CHAPTER VII
DREAMS
It is highly necessary, having regard to the fact that we have a hero—albeit a doubtful one—that we should not lose sight of him. Jimmy in a sense had almost lost sight of himself for a time, if the expression may be pardoned; lost sight, in fact, of that large personage, James Larrance, who had blossomed forth so well in print at one time.
For Jimmy had grown ambitious; and Jimmy had left behind him something of the old safe hack work, and had launched out a little. Fortune had smiled upon him a little to begin with; but he had soon discovered that in this more ambitious work editors were not so reasonable as that young man in the shirt-sleeves had once been, nor so ready to give advice and assistance. When the money did come in, it came in, as Jimmy would have expressed it, "in lumps"; but then the lumps were few and far between, and a man might well starve while he was waiting for the next lump to come to him. Jimmy almost starved, with some amount of cheerfulness; but he went on. For Jimmy had a way of setting his teeth, and going at the work in a bullet-headed fashion—and coming up whenever he was knocked down, and going at it again. Which was highly serviceable in the long run.
Also—wonder of wonders!—Jimmy had contrived, in the interval of work of a smaller order, to write a novel; a novel that always reminded him in after days of a cold room, and a lamp that smoked, and the collar of an overcoat scraping his ears; because those were the conditions under which it was produced. It was a blessed relaxation that Jimmy promised himself during each long day; a something to be tenderly brought forth at night, and gone over lovingly; something that was in an indefinite fashion to make his fortune, in a surprising way, immediately on its publication.
And the thing was finished—absolutely staring at him, from its first page to its last; and he told himself in his soul that it was good; that into it he had put something of himself—something of the vital essence of life, as he had known it, and lived it, and suffered it. The only question now in his mind was which particular publisher should have the privilege of making a fortune over it, alike for himself and for Jimmy. For that it would be a huge success Jimmy never doubted for a moment; there was in it that mysterious thing commended originally by the young man in the shirt-sleeves—an Idea!
The first publisher failed to find the Idea; in fact, he refused to see it when it was carefully pointed out to him. He suggested that if anyone had sixty pounds to throw away, this seemed to be a noble way of losing that sum, or perhaps more; but he was not rash by nature himself. Jimmy carried it to another—and yet another; it became a little worn in the process, and the first and last sheets had to be rewritten. Then it went to a fourth man, and lost itself in some unaccountable way among other wandering manuscripts; until Jimmy in despair ventured at last, after months, to write a letter that should recall it. And had a letter in reply, asking him to call personally.
He went, and was received after some delay by a big-bearded man in a great wilderness of an office; there were books lying all about—books that the great one had published, and others that he had acquired, in order to study questions of binding and paper; and there were many photographs framed upon the walls. The big man was courteous to a fault; actually apologised for having kept Jimmy waiting!
"Well, Mr. Larrance," he began—"I have read your book—after my reader's report upon it—and I may say that I have read it with very great pleasure." He coughed, and added, as an afterthought—"with very great pleasure indeed."
Jimmy had a feeling that this was the sort of man he would like to shake by the hand, if he got an opportunity. And oh—he should have the book cheap! Which thought, it may be noted as a rare coincidence, was also in the mind of the large-bearded man.
"At the same time, Mr. Larrance," went on the other—"I have a doubt whether the public will take to it. The public, my dear sir, is tricky; prefers, I fear, books which are not good for it; is something like a spoilt child, crying for sweets when it should be fed on oatmeal. On the other hand, there is a possibility that the book might catch on; one never can tell."
"We could hope that that would be so," suggested Jimmy.
The large man shook his head sadly. "Even a publisher cannot live on hope," he said. "However, Mr. Larrance, I am half inclined to take the risk—I am, indeed. People will probably call me foolish—but I must put up with that. Now—shall we talk about terms?"
He pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and took up a pencil, and began to make figures upon the paper—figures over which he shook his large head, and pursed up his lips. Jimmy watched him, fascinated; for, of course, it was a well-known fact that if once you got a book published, you sat still for ever afterwards, while the publisher sent you cheques; or, at all events, you sat still until you felt inclined to write another book. Jimmy held his breath in awe of the great man who could do these things; and incidentally wondered whether he paid monthly, or quarterly, or half yearly.
"I like to deal fairly with people—especially young people," said the big man, beaming upon Jimmy, the while Jimmy's heart expanded to him. "I would propose that we do this thing together."
"Together?" Jimmy looked at him in some perplexity.
"Yes"—the big man was absolutely warming with his subject and benevolence stirred his very beard—"together. We'll share the thing; we'll share expenses, and we'll share profits. How do you like that proposal?"
"Well"—Jimmy looked at him, and was conscious that his face was burning—"I should be delighted; but I'm not a capitalist. I have no money that I could expend."
"I have not asked you to expend anything," retorted the other, with a smile. "I will pay for everything; I will produce the book—pay for advertisements—everything. Then, when the profits come in, everything will be divided, after deducting expenses. You pay nothing—and you may receive something—if we're lucky. The only risk taken will be by me."
Jimmy began to feel that here was a man who should at least be canonised at the earliest opportunity; a man about whom the world ought to know. It was wonderful that a man of this character should sit in this place, doing good with a large heart and a large hand, and that so few people knew about it. Jimmy's pleasure must have shown itself in his face; for the large man held up a warning hand.
"Now, don't thank me; this is a matter of business," he said. "You may get nothing out of it, although that is very unlikely; and I may lose a lot of money—which is very likely indeed. But in any case we shall know that we have done our best. Say the word, and I'll have an agreement drawn up, and send it to you."
Jimmy said the word; in his gratitude he said many words. Finally he went out of the office with a light heart and a light step, feeling that he had made another great and powerful friend.
There came the time—the time that comes only once in one's life!—when the first proofs of the book were received; proofs to be lingered over lovingly, and left conspicuously on Jimmy's desk for the edification of chance callers. Finally the book itself, with some copies which belonged to him by right.
