THE BECKONING FAIR ONE

THE BECKONING FAIR ONE

By Oliver Onions

THE THREE OR four "TO Let" boards had stood within the low paling as long as
the inhabitants of the little triangular "Square" could remember, and if
they had ever been vertical it was a very long time ago. They now overhung
the palings each at its own angle, and resembled nothing so much as a row of
wooden choppers, ever in the act of falling upon some passer-by, yet never
cutting off a tenant for the old house from the stream of his fellows. Not
that there was ever any great "stream" through the square; the stream passed
a furlong and more away, beyond the intricacy of tenements and alleys and
byways that had sprung up since the old house had been built, hemming it in
completely; and probably the house itself was only suffered to stand pending
the falling-in of a lease or two, when doubtless a clearance would be made
of the whole neighbourhood.

It was of bloomy old red brick, and built into its walls were the crowns and
clasped hands and other insignia of insurance companies long since defunct.
The children of the secluded square had swung upon the low gate at the end
of the entrance-alley until little more than the solid top bar of it
remained, and the alley itself ran past boarded basement windows on which
tramps had chalked their cryptic marks. The path was washed and worn uneven
by the spilling of water from the eaves of the encroaching next house, and
cats and dogs had made the approach their own. The chances of a tenant did
not seem such as to warrant the keeping of the "To Let" boards in a state of
legibility and repair, and as a matter of fact they were not so kept.

For six months Oleron had passed the old place twice a day or oftener, on
his way from his lodgings to the room, ten minutes' walk away, he had taken
to work in; and for six months no hatchet-like notice-board had fallen
across his path. This might have been due to the fact that he usually took
the other side of the square. But he chanced one morning to take the side
that ran past the broken gate and the rain-worn entrance alley, and to pause
before one of the inclined boards. The board bore, besides the agent's name,
the announcement, written apparently about the time of Oleron's own early
youth, that the key was to be had at Number Six.

Now 0leron was already paying, for his separate bedroom and workroom, more
than an author who, without private means, habitually disregards his public,
can afford; and he was paying in addition a small rent for the storage of
the greater part of his grandmother's furniture. Moreover, it invariably
happened that the book he wished to read in bed was at his working-quarters
half a mile or more away, while the note or letter he had sudden need of
during the day was as likely as not to be in the pocket of another coat
hanging behind his bedroom door. And there were other inconveniences in
having a divided domicile. Therefore 0leron, brought suddenly up by the
hatchet-like notice board, looked first down through some scanty
privet-bushes at the boarded basement windows, then up at the blank and
grimy windows of the first floor, and so up to the second floor and the flat
stone coping of the leads. He stood for a minute thumbing his lean and
shaven jaw; then, with another glance at the board, he walked slowly across
the square to Number Six.

He knocked, and waited for two or three minutes, but, although the door
stood open, received no answer. He was knocking again when a long-nosed man
in shirt-sleeves appeared.

"I was asking a blessing on our food," he said in severe explanation.

0leron asked if he might have the key of the old house; and the long-nosed
man withdrew again.

0leron waited for another five minutes on the step; then the man, appearing
again and masticating some of the food of which he had spoken, announced
that the key was lost.

"But you won't want it," he said. "The entrance door isn't closed, and a
push '11 open any of the others. I'm a agent for it, if you're thinking of
taking it-- "

Oleron recrossed the square, descended the two steps at the broken gate,
passed along the alley, and turned in at the old wide doorway. To the right,
immediately within the door, steps descended to the roomy cellars, and the
staircase before him had a carved rail, and was broad and handsome and
filthy. Oleron ascended it, avoiding contact with the rail and wall, and
stopped at the first landing. A door facing him had been boarded up, but he
pushed at that on his right hand, and an insecure bolt or staple yielded. He
entered the empty first floor.

He spent a quarter of an hour in the place, and then came out again. Without
mounting higher, he descended and recrossed the square to the house of the
man who had lost the key.

"Can you tell me how much the rent is?" he asked.

The man mentioned a figure, the comparative lowness of which seemed
accounted for by the character of the neighbourhood and the abominable state
of unrepair of the place.

"Would it be possible to rent a single floor?"

The long-nosed man did not know; they might...

"Who are they ?"

The man gave 0leron the name of a firm of lawyers in Lincoln's Inn.

"You might mention my name--Barrett," he added.

Pressure of work prevented Oleron from going down to Lincoln's Inn that
afternoon, but he went on the morrow, and was instantly offered the whole
house as a purchase for fifty pounds down, the remainder of the
purchase-money to remain on mortgage. It took him half an hour to disabuse
the lawyer's mind of the idea that he wished anything 'more of the place
than to rent a single floor of it. This made certain hums arid haws of a
difference, and the lawyer was by no means certain that it lay within his
power to do as 0leron suggested; but it was finally extracted from him that,
provided the notice-boards were allowed to remain up, and that, provided it
was agreed that in the event of the whole house letting, the arrangement
should terminate automatically without further notice, something might be
done. That the old place should suddenly let over his head seemed to Oleron
the slightest of risks to take, and he promised a decision within a week. On
the morrow he visited the house again, went through it from top to bottom,
and then went home to his lodgings to take a bath.

He was immensely taken with that portion of the house he had already
determined should be his own. Scraped clean and repainted, and with that old
furniture of 0leron's grandmother's, it ought to be entirely charming. He
went to the storage warehouse to refresh his memory of his half-forgotten
belongings, and to take the measurements; and thence he went to a
decorator's. He was very busy with his regular work, and could have wished
that the notice-board had caught his attention either a few months earlier
or else later in the year; but the quickest way would be to suspend work
entirely until after his removal....

A fortnight later his first floor was painted throughout in a tender,
eider-flower white, the paint was dry, and Oleron was in the middle of .his
installation. He was animated, delighted; and he rubbed his hands as he
polished and made disposals of his grandmother's effects--the tall
lattice-parted china cupboard with its Derby and Mason and Spode, the large
folding Sheraton table, the long, low bookshelves (he had had two of them
"copied"'), the chairs, the Sheffield candlesticks, the riveted rose-bowls .
These things he set against his newly painted eider-white walls--walls of
wood panelled in the happiest proportions, and moulded and coffered to the
low-seated window-recesses. in a mood of gaiety and rest that the builders
of rooms no longer know. The ceilings were lofty, and faintly painted with
an old pattern of stars; even the tapering mouldings of his iron fireplace
were as delicately designed as jewellery; and 0leron walked about rubbing
his hands, frequently stopping for the mere pleasure of the glimpses from
white room to white room ....

"Charming, charming!" he said to himself. "I wonder what Elsie Bengough will
think of this!"

He bought a bolt and a Yale .lock for his door, and shut off his quarters
from the rest of the house. If he now wanted to read in bed, his book could
be had for stepping into the next room. All the time, he thought how
exceedingly lucky he was to get the place. He put up a hat-rack in the
little square hall, and hung up his hats and caps and coats; and passers
through the small triangular square late at night, looking up over the
little serried row of wooden "To Let" hatchets, could see the light within
Oleron's red blinds, or else the sudden darkening of one blind and the
illumination of another, as Oleron, candlestick in hand, passed from room to
room, making final settings of his furniture, or preparing to resume the
work that his removal had interrupted.

                                     ii

As far as the chief business of his life--his writing--was concerned., Paul
Oleron treated the world a good deal better than he was treated by it; but
he seldom took the trouble to strike a balance, or to compute how far, at
forty-four years of age, he was behind his points on the handicap. To have
done so wouldn't have altered matters, and it might have depressed Oleron.
He had chosen his path, and was committed to it beyond possibility of
withdrawal. Perhaps he had chosen it in the days when he had bee n easily
swayed by some thing a little disinterested, a little generous, a little
noble; and had he ever thought of questioning himself he would still have
held to it that a life without nobility and generosity and disinterestedness
was no life for him. Only quite recently, and rarely, had he even vaguely
suspected that there was more in it than this; but it was no good
anticipating the day when, he supposed, he would reach that maximum point of
his powers beyond which he must inevitably decline, and be left face to face
with the question whether it would not have profited him better to have
ruled his life by less exigent ideals.

In the meantime, his removal into the old house with the insurance marks
built into its brick merely interrupted Romilly Bishop at the fifteenth
chapter.

As this tall man with the lean, ascetic face moved about his new abode,
arranging, changing, altering, hardly yet into his working-stride again, he
gave the impression of almost spinster-like precision and nicety. For twenty
years past, in a score of lodgings, garrets, fiats, and rooms furnished and
unfurnished, he had been accustomed to do many things for himself, and he
had discovered that it saves time and temper to be methodical. He had
arranged with the wife of the long-nosed Barrett, a stout Welsh woman with a
falsetto voice, the Merionethshire accent of which long residence in London
had not perceptibly modified, to come across the square each morning to
prepare his breakfast, and also to "turn the place out" on Saturday
mornings; and for the rest, he even welcomed a little housework as a
relaxation-from the strain of writing.

His kitchen, together with the adjoining strip of an apartment into which a
modern bath had been fitted, over- looked the alley at the side of the
house; and at one end of it was a large closet with a door, and a square
sliding hatch in the upper part of the door. This had been a powder-closet
and through the hatch the elaborately dressed head had been thrust to
receive the click and puff of the powder- pistol. Oleron puzzled a little
over this closet; then, as its use occurred to him, he smiled faintly, a
little moved, he knew not by what .... He would have to put it to a very
different purpose from its original one; it would probably have to serve as
his larder .... It was in this closet that he made a discovery. The back of
it was shelved, and, rummag- ing on an upper shelf that ran deeply into the
wall, Oleron found a couple of mushroom-shaped old wooden wig-stands. He did
not know how they had come to be there. Doubtless the painters had turned
them up somewhere or other, and had put them there. But his five rooms, as a
whole, were short of cupboard and closet-room; and it was only by the
exercise of some ingenuity that he was able to find places for the bestowal
of his household linen, his boxes, and his seldom-used but
not-to-be-destroyed accumulation of papers.

It was in early spring that Oleron entered on his tenancy, and he was
anxious to have Romilly ready for publication in the coming autumn.
Nevertheless, he did not intend to force its production. Should it demand
longer in the doing, so much the worse; he realised its importance, its
crucial importance, in his artistic development, and it must have its own
length and time. In the workroom he had recently left he had been making
excellent progress; Romilly had begun, as the saying is, to speak and act of
herself; and he did not doubt she would continue to do so the moment the
distraction of his removal was over. This distraction was almost over; he
told himself it was time he pulled himself together again; and on a March
morning he went out, returned again with two great bunches of yellow
daffodils, placed one bunch on his mantelpiece between the Sheffield sticks
and the other on the table before him, and took out the half-completed
manuscript of Romilly Bishop.

But before beginning work he went to a small rosewood cabinet and took from
a drawer his cheque-book and pass book. He totted them up, and his monk-like
face grew thoughtful. His installation had cost him more than he had
intended it should, and his balance was rather less than fifty pounds, with
no immediate prospect of more.

"Hm! I'd forgotten rugs and chintz curtains and so forth mounted up so,"
said Oleron. "But it would have been a pity to spoil the place for the want
of ten pounds or so .... Well, Romilly simply must be out for the autumn,
that's all. So here goes- "

He drew his papers towards him.

But he worked badly; or, rather, he did not work at all. The square outside
had its own noises, frequent and new, and Oleron could only hope that he
would speedily become accustomed to these. First came hawkers, with their
carts and cries; at midday the children, returning from school, trooped into
the square and swung on Oleron's gate; and when the children had departed
again for afternoon school, an itinerant musician with a mandoline posted
himself beneath Oleron's window and began to strum. This was a not
unpleasant distraction, and Oleron, pushing up his window, threw the man a
penny. Then he returned to his table again.. ..

But it was no good. He came to himself, at long intervals, to find that he
had been looking about his room and wondering how he had formerly been
furnished-whether a settee in buttercup or petunia satin had stood under the
farther window, whether from the centre moulding of the light lofty ceiling
had depended a glimmering. crystal chandelier, or where the tambour-frame or
the picquet-table had stood, ... No, it was no good; he had far better be
frankly doing nothing than getting fruitlessly tired; and he decided that he
would take a walk, but, chancing to sit down for a moment, dozed in his
chair instead.

"This won't do," he yawned when he awoke at half-past four in the afternoon;
"I must do better than this tomorrow--"

And he felt so deliciously lazy that for some minutes he even contemplated
the breach of an appointment he had for the evening.

The next morning he sat down to work without even permitting himself to
answer one of his three letters--two of them tradesmen's accounts, the third
a note from Miss Bengough, forwarded from his old address. It was a jolly
day of white and blue, with a gay noisy wind and a subtle turn in the colour
of growing things; and over and over again, once or twice a minute, his room
became suddenly light and then subdued again, as the shining white clouds
robed north-eastwards over the square. The soft fitful illumination was
reflected in the polished surface of the table and even in the footworn old
floor; and the morning noises had begun again.

0leron made a pattern of dots on the paper before him, and then broke off to
move the jar of daffodils exactly opposite the centre of a creamy panel.
Then he wrote a sentence that ran continuously for a couple of lines, after
which it broke off into notes and jottings. For a time he succeeded in
persuading himself that in making these memoranda he was really working;
then he rose and began to pace his room. As he did so, he was struck by an
idea. It was that the place might possibly be a little better for more
positive colour. It was, perhaps, a thought too pale- mild and sweet as a
kind old face, but a little devitalised, even wan .... Yes, decidedly it
would bear a robuster note--more and richer flowers, and possibly some warm
and gay stuff for cushions for the window-seats ....

"Of course, I really can't afford it," he muttered, as he went for a
two-foot and began to measure the width of the window recesses ....

In stooping to measure a recess, his attitude suddenly changed to one of
interest and attention. Presently he rose again, rubbing his hands with
gentle glee.

"Oho, oho!" he said. "These look to me very much like window-boxes, nailed
up. We must look into this! Yes, those are boxes, or I'm . . . oho, this is
an adventure!"

On that wall of his sitting-room there were two windows (the third was in
another corner), and, beyond the open bedroom door, on the same wall, was
another. The seats of all had been painted, repainted, and painted again;
and Oleron's investigating finger had barely detected the old nailheads
beneath the paint. Under the ledge over which he stooped an old keyhole also
had been puttied up. Oleron took out his penknife.

He worked carefully for five minutes, and then went into the kitchen for a
hammer and chisel. Driving the chisel cautiously under the seat, he started
the whole lid slightly. Again using the penknife, he cut along the hinged
edge and outward along the ends; and then he fetched a wedge and a wooden
mallet.

