The sun was streaming into my window when I woke in the morning. I sat up and listened. The roar of the streets told me plainly that the day had begun without me. I reached out my hand for my watch; it was not in its usual place upon the rickety dressing-table. I raised myself still higher and looked about me. My clothes lay on the floor. One boot, in state, occupied the chair by the fireplace; the other I could not see anywhere.
During the night my head appeared to have grown . I wondered idly for the moment whether I had not made a mistake and put on Minikin's; if so, I should be glad to exchange back for my own. This thing I had got was a top-heavy affair, and was aching most confoundedly.
Suddenly the recollection of the previous night rushed at me and shook me awake. From a neighbouring steeple rang chimes: I counted with care. Eleven o'clock. I sprang out of bed, and at once sat down upon the floor.
I remembered how, holding on to the bed, I had felt the room waltzing wildly round and round. It had not quite steadied itself even yet. It was still rotating, not whirling now, but staggering feebly, as though worn out by its all-night orgie. Creeping to the wash-stand, I succeeded, after one or two false , in getting my head inside the basin. Then, drawing on my trousers with difficulty and reaching the easy-chair, I sat down and reviewed matters so far as I was able, commencing from the present and working back towards the past.
I was feeling very ill. That was quite clear. Something had disagreed with me.
“That strong cigar,” I whispered feebly to myself; “I ought never to have ventured upon it. And then the little room with all those people in it. Besides, I have been working very hard. I must really take more exercise.”
It gave me some satisfaction to observe that, and cowardly though I might be, I was not a person easily .
“Nonsense,” I told myself ; “don't try to deceive me. You were drunk.”
“Not drunk,” I pleaded; “don't say drunk; it is such a coarse expression. Some people cannot stand sweet , so I have heard. It my liver. Do please make it a question of liver.”
“Drunk,” I persisted unrelentingly, “hopelessly, vulgarly drunk—drunk as any 'Arry after a Bank Holiday.”
“It is the first time,” I murmured.
“It was your first opportunity,” I replied.
“Never again,” I promised.
“The stock phrase,” I returned.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“So you have not even the excuse of youth. How do you know that it will not grow upon you; that, having thus commenced a downward career, you will not sink lower and lower, and so end by becoming a confirmed sot?”
My heavy head dropped into my hands, and I . Many a temperance tale on Sunday afternoons came back to me. Imaginative in all directions, I watched myself hastening toward a drunkard's grave, now heroically struggling against temptation, now weakly yielding, the growing upon me. In the air about me I saw my father's white face, my mother's sad eyes. I thought of Barbara, of the scorn that could quiver round that bewitching mouth; of Hal, with his tremendous contempt for all forms of weakness. Shame of the present and terror of the future between them racked my mind.
“It shall be never again!” I cried aloud. “By God, it shall!” (At nineteen one is apt to be .) “I will leave this house at once,” I continued to myself aloud; “I will get away from its unwholesome atmosphere. I will wipe it out of my mind, and all connected with it. I will make a fresh start. I will—”
Something I had been dimly conscious of at the back of my brain came forward and stood before me: the flabby figure of Miss Rosina Sellars. What was she doing here? What right had she to step between me and my regeneration?
“The right of your affianced bride,” my other half explained, with a grim smile to myself.
“Did I really go so far as that?”
“We will not go into details,” I replied; “I do not wish to dwell upon them. That was the result.”
“I was—I was not quite myself at the time. I did not know what I was doing.”
“As a rule, we don't when we do foolish things; but we have to by the consequences, all the same. Unfortunately, it happened to be in the presence of witnesses, and she is not the sort of lady to be easily got rid of. You will marry her and settle down with her in two small rooms. Her people will be your people. You will come to know them better before many days are passed. Among them she is regarded as 'the lady,' from which you can judge of them. A nice commencement of your career, is it not, my ambitious young friend? A nice mess you have made of it!”
“What am I to do?” I asked.
“Upon my word, I don't know,” I answered.
I passed a wretched day. Ashamed to face Mrs. Peedles or even the slavey, I kept to my room, with the door locked. At dusk, feeling a little better—or, rather, less bad, I stole out and indulged in a simple meal, consisting of tea without sugar and a kippered herring, at a neighbouring coffee-house. Another gentleman, taking his seat opposite to me and ordering hot buttered toast, I left hastily.
At eight o'clock in the evening Minikin called round from the office to know what had happened. Seeking help from shame, I confessed to him the truth.
“Thought as much,” he answered. “Seems to have been an A1 from the look of you.”
“I am glad it has happened, now it is over,” I said to him. “It will be a lesson I shall never forget.”
“I know,” said Minikin. “Nothing like a fair and square drunk for making you feel real good; better than a sermon.”