Curiously enough, according to the melancholy account given by the big-bearded man, the thing fell flat; he said the public wasn't ripe for it. Jimmy saw it in book-sellers' windows now and then; and some of the notices were kind, and one actually dug out that Idea, and made the most of it; said there was something new about it. Jimmy ventured, after a decent interval, to go and see the publisher; was kept waiting a little longer than before, but was finally shown in. There he learned for the first time the disastrous thing he had done—so far, that is, as the big man was concerned.
"I told you there was a risk," said the man, smiling as cheerfully as ever; "and I made it clear, I think, that I took the risk, and you didn't. My dear young friend"—the big man dived among a heap of papers, and brought out one particular sheet, which he perused with his head on one side—"you owe me quite a decent sum of money."
"But you said——"
"Only on paper, of course," broke in the other quickly. "I didn't mean to frighten you; there's nothing for you to pay. I attend to that part of the business, and I may say that from an artistic point of view I am proud to have brought the book out—proud to feel that I have, even at a loss, put such a story before the public. I shall have another go at it, and see if I can't make it hum a little yet."
Whether the big man ever really did make it "hum" or not it is impossible to say; but it may be mentioned here that at the end of some months Jimmy received an account from the publisher, informing him that there was a sum against him in their books of a mere trifle of £6 5s. 9d.; and the account was accompanied by a cheery letter from the big man, informing him kindly that this was a mere formality, to enable them to keep their books straight. And wound up with a casual suggestion—"When are we to have another book from you?"
But this by the way. It only happened, of course, some months after that first interview; but it left its sting on Jimmy nevertheless. It is only mentioned here because indirectly it was to change Jimmy's life; indirectly it was to bring him on the path his wandering feet had been seeking for so long. Before he knew the disaster he felt he had brought upon the big-bearded man, Jimmy received a letter, sent through the office of that gentleman; a letter which caused him to catch his breath, and to open his eyes, and to feel that the world was still a wonderful place, despite all that the cynics might say.
Someone had actually discovered the Idea!
The letter was headed with the name of a theatre; it was written in a sprawling hand difficult to decipher; and it was signed by a certain Mr. Bennett Godsby. As everyone knew the name of Mr. Bennett Godsby, Jimmy for a moment or two felt the room going round him, and wondered, after that glance at the signature, what so great a man could possibly have to say to him. Then he tackled the letter.
It appeared that Mr. Bennett Godsby had happened to have his attention called to the book; had read it; and had dug out of it that Idea which had for others been so carefully concealed. With a feeling of pity for the probable ignorance of Mr. James Larrance in regard to such matters, Mr. Bennett Godsby begged to inform that gentleman that the name of Bennett Godsby was known on two sides of the Atlantic, as an actor who had played many parts, and who, as it happened, was at that time in want of a play. If any dramatic version of the story had been done, Mr. Bennett Godsby would be glad to see it; in any case, it might be well if he could see Mr. Larrance. The Idea appeared to be a strong one, and something ought to be made of it. So Jimmy, greatly elated, went off to the theatre at a time that had been suggested by the great man himself. Inquiring at the stage door, he was kept waiting for a time, in company with a man who was smoking a pipe—a gas stove—and a very old dog. While he waited, a harsh little swing-door kept banging backwards and forwards on its hinges, to admit or to let out various men and women, who all seemed to be in a great hurry, and who all seemed also to know each other remarkably well. Presently Jimmy was requested by the man (who laid down his pipe at a summons from someone within) to step with him; and stepping accordingly, found himself, after traversing various long passages and flights of stone steps, stumbling among the holland-covered stalls of the theatre, in semi-darkness, on his way to find Mr. Bennett Godsby, who was seated, muffled in an overcoat, in the second row.
On the dimly-lighted stage some sort of rehearsal was going forward, conducted for the most part by a pale and anxious young man, who was darting hither and thither among a crowd of people, endeavouring to get them into some semblance of order. Just as Jimmy reached Mr. Bennett Godsby's side, and stood quaking, the great man stood up to roar out some instructions to the pale and anxious young man, while the latter craned forward over the footlights, at the imminent risk of his neck, to listen.
"Very good, sir," exclaimed the young man, with several emphatic nods; and plunged again among the crowd. Mr. Godsby, bending his head the better to read Jimmy's card, held out a hand to him, and drew him down beside him. This being Jimmy's first experience of a theatre in its morning wrappers, he looked up curiously at the shrouded boxes and circles, and then at the stage; came back from that inspection, to find that Mr. Godsby was speaking to him in a strong deep voice that could be heard easily even above the racket on the stage.
Mr. Bennett Godsby was a small, spare man, with a rather lined face, and with deep-set eyes; he seemed to look Jimmy over carefully while he talked to him. The talk was difficult, because it was interrupted every now and then by Mr. Godsby himself, when he stood up to shout at the stage, and by various people who came from time to time into the row of stalls behind, and whispered to Mr. Godsby over his shoulder.
"Well, Mr. Larrance—I'm very glad to see you," he said. "Perhaps my letter was a little impulsive," he went on, with an indulgent smile—"but then I am nothing if not impulsive; it's the life, you know. But there is something in your book that seems to appeal to me; something in that particular character that seems to move me. Have you had any experience with stage work?"
Jimmy was learning wisdom; Jimmy was giving over that habit of showing his hand on all occasions. Now he shrugged his shoulders, and spoke with what carelessness he might.
"I have studied it a great deal—from an outside point of view," he said. "You see, I am still rather—rather young."
"That is in your favour," said the other, with another smile. "Now, how does your work appeal to you in the sense of a play? Have you, for instance, thought of me in regard to it at all?"