"Now for our little mystery------" he said.

The sound of the mallet on the wedge seemed, in that sweet and pale
apartment, somehow a little brutal--nay, even shocking. The panelling rang
and rattled and vibrated to the blows like a sounding-board. The whole house
seemed to echo; from the roomy cellarage to the garrets above a flock of
echoes seemed to awake; and the sound got a little on Oleron's nerves. All
at once he paused, fetched a duster, and muffled the mallet .... When the
edge was sufficiently raised he put his fingers under it and lifted. The
paint flaked and starred a little; the rusty old nails squeaked and grunted;
and the lid came up, laying open the box beneath. Oleron looked into it.
Save for a couple of inches of scurf and mould and old cobwebs it was empty.

"No treasure there," said Oleron, a little amused that he should have
fancied there might have been. "Romilly will still have to be out by the
autumn. Let's have a look at the others."

He turned to the second window.

The raising of the two remaining seats occupied him until well into the
afternoon. That of the bedroom like the first, was empty; but from the
second seat of his sitting-room he drew out something yielding and folded
and furred over an inch thick with dust. He carried the object into the
kitchen, and having swept it over a bucket, took a duster to it.

It was some sort of a large bag, of an ancient frieze-like material, and
when unfolded it occupied the greater part of the small kitchen floor. In
shape it was an irregular, a very irregular, triangle, and it had a couple
of wide flaps, with the remains of straps and buckles. The patch that had
been uppermost in the folding was of a faded yellowish brown; but the rest
of it was of shades of crimson that varied according to the exposure of the
parts of it.

"Now whatever can that have been?" Oleron mused as he stood surveying it
.... "I give it up. Whatever it is, it's settled my work for to-day, I'm
afraid-------"

He folded the object up carelessly and thrust it into a corner of the
kitchen; then, taking pans and brushes and an old knife, he returned to the
sitting-room and began to scrape and to wash and to line with paper his
newly discovered receptacles. When he had finished, he put his spare boots
and books and papers into them; and he closed the lids again, amused with
his little adventure, but also a little anxious for the hour to come when he
should settle fairly down to his work again.

                                     III

It piqued Oleron a little that his friend, Miss Bengough, should dismiss
with a glance the place he himself had found so singularly winning. Indeed
she scarcely lifted her eyes to it. But then she had always been more or
less like that--a little indifferent to the graces of life, careless of
appearances, and perhaps a shade more herself when she ate biscuits from a
paper bag than when she dined with greater observance of the convenances.
She was an unattached journalist of thirty-four, large, showy, fair as
butter, pink as a dog-rose, reminding one of a florist's picked specimen
bloom, and given to sudden and ample movements and moist and explosive
utterances. She "pulled a better living out of the pool" (as she expressed
it) than Oleron did; and by cunningly .disguised puffs of drapers and
haberdashers she "pulled" also the greater part of her very varied wardrobe.
She left small whirlwinds of air behind her when she moved, in which her
veils and scarves fluttered and spun.

Oleron heard the flurry of her skirts on his staircase and her single loud
knock at his door when he had been a month in his new abode. Her garments
brought in the outer air, and she flung a bundle of ladies' journals down on
a chair.

"Don't knock off for me," she said across a mouthful of large-headed hatpins
as she removed her hat and veil. "I didn't know whether you were straight
yet, so I've brought some sandwiches for lunch. You've got coffee, I
suppose? --No, don't get up--I'll find the kitchen-----"

"Oh, that's all right, I'll clear these things away. To tell the truth, I'm
rather glad to be interrupted," said Oleron.

He gathered his work together and put it away. She was already in the
kitchen; he heard the running of water into the kettle. He joined her, and
ten minutes later followed her back to the sitting-room with the coffee and
sandwiches on a tray. They sat down, with the tray on a small table between
them.

"Well, what do you think of the new place?" Oleron asked as she poured out
coffee.

"Hm! ... Anybody'd think you were going to get married, Paul."

He laughed.

"Oh no. But it's an improvement on some of them, isn't it?"

"Is it? I suppose it is; I don't know. I liked the last place, in spite of
the black ceiling and no watertap. How's Romilly?" Oleron thumbed his chin.

"Hm! I'm rather ashamed to tell you. The fact is, I've not got on very well
with it. But it will be all right on the night, as you used to say."

"Stuck?"

"Rather stuck."

" Got any of it you care to read to me? . . ."

Oleron had long been in the habit of reading portions of his work to Miss
Bengough occasionally. Her comments were always quick and practical,
sometimes directly useful, sometimes indirectly suggestive. She, in return
for his confidence, always kept all mention of her own work sedulously from
him. His, she said, was "real work "; hers merely filled space, not always
even grammatically.

"I'm afraid there isn't," Oleron replied, still' meditatively dry-shaving
his chin. Then he added, with a little burst of candour, "The fact is,
Elsie, I've not written--not actually written--very much more of it--any
more of it, in fact. But, of course, that doesn't mean I haven't progressed.
I've progressed, in one sense, rather alarmingly. I'm now thinking of
reconstructing the whole thing."

Miss Bengough gave a gasp. "Reconstructing!"

"Making Romilly herself a different type of woman. Somehow, I've begun to
feel that I'm not getting the most out of her. As she stands, I've certainly
lost interest in her to some extent."

"But--but---" Miss Bengough protested, "you had her so real, so living,
Paul!"

Oleron smiled faintly. He had been quite prepared for Miss Bengough's
disapproval, He wasn't surprised that she liked Romilly as she at present
existed; she would. Whether she realised it or not, there was much of
herself in his fictitious creation. Naturally Romilly would seem "real,"
"living," to her. ......

"But are you really serious, Paul?" Miss Bengough asked presently, with a
round-eyed stare.

"Quite serious."

"You're really going to scrap those fifteen chapters?"

"I didn't exactly say that."

"That fine, rich love-scene?"

"I should only do it reluctantly, and for the sake of something I thought
better."

"And that beautiful,beautiful description of Romilly on the shore?"

"It wouldn't necessarily be wasted," he said a little uneasily.

But Miss Bengough made a large and windy gesture, and then let him have it.

"Really, you are too trying!" she broke out. "I do wish sometimes you'd
remember you're human, and live in a world! You know I'd be the last to wish
you to lower your standard one inch, but it wouldn't be lowering it to bring
it within human comprehension. Oh, you're sometimes altogether too godlike!
. . . Why, it would be a wicked, criminal waste of your powers to destroy
those fifteen chapters! Look at it reasonably, now. You've been working for
nearly twenty years; you've now got what you've been working for almost
within your grasp; your affairs are at a most critical stage (oh, don't tell
me; I know you're about at the end of your money); and here you are,
deliberately proposing to withdraw a thing that will probably make your
name, and to substitute for it something that ten to one nobody on earth
will ever want to read--and small blame to them! Really, you try my
patience!"

Oleron had shaken his head slowly as she had talked. It was an old story
between them. The noisy, able, practical journalist was an admirable
friend--up to a certain point; beyond that . . . well, each of us knows that
point beyond which we stand alone. Elsie Bengough sometimes said that had
she had one-tenth part of Oleron's genius there were few things she could
not have done--thus making that genius a quantitatively divisible thing, a
sort of ingredient, to be added to or to subtracted from in the admixture of
his work. That it was a qualitative thing, essential, indivisible, inform
ing, passed her comprehension. Their spirits parted company at that point.
Oleron knew it. She did not appear to know it.

"Yes, yes, yes," he said a little. wearily, by-and-by, "practically you're
quite right, entirely right, and I haven't a word to say. If I could only
turn Romilly over to you you'd make an enormous success of her. But that
can't be, and I, for my part, am seriously doubting whether she's worth my
while. You know what that means."

"What does it mean?" she demanded bluntly.

"Well," he said, smiling wanly, "what does it mean when you're convinced a
thing isn't worth doing? You simply don't do it."

Miss Bengough's eyes swept the ceiling for assistance against this
impossible man.

"What utter rubbish!" she broke Out at last. "Why, when I saw you last you
were simply oozing Romilly; you were turning her off at the rate of four
chapters a week; if you hadn't moved you'd have had her three-parts done by
now. What on earth possessed you to move right in the middle of your most
important work?"

Oleron tried to put her off with a recital of inconveniences, but she
wouldn't have it. Perhaps in her heart she partly suspected the reason. He
was simply mortally weary of the narrow circumstances of his life. He had
had twenty years of it--twenty years of garrets and roof-chambers and dingy
flats and shabby lodgings, and he was tired of dinginess and shabbiness. The
reward was as far off as ever--or if it was not, he no longer cared at once
he would have cared to put out his hand and take it. It is all very well to
tell a man who is at the point of exhaustion that only another effort is
required of him; if he cannot make it he is as far off as ever...

"Anyway," 0leron summed up, "I'm happier here than I've been for a long
time. That's some sort of a justification."

"And doing no work," said Miss Bengough pointedly.

At that a trifling petulance that had been gathering in Oleron came to a
head.

"And why should I do nothing but work?" he demanded. "How much happier am I
for it? I don't say I don't love my work--when it's done; but I hate doing
it. Sometimes it's an intolerable burden that I simply long to be rid of.
Once in many weeks it has a moment, one moment, of glow and thrill for me; I
remember the days when it was all glow and thrill; and now I'm forty-four,
and it's becoming drudgery. Nobody wants it; I'm ceasing to want it myself;
and if any ordinary sensible man were to ask me whether I didn't think I was
a fool to go on, I think I should agree that I was."

Miss Bengough's comely pink face was serious.

"But you knew all that, many, many years ago, Paul--and still you chose it,"
she said in a low voice.

"Well, and how should I have known?" he demanded. "I didn't know. I was told
so. My heart, if you like, told me so, and I thought I knew. Youth always
thinks it knows; then one day it discovers that it is nearly fifty-----"

"Forty-four, Paul----"

"--forty-four, then--and it finds that the glamour isn't in front, but
behind. Yes, I knew and chose, if that's knowing and choosing . . . but it's
a costly choice we're called on to make when we're young!"

Miss Bengough's eyes were on the floor. Without moving them she said,
"You're not regretting it, Paul?"

"Am I not?" he took her up. "Upon my word, I've lately thought I am! What do
I get in return for it all?"

"You know what you get," she replied.

He might have known from her tone what else he could have had for the
holding up of a finger--herself. She knew, but could not tell him, that he
could have done no better thing for himself. Had he, any time these ten
years, asked her to marry him, she would have replied quietly, "Very well;
when?" He had never thought of it ....

"Yours is the real work," she continued quietly. "Without you we jackals
couldn't exist. You and a few like you hold everything upon your shoulders."

For a minute there was a silence. Then it occurred to Oleron that this was
common vulgar grumbling. It was not his habit. Suddenly he rose and began to
stack cups and plates on the tray.

"Sorry you catch me like this, Elsie," he said, with a little laugh ....
"No, I'11 take them out; then we'll go for a walk, if you like....."

He carried out the tray, and then began to show Miss Bengough round his
flat. She made few comments. In the kitchen she asked what an old faded
square of reddish frieze was, that Miss Barrett used as a cushion for her
wooden chair.

"That? I should be glad if you could tell me what it is," Oleron repled as
he unfolded the bag and related the story of its finding in the window-seat.

"I think I know what it is," said Miss Bengough. "It's been used to wrap up
a harp before putting it in its case."

"By Jove, that's probably just what it was," said Oleron, "I could make
neither head nor tale of it...."

They finished the tour of he flat, and returned to the sitting-room.

"And who lives in the rest of the house?" Mis Bengough asked.

"I dare say a tramp sleeps in the cellar occasionally. Nobody else."

"Hm! . . . Well, I'll tell you what I think of it, if you like."

"I should like."

"You'll never work here."

"Oh?" said Oleron quickly. "Why not?"

"You'll never finish Romilly here. Why, I don't know, but you won't. I know
it. You'll have to leave before you get on with that book."

He mused a moment, and then said:

"Isn't that a little---prejudiced, Elsie?"

"Perfectly ridiculous. As An argument it hasn't a leg to stand on. But there
it is," she replied, her mouth once more full of the large-headed hat pins.

"I can only hope you're entirely wrong," he said, "for I shall be in a
serious mess if Romilly isn't out in the autumn."

                                     IV

As Oleron sat by his fire that evening, pondering Miss Bengough's
prognostication that difficulties awaited him in his work, he came to the
conclusion that it would have been far better had she kept her beliefs to
herself. N man does a thing better fir having his confidence damped at the
outset, and to speak of difficulties is in a sense to make them. Speech
itself becomes a deterrent act, to which other discouragements accrete until
the very event of which warning is given is as likely as not to come to
pass. He hardly confounded her. An influence hostile to the completion of
Romilly had been born.

And in some illogical, dogmatic way women seem to have, she had attached
this antagonistic influence to his new abode. Was ever anything so absurd!
"You'll never finish Romilly He moved his chair to look round the room that
smiled, positively smile, in the firelight. He too smiled, as if pity was to
be entertained for a maligned apartment. Even that slight lack of robust
colour he had remarked was not noticeable in the soft glow. The drawn chintz
curtains---they had a flowered and trellised pattern, with baskets and oaten
pipes----fell in long quiet folds to the window-seats; the rows of bindings
in old bookcases took the light richly; the last trace of sallowness had
gone with the daylight; and, if the truth must be told, it had been Elsie
himself who had seemed a little out of the picture.

That reflection struck him a little, and presently he returned to it. Yes,
the rom had, quite accidentally, done Miss Bengough a disservice that
afternoon. It ad, in some subtle but unmistakable way, paced hr, marked a
contrast of qualities. Assuming for the sake of argument the slightly
ridiculous proposition that the room in which Oleron saw was characterised
by a certain sparsity and lack of vigour; so much the worse for Miss
Bengough; she certainly erred on the side of redundancy and c=general
muchness. And if one must contrast abstract qualities, Oleron inclined to
the austere in taste. . .

Yes, here Oleron had made a distinct discovery; he wondered he had not made
it before. He picture Miss Bengough again as she had appeared that
afternoon--large, showy, moistly pink, with that quality of the prize bloom
exuding, as it were from here; and instantly she suffered in his thought. He
even recognised now that he had noticed something odd at the time, and that
unconsciously his attitude, even while he had been there, had been one of
criticism. The mechanism of her was a little obvious; her melting humidity
was the result of analysable processes; and behind her there had seem to
lurk some dim shape emblemtic of mrtality. He had never, during the ten
years of their intimacy, dreamed for a moment of asking her to mrry him;
none the less, he now felt for the first time a thankfulness that he had not
done so . . .

