."</p> - -<p>"I'd better get that armband quick."</p> - -<p>"No hurry. You're all serene in my company. -We'll finish our drink and stroll up together."</p> - -<p>On the way O'Malley told him some of the latest -developments. The chief ringleader, the man whom the -wine-growers hailed as the Redeemer, was still at large, -and nobody knew where he was. Picture-postcards of -the bearded man with a halo round his head and a -bunch of grapes dangling from a cross that he held in -his right hand, were selling in thousands at two sous -each.</p> - -<p>"To-morrow there are the funerals," remarked -O'Malley. "Seven funerals at once. It ought to make -a good story."</p> - -<p>They came to a dingy house, where there were no -soldiers. Humphrey followed O'Malley up a narrow, -twisting staircase to a little room. The walls were -plastered with the posters he had seen on the street -hoardings. Five men sat in the room, smoking cigarettes. -The air was full of the stale reek of cheap tobacco. -They sat in their shirt-sleeves with piles of papers -before them.</p> - -<p>One of them, a gross man with a black moustache -straggling over his heavy under lip, spread out his fat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span> -hands in inquiry. Another, thin, undersized and dirty, -with a rat-like face, peered at them with blinking red-rimmed -eyes.</p> - -<p>"What do you want?" he asked, gruffly.</p> - -<p>O'Malley, in his best Irish-French, explained his -business and presented Humphrey. The hollow farce -of polite phrases, which mean nothing in France, was -played out. They wanted to see his <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">carte d'identité</i> -and all the credentials he had. Humphrey unloaded -his pocket-book on them. Finally, they made him sign -a book, and they gave him a white armlet; he pinned -it round his arm, and walked forth a free man. The -unkempt man stood on the opposite side of the street still -watching him.</p> - -<p>And now, as he walked along the streets of Narbonne, -with the white armlet of the revolutionaries giving him -protection, he smiled to see the soldiers guarding the -streets.</p> - -<p>"Look here," he said to O'Malley, "who's going to -give me anything to prevent the soldiers bayoneting -me?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—I've thought of that too," O'Malley answered. -"Funny, isn't it, that we've got to fly for a safeguard to -the People's Committee? By the way, don't you get -talking to strangers more than you can help. They're -down on spies. I'm going to get my copy off now. See -you at the post-office."</p> - -<p>Humphrey went back to the Dorade, and wrote his -message, a descriptive account of all that he had seen, in -abbreviated telegraphese. Other correspondents were -there, war correspondents used to open campaigns, prepared -for all emergencies; others had come from the -Fleet Streets of Spain and Belgium and Germany. There -was an American, too, who had travelled from Paris: as -he had not yet obtained his armband, he remained in the -hotel, writing very alarming telegrams.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Englishmen dined together—a jolly party—at a -large round table, and, afterwards, they all went out to -look at the town at night under arms. Once, during -their walk, the sound of firing came to them, and they -ran helter-skelter up the Boulevard right into the arms of -a young lieutenant, who laughed and told them that -nothing serious had happened. He invited them all to a -drink in a café, and just to satisfy them, Humphrey went -reconnoitring and found that all was peaceful.</p> - -<p>He had no time to think of anything but his work. -At midnight he went to bed and slept deeply.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>On the second day the "Redeemer," whom every one -had imagined to be captured, suddenly appeared in -Narbonne, and was whisked away in a motor-car to -Argelliers, his native town. Bouvier, of the <cite>Petit -Journal</cite>, saw him, dashed into a motor-garage, and hired -a car in an instant.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Viens</i>," he shouted, as Humphrey strolled down the -Street. "The 'Redeemer' has come back. You can -share my car." Humphrey, knowing nothing except -that Bouvier was very excited, and that, by a chance, -some big news had come under his notice, jumped -into the car, and away they whirled into the open -country.</p> - -<p>The Southern landscape was vivid in the hot sunshine -of the late autumn; they left clouds of dust behind -them as the car raced along to overtake the car of the -"Redeemer." They passed the spacious vineyards, -where the grapes grew like stunted hop-fields, twining -round their little sticks; they sped through avenues of -poplars, and almond trees and ilex; through villages -where old women cheered and pointed down the long -road.</p> - -<p>"We're catching him up," Bouvier grunted. "They -must have heard the news of his coming somehow."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span></p> - -<p>A bend in the road, and a bridge with the blue river -running beneath its arches; farmhouses and boys driving -cattle home; children swinging on a gate, and old men -plodding towards the sunset, on sticks that could never -straighten their bent backs: the country came at them -and receded from them in a succession of pictures framed -in the hood of their car. Vineyards, and again vineyards, -with the ungathered grapes withering in the sun, and -people crying to them, "He's come back: the brave -fellow."</p> - -<p>As the road led nearer to Argelliers they overtook -yellow coaches, full of people, and country carts swinging -along. The drivers pointed their whips ahead, and -shouted something, but the words were lost in the rush -of the wind as the car rushed by them.</p> - -<p>"The whole countryside seems to know that he's -escaped. There'll be thousands in the Market Place," -Bouvier said.</p> - -<p>"It'll be a fine story," Humphrey agreed. "Those -other fellows must have missed it." He was drunk -with the excitement and the happiness of hunting a -quarry.</p> - -<p>They came to the Market Place of Argelliers, and the -sight amazed him.