In my trouble I felt the need of advice; and Minikin, though my junior, was, I knew, far more experienced in worldly affairs than I was.
“That's not the worst,” I to him. “What do you think I've done?”
“Killed a policeman?” suggested Minikin.
“Got myself engaged.”
“No one like you quiet fellows for going it when you do begin,” commented Minikin. “Nice girl?”
“I don't know,” I answered. “I only know I don't want her. How can I get out of it?”
Minikin removed his left eye and commenced to polish it upon his handkerchief, a habit he had when in doubt. From looking into it he appeared to inspiration.
“Take-her-own-part sort of a girl?”
I intimated that he had diagnosed Miss Rosina Sellars correctly.
“Know how much you're earning?”
“She knows I live up here in this and do my own cooking,” I answered.
Minikin glanced round the room. “Must be fond of you.”
“She thinks I'm clever,” I explained, “and that I shall make my way.
“And she's willing to wait?”
I nodded.
“Well, I should let her wait,” replied Minikin, replacing his eye. “There's plenty of time before you.”
“But she's a barmaid, and she'll expect me to walk with her, to take her out on Sundays, to go and see her friends. I can't do it. Besides, she's right: I mean to get on. Then she'll stick to me. It's awful!”
“How did it happen?” asked Minikin.
“I don't know,” I replied. “I didn't know I had done it till it was over.”
“Anybody present?”
“Half-a-dozen of them,” I groaned.
The door opened, and Jarman entered; he never troubled to knock anywhere. In place of his usual noisy greeting, he crossed in silence and shook me gravely by the hand.
“Friend of yours?” he asked, indicating Minikin.
I introduced them to each other.
“Proud to meet you,” said Jarman.
“Glad to hear it,” said Minikin. “Don't look as if you'd got much else to be stuck up about.”
“Don't mind him,” I explained to Jarman. “He was born like it.”
“Wonderful gift” replied Jarman. “D'ye know what I should do if I 'ad it?” He did not wait for Minikin's reply. “'Ire myself out to break up evening parties. Ever thought of it seriously?”
Minikin replied that he would give the idea consideration.
“Make your fortune going round the suburbs,” assured him Jarman. “Pity you weren't 'ere last night,” he continued; “might 'ave saved our young friend 'ere a deal of trouble. Has 'e told you the news?”
I explained that I had already put Minikin in possession of all the facts.
“Now you've got a good, steady eye,” said Jarman, upon whom Minikin, according to his manner, had his glass ; “'ow d'ye think 'e is looking?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances, don't you think?” answered Minikin.
“Does 'e know the circumstances? Has 'e seen the girl?” asked Jarman.
I replied he had not as yet enjoyed that privilege. “Then 'e don't know the worst,” said Jarman. “A hundred and sixty pounds of 'er, and still growing! Bit of a load for 'im, ain't it?”
“Some of 'em do have luck,” was Minikin's rejoinder. Jarman leant forward and took further stock for a few seconds of his new acquaintance.
“That's a fine 'ead of yours,” he remarked; “all your own? No offence,” continued Jarman, without giving Minikin time for . “I was merely thinking there must be room for a lot of sense in it. Now, what do you, as a practical man, advise 'im: dose of poison, or Waterloo Bridge and a brick?”
“I suppose there's no doubt,” I interjected, “that we are actually engaged?”
“Not a blooming shadow,” assured me Jarman, cheerfully, “so far as she's concerned.”
“I shall tell her plainly,” I explained, “that I was drunk at the time.”
“And 'ow are you going to convince 'er of it?” asked Jarman. “You think your telling 'er you loved 'er proves it. So it would to anybody else, but not to 'er. You can't expect it. Besides, if every girl is going to give up 'er catch just because the fellow 'adn't all 'is wits about 'im at the time—well, what do you think?” He appealed to Minikin.
To Minikin it appeared that if such were allowed girls might as well shut up shop.
Jarman, who now that he had “got even” with Minikin, was more friendly disposed towards that young man, drew his chair closer to him and entered upon a private and argument, from which I appeared to be excluded.
“You see,” explained Jarman, “this ain't an ordinary case. This chap's going to be the future Poet Laureate. Now, when the Prince of Wales invites him to dine at Marlborough 'ouse, 'e don't want to go there on to a girl that carries aitches with her in a bag, and don't know which end of the spoon out of which to drink 'er soup.”
“It makes a difference, of course,” agreed Minikin.
“What we've got to do,” said Jarman, “is to get 'im out of it. And upon my sivvy, blessed if I see 'ow to do it!”
“She fancies him?” asked Minikin.
“What she fancies,” explained Jarman, “is that nature intended 'er to be a lady. And it's no good pointing out to 'er the mistake she's making, because she ain't got sense enough to see it.”
“No good talking straight to her,” suggested Minikin, “telling her that it can never be?”