Then, suddenly and swiftly, his face flamed that he should be thinking thus
of his friend. What! Elsie Bengough, with whom he had spent weeks and weeks
of afternoons--she, the good chum, on whose help he would have counted had
all the rest of the world failed him--she, whose loyalty to him would not,
he knew, swerve as long as there was breath in her--Elsie to be even in
thought dissected thus! He was an ingrate and a cad . . .

Had she been there in that moment he would have abased himself before her.

For ten minutes and more he sat, still gazing into the fire, with that
humiliating red fading slowly from his cheeks. All was still within and
without, save for a tiny musical tinkling that came from his kitchen--the
dripping of water from an imperfectly turned-off tap into the vessel beneath
it. Mechanically he began to beat with his fingers to the faintly heard
falling of the drops; the tiny regular movement seemed to hasten that
shameful withdrawal from his face. He grew cool once ore; ad when he resumed
his meditation he was all unconscious that he took it up again at the same
point. . . .

it was not only her florid superfluity of build that he had approached in
the attitude of criticism; he was conscious also of the wide differences
between her mind and his own. He felt no thankfulness that up to a certain
point their natures had ever run companionably side by side; he was now full
of questions beyond that point. Their intellects diverged; there was no
denying it; and, looking back, he was inclined to doubt whether there had
been any real coincidence. True, he had read his writings to her and she had
appeared to speak comprehendingly and to the point; but what can a man do
who, having assumed that another sees s he does, is suddenly brought up
sharp by something that falsifies and discredits all that had gone before?
He doubted all now. . . . It did for a moment occur to them that the man who
demands of a friend more than can be given to him is in danger of losing
that friend, but he put the thought aside.

Again he ceased to think, that again moved his finger to the distant
dripping of the tap. . .

And now (he resumed by-and-by), if these things were true of Elsie Bengough,
they were also true of the creation of which she was the prototype--Romilly
Bishop. And since he could say f Romilly what for very she he could not say
of Elsie, he gave his thoughts rein. He did so in that smiling, fire-lighted
room, to the accompaniment of the faintly heard tap.

There was no longer any doubt about it; he hated the central character of
his novel. Even as he had described her physically she overpowered the
senses; she was coarse-fibered, over-coloured, rank. It became true the
moment he formulated his thought; Gulliver had described the Brobdingnagian
maids-of-honour thus: and mentally and spiritually she corresponded--was
unsensitive, limited, common. The model (he closed his eyes for a
moment)--the model stuck out through fifteen vulgar and blatant chapters to
such a pitch that, without seeing the reason, he had been unable to begin
the sixteenth. He marvelled that it had only just dawned upon him.

And this was to have been his Beatrice, his vision! As Elsie she was to have
gone into the furnace of his art, and she was to have come out the Woman all
men desire! Her thoughts were to have been culled from his own finest, her
form from his dearest dreams, and her setting wherever he could find one fit
for her worth. He had brooded long before making the attempt; then one day
he had felt her stir within him as a mother feels a quickening, and he had
begun to write; and so he had added chapter to chapter. . . .

And those fifteen sodden chapters were what he had produced!

Again he sat, softly moving his finger. . . .

Then he bestirred himself.

She must go, all fifteen chapters of her. That was settled. For what was to
take her place in his mind was a blank; but one ting at a time; a man is not
excused from taking the wrong course because the right one is not
immediately revealed to him. Better would come if it was to come; in the
meantime------

He rose, fetched the fifteen chapters, and read them over before he should
drop them in the fire.

But instead of putting them in the fire he let them fall from his hand. He
became conscious of the dripping of the tap again. It had a tinkling gamut
of four or five notes, on which it tang irregular changes, and it was
foolishly sweet and dulcimer-like. In his mind Oleron could see the
gathering of each drop, its little tremble on the lip of the tap, and the
tiny percussion of its fall "Plink--plunk," minimised almost to
inaudibility. Following the lowest note there seemed to be a brief phrase,
irregularly repeated; and presently Oleron found himself waiting for the
recurrence of this phrase. It was quite pretty. . . .

But it did not conduce to wakefulnes, and Oleron dozed over his fire.

When e awoke again the fire had burned low and the flames of the candles
were licking the rims of the Sheffield sticks. Sluggishly he rose, yawned,
went his nightly round of door-locks, and window-fastenings, and passed into
his bedroom. Soon, he slept soundly.

But a curious little sequel followed on the morrow. Mrs. Barrett usually
tapped, not at his door, but at the wooden wall beyond which law Oleron's
bed; and then Oleron rose, put on his dressing gown, and admitted her. He
was not conscious that as he did so that morning he hummed an air; but Mrs.
Barrett lingered wit her hand on the doorknob and her face a little averted
and smiling.

"De-ar me!" her soft falsetto rose. "But that will be a very O-ald tune, Mr.
Oleron! I will not have heard it this for-ty years!"

"What tune?" Oleron asked.

"The tune, indeed, that you was humming, sir."

Oleron had his thumb in the flap of a letter. It remained there. "I was
humming? . . . Sing it, Mrs. Barrett."

Mrs. Barrett prut-prutted.

"I have no voice for singing, Mr. Oleron; it was Ann Pugh was the singer of
our family; but the tune will be very o-ald, and it is called, The Beckoning
Fair One.'"

"Try to sin it," said Oleron, his thumb still in the envelope; and Mrs.
Barrett, with much dimpling and confusion, hummed the air.

"They do say it was sung to a harp, Mr. Oleron , and it will be very o-ald,"
she concluded.

"And I was singing that?"

"Indeed you was. I would not be very likely to tell you lies."

With a "Very well--let me have breakfast," Oleron opened his letter; but the
trifling circumstance struck hi as more odd than he would have admitted to
himself. The phrase he hd hummed had been that which he had associated with
the falling from the tap on the evening before."

                                      V

Even more curious than that the commonplace dripping of an ordinary
water-tap should have tallied so closely with an actually existing air was
another result it had, namely, that it awakened, or seemed to awaken, in
Oleron an abnormal sensitiveness to other noises of the old house. It has
been remarked that the silence obtains its fullest and most impressive
quality when it is broken by some minute sound; and, truth to tell, the
place was never still. Perhaps the mildness of the spring air operated on
its torpid old timbers; perhaps Oleron s fires caused it to stretch its own
anatomy; and certainly a whole world of insect life bored and burrowed in
its baulks and joists. At any rate Oleron had only so it quiet in his chair
and to wait for a minute or two in order to become aware of such a change
ion the auditory scale as comes upon a man who, conceiving the mid-summer
woods to be motionless and still, all at once finds his ear sharpened to the
crepitation of a myriad insects.

And he smiled to think of man's arbitrary distinction between that which has
life and that which has not. Here, quite apart from such recognisable sounds
as the scampering of mice, the falling of plaster behind his panelling, and
the popping of purses or coffins from his fire, was a whole house talking to
him had he but known his language. Beams settled with a tired sigh into
their old mortices; creatures ticked in the walls; joints cracked, boards
complained; with no palpable stirring of the air window-sashes changed their
position with a soft knock in their frames. And whether the place had life
in this sense or not, it had at all events a winsome personality. It needed
but an hour of musing for Oleron to conceive the idea tat, as his own body
stood in friendly relation to his soul, so, by an extension and an
attenuation, his habituation might fantastically be supposed to stand in
some relation to himself. He even amused himself with the far-fetched fancy
that he might so identify himself with the place that some future tenant,
taking possession, might regard it as in a sense haunted. It would be rather
a joke if he, a perfectly harmless author, with nothing on his mind worse
than a novel he had discovered he must begin again, should turn out to be
laying the foundation of a future ghost! . . .

In proportion, as he felt this growing attachment to the fabric of his
abode, Elsie Bengough, from being merely unattracted, began to show a
dislike of the place that was more and more marked. And she did not scruple
to speak of her aversion.

"It doesn't belong to to-day at all, and for you especially it's bad," she
said with decision. "You're only too ready to let go your hold on actual
things and to slip into apathy; you ought to be in a place with concrete
floors and patent has-meter and a tradesman' lift. Nd it would do you all
the good in the world if you had a job that made you scramble and rub elbows
with your fellow-men. Now, if I could get you a job, for, say, two or three
days a week, one that would allow you heaps of time for your proper
work--would you take it?"

Somehow, Oleron resented a little being diagnosed like this. He thanked Miss
Bengough, but without a smile.

"Thank you, but I don't think so. After all each of us has his own life to
live," he could not refrain from adding.

"His own life to live! . . . How long is it since you were out, Paul?"

"About two hours."

"I don't mean tp buy stamps or to post a letter. How long is it since you
had anything like a stretch?"

"Oh, some little time perhaps. I don't know."

"Since I was here lat?"

"I haven't been out much."

"And has Romilly progressed much better for your being cooped up?"

"I think she has. I'm laying the foundations of her. I shall begin the
actual writing presently."

It seemed as if Miss Bengough had forgotten their tussle about the first
Romilly. She frowned, turned half away, and then quickly turned again.

"Ah! . . . So you've still got that ridiculous idea in your head?"

"If you mean," said Oleron slowly, "that I've discarded the only Romilly,
and am at work on a new one, you're right. I have still got that idea in my
head." Something uncordial in his tone struck her; but she was a fighter.
His own absurd sensitiveness hardened her. She gave a "Pshaw!" of
impatience.

"Where is the old one?" she demanded abruptly.

"Why?" said Oleron.

"I want to see it. I want to show some of it to you. I want, if you're not
wool-gathering entirely, to bring you back to your senses."

This time it was he who turned his back. But when he turned round again he
spoke more gently.

"It's no good, Elsie. I'm responsible for the way I go, and you must allow
me to go it--even if it should seem wrong to you. Believe me, I am giving
thought to it. . . . The manuscript? I was on the point of burning it, but I
didn't. It's in that window-seat, if you must see it."

Miss Bengough crossed quickly to the window-seat, and lifted the lid.
Suddenly she gave a little exclamation, and put the back of her hand to her
mouth. She spoke over her shoulder:

"You ought to knock these nails in, Paul," she said.

He strode to her side.

"What? What is it? What's the matter?" he asked. "I did knock them in--or
rather, pulled them out."

"You left enough to scratch with," she replied, showing her hand. From the
upper wrist to the knuckle of the little finger a welling red wound showed.

"Good--Gracious!" Oleron ejaculated. . . . "Here, come to the bathroom and
bathe it quickly----"

He hurried her to the bathroom, turned on warm water, and bathed and
cleansed the bad gash. Then, still holding the hand, he turned cold water on
it, uttering broken phases of astonishment and concern.

"Good Lord, how did that happen! As far as I knew I'd . . . is this water
too cold? Does that hurt? I can't imagine how on earth . . . there; that'll
do-----"

"No--one moment longer--I can bear it," she murmured, her eyes closed.

Presently he led her back to the sitting-room and bound the hand in one of
his handkerchiefs; but his face did not lose its expression of perplexity.
He had spent half a day in opening and making serviceable the three
window-boxes, and he could not conceive how he had come to leave an inch and
a half of rusty nail standing in the wood. He himself had opened the lids of
each of them a dozen times and had not noticed any nail; but there it was .
. .

"It shall come out now, at ll events," he muttered, as he went for a pair of
pincers. And he made no mistake about it that time

Elsie Bengough had sunk into a chair, and her face was rather white; but in
her hand was the manuscript of Romilly. She had not finished with Romilly
yet. Presently she returned to the charge.

"Oh, Paul, it will be the greatest mistake you ever, ever made if you do not
publish this!" she said.

He hung his head, genuinely distressed. He couldn't get that incident of the
nail out of his head, and Romilly occupied a second place in his thoughts
for the moment. But still she insisted; and when presently he spoke it was
almost as if he asked her pardon for something.

"What can I say, Elsie? I can only hope that when you see the new version,
you'll see how right I am. And if in spite of all you don't like her, well .
. . " he made hopeless gesture. "Don't you see that I must be guided by my
own lights?"

She was silent.

"Come, Elsie," he aid gently. "We've got along well so far; don't let us
split on this."

The last words had hardly passed his lips before he regretted them. She had
been nursing her injured hand, with her eyes once more closed; but her lips
and lids quivered simultaneously. Her voice shook as she spoke.

"I can't help saying it, Paul, but you are so greatly changed."

"Hush, Elsie, he murmured soothingly; you've had a shock; rest for a while.
How could I change?"

"I don't know, but you are. You've not been yourself ever since you came
here. I wish you'd never seen the place. It's stopped your work, it's making
you into a person I hardly know, and it's made me horribly anxious about
you. . . . Oh, how my hand is beginning to throb!"

"Poor child!" he murmured. "Will you let me take you to a doctor and have it
properly dressed?"

"No--I shall be all right presently--I'll keep it raised----"

She put her elbow on the back of the chair, and the bandaged hand rested
lightly on his shoulder.

At that thought an entirely new anxiety stirred suddenly within him.
Hundreds of times previously, on their jaunts and excursions, she had
slipped her hand within his arm as she might have slipped it into the arm of
a brother, and he had accepted the little affectionate gesture as a brother
might have accepted it. But now, for the first time, there rushed into his
mind a hundred startling questions. Her eyes were still closed, and her head
had fallen pathetically back; and there was a lost and ineffable smile on
her parted lips. The truth broke in upon him. Good God! . . . And he had
never divined it!

And stranger than all was that, now that he. did see that she was lost in
love of him, there came to him, not sorrow and humility and abasement, but
something else that he struggled in vain against--something entirely strange
and new, that, had he analyzed it, he would have found to be petulance and
irritation and resentment and ungentleness. The sudden selfish prompting
mastered him before he was aware. He all but gave it word. What was she
doing there at all? Why was she not getting on with her own work? Why was
she here interfering with his? Who had given hr this guardianship over him
that lately she had put forward so assertively?--"changed?" It was she, not
himself, who had changed. . . .

But by the time she had opened her eyes again he had overcome his resentment
sufficiently to speak gently, albeit with reserve.

"I wish you would let me tke you to a doctor."

She rose.

"No thank you, Paul," she sad. "I'll go now. If I need a dressing I'll get
one; take the other hand, please. Good-bye----"

He did not attempt to detain her. He walked with her to the foot of the
stairs. Half-way along the narrow alley she turned.

"It would be a long way to come if you happened not to be in," she said; "
l'll send you a post card the next time."

At the gate she turned again.

"Leave here, Paul," she said, with a mournful look. "Everything's wrong with
this house."

Then she was gone.

Oleron returned to his room. He crossed straight to the window-box. He
opened the lid and stood long looking at it. Then he closed it again and
turned away.