Jimmy, again with wisdom, said that the idea had certainly occurred to him, and that he thought Mr. Bennett Godsby would be the one man to interpret the character. Mr. Godsby nodded, and smiled; then suddenly started up in a fury, and roared out at the young man on the stage:
"What in the world have you got those people up there for?" he shouted. "Take 'em all back; show 'em exactly what I showed you yesterday. How do you think I'm going to make that entrance through that crowd, when they're all fighting together up in that corner? And teach 'em how to jeer; remember they've got to jeer at me at the beginning of that scene, or it goes for nothing." Absolute silence on the stage, while the pale young man craned his neck over the footlights, and nodded emphatically, and looked more anxious than ever. "Oh, my God!" concluded Mr. Bennett Godsby, as he sank back into his stall—"the amount of work that I have to do with you people, because you won't remember from one day to the other——There—get on—get on, please!"
"Now, Mr. Larrance—what was I saying? Oh, to be sure—I wanted to know whether you had thought of me; and it seems you have. Very well, then—do you think that it is possible for you to make a play out of this—or have you already done anything in the way of a play with it?"
On Jimmy confessing that he had not yet done anything with it, the actor pulled a long face; on Jimmy assuring him that it would not take very long, his face lengthened still more. But it came at last to the point that the great man stated, in urgent whispers, what he was prepared to do.
Jimmy was to set about and prepare that extraordinary thing known as a "synopsis"; was to set out, act by act, and scene by scene, what the play was to be; and, on that proving satisfactory, was to have twenty pounds. After that, on the completion of the play, another twenty—and there was to be a small percentage every time it was played.
"What you have to consider chiefly is to build the play"—Mr. Bennett Godsby formed his hands roughly into the shape of a cup, as though he moulded the play within them—"to build the play round me. It may seem strange; but there is a certain public, I am given to understand, which wants me and demands me; and I have to consider that public. I think as a matter of fact"—Bennett Godsby looked up at the proscenium arch, and raised his eyebrows, and smoothed the hair back from his forehead—"I really think there is a large section of the public that would be better satisfied if I was never off at all; if, in fact, I carried the whole thing on my shoulders. And mind you"—this very confidentially, with a hand upon Jimmy's arm—"on many occasions it has been my fate to have to carry a play on my shoulders!"
Jimmy went back to his rooms, feeling that at last Fortune was treading hard upon his heels, and that his chance had really come. Already, as he walked, he seemed to see in the near future people turning in the street to glance at him; nudging each other as he went by. He saw himself seated at the theatre (he thought it wouldn't be a bad plan to appear rather bored, and to wear his honours coldly) and other people bowing to him, and saying who he was. He went back to his rooms, and seized the book, and plunged into it with fresh zest, although he knew it by heart.
So far as he could judge, it would take at a rough estimate at least six full acts to develop the Idea; and in three of those acts Mr. Bennett Godsby, as the leading character, could not appear at all.
This was awkward, remembering the injunction laid upon him by that gentleman that the play must be built round him; Jimmy decided that many things would have to be left out—valuable things at that. But the Jimmy who had learnt his lesson in the old days, what time a certain gentleman in shirt-sleeves had compelled him to cut down and alter work ruthlessly, was a Jimmy who had learnt something of his business, and had left behind him a good deal that was unmarketable. It may sound shameful; but Jimmy had about him an adaptability that was surprising, and that had long since sounded the first notes of his success.
So while Jimmy, heedless of anything but the great prospect that was looming before him, set to work then and there, making copious notes, and lifting passages out of the wonderful book that must not by any chance be omitted from the still more wonderful play that was to be written; and while the day drew on to a close, and the lamps were lit in the streets, and he still worked; someone set out for his rooms with the purpose of seeing him, someone who had been forgotten by Jimmy for the time, in the pressure of more urgent things. She came eagerly, and yet with a certain reluctance; she was turning to Jimmy in a crisis in her life, as to someone who might put a different complexion upon that life. The girl was Moira.
She came almost straight from that momentous interview with Charlie; for in a curious way she felt that this was a matter upon which Jimmy must have a word to say. Charlie had held her in his arms, and had kissed her; and almost, as she walked through the lighted streets, she was a child again in the garden of the rectory, with Charlie's arm about her, and his lips striving to meet hers; almost, too, she was the girl who had hidden among the trees and seen Jimmy fight for her. Oh, yes—Jimmy must have a word to say!
What that word would be or what she desired it to be, she scarcely knew or cared to think. It is safe at least to say that in that inmost heart of hers—that heart she had kept concealed from everyone, and which it might be her fate never to show at all, Jimmy stood first. She had passionately longed to see him; it had been Jimmy she was going to meet in London when first she came there with Patience; it was of Jimmy she had been so anxious to hear. On the other hand, of course, there was the natural girlish gratitude to the man who had spoken the first words of love to her—the man who had stepped brightly into her life, and stripped away her loneliness. An additional factor, too, in the case, and one which weighed with her heavily, was that Charlie needed help and guidance; had indeed asked for her strength to lean upon. Jimmy apparently needed no help and no guidance, and had strength enough for himself. Nevertheless, Jimmy must have a word to say in the matter.
Jimmy heard the tap upon the door; felt in his own mind that it heralded a visitor who would interrupt the important work—that work at the end of which lay a much-needed twenty pounds, to say nothing of fame and success. Glancing round impatiently from his desk, he called to the unknown one to come in.
She opened the door timidly, and looked in; and as she saw him then she was destined to remember him, many and many a time; to keep that picture of him in her mind. He sat within the circle of light thrown by his reading lamp; the rest of the room was in shadow. The desk was littered with papers, and Jimmy was evidently furiously at work. Even as she hesitated at the door, she seemed to see here the successful man of affairs—the man who prospered, and to whom work was readily given.
"Oh, it's you, Moira," he said, laying down his pen, and even then pausing for a moment to look at the work he left. "Come in."
It did not seem to the girl that there was the old cordiality in his voice; no welcoming cry as she came into the place—no starting up gladly to meet her. And she so lonely—so much in need of a friend to whom she could talk! And Jimmy with that word to say!
"I'm frantically busy," said Jimmy, with a smile and another glance at his desk. "Sudden work, for which everything else must be set aside, Moira—great and wonderful work. I've got a chance to write a play."