“That's our difficulty,” replied Jarman; “it can be. This chap”—I listened as might a prisoner in the dock to the argument of counsel, interested but impotent—“don't know enough to come in out of the rain, as the saying is. 'E's just the sort of chap this sort of thing does 'appen to.”
“But he don't want her,” urged Minikin. “He says he don't want her.”
“Yes, to you and me,” answered Jarman; “and of course 'e don't. I'm not saying 'e's a natural born idiot. But let 'er come along and do a snivel—tell 'im that 'e's breaking 'er 'eart, and appeal to 'im to be'ave as a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, and what do you think will be the result?”
Minikin agreed that the problem presented difficulties.
“Of course, if 'twas you or me, we should just tell 'er to put 'erself away somewhere where the couldn't get at 'er and wait till we sent round for 'er; and there'd be an end of the matter. But with 'im it's different.”
“He is a bit of a soft,” agreed Minikin.
“'Tain't 'is fault,” explained Jarman; “'twas the way 'e was brought up. 'E fancies girls are the sort of things one sees in plays, going about saying 'Un'and me!' 'Let me pass!' Maybe some of 'em are, but this ain't one of 'em.”
“How did it happen?” asked Minikin.
“'Ow does it 'appen nine times out of ten?” returned Jarman. “'E was a bit misty, and she was wide awake. 'E gets a bit spoony, and—well, you know.”
“Artful things, girls,” commented Minikin.
“Can't blame 'em,” returned Jarman, with ; “it's their business. Got to dispose of themselves somehow. Oughtn't to be without a written order dated the next morning; that'd make it all right.”
“Couldn't prove a prior engagement?” suggested Minikin.
“She'd want to see the girl first before she'd believe it—only natural,” returned Jarman.
“Couldn't get a girl?” urged Minikin.
“Who could you trust?” asked the cautious Jarman. “Besides, there ain't time. She's letting 'im rest to-day; to-morrow evening she'll be down on 'im.”
“Don't see anything for it,” said Minikin, “but for him to do a .”
“Not a bad idea that,” Jarman; “only where's 'e to bunk to?”
“Needn't go far,” said Minikin.
“She'd find 'im out and follow 'im,” said Jarman. “She can look after herself, mind you. Don't you go doing 'er any .”
“He could change his name,” suggested Minikin.
“'Ow could 'e get a crib?” asked Jarman; “no character, no references.”
“I've got it,” cried Jarman, starting up; “the stage!”
“Can he act?” asked Minikin.
“Can do anything,” retorted my supporter, “that don't want too much sense. That's 'is , the stage. No questions asked, no character wanted. Lord! why didn't I think of it before?”
“Wants a bit of getting on to, doesn't it?” suggested Minikin.
“Depends upon where you want to get,” replied Jarman. For the first time since the commencement of the discussion he turned to me. “Can you sing?” he asked me.
I replied that I could a little, though I had never done so in public.
“Sing something now,” demanded Jarman; “let's 'ear you. Wait a minute!” he cried.
He slipped out of the room. I heard him pause upon the landing below and knock at the door of the fair Rosina's room. The next minute he returned.
“It's all right,” he explained; “she's not in yet. Now, sing for all you're worth. Remember, it's for life and freedom.”
I sang “Sally in Our Alley,” not with much spirit, I am inclined to think. With every mention of the lady's name there rose before me the abundant form and features of my fiancee, which checked the feeling that should have trembled through my voice. But Jarman, though not enthusiastic, was content.
“It isn't what I call a grand opera voice,” he commented, “but it ought to do all right for a chorus where economy is the chief point to be considered. Now, I'll tell you what to do. You go to-morrow straight to the O'Kelly, and put the whole thing before 'im. 'E's a good sort; 'e'll touch you up a bit, and maybe give you a few introductions. Lucky for you, this is just the right time. There's one or two things comin' on, and if Fate ain't dead against you, you'll lose your amorita, or whatever it's called, and not find 'er again till it's too late.”
I was not in the mood that evening to feel hopeful about anything; but I thanked both of them for their kind intentions and promised to think the suggestion over on the morrow, when, as it was generally agreed, I should be in a more fitting state to bring cool to bear upon the subject; and they rose to take their departure.
Leaving Minikin to alone, Jarman returned the next minute. “Consols are down a bit this week,” he whispered, with the door in his hand. “If you want a little of the ready to carry you through, don't go sellin' out. I can manage a few pounds. Suck a couple of lemons and you'll be all right in the morning. So long.”