"Tat's rather frightening," he muttered. "It's simply not possible that I
should not have removed that nail...."

                                     VI

Oleron knew very well what Elsie had meant when she had said that her next
visit would be preceded by a postcard. She, too, had realised that at last,
at last he knew--knew, and didn't want her. It gave him a miserable, pitiful
pang, therefore, when she came again within a week, knocking at the door
unannounced. She spoke from the landing; she did not intend to stay, she
said; and he had to press her before she would so much as enter.

Her excuse for calling was that she had heard of an inquiry for short
stories that he might be wise to follow up. He thanked her. Then, her
business over, she seemed anxious to get away again. Oleron did not seek to
detain her; even he sw through the pretext of the stories; and he
accompanied her down the stairs.

But Elsie Bengough had no luck whatever in that house. A second accident
befell her. Half-way down the staircase there was a sharp sound of
splintering wood, and she checked a loud cry. Oleron knew the woodwork to be
old, but he himself had ascended and descended frequently enough without
mishap. . .

Elsie had put her foot through one of the stairs.

He sprang to her side in alarm.

"Oh, I say! My poor girl!"

She laughed hysterically.

"It's my weight--I know I'm getting fat--"

"Keep still--let me clear those splinters away," he muttered between his
teeth.

She continued to laugh and sob that it was her weight--she was getting fat--

He thrust downwards at the broken boards. The extrication was no easy
matter, and her torn boot shows him how badly the foot and ankle within it
must be abraded.

"Good God--good God!" he muttered over and over again.

"I shall be too heavy for anything soon,": she sobbed and laughed.

But she refused to reascend and to examine her hurt.

"No, let me go quickly--let me go quickly," she repeated."

"But it's a frightful gash!"

"No--not so bad--let me gt away quickly--I'm--I'm not wanted."

At her words, that she was not wanted, his head dropped as if she had given
him a buffet.

"Elsie!" he choked, brokenly and shocked.

But she too made a quick gesture, as if she put something violently aside.

"Oh, Paul, not that--not you--of course I do mean that too in a sense--oh,
you know what I mean! . . . But if the other can't be, spare me this now!
I--I wouldn't have come, but--but oh, I did, I did try to keep away!"

It was intolerable, heartbreaking; but what could he do--what could he say?
He did not love her. . . .

"Let me go--I'm not wanted--let me take away what's left of me--"

"Dear Elsie--you are very dear to me---"

But again she made the gesture, as of putting something violently aside.

"No, not that--not anything less--don't offer me anything less--leave me a
little pride---"

"Let me get my hat and coat--let me take you to a doctor," he muttered.

But she refused. She refused even the support of his arm. She gave another
unsteady laugh.

"I'm sorry I broke your stairs, Paul. . . . You will go and see about the
short stories, won't you?"

He groaned.

"Then if you won't see a doctor, will you go across the square and let Mrs.
Barrett look at you? Look, there's Barrett passing now---"

The long-nosed Barrett was looking curiously down the alley, but as Oleron
was about to call him he made off with our a word. Elsie seemed anxious for
nothing so much as to be clear of the place, and finally promised to go
straight to a doctor, but insisted on going alone.

"Good-bye," she said.

And Oleron watched her until she was past the hatchet-like "To Let" boards,
as if he feared that even they might fall upon her and maim her.

That night Oleron did not dine. He had far too much on his mind. He walked
from room to room of his flat, as if he could have walked way from Elsie
Bengough's haunting cry that still rang in his ears. "I'm not wanted--don't
offer me anything less--let me take away what's left of me-------"

Oh, if he could have persuaded himself that he loved her!

He walked until twilight fell, then, without lighting candles, he stirred up
the fire and flung himself into a chair.

Poor, poor Elsie!...

But even while his heart ached for her, it was out of the question. If only
he had known! If only he had used common observation! But those walks, those
sisterly takings of the arm--what a fool he had been!. . . Well, it was too
late now. It was she, not he, who must now act--act by keeping away. He
would help her all he could. He himself would not sit in her presence. If
she came, he would hurry her out again as fast as he could. . . . Poor, poor
Elsie!

His room grew dark; the fire burned dead; and he continued to it, wincing
from time to time as a fresh tortured phrase rang in his ears.

Then suddenly, he knew not why, he found himself anxious for her in a new
sense--uneasy about her personal safety. A horrible fancy that even then he
might be looking over an embankment down into dark water, that she might
even now be glancing up at the hook on the door, took him. Women had been
known to do these things! . . . Then there would be an inquest, and he
himself would be called upon to identify her, and would be asked how she had
come by an ill-healed wound on the hand and a bad abrasion of the ankle.
Barrett would say that he had seen her leaving his house. . . .

Then he recognised that his thoughts were morbid. By an effort of will he
put them aside, and sat for awhile listening to the faint creakings and
tickings and rappings within his panelling. . . .

If only he could have married her!...But he couldn't. Her face had risen
before him again as he had seen it on the stairs, drawn with pain and ugly
and swollen with tears. Ugly--yes, positively blubbered; if tears were
women's weapons, as they were said to be, such tears were weapons turning
against themselves . . . suicide again . . .

Then all at once he found himself attentively considering her two accidents.

Extraordinary, they had been, both of them. He could not have left that old
nail standing in the wood; why, he had fetched tools specially from the
kitchen; and he was convinced that the step that had broken beneath her
weight had been as sound as the others. It was inexplicable, if these things
could happen, anything could happen. There was not a beam nor a jamb in the
place that might not fall without warning, not a plank that might not crash
inwards, not a nail that might not become a dagger. The whole place was full
of life even now; as he sat there in the dark he heard its crowds of noises
as if the house had been one great microphone. . . .

Only half conscious that he did so, he had been sitting for some time
identifying these noises, attributing to each crack or creak or knock its
material cause; but there was one noise which, again not fully conscious of
the omission, he had not sought to account for. It had last come some
minutes ago; it came again now--a sort of soft sweeping rustle that seemed
to hold an almost inaudible minute crackling. For half a minute or so it had
Oleron's attention; then his heavy thoughts were of Elsie Bengough again.

He was nearer to loving her in that moment than he had ever been. He thought
how to some men their loved ones were but the dearer for those poor mortal
blemishes that tell us we are but sojourners on earth, with a common fate
not far distant that makes it hardly worth while to do anything but love for
the time remaining. Strangling sobs, blearing tears, bodies buffeted by
sickness, hearts and mind callous and hard with the rubs of the world--how
little love there would be were these things a barrier to love! In that
sense he did love Elsie Bengough. What her happiness had never moved in him
her sorrow almost awoke. . . .

Suddenly his meditation went. His ear had once more become conscious of that
soft and repeated noise--the long sweep with the almost inaudible crackle in
it. Again and again it came, with a curious insistence and urgency. It
quickened a little as he became increasingly attentive. . . . it seemed to
Oleron that it grew louder. . . .

All at once he started bolt upright in his chair, tense and listening. The
silky rustle came agin; he was trying to attach it to something. . . .

The next moment he had leapt to his feet, unnerved and terrified. His chair
hung poised for a moment, and then went over, setting the fire-irons
clattering as it fell. There was only one noise in the world like that which
had caused him to spring thus to his feet. . . .

The next time it came Oleron felt behind him at the empty air with his hand,
and backed slowly until he found himself against the wall.

"God in Heaven!" The ejaculation broke from Oleron's lips. The sound had
ceased.

The next moment he had given a high cry.

"What is it? What's there? Who's there?"

A sound of scuttling caused his knees to bend under him for a moment; but
that, he knew, was a mouse. That was not something that his stomach turned
sick and his mind reeled to entertain. That other sound, the like of which
was not in the world, had now entirely ceased; and again he called. . . .

He called and continued to call; and then another terror, a terror of the
sound of his own voice, seized him. He did not dare to call again. His
shaking hand went to his pocket for a match, but he found none. He thought
there might be matches on the mantelpiece-----

He worked his way to the mantelpiece round a little recess, without for a
moment leaving the wall. Then his hand encountered the mantelpiece, and
groped along it. A box of matches fell to the hearth. He could just see them
in the firelight, but his hand could not pick them up until he had cornered
them inside the fender.

Then he rose and struck a light.

The room was as usual. He struck a second match. A candle stood on the
table. He lighted it, and the flame sank for a moment and then burned up
clear. Again he looked round.

There was nothing.

There was nothing; but there had been something, and might still be
something. Formerly, Oleron had smiled at the fantastic thought that, by a
merging and interplay of identities between himself and his beautiful room,
he might be preparing a ghost for the future; it had not occurred to him
that there might have been a similar merging and coalescence in the past.
Yet with this staggering impossibility he was now face to face. Something
did persist in the house; it had a tenant other than himself; and that
tenant, whatsoever or whosoever, had appalled Oleron's soul by producing the
sound of a woman brushing her hair.
                                     vii

Without quite knowing how he came to be there Oleron found himself striding
over the loose board he had temporarily placed on the step broken by Miss
Bengough. He was hatless, and descending the stairs. Not until later did
there return to him a hazy memory that he had left the candle burning on the
table, had opened the door no wider than was necessary to allow the passage
of his body, and had sidled out, closing the door softly behind him. At the
foot of the stairs another shock awaited him. Something dashed with a flurry
up from the disused cellars and disappeared out of the door. It was only a
cat, but Oleron gave a childish sob.

He passed out of the gate, and stood for a moment under the "To Let" boards,
plucking foolishly at his lip and looking up at the glimmer of light behind
one of his red blinds. Then, still looking over his shoulder, he moved
stumblingly up the square. There was a small public-house round the corner;
Oleron had never entered it; but he entered it now, and put down a shilling
that missed the counter by inches.

"B---b---bran--brandy," he said, and then stooped to look for the shilling.

He had the little sawdusted bar to himself; what company there was--carters
and labourers and the small tradesmen of the neighbourhood--was gathered in
the farther compartment, beyond the space where the white-haired landlady
moved among her taps and bottles. Oleron sat down on a hardwood settee with
a perforated seat, drank half his brandy, and then, thinking he might as
well drink it as spill it, finished it.

Then he fell to wondering which of the men whose voices he heard across the
public-house would undertake the removal of his effects on the morrow.

In the meantime he ordered more brandy.

For he did not intend to go back to that room where he had left the candle
burning. Oh no! He couldn't have faced even the entry and the staircase with
the broken step --certainly not that pith-white, fascinating room. He would
go back for the present to his old arrangement, of work-room and separate
sleeping-quarters; he would go to his old landlady at once--presently--when
he had finished his brandy --and see if she could put him up for the night.
His glass was empty now ....

He rose, had it refilled, and sat down again.

And if anybody asked his reason for removing again? Oh, he had reason
enough--reason enough! Nails that put themselves back into wood again and
gashed people's hands, steps that broke when you trod on them, and women who
came into a man's place and brushed their hair in the dark, were reasons
enough! He was querulous and injured about it all. He had taken the place
for himself, not for invisible women to brush their hair in; that lawyer
fellow in Lincoln's Inn should be told so, too, before many hours were out;
it was outrageous, letting people in for agreement like that!

A cut-glass partition divided the compartment where Oleron sat from the
space where the white-haired landlady moved; but it stopped seven or eight
inches above the level of the counter. There was no partition at the further
bar. Presently Oleron, raising his eyes, saw that faces were watching him
through the aperture. The faces disappeared when he looked at them.

He moved to a corner where he could not be seen from the other bar; but this
brought him into line with the white-haired landlady.

She knew him by sight--had doubtless seen him passing and repassing; and
presently she made a remark on the weather. Oleron did not know what he
replied, but it sufficed to call forth the further remark that the winter
had been a bad one for influenza, but that the spring weather seemed to be
coming at last .... Even this slight contact with the commonplace steadied
Oleron a little; an idle, nascent wonder whether the landlady brushed her
hair every night, and, if so, whether it gave out those little electric
cracklings, was shut down with a snap; and 0leron was better ....

With his next glass of brandy he was all for going back to his flat. Not go
back? Indeed, he would go back! They should very soon see whether he was to
be turned out of his place like that! He began to wonder why he was doing
the rather unusual thing he was doing at that moment, unusual for
him--sitting hatless, drinking brandy, in a public-house. Suppose he were to
tell the white-haired landlady all about it--to tell her that a caller had
scratched her hand on a nail, had later had the bad luck to put her foot
through a rotten stair, and that he himself, in an old house full of squeaks
and creaks and whispers, had heard a minute noise and had bolted from it in
fright--what would she think of him? That he was mad, of course .... Pshaw!
The real truth of the matter was that he hadn't been doing enough work to
occupy him. He had been dreaming his days away, filling his head with a lot
of moonshine about a new Romilly (as if the old one was not good enough),
and now he was surprised that the devil should enter an empty head!

Yes, he would go back. He would take a walk in the air first--he hadn't
walked enough lately--and then he would take himself in hand, settle the
hash of that sixteenth chapter of Romilly (fancy, he had actually been fool
enough to think of destroying fifteen chapters !) and thenceforward he would
remember that he had obligations to his fellow men and work to do in the
world. There was the matter in a nutshell.

He finished his brandy and went out.

He had walked for some time before any other bearing of the matter than that
on himself occurred to him. At first, the fresh air had increased the heady
effect of the brandy he had drunk; but afterwards his mind grew clearer than
it had been since morning. And the clearer it grew, the less final did his
boastful self-assurances become, and the firmer his conviction that, when
all explanations had been made, there remained something that could not be
explained. His hysteria of an hour before had passed; he grew steadily
calmer; but the disquieting conviction remained. A deep fear took possession
of him. It was a fear for Elsie.

For something in his place was inimical to her safety. Of themselves, her
two accidents might not have persuaded him of this; but she herself had said
it. "I'm not wanted here .... " And she had declared that there was
something wrong with the place. She had seen it before he had. Well and
good. One thing stood out clearly: namely, that if this was so, she must be
kept away for quite another reason than that had so confounded and
humiliated Oleron. Luckily she had expressed her intention of staying away;
she must be held to that intention. He must see to it.

And he must see to it all the more that he now saw his first example, never
to set foot in the place again, was absurd. People did not do that kind of
thing. With Elsie made secure, he could not with any respect to himself
suffer himself to be turned out by a shadow, nor even by a danger merely
because it was a danger. He had to live somewhere, and he would live there.
He must return.

He mastered the faint chill of fear that came with the decision, and turned
in his walk abruptly. Should fear grow on him again he would, perhaps, take
one more glass of brandy ....