"Yes, Jimmy?" She spoke quietly, and with no enthusiasm, as it seemed, in her tones. For she was chilled and repelled; this was not the man to whom to come on any affair of the heart; this was a Jimmy who, if he had a word to say, would be likely to say it about himself.
"A man has read my book—Bennett Godsby; you're sure to have heard of him—and he sees a play in it. I'm just to write off a few pages—suggesting what it's to be—and I get twenty pounds for that"—Jimmy was talking excitedly, and was tapping the open book upon his desk as he spoke. "It's a gorgeous chance—a wonderful opportunity! I've had a long talk with him to-day. But there—sit down, Moira; I can spare you ten minutes. And don't mind my excitement; one doesn't get a chance like this every day."
She did not sit down; she stood looking into the small fire, and wondering why she had come, or what there was for her to say. Jimmy—this Jimmy who knew great people, and talked so lightly of twenty pounds, and of plays, and what not—this was not the Jimmy who would have the word to say. Even as tears welled into her eyes—tears of bitterness and of loneliness—she thought of Charlie who had kissed her; Charlie who was not successful, but who always had a kind word for her, and a cheery laugh in the midst of all his misfortune. Why had she come here at all?
"Well, Moira," said Jimmy, leaning against his desk and looking at her—"and what's the news with you?"
"Oh—the best, I suppose," she said, without raising her eyes. "I came here to-night to tell you something of my news. It's about—about Charlie."
"Poor old Charlie!" he said lightly; and in her ears it sounded as the light dismissal by the successful man of the man who had failed. "What's Charlie doing?"
"Charlie is going to do great things one of these days," she said brightly, surprising herself by discovering that she was suddenly the other man's champion. "And I—I am going to help him."
"Well—you've always done that, you know," said Jimmy; and in his mind as he spoke was not Moira nor Charlie—nor any of their troubles. He seemed to see Bennett Godsby walking the stage in one particular scene, and speaking the words that should have been set down for him by that new dramatist, James Larrance. "What are you doing for him now?"
"It isn't what I'm doing for him now, Jimmy—it's what I'm going to do for him," she said, raising her eyes for the first time. "I thought you'd like to hear about it. Charlie wants me—he's asked me to marry him."
Jimmy had turned for a moment to look back at his precious notes; he swung round now towards her, and for a moment or two was silent. For this was a shock; and perhaps just then Jimmy realised for the first time that in this he might have had a word to say, after all. For Jimmy had planned, as he always did for himself and for others, a certain future, in which always he took the lead, and wherein always he arranged the lives of those in whom he was interested. In some part of that dim and distant future he was, as a very successful man, to have gone to Moira, and with much kindness have offered her a share in it; with no real priggishness in the thought, he yet felt that she should be very properly gratified, and a little humble, and very much admiring. It was all indefinite; but it had a place in that future; and this was a sudden disturbance of the scheme.
"Charlie has asked you to marry him?" He moved a little nearer to her, and laughed. "And what did you say?"
"Nothing—yet," said Moira. "You see, Jimmy"—her loneliness made her confidential with him; she must at that time, she felt, lean on someone—"I didn't know what to say. Of course, I like Charlie—and I'm sorry for him—and I should like to help him. He says I could; that I should give him something to work for."
"A man always says that," said Jimmy wisely. "After all, it must be a matter for yourself, my dear girl," he added. "I suppose Charlie knows best; perhaps you will be able to help him to make something of himself."
"I hope so—I think so," she said, in a low voice. "I only came to-night, Jimmy, because—because we've been such good friends, you and I——"
"And always shall be, of course," he broke in.
"And I thought you'd like to know about it."
Jimmy looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two; then he sighed, and smiled as she raised her eyes to him. "You've had but a poor life of it, Moira," he said; "I don't wonder you turn to a man who promises you something better."
"Perhaps that's it," she whispered, dropping her eyes. "After all, Jimmy, I suppose love only comes once—doesn't it?"
"So they say," replied Jimmy solemnly.
"I suppose, Jimmy"—she kept her eyes averted, and her voice was scarcely more than a whisper—"I suppose, Jimmy, you don't think—don't think of those things—eh?"
"No—I don't," said Jimmy, after a long look at her. "I am in a sense wedded to my work; I never think of anything else. A man must be free—free to live his life, and do the best that is in him"—Jimmy seemed to have read or heard that somewhere, but it sounded rather well just now. "I cannot see myself ever marrying," he added; yet there was a little bitterness in his heart as he said it, and as he thought of Charlie and of Moira.
"I understand," she said; and laughed curiously. "So I shall say what I meant to say all along to Charlie; I shall tell him that I'll marry him. Good-bye, Jimmy!"
He took the hand she held out to him; they stood for a moment in the shadows of the room; stood, too, perhaps, for a moment amid the shadows of old memories clustering thick and fast about them. Then he wrung her hand, and turned away.
"I hope you'll be very happy, Moira," he said.
"Oh—I think so," she replied; and when he turned again from his notes she was gone.
Curiously enough he did not touch the notes again that night. He sat for a long time in front of the fire—thinking—thinking; striving to look into that new future which had so suddenly to be rearranged.
"I can quite see what is going to happen," he told himself. "I can see myself, in the years that are coming, a man grown successful—and yet not caring very much about the success." (Jimmy was very confident about this point.) "And yet there shall be no bitterness in me; I can feel myself looking at things, sanely, and telling myself that this was, after all, for the best—quite for the best. Poor Moira!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE SIDES OF THE 'BUSES O!
Jimmy had suddenly found himself a personage—in something of a roundabout and accidental fashion. Paragraphs had appeared in newspapers, giving strange accounts of the young dramatist; a photographer had most surprisingly asked for a sitting, for which no charge would be made, and in regard to which certain copies of the photograph were actually to be presented to Jimmy; and many other things had happened.