</p> - -<p>Left and right the people crushed together—a rectangular -pattern of humanity. People of all ages had been -drawn there by the magnetism of this man who had stirred -up the South to revolt. The caps and dresses of the women -and girls gave touches of colour to the sombre crowd of -men, and, as he stood up in the motor-car for a better -view, he saw row upon row of pink, upturned faces, -parted, eager lips, and eyes that strained against the -sunshine to see the black-clad figure of a man standing -on the low roof of the People's Committee. Boys had -climbed the trees round the Market Place—their gaping -faces shone from the dark branches; and on the outskirts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> -of the vast crowd men and women stood up in carts and -waggonettes—horses had been harnessed to anything -that ran on wheels.</p> - -<p>There was not a soldier in sight. The sun shone -fiercely on the Market Place of Argelliers, where two -thousand people were thinking of their wrongs. And -the man on the roof talked to them. His voice, strong -and sonorous, came to them urging them to be of good -cheer. They flung back at him cries of encouragement, -and called him by name.</p> - -<p>"I'm going into the crowd," Humphrey said.</p> - -<p>"Better stop here," urged Bouvier. "They're an -excitable lot."</p> - -<p>"I must hear what he's saying."</p> - -<p>Humphrey climbed out of the car, and pushed his -way into the middle of the crowd. There was a loud -shouting over some remark that the speaker had made. -He found himself wedged in tightly between heavy, -broad-shouldered men, with black eyes and swarthy -faces. He heard the man on the roof speak about -those who had been attacking him, and a voice close to -Humphrey yelled, "<cite>La Depêche de Toulouse</cite>," and -immediately another voice cried out, "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Conspuez la -Depêche de Toulouse</i>." He turned at the voice and -saw, with a sudden shock, the shaggy-haired man with -the bloodshot eyes who had dogged his footsteps that -first day in Narbonne. Their glances met. Humphrey -thrust back into his pocket the pencil with which he -had been making furtive notes.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Conspuez les autres!</i>" cried the man with the -bloodshot eyes, "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">conspuez les mouchards</i>."</p> - -<p>He was conscious of a new note in the crowd: he -saw anger and hatred passing swiftly over all the faces -around him. They turned on him with relentless eyes. -He saw the shaggy-haired man shouldering his way, -and scrambling towards him with crooked fingers that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> -clawed at the air. In one quick second he realized that -he was in danger.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Conspuez les autres.</i>" The cry rose all about him -swelling to a roar of confusion.</p> - -<p>"<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">En voilà un!</i>" shouted the shaggy man, pointing to -Humphrey's white armband. They surged against him, -and he was swept from his feet. He heard the shriek -of women, and the babble and a murmur that ran like -an undercurrent through the storm of noisy voices. The -black figure on the roof was wringing his hands, and -trying to calm the mob.</p> - -<p>Humphrey turned to escape. "What a fool I was -to come into the thick of it," he thought. Once, in the -struggle, he saw Bouvier standing with a white face in -the motor-car, probably wondering what the row was -about.</p> - -<p>And then, they came at him suddenly and -determinedly. Remorseless and menacing faces were -thrust close to him. He struck out and a thrill went -up his arm as his fist met a hard cheek-bone.</p> - -<p>Something fell on his arm with a heavy, aching blow -that left it numb and limp, and at the same moment an -excruciating spasm of self-pity swept upward from his -soul, as he saw, as in a red mist, uplifted, clenched -hands struggling to meet him. This was real life at -last. He had ceased to be an onlooker; the game was -terrible and earnest, and he was, for the first time, the -principal figure in the play. His agony did not last -long.</p> - -<p>The hot breath of the men was on him, and the evil, -bloodshot eyes of the shaggy-haired man who had -denounced him, loomed terribly large, like great red-veined -moons.</p> - -<p>And, in that last moment, before all consciousness -went from him for ever, as he swayed and fell before the -trampling mob, in that supreme moment when deliverance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> -came from all the tribulations that life held for -him, an odd, whimsical idea twisted his lips into a smile -as he thought:</p> - -<p>"What a ripping story this will make for <cite>The -Day</cite>."</p> - - -<div class="center">THE END<br /> -<br /> -COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH</div> - -<hr style="width: 65%;" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="tnote">Transcriber's Notes: - -<p>Hyphenation has been retained as in the original publication.</p> - -Page 25, in the phrase "every day" a space was kept -(every day, it seemed).<br /> - -Page 31, comma erased (among which, "Twencent").<br /> - -Page 41, double quotes added ("We had an awful row.).<br /> - -Page 56, hyphen retained (a bed-sitting room).<br /> - -Page 77, apostrophe added (reporters' room).<br /> - -Page 112, She changed to she (Yes, she had remembered him,).<br /> - -Page 121, period added (he began.).<br /> - -Page 190, double quotes added (I know.").<br /> - -Page 192, period erased (to wait...").<br /> - -Page 195, apostrophe replaced by period (she was now.).<br /> - -Page 212, double quotes added (I wrote about....").<br /> - -Page 212, double quotes added (Thanks for the bob....").<br /> - -Page 245, period added (of the office.).<br /> - -Page 254, sedn changed to send in (I'll send you).<br /> - -Page 256, single quote added (forgotten by to-morrow.').<br /> - -Page 256, single quote added (go I.'").<br /> - -Page 307, question mark changed to period (Not as big as London.).<br /> - -Page 310, phaseology changed to phraseology in (intimate phraseology.).<br /> - -Page 340, period added (anything in common between them.).<br /> - -<p>Both "latchkey" and "latch-key" were used in this text. This text also uses "countryside" -and "country-side", "earrings" and "ear-rings", "lawsuits" and "law-suits", "notebook" -and "note-book", "schoolmasters" and "school-masters", "tablecloths" and "table-cloths". This was retained.</p> - -</div> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Mightier than the Sword, by Alphonse Courlander - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD *** - -***** This file should be named 55535-h.htm or 55535-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/5/3/55535/ - -Produced by Clarity, Lucia Rockaiova and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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