But by the time he reached the short street that led to the square he was
too late for more brandy. The little public house was still lighted, but
closed, and one or two men were standing talking on the kerb. Oleron noticed
that a sudden silence fell on t hem as he passed, and he noticed further
that the long-nosed Barrett, whom he passed a little lower down, did not
return his good-night. He turned in at the broken gate, hesitated merely. an
instant in the alley, and then mounted his stairs again.

Only an inch of candle remained in the Sheffield stick, and Oleron did not
light another one. Deliberately he forced himself to take it up and to make
the tour of his five rooms before retiring. It was as he returned from the
kitchen across his little ha ll that he noticed that a letter lay on the
floor. He carried it into his sitting-room, and glanced at the envelope
before opening it.

It was unstamped, and had been put into the door by hand. Its handwriting
was clumsy, and it ran from beginning to end without comma or period. Oleron
read the first line, turned to the signature, and then finished the letter.

It was from the man Barrett, and it informed Oleron that he, Barrett, would
be obliged if Mr. Oleron would make other arrangements for the preparing of
his breakfasts and the cleaning-out of his place. The sting lay in the tail,
that is to say, the postscript- This consisted of a text of Scripture. It
embodied an allusion that could only be to Elsie Bengough ....

A seldom-seen frown had cut deeply into Oleron's brow. So! That was it! Very
well; they would see about that on the morrow .... For the rest, this seemed
merely another reason why Elsie should keep away ...

Then his suppressed rage broke out.. ..

The foul-minded lot! The devil himself could not have given a leer at
anything that had ever passed between Paul Oleron and Elsie Bengough, yet
this nosing rascal must be prying and talking! ...

Oleron crumpled the paper up, held it, in, the candle flame, and then ground
the ashes under his heel.

One useful purpose, however, the letter had served: it had created in Oleron
a wrathful blaze that effectually banished pale shadows. Nevertheless, one
other puzzling circumstance was to close the day. As he undressed, he
chanced to glance at his bed. The coverlets bore an impress as if somebody
had lain on them. Oleron could not remember that he himself had lain down
during the day--off-hand, he would have said that certainly he had not; but
after all he could not be positive. His indignation for Elsie, acting
possibly with the residue of the brandy in him, excluded all other
considerations; and he put out his candle, lay down, and passed immediately
into a deep and dreamless sleep, which, in the absence of Mrs. Barrett's
morning call, lasted almost once round the clock.

                                    VIII

To the man who pays heed to that voice within him which warns him that
twilight and danger are settling over his soul, terror is apt to appear an
absolute thing, against which his heart must be safeguarded in a twink
unless there-is to take place an alteration in the whole range and scale of
his nature. Mercifully, he has never far to look for safeguards. Of the
immediate and small and common and momentary things of life, of usages and
observances and modes and conventions, he builds up fortifications against
the powers of darkness. He is even content that, not terror only, but joy
also, should for working purposes be placed in the category of the absolute
things; and the last treason he will commit will be that breaking down of
terms and limits that strikes, not at one man, but at the welfare of the
souls of all.

In his own person, Oleron began to commit this treason. He began to commit
it by admitting the inexplicable and horrible to an increasing familiarity.
He did it insensibly, unconsciously, by a neglect of the things that he now
regarded it as an impertinence in Elsie Bengough to have prescribed. Two
months before, the words "a haunted house," applied to his lovely bemusing
dwelling, would have chilled his marrow; now, his scale of sensation
becoming depressed, he could ask "Haunted by what?" and remain unconscious
that horror, when it can be proved to be relative, by so much loses its
proper quality. He was setting aside the landmarks. Mists and confusion had
begun to enwrap him.

And he was conscious of nothing so much as of a voracious inquisitiveness.
He wanted to know. He was resolved to know. Nothing but the knowledge would
satisfy him; and craftily he cast about for means whereby he might attain
it.

He might have spared his craft. The matter was the easiest imaginable. As in
time past he had known, in his writing, moments when his thoughts had seemed
to rise of themselves and to embody themselves in words not to be altered
after wards, so now the question he put himself seemed to be answered even
in the moment of their asking. There was exhilaration in the swift, easy
processes. He had known no such joy in his own power since the days when his
writing had been a daily freshness and a delight to him. It was almost as if
the course he must pursue was being dictated to him.

And the first thing he must do, of course, was to define the problem. He
defined it in terms of mathematics. Granted that he had not the place to
himself; granted that the old house had inexpressibly caught and engaged his
spirit; granted that, by virtue of the common denominator of the place, this
unknown co-tenant stood in some relation to himself: what next? Clearly, the
nature of the other numerator must be ascertained.

And how? Ordinarily this would not have seemed simple, but to Oleron it was
now pellucidly clear. The key, of course, lay in his half-written novel--or
rather, in both Romillys, the I old and the proposed new one.

A little while before Oleron would have thought himself mad to have embraced
such an opinion; now he accepted the dizzying hypothesis without a quiver.

He began to examine the first and second Romillys.

From the moment of his doing so the thing advanced by leaps and bounds.
Swiftly he reviewed the history of the Romilly of the fifteen chapters. He
remembered clearly now that he had found her insufficient on the very first
morning on which he had sat down to work in his new place. Other instances
of his aversion leaped up to confirm his obscure investigation. There had
come the night when he had hardly forborne to throw the whole thing into the
fire; and the next morning he had begun the planning of the new Romilly. It
had been on that morning that Mrs. Barrett, overhearing him humming a brief
phrase that the dripping of a tap the night before had suggested, had
informed him that he was singing some air he had never in his life heard
before, called "The Beckoning Fair One." ....

The Beckoning Fair One! . ...

With scarcely a pause in thought he, continued:

The first Romilly having been definitely thrown over, second had instantly
fastened herself upon him, clamoring for birth in his brain. He even fancied
now, looking back, that there had been something like passion, hate almost,
in the supplanting, and that more than once a stray thought given to his
discarded creation had--(it was astonishing how credible Oleron found the
almost unthinkable idea)---had offended the supplanter.

Yet that a malignancy almost homicidal should be ex tended to his fiction's
poor mortal prototype...

In spite of his inuring to a scale in which the horrible was now a thing to
be fingered and turned this way and that, a "Good God !" broke from 01eron.

This intrusion of the first Romilly's prototype into his thought again was a
factor that for the moment brought his inquiry into the nature of his
problem to a termination; the mere thought of Elsie was fatal to anything
abstract. For another thing, he could not yet think of that letter of
Barrett's, nor of a little scene that had followed it, without a mounting of
colour and a quick contraction of the brow. For, wisely or not, he had had
that argument out at once. Striding across the square on the following
morning, he had bearded Barrett on his own doorstep. Coming back again a few
minutes later, he had been strongly of opinion that he had only made matters
worse. The man had been vagueness itself. He had not been able to be either
challenged or brow beaten into anything more definite than a muttered
farrago in which the words "Certain things . Mrs. Barrett . . . .
respectable house . . . if the cap fits . . . proceedings that shall be
nameless," had been constantly repeated.

"Not that I make any charge----" he had concluded.

"Charge!" Oleron had cried.

"I 'ave my idears of things, as I don't doubt you 'ave yours---"

"Ideas--mine!" Oleron had cried wrathfully, immediately dropping his voice
as heads had appeared at windows of the square. "Look you here, my man;
you've an unwholesome mind, which probably you can't help, but a tongue
which you. can help, and shall! If there is a breath of this repeated . . ."

"I'll not be talked to on my own doorstep like this by anybody, . . ."
Barrett had blustered....

"You shall, and I'm doing it . . ."

"Don't you forget there's a Gawd above all, Who 'as said..."

"You're a low scandalmonger! . . ."

And so forth, continuing badly what was already badly begun. Oleron had
returned wrathfully to his own house, and thenceforward, looking out of his
windows, had seen Barrett's face at odd times, lifting blinds or peering
round curtains, as if he sought to put himself in possession of Heaven knew
what evidence, in case it should be required of him.

The unfortunate occurrence made certain minor differences in Oleron's
domestic arrangements. Barrett's tongue, he gathered, had already been busy;
he was looked at askance by the dwellers of the square; and he judged it
better, until he should be able to obtain other help, to make his purchases
of provisions a little farther afield rather than at the small shops of the
immediate neighbourhood. For the rest, housekeeping was no new thing to him,
and he would resume his old bachelor habits ....

Besides, he was deep in certain rather abstruse investigations, in which it
was better that he should not be disturbed.

He was looking out of his window one midday rather tired, not very well, and
glad that it was not very likely he would have to stir out of doors, when he
saw Elsie Bengough crossing the square towards his house. The weather had
broken; it was a raw and gusty day; and she had to force her way against the
wind that set her ample skirts bellying about her opulent figure and her
veil spinning and streaming behind her.

Oleron acted swiftly and instinctively. Seizing his hat, he sprang to the
door and descended the stairs at a run. A sort of panic had seized him. She
must be prevented from setting foot in the place. As he ran along the alley
he was conscious that his eyes went up to the caves as if something drew
them. He did not know that a slate might not accident ally fall ....

He met her at the gate, and spoke with curious volubleness.

"This is really too bad, Elsie! Just as I'm urgently called away! I'm afraid
it can't be helped though, and that you'll have to think me an inhospitable
beast." He poured it out just as it came into his head.

She asked if he was going to town.

"Yes, yes--to town," he replied. "I've got to call on--on Chambers. You know
Chambers, don't you? No, I remember you don't; a big man you once saw me
with. . . I ought to have gone yesterday, and--" this he felt to be a
brilliant effort--" and he's going out of town this after noon. To Brighton.
I had a letter from him this morning."

He took her arm and led her up the square. She had to remind him that his
way to town lay in the other direction.

"Of course--how stupid of me l" he said, with a little loud laugh. "I'm so
used to going the other way with you--of course; it's the other way to the
bus. Will you come along with me? I am so awfully sorry it's happened like
this ....

They took the street to the bus terminus.

This time Elsie bore no signs of having gone through interior struggles. If
she detected anything unusual in his manner she made' no comment, and he,
seeing her calm, began to talk less recklessly through silences. By the time
they reached the bus terminus, nobody, seeing the pallid-faced man without
an overcoat and the large ample skirted girl at his side, would have
supposed .that one of them was ready to sink on his knees for thankfulness
that he had, as he believed, saved the other from a wildly unthinkable
danger.

They mounted to the top of the bus, Oleron protesting that he should not
miss his overcoat, and that he found the day, if anything, rather
oppressively hot. They sat down on a front seat.

Now that this meeting was forced upon him, he had something else to say that
would make demands upon his tact. It had been on his mind for some time, and
was, indeed, peculiarly difficult to put. He revolved it for some minutes,
and then, remembering the success of his story of a sudden call to town, cut
the knot of his difficulty with another lie.

"I'm thinking of going away for a little while, Elsie," he said.

She merely said, "Oh?"

"Somewhere for a change. I need a change. I think I shall go to-morrow, or
the day after. Yes, to-morrow, I think."

"Yes," she replied.

"I don't quite know how long I shall be," he continued. "I shall have to let
you know when I am back."

"Yes, let me know," she replied in an even tone.

The tone was, for her, suspiciously even. He was a little uneasy.

"You don't ask me where I'm going," he said, with a little cumbrous effort
to rally her.

She was looking straight before her, past the bus-driver.

"I know," she said.

He was startled. "How, you know?"

"You're not going anywhere," she replied.

He found not a word to say. It was a minute or so before she continued, in
the same controlled voice she had employed from the start.

"You're not going anywhere. You weren't going out this morning. You only
came out because I appeared; don't behave as if we were strangers, Paul."

A flush of pink had mounted to his cheeks. He noticed that the wind had
given her the pink of early rhubarb. Still he found nothing to say.

"Of course, you ought to go away," she continued. "I don't know whether you
look at yourself often in the glass, but you're rather noticeable. Several
people have turned to look at you this morning. So, of course, you ought to
go away. But you won't, and I know why."

He shivered, coughed a little, and then broke silence.

"Then if you know, there's no use in continuing this discussion" he said
curtly.

"Not for me, perhaps, but there is for you, " she replied."Shall I tell you
what I know?"

"No," he said in a voice slightly raised.

"No?" she asked, her round eyes earnestly on him.

"No." Again he was getting out of patience with her; again he was conscious
of the strain. Her devotion and fidelity and love plagued him; she was only
humiliating both herself and him. It would have been bad enough had he ever,
by word or deed, given her cause for thus fastening herself on him
...but....there; that was the worst of that kind of life for a woman. Women
such as she, businesswomen, in and out of offices all the time, always,
whether they realised it or not, made comradeship a cover for something
else. They accepted the unconventional status, came and went freely, as men
did, were honestly taken by men at their own valuation--and then it turned
out to be the other thing after all, and they went and fell in love. No
wonder there was gossip in shops and squares and public houses! In a sense
the gossipers were in the right of it. Independent, yet not efficient; with
some of womanhood's graces forgone, and yet with all the woman's hunger and
need; half sophisticated, yet not wise; Oleron was tired of it all ....

And it was time he told her so.

"I suppose," he said tremblingly, looking down between his knees, "I suppose
the real trouble is in the life women who earn their own living are obliged
to lead."

He could not tell in what sense she took the lame generality; she merely
replied, "I suppose so."

"It can't be helped," he continued, "but you do sacrifice a good deal."

She agreed: a good deal; and then she added after a moment, "What, for
instance?"

"You may or may not be gradually attaining a new status, but you're in a
false position to-day."

It was very likely, she said; she hadn't thought of it much in that
light-----

"And," he continued desperately, "you're bound to suffer. Your most innocent
acts are misunderstood; motives you never dreamed of are attributed to you;
and in the end it comes to"--he hesitated a moment and then took the
plunge,--" to the sidelong look and the leer."

She took his meaning with perfect ease. She merely shivered a little as she
pronounced the name.

"Barrett?"

His silence told her the rest.

Anything further that was to be said must come from her. It came as the bus
stopped at a stage and fresh passengers mounted the stairs.

"You'd better get down here and go back, Paul," she said. "I understand
perfectly--perfectly. It isn't Barrett. You'd be able to deal with Barrett.
It's merely convenient for you to say it's Barrett. I know what it is . . .
but you said I wasn't to tell you that. Very well. But before you go let me
tell you why I came up this morning."

In a dull tone he asked her why. Again she looked straight before her as she
replied:

"I came to force your hand. Things couldn't go on as they have been going,
you know; and now that's all over. ' '

"All over," he repeated stupidly.

"All over. I want you now to consider yourself, as far as I'm concerned,
perfectly free. I make only one reservation."