So far as the actual play was concerned, matters had not gone so smoothly as might at first have been anticipated. The synopsis, to begin with, seemed to puzzle Mr. Bennett Godsby not a little; he suggested that he "couldn't see himself in it." Jimmy waited a little hopelessly at the theatre on several evenings; had messages sent out to him by the great man, declaring that the great man was changing—or absolutely worn out—or that he hadn't had time to think about the matter. Finally, one night Jimmy received a note, requesting him to call and see Mr. Bennett Godsby at his house on the following morning.
Jimmy went, and discovered Bennett Godsby, in a sense, in the bosom of his family—that family consisting of Mrs. Bennett Godsby, and a young and rather plump Miss Bennett Godsby. Mrs. Bennett Godsby had at one time appeared with her husband; Jimmy seemed to understand that there must have been acrimonious discussions when the time came when Mrs. Bennett Godsby was no longer young enough, nor slim enough, to play lead with him. She had the appearance, not only of being very plump, but of threatening to be plumper; she was somewhat negligently dressed, and she wore even at that early hour all the rings that could possibly be got on her short fingers. Mr. Bennett Godsby introduced Jimmy, and then led the young man into another room in order to talk business.
"Now, my dear Larrance," he began, "I confess I'm a little disappointed. I don't know how it is—but you haven't quite hit it; at least, that's how it strikes me. I suppose it's lack of experience, or something of the sort—or perhaps I was mistaken when I thought there was a play in the thing after all. It won't carry; there's nothing in it to grip 'em."
"I'm sorry," said Jimmy, with a sinking feeling at his heart. "Perhaps you could suggest——"
"Just what I'm going to do," said Mr. Godsby, sitting down and drawing Jimmy's synopsis towards him. "You know"—he looked up with a pained expression—"this thing has worried me more than you think. You'll understand that men like myself—men who live for their art—are bound to understand and to feel the characters they portray. I can assure you I've found myself speaking abruptly to Mrs. Bennett Godsby—in the fashion in which I imagine the man in your play would speak. She's been surprised. 'Bennett,' she has said to me, 'what is this? What is troubling you?' She knows; she's been through the mill herself—only, of course, in a smaller way. I should love to play that character," he added, with a sigh, as he tapped the paper.
Jimmy sat silent; he did not know what to do or what to say. More than that, he dared not break in upon the reflections of Mr. Bennett Godsby, for that gentleman was evidently thinking deeply. After a moment or two the actor got up and strolled across the room, and frowned at a picture; turned round, and frowned upon Jimmy by way of a change. "It's lack of experience—that's what it is," he said, nodding his head sagely.
"On my part?" Jimmy looked anxious.
"Yes, sir, on your part. The brain is there—the creative force, if I may say so; but you can't convey things. Now, if only I had the time to set to work on that myself—but, of course, one mustn't interfere with another man's work. Oh, no—not to be thought of."
Jimmy hastened to assure Mr. Bennett Godsby that he would value any suggestion that gentleman cared to make—would esteem it a privilege to do anything in his power to meet the wishes of such a man—to profit by his experience. Mr. Godsby, saying nothing, picked up the offending pages, and rapidly scanned them; presently sat down opposite Jimmy, and began to go steadily through the thing, scene by scene.
The alterations were somewhat drastic, but they did not affect the plot very greatly. The chief thing desirable seemed to be that Mr. Bennett Godsby should turn up at effective moments; should have a scene twisted here that would gain for him the sympathy of the audience; should have this changed, and that made bigger, in order, as he phrased it, to "lift the thing up."
"You see, my dear Larrance," he said confidentially, "they want me. I assure you that if I'm off for ten minutes it becomes a question of their looking round about them, and whispering, and saying to themselves: 'Where's Bennett Godsby? Why isn't he here? Why doesn't he lift the thing up?' I've been assured of it again and again by those who have sat in the front of the house, and have heard those things said. See the position it places me in!"
Jimmy said he quite saw the position, and he was honestly sorry for Mr. Bennett Godsby. At the same time——
"Well, you see; I know what the public wants; I've sampled its tastes pretty well. Now, my suggestion is this: I'll help you with the play; I'll show you what it wants, and how it might be turned about; and—well, in a sense, we'll write it together."
Jimmy pondered. "But then, you see, it wouldn't be quite my play," he said.
"Oh, yes, it would; we're not going to quarrel about that," said Bennett Godsby. "There's nothing grasping about me; I shall be pleased if I've helped a young dramatist; better pleased still, perhaps, if I've got the play I want. You keep your name to it by all means, and together we'll make a success of it. You've got my notes there (I'm afraid I've pencilled the thing all over, but you mustn't mind that), and you can go to work at once. We'll call this synopsis, with its alterations, the synopsis I wanted. And I'll send you a cheque to-night."
"You are really very good, Mr. Godsby," said Jimmy, rising as the other rose, and gathering up the papers.
"Oh, that's all right; I only want to do the best for both of us," replied the other. "You get to work, and bring it to me bit by bit; we'll talk it over. I won't forget the cheque. Good morning!"
Jimmy came out of the house convinced once more that there really were some very wonderful people in the world, and that all the nonsense talked about those in high places in the various professions ought to be contradicted without delay. He modified that exuberant feeling a little on receiving a letter the next morning from Mr. Bennett Godsby, enclosing a cheque for ten pounds.
"My dear Mr. Larrance.
"Under all the circumstances, I feel you are right about the joint authorship; if I am to do half the work (or probably more than half) I ought to have something of the glory. I need scarcely say it will be a good thing for you to have your name associated with mine, and I shan't mind a bit. It will be a good advertisement for each of us. Under all the circumstances, too, I quite see that for half the work (or more than half, as I have suggested) I ought to have half the pay. Therefore, I have credited my private account with ten pounds, and I send you the other ten herewith. Good luck to our united efforts.
"Ever yours most cordially,
"Bennett Godsby."
Jimmy consoled himself with the thought that, after all, it was a very big chance for him; he saw himself connected indefinitely with Mr. Bennett Godsby, and the two of them rising to fame and fortune (the second somewhat more limited than he had at first imagined) side by side. Obviously, too, Mr. Bennett Godsby would do his best for a play in which he was so intimately concerned.