I followed his advice regarding the lemons, and finding it correct, went to the office next morning as usual. Lott & Co., in consideration of my agreeing to a of two shillings on the week's salary, allowed himself to overlook the matter. I had intended on Jarman's advice, to call upon the O'Kelly at his address of respectability in Hampstead that evening, and had posted him a note saying I was coming. Before leaving the office, however, I received a reply to the effect that he would be out that evening, and asking me to make it the following Friday instead. Disappointed, I returned to my in a state of mind. Jarman 's scheme, which had appeared hopeful and even attractive during the daytime, now shadowy and impossible before me. The emptiness of the first floor parlour as I passed its open door struck a chill upon me, reminding me of the of a friend to whom, in spite of moral , I had during these last few months become attached. Unable to work, the old pain of loneliness returned upon me. I sat for awhile in the darkness, listening to the scratching of the pen of my neighbour, the old law-writer, and the sense of despair that its sound always communicated to me me about this evening with heavier weight than usual.
After all, was not the sympathy of the Lady 'Ortensia, for personal purposes though it might be, better than nothing? At least, here was some living creature to whom I belonged, to whom my existence or nonexistence was of interest, who, if only for her own sake, was bound to share my hopes, my fears.
It was in this mood that I heard a slight tap at the door. In the dim passage stood the small slavey, holding out a note. I took it, and returning, lighted my candle. The envelope was pink and . It was addressed, in handwriting not so bad as I had expected, to “Paul Kelver, Esquire.” I opened it and read:
“Dr mr. Paul—I as how you was took hill hafter the party. I feer you are not strong. You must not work so hard or you will be hill and then I shall be very cros with you. I you are well now. If so I am going for a wark and you may come with me if you are good. With much love. From your affechonat ROSIE.”
In spite of the spelling, a curious, sensation stole over me as I read this my first love-letter. A faint mist swam before my eyes. Through it, and , I saw the face of my , pasty yet , her large white fleshy arms stretched out toward me. Moved by a sudden hot haste that seized me, I dressed myself with trembling hands; I appeared to be anxious to act without giving myself time for thought. Complete, with a colour in my cheeks unusual to them, and a burning in my eyes, I and knocked with a nervous hand at the door of the second floor back.
“Who's that?” came in answer Miss Sellars' sharp tones.
“It is I—Paul.”
“Oh, wait a minute, dear.” The tone was sweeter. There followed the sound of footsteps, a of clothes, a banging of drawers, a few moments' dead silence, and then:
“You can come in now, dear.”
I entered. It was a small, untidy room, smelling of smoky lamp; but all I saw distinctly at the moment was Miss Sellars with her arms above her head, pinning her hat upon her straw-coloured hair.
With the sight of her before me in the flesh, my feelings underwent a sudden revulsion. During the few minutes she had kept me waiting outside the door I had suffered from an almost uncontrollable desire to turn the handle and rush in. Now, had I acted on impulse, I should have run out. Not that she was an unpleasant-looking girl by any means; it was the atmosphere of coarseness, of commonness, around her that me. The fastidiousness—finikinness; if you will—that would so often spoil my rare chop, put before me by a waitress with dirty finger-nails, forced me to disregard the ample charms she no doubt did possess, to fasten my eyes exclusively upon her red, rough hands and the one or two that grew thereon.
“You're a very naughty boy,” told me Miss Sellars, finishing the fastening of her hat. “Why didn't you come in and see me in the dinner-hour? I've a great mind not to kiss you.”
The powder she had evidently on hastily was plainly visible upon her face; the round, soft arms were hidden beneath ill-fitting sleeves of some crapey material, the thought of which put my teeth on edge. I wished her intention had been stronger. Instead, relenting, she offered me her flowery cheek, which I gingerly, the taste of it reminding me of certain pale, thin dough-cakes manufactured by the wife of our school porter and sold to us in playtime at four a penny, and which, having regard to their satisfying quality, had been popular with me in those days.
At the top of the kitchen stairs Miss Sellars paused and called down to Mrs. Peedles, who in course of time appeared, panting.
“Oh, me and Mr. Kelver are going out for a short walk, Mrs. Peedles. I shan't want any supper. Good night.”
“Oh, good night, my dear,” replied Mrs. Peedles. “Hope you'll enjoy yourselves. Is Mr. Kelver there?”
“He's round the corner,” I heard Miss Sellars explain in a lower voice; and there followed a snigger.
“He's a bit shy, ain't he?” suggested Mrs. Peedles in a whisper.
“I've had enough of the other sort,” was Miss Sellars' answer in low tones.
“Ah, well; it's the shy ones that come out the strongest after a bit—leastways, that's been my experience.”
“He'll do all right. So long.”
Miss Sellars, buttoning a burst glove, rejoined me.
“I suppose you've never had a sweetheart before?” asked Miss Sellars, as we turned into the Blackfriars Road.
I admitted that this was my first experience.
“I can't a-bear a man,” explained Miss Sellars. “That's why I took to you from the beginning. You was so quiet.”
I began to wish that nature had
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