He hardly had the spirit to ask her what that was.

"If I merely need you," she said, "please don't give that a thought; that's
nothing; I shan't come near for that. But," she dropped her voice, "if
you're in need of me, Paul--I shall know if you are, and you will be--then I
shall come at no matter what cost. You understand that?"

He could only groan.

"So that's understood," she concluded. "And I think all. Now go back. I
should advise you to walk back, for you're shivering--good-bye---"

She gave him a cold hand, and he descended. He turned on the on the edge of
the kerb as the bus started again. For the first time in all the years he
had known her she parted from him with no smile and no wave of her long arm.

                                     IX

He stood on the kerb plunged in misery, looking after her as long as she
remained in sight; but almost instantly with her disappearance he felt the
heaviness lift a little from his spirit. She had given him his liberty;
true, there was a sense in which he had never parted with it, but now was no
time for splitting hairs; he was free to act, and all was clear ahead.
Swiftly the sense of lightness grew on him: it became a positive rejoicing
in his liberty; and before he was half-way home he had decided what must be
done next.

The vicar of the parish in which his dwelling was situated lived within ten
minutes of the square. To his house Oleron turned his steps. It was
necessary that he should have all the information he could get about this
old house with the insurance marks an d the sloping "To Let" boards, and the
vicar was the person most likely to be able to furnish it. This last
preliminary out of the way, and--aha! Oleron chuckled --things might be
expected to happen!

But he gained less information than he had hoped for. The house, the vicar
said, was old--but there needed no vicar to tell Oleron that; it was reputed
(0leron pricked up his-ears) to be haunted--but there were few old houses
about which some such rumour did not circulate among ignorant; and the
deplorable lack of Faith of the modern world, the vicar thought, did not
tend to dissipate these superstitions. For the rest, his manner was the
soothing manner of one who prefers not to make statements without knowing
how they will be taken by his hearer. Oleron smiled as he perceived this.

"You may leave my nerves out of the question," he said. "How long has the
place been empty?"

"A dozen years, I should say," the vicar replied.

"And the last tenant--did you know him--or her?" Oleron was conscious of a
tingling of his nerves as he offered the vicar the alternative of sex.

"Him," said the vicar. "A man. If I remember rightly, his name was Madley an
artist. He was a great recluse; seldom went out of place, and "--the vicar
hesitated and then broke into a little gush of candour--" and since you
appear to have come for this information, and since it is better that the
truth should be told than that garbled versions should get about, I don't
mind saying that this man Madley died there, under somewhat unusual
circumstances. It was ascertained at the post-mortem that there was not a
particle of food in his stomach, although he was found to be-not without
money. And his frame was simply worn out. Suicide was spoken of, but you'll
agree with me that deliberate starvation is, to say the least, an uncommon
form of suicide. An open verdict was returned."

"Ah!" said Oleron. . . . "Does there happen to be any comprehensive history
of this parish?"

"No; partial ones only. I myself am not guiltless of having made a number of
notes on its purely ecclesiastical history, its registers and so forth,
which I shall be happy to show you if you would care to see them; but it is
a large parish, I have only on e curate, and my leisure, as you will readily
understand . . . "

The extent of the parish and the scantiness of the vicar's leisure occupied
the remainder of the interview, and Oleron thanked the vicar, took his
leave, and walked slowly home.

He walked slowly for a reason, twice turning away from the house within a
stone's-throw of the gate and taking another turn of twenty minutes or so.
He had a very ticklish piece of work now before him; it required the
greatest mental concentration; it was nothing less than to bring his mind,
if he might, into such a state of unpreoccupation and receptivity that he
should see the place as he had seen it on that morning when, his removal
accomplished, he had sat down to begin the sixteenth chapter of the first
Romilly.

For, could he recapture that first impression, he now hoped for far more
from it. Formerly, he had carried no end of mental lumber. Before the
influence of the place had been able to find him out at all, it had had the
inertia of those dreary chapters to overcome. No results had shown. The
process had been one of slow saturation, charging, filling up to a brim. But
now he was light, unburdened, rid at last both of that Romilly and of her
prototype. Now for the new unknown, coy, jealous, bewitching, Beckoning
Fair! . ..

At half-past two of the afternoon he put .his key into the Yale lock,
entered, and closed the door behind him ....

His fantastic attempt was instantly and astonishingly successful. He could
have shouted with triumph as he entered the room; it was as if he had
escaped into it. Once more, as in the days when his writing had had a daily
freshness and wonder and promise for him, he was conscious of that new ease
and mastery and exhilaration and release, The air of the place seemed to
hold more oxygen; as if his own specific gravity had changed, his very tread
seemed less ponderable. The flowers in the bowls, the fair proportions of
the meadowsweet-coloured panels and mouldings, the polished floor, and the
lofty and faintly tarred ceiling, fairly laughed their welcome. Oleron
actually laughed back, and spoke aloud.

"Oh, you're pretty, pretty!" he flattered it.

Then he lay down on his couch.

He spent that afternoon as a convalescent who expected a dear visitor might
have spent it--in a delicious vacancy, smiling now and then as if in sleep,
and ever lifting drowsy and contented eyes to his alluring surroundings. He
lay thus until darkness came, and with darkness, the nocturnal noises of the
old house....

But if he waited for any specific happening, he waited in vain.

He waited similarly in vain on the morrow, maintaining, though with less
ease, that sensitised-late-like condition of his mind. Nothing occurred to
give it an impression. Whatever it was which he so patiently wooed, it
seemed to be both shy and exacting...

And then on the third day he thought he understood. A look of gentle
drollery and cunning came into his eyes, and he chuckled.

"Oho, oho! . . . Well, if the wind sits in thatquarter we must see what else
there is to be done. What is there, now? . . . No, I won't send for Elsie;
we don't need a wheel to break the butterfly on; we won't go to those
lengths, my butterfly...."

He was standing musing, thumbing his lean jaw, looking aslant; suddenly he
crossed to his hall, took down his hat, and went out.

"My lady is coquettish, is she? Well, we'll see what a little neglect will
do," he chuckled as he went down the stairs."

He sought a railway station, got into a train, and spent the rest of the day
in the country. Oh, yes: Oleron thought he was the one to deal with Fair
Ones who beckoned, and invited, and then took refuge in shyness and hanging
back!

He did not return until after eleven that night.

"< I>Now, my Fair Beckoner!" he murmured as he walked along the alley and
felt in his pocket for his keys. . . .

Inside his flat, he was perfectly composed, perfectly deliberate,
exceedingly careful not to give himself away. As if to intimate that he
intended to retire immediately, he lighted only a single candle; and as he
set out with it on his nightly round he affected to yawn. He went first into
his kitchen. There was a full moon, and a lozenge of moonlight, almost
peacock-blue by contrast with his candle-frame, lay on the floor. The window
was uncurtained, and he could see the reflection of the candle, and,
faintly, that of his own face, as he moved bout. The door of the
powder-closet stood a little ajar, and he closed it before sitting down to
remove his boots on the chair with the cushion made of the folded harp-bag.
From the kitchen he passed to the bathroom. There, another slant of blue
moonlight cut the windowsill and law across the pipes on the wall. He
visited his seldom-used study, and stood for a moment gazing at the silvered
roofs across the square. Then, walking straight through his sitting-room,
his stockinged feet making no noise, he entered the bedroom and put the
candle on the chest of drawers. His face all this time wore no expression
save that of tiredness. He had never been wilier nor more alert.

His small bedroom fireplace was opposite the chest of drawers on which the
mirror stood, and his bed and the window occupied the remaining sides of the
room. Oleron drew down his blind, took off his coat, he then stooped to get
his slippers from under the bed.

He could have given no reason for the conviction, but that the manifestation
that for two days had been withheld was close at hand he never for an
instant doubted. Nor, though he could not form the faintest guess of the
shape it might take, did he experience fear. Startling or surprising it
might be; he was prepared for that; but that was all; his scale of sensation
had become depressed. His hand moved this way and that under the bed in
search of his slippers. . . .

But for all his caution and method and preparedness, his heart all at once
gave a leap and a pause that was almost horrid. His hand had found the
slippers, but he was still on his knees; save for the circumstance he would
have fallen. The bed was a low one; the groping for the slippers accounted
for the turn of his head to one side; and he was careful to keep the
attitude until he had partly recovered his self-possession. When presently
he rose there was a drop of blood on his lower lip where he had caught at it
with his teeth, and his watch had jerked out of the pocket of his waistcoat
and was dangling at the end of its short leather guard.. . .

Then, before the watch had ceased its little oscillation, he was himself
again.

In the middle of the mantelpiece there stood a picture, a portrait of his
grandmother; he placed himself before this picture, so that he could see in
the glass of it the steady flame of the candle that burned behind him on the
chest of drawers. He could see also in the picture-glass the little
glancings of light from the bevels and facets of the objects about the
mirror and candle. But he could see more. These tinglings and reflections
and re-reflections did not change their position; but there was one gleam
that had motion. It was fainter than the rest, and it moved up and down
through the air. It was the reflection of the candle on Oleron's black
vulcanite comb, and each of its downward movements was accompanied by a
silky and crackling rustle.

Oleron, watching what went on in the glass of his grandmother's portrait,
continued to play his part. He felt for his dangling watch and began slowly
to wind it up. Then, for a moment ceasing to watch, he began to empty his
trousers pockets and to place methodically in a little row on the
mantelpiece the pennies and halfpennies he took from them. The sweeping,
minutely electric noise filled the whole bedroom, and had Oleron altered his
point of observation he could have brought the dim gleam of the moving comb
so into position that it would almost have outlined his grandmother's head.

Any other head of which it might have been following the outline was
invisible.

Oleron finished the emptying of his pockets; then, under cover of another
simulated yawn, not so much summoning his resolution as overmastered by an
exorbitant curiosity, he swung suddenly round. That which was being combed
was still not to be seen, but the comb did not stop. It had altered its
angle a little, and had moved a little to the left. It was passing, in
fairly regular sweeps, from a point rather more than five feet from the
ground, in a direction roughly vertical, to another point a few inches below
the level of the chest of drawers.

Oleron continued to act to admiration. He walked to his little washstand in
the corner, poured out water, and began to wash his hands. He removed his
waistcoat, and continued the preparations for bed. The combing did not
cease, and he stood for a moment in thought. Again his eyes twinkled. The
next was very cunning-----

"Hm! . . . I think I'll read for a quarter of an hour," he said aloud. . . .

He passed out of the room.

He was away a couple of minutes; when he returned again the room was
suddenly quiet. He glanced at the chest of drawers; the comb lay still,
between the collar he had removed and a pair of gloves. Without hesitation
Oleron put out his hand and picked it up. It was an ordinary eighteen-penny
comb, taken from a card in a chemist's shop, of a substance of a definite
specific gravity, and no more capable of rebellion against the Laws by which
it existed than are the worlds that keep their orbits through the void.
Oleron put it down again; then he glanced at the bundle of papers he held in
his hand. What he had gone to fetch had been the fifteen chapters of the
original Romilly.

"Hm!" he muttered as he threw the manuscript into a chair. . . . "As I
thought. . . . She's just blindly, ragingly, murderously jealous."

On the night after that, and on the following night, and for many nights and
days, so many that he began to be uncertain about the count of them, Oleron,
courting, cajoling, neglecting, threatening, beseeching, eaten out with
unappeased curiosity and regardless that his life was becoming one consuming
passion and desire, continued his search for the unknown co-numerator of his
abode.

                                      x

As time went on, it came to pass that few except the postman mounted
Oleron's stairs; and since men who do not write letters receive few, even
the postman's tread became so infrequent that it was not heard more than
once or twice a week. There came a letter from Oleron's publishers, asking
when they might expect to receive the manuscript of his new book; he delayed
for some days to answer it, and finally forgot it. A second letter came,
which he also failed to answer. He received no third.

The weather grew bright and warm. The privet bushes among the chopper-like
notice-boards flowered, and in the streets where Oleron did his shopping the
baskets of flower-women lined the kerbs. Oleron purchased flowers daily; his
room clamoured for flowers, fresh and continually renewed; and Oleron did
not stint its demands. Nevertheless, the necessity for going out to buy them
began to irk him more and more, and it was with a greater and ever greater
sense of relief that he returned home again. He began to be conscious that
again his scale of sensation had suffered a subtle change--a change that was
not restoration to its former capacity, but an extension and enlarging that
once more included terror. It admitted it in an entirely new form. Lux orco,
tenebrÔ Jovi. The name of this terror was agoraphobia. Oleron had begun to
dread air and space and the horror that might pounce upon the unguarded
back.

Presently he so contrived it that his food and flowers were delivered daily
at his door. He rubbed his hands when he had hit upon this expedient. That
was better! Now he could please himself whether he went out or not. . . .

Quickly he was confirmed in his choice. It became his pleasure to remain
immured.

But he was not happy--or, if he was, his happiness took an extraordinary
turn. he fretted discontentedly, could sometimes have wept for mere weakness
and misery; and yet he was dimly conscious that he would not have exchanged
his sadness for all the noisy mirth of the world outside. And speaking of
noise: noise, much noise, now caused him the acutest discomfort. It was
hardly more to be endured than that new-born fear that kept him, on the
increasingly rare occasions when he did go out, sidling close to walls and
feeling friendly rails with his hand. He moved from room to room softly and
in slippers, and sometimes stood for any seconds closing a door so gently
that not a sound broke the stillness that was in itself a delight. Sunday
now became an intolerable day to him, for, since the coming of the fine
weather, there had begun to assemble in the square under his windows each
Sunday morning certain members of the sect to which the long-nosed Barrett
adhered. These came with a great drum and large brass-bellied instruments;
men and women uplifted anguished voices, struggling with their God; and
Barrett himself, with upraised face and closed eyes and working brows,
prayed that the sound of his voice might penetrate the ears of all
unbelievers--as it certainly did Oleron's. One day, in the middle of one of
these rhapsodies, Oleron sprang to his blind and pulled it down, and heard
as he did so, his own name made the object of a fresh torrent of outpouring.

And sometimes, but not as expecting a reply, Oleron stood still and called
softly. Once or twice he called "Romilly!" and then waited; but more often
his whispering did not take the shape of a name.

There was one spot in particular of his abode that he began to haunt with
increasing persistency. This was just within the opening of his bedroom
door. He had discovered one day that by opening every door in his place
(always excepting the outer one, which he only opened unwillingly) and by
placing himself on this particular spot, he could actually see to a greater
or less extent into each of his five rooms without changing his position. He
could see the whole of his sitting-room, al of his bedroom except the part
hidden by the open door, and glimpses of his kitchen, bathroom, and of his
rarely used study. He was often in this place, breathless and with his
finger on his lip. One day, as he stood there, he suddenly found himself
wondering whether this Madley, of whom the vicar had spoken, had ever
discovered the strategic importance of the bedroom entry.