Then began for Jimmy a matter, as he afterwards described it, of waiting on doorsteps. For, pinning his faith to the play and to the play only, and seeing in its certain success a relief from all the hack work he had been doing for so long, Jimmy set aside everything else for its sake; worked at it night and day, and waited on Bennett Godsby at all times and seasons, with scenes and ideas, as they occurred to him and as he wrote them down. As Mr. Bennett Godsby had at least three addresses at which he might (or might not) be found, Jimmy's task was not an easy one. The three addresses were the theatre, the club, and Mr. Bennett Godsby's house; and it became sometimes a stern chase on Jimmy's part to get hold of his man. Even then, if he ran him to earth, it was a thousand chances to one that Bennett Godsby was going out—or desired to talk about something else—or was engaged with a visitor; and in those days every visitor spelt, in the mind of Jimmy, a new man with a new play to catch the fancy of the actor.
In that business of manufacturing the play Jimmy learnt much, and incidentally almost starved himself again in the learning. Cherished scenes and bits of dialogue had to be cast overboard and lost. Phrases from the melodramatic brain of Mr. Bennett Godsby had to take their place. The original pile of notes had grown into a chaotic heap of blotted and altered sheets of paper before the thing was done; but it was done at last, and almost to the satisfaction of Bennett Godsby.
"Mind, I won't say that we've got it," said Mr. Godsby (and be it noted that in this time the great man had dwindled a little in the sight of Jimmy, and did not seem quite so great). "A little more niggering at it would have done a lot of good; but I suppose it'll have to do until we get to rehearsals. I'll send you the other cheque to-night."
The other cheque did not come that night, nor the next morning; it came about a week later, and it was something short of the ten pounds, because Mr. Bennett Godsby had deducted Jimmy's share of the type writing bill. But Jimmy looked forward to the rehearsals, and to the production of the great play; Jimmy hugged himself over paragraphs in the papers, in which his name was openly associated with that of the great Bennett Godsby.
Some slight mistake had been made over the paragraphs—a little misunderstanding. It was declared that the great Bennett Godsby, hitherto known only in the front rank of living actors, had suddenly blossomed out as a dramatist; had written a dramatic version of a novel by a certain Mr. James Larrance; the paragraphs seemed to suggest that Mr. James Larrance was lucky in having been selected for that honour.
Then, in the very midst of rehearsals, other paragraphs appeared, which stated that the play had been written by Mr. Bennett Godsby; that he hoped for lenient treatment from his ever faithful public in this his first essay with such work. Jimmy pointed out the paragraph to him one morning when they stood together on the half-lighted stage; rehearsals were getting to an end at last.
"I can't understand it," said the great man, staring with a puzzled air at the paragraph. "I quite see your meaning; it isn't right at all. But these beasts of writers will say anything to get a few shillings; they've put words in my mouth before now that I've never uttered. I tell you what I'll do," he added, with deep indignation, "I'll write to these people—sort of letter that they must put in, and that will help things along a bit—and I'll tell them the true facts of the case. I'm glad you called my attention to it, my dear Larrance; there mustn't be any misunderstanding."
But the curious part was that when next day a letter appeared in that paper, signed by Mr. Bennett Godsby, it did not seem to put things quite as straight as it should have done. Much was made of Mr. Bennett Godsby in the letter; much of Mr. Bennett Godsby's kindness to a young author, but mighty little of James Larrance. And that morning Bennett Godsby, in what appeared to be a towering rage, informed Jimmy that that had not been his letter at all; "they had disgracefully garbled it."
Other mistakes occurred also in regard to printing; according to Bennett Godsby, you never could trust a theatrical printer to put things as they should be. Here, for example, was one scoundrel (Bennett Godsby pointed it out himself, and almost tore his hair over it at the time) who had had the audacity to print the name of the play, and then underneath the authors' names, with Bennett Godsby first—and James Larrance very much second, and in much smaller type! Did you ever hear of such a thing; would you have conceived it possible that an intelligent firm of printers could have committed such an outrage? Too late now, of course, to alter it, because every bill had been printed, and the loss would be enormous.
"However, it's all right, you know," said Bennett Godsby, taking him by the arm confidentially, and leading him aside. "Everybody knows the real facts of the case; the public will understand that of course the book was yours—and the title—and all that sort of thing."
"But the book isn't mentioned," objected Jimmy.
"Another oversight," whispered the other. "But, of course, everybody knows about that, too; it was mentioned to me yesterday on several occasions. I said to one man in particular, just as I might say to you, 'You know the book?' I said. 'Know the book?' he replied—just like that, and laughed. It was such an absurd question—wasn't it?"
Jimmy was vaguely comforted; he felt that in all probability everybody did know about it. More than that, he had been comforted from time to time by the assurance of various members of the company as to the value of certain lines, and the excellence of certain business; and they had been careful to inform him (in whispers, and out of the hearing of Bennett Godsby) that they knew perfectly well who had written the play, and that Bennett Godsby could probably not have done it "for toffee."
Of course, there came the moment when by no possibility could this play be produced; and when Jimmy sat quaking in the stalls, and wondered what was going to happen to him. The further moment when Bennett Godsby wondered why he had ever adopted this particular profession, when so many others were open to him; the further moment when he did not see what there was in the thing after all, or how it came about that he had ever imagined this was a play that would strike the public. Then, to crown matters, Mrs. Bennett Godsby came down, and tittered audibly in the midst of the big scene; true, she apologised afterwards, and said that she had not taken it "in the right spirit"; but that apology was received with gloom.
Some two days before the actual production a card was brought to Jimmy, while he sat disconsolately in the stalls watching Mr. Bennett Godsby raving up and down on the other side of the footlights, and expressing his opinion volubly concerning the musical director, and the fashion in which the incidental music had been arranged. The card bore the name of "Mrs. Daniel Baffall"; and the messenger whispered that the lady was in a carriage outside. Jimmy presently went out, to find the good-natured creature flutteringly leaning towards him over the door of the carriage, and wondering if he remembered her.