Light, moreover, now caused him greater disquietude than did darkness.
Direct sunlight, of which, as the sun passed daily round the house, each of
his rooms had now its share, was like a flame in his brain; and even
diffused light was a dull and numbing ache. He began, at successive hours of
the day, one after another, to lower his crimson blinds. He made short and
daring excursions in order to do this but he was ever careful to leave his
retreat open, in case he should have sudden need of it. Presently this
lowering of the blinds had become a daily methodical exercise, and his
rooms, when he had been his round, had the blood-red half-light of a
photographer's dark-room.

One day, as he drew down the blind of his little study and backed in good
order out of the room again, he broke into a soft laugh.

"That bilks Mr. Barrett!" he said; and the baffling of Barrett continued to
afford him mirth for an hour.

But on another day, soon after, he had a fright th at left him trembling
also for an hour. He had seized the cord to darken the window over the seat
in which he had found the harp-bag, and was standing with his back well
protected in the embrasure, when he thought he saw the tail of a
black-and-white check skirt disappear round the corner of the house. He
could not be sure--had he run to the window of the other wall, which was
blinded, the skirt must have been already past--but he was almost sure that
it was Elsie. He listened in an agony of suspense for her tread on the
stairs. . . .

"By Jove, but that would have compromised me horribly!" he muttered. . . .

And he continued to mutter from time to time, "Horribly compromising . . .
no woman would stand that . . . not any kind of woman . . . oh, compromising
in the extreme!"

Yet he was not happy. He could not have assigned the cause of the fits of
quit weeping which took him sometimes; they came and went, like the fitful
illumination of the clouds that travelled over the square; and perhaps,
after all, if he was not happy, he was not unhappy. Before he could be
unhappy something must have been withdrawn, and nothing had been granted. He
was waiting for that granting, in that flower-laden, frightfully enticing
apartment of his, with the pith-white walls tinged and subdued by the
crimson blinds to a blood-like gloom

He paid no heed to it that his stock of money was running perilously low,
nor that he ha cease to work. Ceased to work? He had not ceased to work.
They knew very little about it who supposed that Oleron had ceased to work!
He was in truth only now beginning to work. He was preparing such a work . .
. such a work . . . such a Mistress was a-making in the gestation of his Art
. . . let him but get this period of probation and poignant waiting over and
men should see. . . . How should men know her, this Fair One of Oleron's,
until Oleron himself knew her? Lovely radiant creations are not thrown off
like How-d'ye-do's. The men to whom it is committed to father them must weep
wretched tears, as Oleron did, must swell with vain presumptions hopes, as
Oleron did, must pursue, as Oleron pursued, the capricious, fair, mocking,
slippery, eager Spirit tat, ever eluding, ever sees to it that the chase
does not slacken. Let Oleron but hunt this Huntress a little longer . . . he
would have her sparkling and panting in his arms yet. . . . Oh no; they were
very far from the truth who supposed that Oleron had ceased to work!

And if all else was falling away from Oleron, gladly he was letting it go.
So do we all when out Fair Ones beckon. Quite at the beginning we wink, and
promise ourselves that we will put Her Ladyship through her paces, neglect
her for a day, turn her own jealous wiles against her, flout and ignore her
when she comes home wheedling; perhaps there lurks within us all the time a
heartless sprite who is never fooled; but in the end all falls away. She
beckons, beckons, and all goes. . . .

And so Oleron kept his strategic post within the frame of his bedroom door,
and watched, and waited, and smiled, with his finger on his lips. . . . It
was his duteous service, his worship, his troth-plighting, all that he had
ever known of Love. And when he found himself, as he now and then did,
hating the dead man Madley, and wishing that he had never lived, he felt
that that, too, was an acceptable service. . . .

But, as he thus prepared himself, as it were, for a Marriage, and moped and
chafed more and more that the Bride made no sign, he made a discovery that
he ought to have made weeks before.

It was through a thought of the dead Madley that he made it. Since that
night when he had thought in his greenness that a little studied neglect
would bring the lovely Beckoner to her knees, and had made use of her own
jealousy to banish her, he had not set eyes on those fifteen discarded
chapters of Romilly.he had thrown them back into the window-seat, forgotten
their very existence. But his own jealousy of Madley put him in mind of hrs
of her jilted rival of flesh and blood, and he remembered them. . . . Fool
that he had been! Had he, then, expected his Desire to manifest herself
while there still existed the evidence of his divide allegiance? What, and
she with a passion so fierce and centered that it had not hesitated at the
destruction, twice attempted, of her rival? Fool that he had been! . . .

But if that was all the pledge and sacrifice she required she should have
it--ah, yes, and quickly!

He took the manuscript from the window-seat, and brought it to the fire.

He kept the fire always burning now the warmth brought out the last vestige
of odour of the flowers with which his room was banked. He did not know what
time it was; long since he had allowed his clock to run down--it had seemed
a foolish measure of time in regard to the stupendous things that were
happening to Oleron; but he knew it was late. He took the Romilly manuscript
and knelt before the fire.

But he had not finished removing the fastening that held the sheets together
before he suddenly gave a start, turned his head over his shoulder, and
listened intently. The sound he had heard had not bee loud--it had been,
indeed, no more than a tap, twice or thrice repeated--but it had filled
Oleron with alarm. His face grew dark as it came again.

He heard a voice outside on the landing.

"Paul! . . . Paul! . . . "

It was Elsie's voice.

"Paul! . . . I know you're in . . . I want to see you. . . . "

He cursed her under his breath, but kept perfectly still. He did not intend
to admit her.

"Paul! . . . You're in trouble. . . . I believe you're in danger . . . at
least come to the door! . . . "

Oleron smothered a low laugh. It somehow amused him that she, in such danger
herself, should talk to him of his danger! . . . Well, if she was, serve her
right; she knew, or said she knew, all about it. . . .

"Paul! . . . Paul! . . . "

"Paul! . . . Paul! > . . " He mimicked her under his breath.

"Oh, Paul, it's horrible!" . . . "

Horrible, was it? thought Oleron. Then let her get away. . . .

"I only want to help you, Paul. . . . I didn't promise not to come if you
needed me. . . "

He was impervious to the pitiful sob that interrupted the low cry. The devil
take the woman! Should he shout to her to go away and not come back? No: let
her cal and knock and sob. She had a gift for sobbing; she mustn't think her
sobs would move him. They irritated him, so that he set his teeth and shook
his fist at her, but that was all. Let her sob.

"Paul! . . . Paul! . , . "

With his teeth hard set, he dropped the first page of Romilly into the fire.
Then he began to drop the rest in, sheet by sheet.

For many minutes the calling behind his door continued; then suddenly it
ceased. He heard the sound of feet slowly descending the stairs. He listened
for the noise of a fall or a cry or the crash of a piece of the handrail of
the upper landing; but none of these things came. She was spared. Apparently
her rival suffered her to crawl abject and beaten away. Oleron heard the
passing of her steps under his window; then she was gone.

He dropped the last page into the fire, and then, with a low laugh rose. He
looked fondly round his room.

"Lucky to get away like that," he remarked. "She wouldn't have got away if
I'd given her as much as a word or a look! What devils these women are! . .
. But no; I oughtn't to say that; one of em showed forbearance. . . . "

Who showed forbearance? And what was forborne? Ah, Oleron knew! . . .
Contempt, no doubt, had been at the bottom of it, but that didn't matter:
the pestering creature had been allowed to go unharmed. Yes, she was lucky;
Oleron hoped she knew it. . . .

And now, now, now for his reward!

Oleron crossed the room. All his door were open; his eyes shone as he placed
himself within that of his bedroom.

Fool that he had been, not to think of destroying the manuscript sooner! . .
.

How, in a houseful of shadows, should he know his own Shadow? How, in a
houseful of noises, distinguish the summons he felt to be at hand? Ah, trust
him! He would know! The place was full of a jugglery of dim lights. The
blind at his elbow that allowed the light of a street lamp to struggle
vaguely through--the glimpse of greeny blue moonlight seen through the
distant kitchen door--the sulky glow of the fire under the black ashes of
the burnt manuscript--the glimmering of the tulips and the moon-daisies and
narcissi in the bowls and jugs and jars--these did not so trick and bewilder
his eyes that he would not know his Own! It was he, not she, who had been
delaying the shadowy Bridal; he hung his head for a moment in mute
acknowledgment; then he bent his eyes on the deceiving, puzzling gloom
again. He would have called her name had he known it--but not he would not
ask her to share even a name with the other. . .

His own face, within the frame of the door, glimmered white as the narcissi
in the darkness. . . .

A shadow, light as fleece, seemed to take shape in the kitchen (the time had
been when Oleron would have said that a cloud had passed over the unseen
mon). The low illumination on the blind at his elbow grew dimmer (the time
had been when Oleron would have concluded that the lamplight going his
rounds had turned low the flame of the lamp). The fire settled, letting down
the black and charred papers; a flower fell from a bowl, and lay indistinct
upon the floor; all was still; and then a stray draught moved through the
old house, passing before Oleron's face. . . .

Suddenly, inclining his head, he withdrew a little from the door-jamb. The
wandering draught caused the door to move a little on its hinges. Oleron
trembled violently, stood for a moment longer, and then, putting his hand
out to the knob, softly drew the door to, sat down on the nearest chair, and
waited, as a man might await the calling of his name that should summon him
to some weighty, high and privy Audience. . . .

                                     xi

One knows not whether there can be human compassion for anÔmia of the soul.
When the pitch of Life is dropped, and the spirit is so put over and
reversed that that only is horrible which before was sweet and worldly and
of the day, the human relation disappears. The sane soul turns appalled
away, lest not merely itself, but sanity should suffer. We are not gods. We
cannot drive out devils. We must see selfishly to it that devils do not
enter into ourselves.

And this we must do even though Love so transfuse us that e may well deem
our nature to be half divine. We shall but speak of honour and duty in vain.
The letter dropped within the dark door will lie unregarded, or, if regarded
for a brief instant between two unspeakable lapses, left and forgotten
again. The telegram will be undelivered, nor will the whistling messenger
(wislier guided than he knows to whistle) be conscious as he walks away of
the drawn blind that is pushed aside an inch by a finger and then fearfully
replaced again. No: let the miserable wrestle with his own shadows; let him,
if indeed he be so mad, clip and strain and enfold and couch the succubus;
but lt him do so in a house into which not an air of Heaven penetrates, nor
a bright finger of the sun pierces the filthy twilight. The lost must remain
lost. Humanity has other business to attend to.

For the handwriting of the two letters that Oleron, stealing noiselessly one
June day into his kitchen to rid his sitting-room of an armful of fetid and
decaying flowers, had seen on the floor within his door, had had no more
meaning for him than if it had belonged to some dim and far-away dream. And
at the beating of the telegraph-boy upon the door, within a few feet of the
bed where he lay, he had gnashed his teeth and stopped his ears. He had
pictured the lad standing there, just beyond his partition, among packets of
provisions and bundles of dead and dying flowers. For his outer landing was
littered with these. Oleron had feared to open his door to take them in.
After a week, the errand lads had reported that there must be some mistake
about the order, and had left no more. Inside, in the red twilight, the old
flowers turned brown and fell and decayed where they lay.

Gradually his power was draining away. The Abomination fastened on Oleron's
power. The steady sapping sometimes left him for many hours of prostration
gazing vacantly up at his red-tinged ceiling, idly suffering such fancies as
came of themselves to have their way with him. Even the strongest of his
memories had no more than a precarious hold upon his attention. Sometimes a
flitting half-memory, of a novel to be written, a novel it was important
that he could write, tantalised him for a space before vanishing again; and
sometimes whole novels, perfect, splendid, established to endure, rose
magically before him. And sometimes the memories were absurdly remote and
trivial, of garrets he had inhabited and lodgings that had sheltered him,
and so forth. Oleron had known a great deal about such things in his time,
but all that was now past. He had at last found a place which he did not
intend to eave until they fetched him out--a place that some might have
thought a little on the green-sick side, that others might have considered
to be a little too redolent of long-dead and morbid things for a living man
to be mewed up in, but ah, so irresistible, with such an authority of its
own, with such an associate of its own, and a place of such delights when
once a man has ceased to struggle against its inexorable will! A novel?
Somebody ought to write a novel about a place like that! There must be lots
to write about in a place like that if one could but get to the bottom of
it! It had probably already been painted, by a man called Madley who had
lived there. . . . but Oleron had not known this Madley--had a strong
feeling that he wouldn't have liked him--would rather he had lived somewhere
else--really couldn't stand the fellow--hated him, Madley, in fact. (Aha!
That was a joke!) He seriously doubted whether the man had led the life he
ought; Oleron was in two minds sometimes whether he wouldn't tell that
long-nosed guardian of the public morals across the way about him; but
probably he knew, and had made his praying hullabaloos for him also. That
was his line. Why, Oleron himself had had a dust-up with him about something
or other . . . some girl of other . . . Elsie Bengough her name was, he
remembered. . . .

Oleron had moments of deep uneasiness about this Elsie Bengough. Or rather,
he was not so much uneasy about her as restless about the things she did.
Chef of those was the way in which she persisted in thrusting herself into
his thoughts; and, whenever he was quick enough, he sent her packing the
moment she made her appearance there, the truth was that she was not merely
a bore; she had always been that; it had now come to the pitch when her very
presence in his fancy was inimical to the full enjoyment of certain
experiences. . . . She had no tact; really ought to have known that people
are not at home to the thoughts of everybody all the time; ought in mere
politeness to have allowed him certain seasons quite to himself; and was
monstrously ignorant of things if she did not know, as she appeared not to
know, that there were certain special hours when a man's veins ran with fire
and daring and power, in which . . . well, in which he had a reasonable
right to treat folk as he had treated that prying Barrett--to shut them out
completely. . . . But no, up she popped: the thought of her, and ruined all.
Bright towering fabrics, by the side of which even those perfect, magical
novels of which he dreamed were dun and grey, vanished utterly at her
intrusion. It was as if at the threshold of some golden portal prepared for
Oleron a pit should suddenly gape, as if a bat-like shadow should turn the
growing dawn to mirk and darkness again. . . . Therefore, Oleron strove to
stifle even the nascent thought of her.