"Why, of course," said Jimmy, "although it seems such a long time ago. How did you find me?"
"Oh—everyone knows you," said Mrs. Baffall, glancing across at a young girl seated at the other side of the carriage. "And we're all so tremendously proud of you—and we can't possibly think how you've managed to do it. Even Mr. Baffall has almost forgotten about the warehouse—though he did say once (not meaning it in the least, poor dear man) that he was sure you'd starve."
"We have taken a box, Jimmy," said the young girl, in the most surprising fashion; and Jimmy wheeled about to look at her.
In a moment he remembered who this must be; yet the change in her was so great that he might not have known, but for connecting her with Mrs. Baffall and the carriage. For this was a radiant vision, beautifully dressed, and belonging to the carriage far more than poor Mrs. Baffall could ever hope to do. She held out her hand to him and laughed at his evident embarrassment.
"You do remember me, I hope," she said.
"Why, of course—Alice," he replied. "I'm very glad you're coming; I'm very anxious about it all."
"Oh—it's certain to be all right—and a big success," she replied. "Aunt Baffall is making up her mind at this very moment to ask you to come and dine with us to-night—aren't you, Aunt Baffall?"
"Yes, of course—if you think so—and if Mr. Jimmy can spare the time. I'm sure that if I'd ever tried anything of this kind (that is, always supposing that Baffall would have let me), I should have had such a dreadful headache that I shouldn't have been able to eat or walk or do anything else. You know what it is, my dear"—Mrs. Baffall turned plaintively to Alice—"you know what it means for me when I even try to write a letter. And when you come to a book (not that I could quite make out the end of it, Mr. Jimmy, but I suppose you meant well), and then a play, which, I suppose, has to be written too—it makes me feel quite sorry for you. So that if you can eat anything——"
Jimmy promised, almost with eagerness. It was a rare event in his life to be going out anywhere in a friendly way; and he needed greatly just then to find someone to whom to talk—someone to tell of his great success and all that the future was to hold for him. He found himself wondering, as he sat in the theatre, why he had not thought of Alice before—why he had not known instinctively that she must have grown into this flower-like creature—this rare and delicate beauty. He was to see her to-night; he would have a chance of telling her a great deal about himself and his work. He had been foolish to lose sight for so long of such a girl as this; he remembered what good friends they had been in far-off childish days. More than that, he considered with gratification that they must regard him as something rare in the world of young men; this boy who had been started in a warehouse, and now had blossomed into an important man. He felt glad that they had come to find him at the theatre.
Escaping at last from the theatre, and from what now amounted almost to the reproaches of Mr. Bennett Godsby, Jimmy hastened to his room, and put on his rarely used dress suit. From a financial point of view, things were very, very wrong with Jimmy; it was only by persistently pointing out the flattering paragraphs in the newspapers that he had been able to convince his landlady that if only she waited for a week or two he would be able to pay all that was due. He had tried her with a photograph of himself, reproduced in an evening newspaper; but it seemed that she had once had a nephew "in trouble," as she expressed it, and his portrait had appeared in much the same fashion; she was distrustful.
Jimmy walked, because he could not afford a cab, and because also the night was fine. And as he walked, there passed him, going along the road, an omnibus, and on the side of the omnibus, standing out clearly and distinctly, the name of the theatre and the name of his play; it was there for all London to read. He wondered what people would have thought, had they known who he was, and what the names on the sides of the 'buses (for there were others going on other routes) meant to him. Though he walked with but a shilling or two in his pocket that night, he felt once again as he had felt before—that he envied no man, and that the world was very pleasant, and that the world smiled upon him.
For he was young, and he was talked about; and he had done something already in the world. And a pretty girl had held his hand that day, and had said that she was proud of him; and he was on his way now to see her. What more, in the name of Fortune, need any man ask?
CHAPTER IX
THE DAWN
Jimmy had been dressed three hours before it was absolutely necessary that he should be at the theatre, and then had wandered about his rooms, tortured by doubts and fears; wondering if by chance it would not have been better to have altered this line at the last, or to have extended that phrase, so as to convey the meaning better. Suppose, after all, the theatre took fire—now, when people were gathering at its very doors; suppose the iron curtain refused to go up (such things had been known to happen); or suppose Bennett Godsby, in the very hour of his triumph, dropped dead from sheer excitement. Would there be a call for the author, and should Jimmy go on, in that case? Nay, more—would he be permitted to go on? That was the more vital question, because Bennett Godsby had to be reckoned with in such a matter.
He went down to the theatre at last, to find the man at the stage door, who always sat in the company of the gas stove and the very old dog, rising to his feet to wish him good luck; Jimmy blushed to think that he had not sufficient in his pocket for a tip. Also, there were telegrams; one in particular from Alice, which he thrust into an inner pocket. Then he went down on to the stage and looked about him.
Actually there was a man there—a property man, or some other debased character—lounging on a settee, and whistling! It did not seem to occur to him that so much depended on this night; if anything, the debased one looked a trifle bored. Jimmy trembled at the thought that in the hands of such people as this rested perhaps the fate of the play; for, according to Bennett Godsby, the wrong coloured carpet put down on the stage, or a chair six inches too much to the left, had ruined the fate of the finest ere this. Thinking that, Jimmy went in search of Bennett Godsby, with the object of cheering him.
He found him in his dressing-room, opening letters and telegrams, and apparently not in the least anxious. The great man looked round at Jimmy as he entered and nodded.
"I've got a ghastly feeling come over me, Larrance," he said—"a horrible feeling that I shan't do myself justice to-night. It's the life, I suppose; it's telling on me a bit. Every blessed thing seems to have gone out of my head. I know I look calm," he added, as if in reply to Jimmy's deprecatory smile, "but that's only manner. I've got to that pitch that I simply don't care what happens—I don't indeed. It may suit the part better, in a way—and it may not. Here—take this coat!"
He turned to the dresser, and began to prepare for the evening's work. Jimmy, with a dull feeling that all was over with him, and that he wished someone would stop the band then tuning up in the distance, turned to go. Mr. Bennett Godsby called him back.