Nevertheless, there came an occasion on which this woman Bengough absolutely
refused to be suppressed. Oleron could not have told exactly when this
happened; he only knew by the glimmer of the street lamp on his blind that
it was some time during the night, and that for some time she had not
presented herself.

He had no warning, none, of her coming; she had just come---was there.
Strive as he would, he could not shake off the thought of her nor the image
of her face. She haunted him.

But for her to come at that moment of all moments! . . . Really, t was past
belief! How she could endure it, Oleron could not conceive! Actually, to
look on, as it were, at the triumph of a Rival. . . . Good God! It was
monstrous! tact--reticence--he had never credited her with an overwhelming
amount of either; but he had never attributed mere--oh, there was no word
for it! Monstrous--monstrous! Did she intend thenceforward. . . . Good God!
To look on! . . .

Oleron felt the blood rush up to the roots of his hair with anger against
her.

"Damnation take her!" he choked. . . .

But the next moment his heat and resentment had changed to a cold sweat of
cowering fear. Panic-stricken, he strove to comprehend what he had done. For
though he knew not what, he knew he had done something, something fatal,
irreparable, blasting. Anger he had felt, but not this blaze of ire that
suddenly flooded the twilight of his consciousness with a white infernal
light. That appalling flash was not his--not his that open rift of bright
and searing Hell--not his, not his! His hand been the hand of a child,
preparing a puny blow; but what was this other horrific hand that was drawn
back to strike in the same place? Had he set that in motion? Had he provided
the spark that had touched off the whole accumulated power of that
formidable and relentless place? He did not know. He only knew that that
poor igniting particle in himself was blown out, that---------- Oh,
impossible!--a clinging kiss (how else to express it?) had changed on his
very lips to a gnashing and a removal, and that for very pity of the awful
odds he must cry out to her against whom he had lately raged to guard
herself . . . guard herself. . . .

"Look out!" he shrieked aloud. . . .

The revulsion was instant. As if a cold slow billow ha broken over him, he
came to to find that he was lying in his bed, that the mist and horror that
had for so long enwrapped him had departed, that he was Paul Oleron, and
that he was sick, naked, helpless, and unutterably abandoned and alone. His
faculties, though weak, answered at last to his calls upon them; and he knew
that it must have been a hideous nightmare that had left him sweating and
shaking thus.

Yes, he was himself, Paul Oleron, tired novelist, already past the summit of
his best work, and slipping downhill again empty-handed from it all. He had
struck short in his life's aim. He ha tried too much, had over-estimated his
strength, and was a failure, a failure. . . .

It all came to him in the single word, enwrapped and complete; it needed no
sequential thought; he was a failure. He had missed. . . .

And he had missed not one happiness, but two. He had missed the ease of this
world, which men love, and he had missed also that other shining prize for
which men forgo ease, the snatching and holding and triumphant bearing up
aloft of which is the only justification of the mad adventurer who hazards
the enterprise. And there was no second attempt. Fate has no morrow.
Oleron's morrow must be to sit down to a profitless, ill-done, unrequited
work again, and so on the morrow after that, and the morrow after that, and
as many morrows as there might be. . . .

He lay there, weakly yet sanely considering it. . . .

And since the whole attempt had failed, it was hardly worth while to
consider whether a little might not be saved from the general wreck. No good
would ever come of that half-finished novel. He had intended that it should
appear in the autumn; was under contract that it should appear; no matter;
it was better to pay forfeit to his publishers than to waste what days were
left. He was spent; age was not far off; and paths of wisdom and sadness
were the properest for the remainder of the journey. . . .

If only he had chosen the wife, the child, the faithful friend at the
fireside, and let them follow an ignis fatuus that list! . . .

In the meantime it began to puzzle him exceedingly why he should be so weak,
that his room should smell so overpoweringly of decaying vegetable mater,
and that his hand, chancing to stray to his face in the darkness, should
encounter a beard.

"Most extraordinary!" he began to mutter to himself. "Have I been ill? M I
ill now? And if so, why have they left me alone? . . . Extraordinary! . . .
"

He thought he heard a sound from the kitchen or bathroom. He rose a little
on his pillow, and listened. . . . Ah! He was not alone, then! It certainly
would have been extraordinary if they had left him ill and alone--- Alone?
Oh no. He would be looked after. He wouldn't be left, ill, to shift for
himself. If everybody else had forsaken him, he could trust Elsie Bengough,
the dearest chum he had, for that . . . bless her faithful heart!

But suddenly a short, stifled, spluttering cry rang sharply out:

I"Paul!"

It came from the kitchen.

And in the same moment it flashed upon Oleron, he knew not how, that two,
three, five, he knew not how many minutes before, another sound, unmarked at
the time but suddenly transfixing his attention now, had striven to reach
his intelligence. This sound had been the slight touch of metal on metal--
just such a sound as Oleron made when he put his key into the lock.

"Hallo! . . . ho's that?" he called sharply from his bed.

He had no answer.

He called again. "Hallo! . . . Who's there? . . . Who is it?"

This time he was sure he heard noises, soft and heavy, in the kitchen.

"This is a queer thing altogether," he muttered. "By Jove, I'm as weak as a
kitten too, , , , Hallo, there! Somebody called, didn't they? . . . Elsie!
Is that you? . . . "

Then he began to knock with his hand on the wall at the side of his bed.

"Elsie! . . . Elsie! . . . You called, didn't you? . . . Please come here,
whoever it is! . . . "

There was a sound as of a closing door, and then silence. Oleron began to gt
rather alarmed.

"It may be a nurse," he muttered; "Elsie'd have to get me a nurse, of
course. She'd sit with me as long as she could spare the time, brave lass,
and she'd get a nurse for the rest. . . . But it was awfully like her voice.
. . . Elsie, or whoever it is! . . . I can't make this out at all. I must go
and see what's the matter. . . . "

He put one leg out of bed. Feeling its feebleness, he reached with his hand
for the additional support of the wall. . . .

But before putting out the other leg he stopped and considered, picking at
his new-found beard. He was suddenly wondering whether he dared go into the
kitchen. It was such a frightfully long way; no man knew what horror might
not leap and huddle on his shoulders if he went so far; when a man has an
overmastering impulse to get back into bed he ought to take heed of the
warning and obey it. Besides, why should he go? What was there to go for? If
it was that Bengough creature again, let her look after herself; Oleron was
not going to have things cramp themselves on his defenseless back for the
sake of such a spoilsport as she!. . . If she was in, let her lt herself out
again, and the sooner the better for her! Oleron simply couldn't be
bothered. He had his work to do. On the morrow, he must set about the
writing of a novel with a heroine so winsome, capricious, adorable, jealous,
wicked, beautiful, inflaming, and altogether evil, that men should stand
amazed. She was coming over him now; he knew by the alteration of the very
air of the room when she was near him; and that soft thrill of bliss that
had begun to stir in him never came unless she was beckoning, beckoning. . .
.

He let go the wall and fell back into bed again as--oh, unthinkable!--the
other half of that kiss that a gnash had interrupted was placed (how else
convey it?) on his lips, robbing him of very breath. . . .

                                     XII

In the bright June sunlight a crowd filled the square, and looked up at the
windows of the old house with the antique insurance marks in its walls of
red brick and the agents' notice-boards hanging like wooden choppers over
the paling. Two constables stood at the broken gate of the narrow
entrance-alley, keeping folk back. The women kept to the outskirts of the
throng, moving now an then as if to see the drawn red blinds of the old
house from a new angle, and talking in whispers. The children were in the
houses, behind closed doors.

A long-nosed man had a little group about him, and he was telling some story
over and over again; and another man, little and fat and wide-eyed, sought
to capture the long-nosed man's audience with some relation in which a key
figured.

". . . and it was revealed to me that there'd been something that very
afternoon," the long-nosed man was saying. "I was standing there, where
Constable Saunders is--or rather, I was passing about my business, when they
came out. There was no deceiving me, oh, no deceiving me! I saw her face. .
. . "

"What was it like, Mr. Barrett?" a man asked.

"It was like hers whom our Lord said to, Woman, doth any man accuse
tee?'--white as paper, and no mistake! Don't tell me! . . . And so I walks
straight across to Mrs. Barrett, and Jane,' I says, this must stop, and stop
at once; we are commanded to avoid evil,' I says, and it must come to an end
now; let him get help elsewhere.' And she says to me, John,' she says, it's
four-and-sixpence a week'--them was her words. Jane," I says, if it was
forty-six thousand pounds it should top' . . . and from that day to this she
hasn't set foot inside that gate."

There was a short silence: then,

"Did Mrs. Barrett ever . . . see anythink, like?" somebody vaguely inquired.

Barrett turned austerely on the speaker.

"What Mrs. Barrett saw and Mrs. Barrett didn't see shall not pas these lips;
even as it is written, keep thy tongue from speaking evil," he said.

Another man spoke.

"He was pretty near canned up in the Wagon and Horses that night, weren't
he, Jim?"

"Yes, e hadn't half copped it. . . . "

"Not standing treat much, neither; he was in the bar, all on his own. . . .
"

"So e was; we talked about it. . . . "

The fat, scared-eyed man made another attempt.

"She got the key off of me--she had the number of it--she came into my shop
of a Tuesday evening. . . . "

Nobody heeded him.

"Shut your heads," a heavy labourer commented gruffly, "she hasn't been
found yet. Ere's the inspectors; we shall know more in a bit."

Two inspectors had come up and were talking to the constables who guarded
the gate. The little fat man ran eagerly forwarded, saying that she had
bought the key of him. "I remember the number, because of it's being three
one's and three three's--111333!" he explained excitedly.

An inspector put him aside.

"Nobody's been in?" he asked of one of the constables.

"No, sir."

"Then you, Brackley, come with us; you, Smith, keep the gate. There's a
squad on its way."

The two inspectors and the constable passed down the alley and entered the
house. They mounted the wide carved staircase.

"This don't look as if he'd been out much lately," one of the inspectors
uttered as he kicked aside a littler of dead leaves and papers that lay
outside Oleron's door. "I don't think we need knock--break a pane,
Brackley."

The door had two glazed panels; there was a sound of shattered glass; and
Brackley put his hand through the hole his elbow had made and drew back the
latch.

"Faugh!" . . . choked one of the inspectors as they entered. "Let some light
and air in, quick. It stinks like a hearse------"

The assembly out in the square saw the red blinds go up and the windows of
the old house flung open.

"That's better," said one of the inspectors, putting his head out of a
window and drawing a deep breath. . . . "That seems to be the bedroom in
there; will you go in, Simms, while I go over the rest? . . . "

They had drawn up the bedroom blind also, and the waxy-white, emaciated man
on the bed had made a blinker of his hand against the torturing flood of
brightness. Nor could he believe that his hearing was not playing tricks
with him, for there were two policemen in his room, bending over him and
asking where "she" was. He shook his head.

"This woman Bengough . . . goes by the name of Miss Elsie Bengough . . .
d'ye hear? Where is she? . . . No good, Brackley; get him up; be careful
with him; I'll just shove my head out of the window, I think. . . . "

The other inspector had been through Oleron's study and had found nothing,
and was now in the kitchen, kicking aside an ankle-deep mass of vegetable
refuse that cumbered the floor. The kitchen window had no blind, and was
overshadowed by the blank end of the house across the alley. The kitchen
appeared to be empty.

But the inspector, kicking aside the dead flowers, noticed that a shuffling
trick that was not of his making had been swept to a cupboard in the corner.
In the upper part of the door of the cupboard was a square panel that looked
as if it slid on runners. The door itself was closed.

The inspector advanced, put out his hand to the little knob, and slid the
hatch along the groove.

Then he took an involuntary step back again.

Framed in the aperture, and falling forward a little before it jammed again
in its frame, was something that resembled a large lumpy pudding, done up in
a pudding-bag of faded browny, red frieze.

"Ah!" said the inspector.

To close the hatch again he would have had to thrust that pudding back with
his hand; and somehow he did not quite like the idea of touching it.
Instead, he turned the handle of the cupboard itself. There was weight
behind it, so much weight that, after opening the door three and four inches
and peering inside, he had to put his shoulder to it in order to close it
again. In closing it he left sticking out, a few inches from the floor, a
triangle of black and white check skirt.

He went into the small hall

"All right!" he called.

They had got Oleron into his clothes. He still used his hands as blinkers,
and his brain was very confused. A number of things were happening that he
couldn't understand. He couldn't understand the extraordinary mess of dead
flowers there seemed to be everywhere; he couldn't understand why there
should be police officers in his room; he couldn't understand why one of
these should be sent for a four-wheeler and a stretcher; and he couldn't
understand what heavy article they seemed to be moving about in the
kitchen--his kitchen. . . .

"What's the matter?" he muttered sleepily. . . .

Then he heard a murmur in the square, and the stopping of a four-wheeler
outside. A police officer was at his elbow again, and Oleron wondered why,
when he whispered something to him, he should run off a string of
words---something about "used in evidence against you." They had lifted him
to his feet, and were assisting him towards the door. . . .

No, Oleron couldn't understand it at all.

They got him down the stairs and along the alley. Oleron was aware of
confused angry shoutings; he gathered that a number of people wanted to
lynch somebody or other. Then his attention became fixed on a little fat
frightened-eyed man who appeared to be making a statement that an officer
was taking down in a notebook.

"I'd seen her with him . . . they was often together . . . she came into my
shop and said it was for him . . . I thought it was all right . . . 111333
the number was," the man was saying.

The people seemed to be very angry; many police were keeping them back; but
one of the inspectors had a voice that Oleron thought quite kind and
friendly. He was telling somebody to get somebody else into the cab before
something or other was brought out; and Oleron noticed that a four-wheeler
was drawn up at the gate. It appeared that it was himself who was to be put
into it; and as they lifted him up he saw that the inspector tried to stand
between him and something that stood behind the cab, but was not quick
enough to prevent Oleron seeing that this something was a hooded stretcher.
The angry voices sounded like sea; something hard, like a stone, hit the
back of the cab; and the inspector followed Oleron in and stood with his
back to the window nearer the side where the people were. The door they had
put Oleron in at remained open, apparently till the other inspector should
come; and through the opening Oleron had a glimpse of the hatchet-like "To
Let" boards among the privet-tree. One of them said that the key was at
Number Six. . . .

Suddenly the raging of voices was hushed. Along the entrance-alley shuffling
steps were heard, and the other inspector appeared at the cab door.

"Right away," he said to the driver.

He entered, fastened the door after him, and blocked up the second window
with his back. Between the two inspectors Oleron slept peacefully. The cab
moved down the square, the other vehicle went up the hill. The mortuary lay
that way.