"By the way—you'll be somewhere about, I suppose?" he said.
"Oh, yes; I shall be somewhere about," replied Jimmy, and went out into the streets again.
But the curtain went up in due time, and Mr. Bennett Godsby, also in due time, went on to receive the applause of his friends in his dual capacity of author and actor. Jimmy knew nothing of what was happening; he could only guess, as he paced about outside, that this part of the play had been reached, or that part; he knew that an act was over and another begun when men in caps came tumbling out of the stage door, and adjourned hurriedly to a neighbouring public-house. Then Jimmy ventured inside again.
But he was not alone that night in his anxiety; there was someone else who counted the hours, and wondered what was happening; someone who, like Jimmy, but for a different reason, could have no sight of the proceedings. Although Jimmy did not know it then, and was not to know it until long, long afterwards, Moira had counted the days, and then the hours; knew to a moment when the curtain was to rise; guessed almost to a moment when it might fall again, and Jimmy's fate be known. And it was her fate to stand outside, bitterly enough, and to see nothing.
She had not seen Jimmy since that night when she had gone to his rooms, and had told him of herself and Charlie; that night she was so often to remember, when she had seen him sitting in the circle of light from his lamp; that night when the merciful darkness of the room had hidden her tears. But she had thought about him often and often; had once, on a little foolish impulse, put a common newspaper to her lips when she was alone, because it spoke of him kindly and wished him well. Charlie knew nothing of that; Charlie stood outside, as another part of her life—something Jimmy did not touch.
Yet there had been a faint hope in her mind that she might have seen the play—might have been present at Jimmy's triumph—for to imagine him failing was impossible, she felt. More than that, there was in the girl this night that strong, fine feeling—half the feeling of motherhood almost—that made her feel she would have liked to take him in her arms, and whisper words of comfort and of hope to him. It never occurred to Moira that there might be others to do that; it never seemed possible to her that this was a new Jimmy, grown out of old ways, and leaving her lightly and easily enough to Charlie. To-night at least Jimmy—her Jimmy!—stood alone, as it seemed to her, and she only understood from what he had come, and what struggles he had had, before his name could shine out before men as it did now. She wanted to tell him all this; wanted to be somewhere near him—and yet quite secretly—so that at the last crucial moment he might understand that she knew what he felt, and that she was with him in his fight.
And yet—the difference! There had come no word from him—no suggestion that she might like to see the play. She waited bravely until the very end—the very moment when she knew that people must be gathering at the theatre, and still nothing came. She determined then that she would go down to the place; she might see something of him at least—might even hear from others what was happening. Alone, and thinking only of him, she made her way down the stairs; stopped for a moment at Charlie's door. And as she stopped the door was opened, and Charlie stood there, looking out at her.
"Hullo!—going out?" he asked, yawning a little. From his appearance he had evidently been sitting over the fire for a long time, brooding.
"Yes, but only a little way," she said hurriedly, without looking at him; for in a sense this was a disloyalty to Charlie. "I shan't be long."
"Shall I come with you?" he asked, but with no alacrity in his tone.
"No—I shall be back directly—very soon, I mean," she replied.
"Oh—all right," he said, and as she went down stairs he closed the door and went back to the fire.
He sat down there in the comfortable warmth, and fell asleep. His pipe dropped from his mouth, and lay unheeded at his feet; he slept for quite a long time. When he awoke the room seemed cold and dark; the fire had died down and was almost out. Muttering impatiently against it, he set to work to replenish it; then, shuddering, looked round the place with a frown.
"I hate this room," he muttered. "Here I seem to spend my life; to this I get up in the morning; from this I go to bed at night. I wonder how long it'll last? No hope—nothing to look forward to; every jolly fellow I ever met gone from me, or gone ahead of me. It's cursed bad luck; if it wasn't for Moira, I'd——I wonder whether she's back yet?"
After a moment or two he went up softly to the upper rooms, and opened the door. Patience sat in her deep chair against the fire, asleep; there was no one else there. Charlie closed the door, and came down again; looked irresolutely about his own room.
"I'll go out," he muttered to himself. "I've got a fit of the blues, and I'll walk them off. What the deuce did Moira want to go out for—and stay away all this time?"
He got his hat and coat, and went out into the streets. It was a windy, gusty night, with splashes of rain flung at the few people in the streets; for a moment he hesitated, and almost turned back. But the thought of the cheerless room decided him against it; he walked on sharply into the brighter streets. And as he walked his spirits rose a little.
Meanwhile Moira had gone on, making straight for the theatre. Almost at that time she was obsessed with the idea that Jimmy wanted her; that on this night of all other nights he was lonely, even in the midst of his success, and that he called to her. Wind nor gusts of rain mattered anything to her then; it was Jimmy who called—Jimmy of whom she was proud; Jimmy whom she loved at this moment as she had never loved him before. In this hour her heart, so long held in check and starved within her, woke and cried for him, as a child, waking from some uneasy dream in the night, cries out for the touch of love—the sweet whisper of love to calm and soothe its fears. Jimmy in a blaze of glory in the lighted theatre was nothing to her then; her soul went out to the Jimmy of the woods and the fields of her childhood. Through the streets of that London that had taken them both into its cruel arms, and made of them what it would, she went on to meet her Jimmy.
She came to the theatre, to find a crowd about it, and carriages and cabs driving up in a long line. Only then did she realise that her errand was a wrong one; that here was no place for her. She drew back—poor shabby figure that she was—among those who waited in a line at either side of the big doors to watch the carriage folk going in. And then, for the first time, understood the bitterness of her position, as she saw one bright girlish figure emerge from a carriage and flutter in at the great doors. It was Alice.
Mr. and Mrs. Baffall came immediately afterwards, Mr. Baffall very much out of place, and Mrs. Baffall but little more at ease. Peering through the little crowd, Moira saw the girl greeting acquaintances inside—almost heard the light ripple of her laughter. It wasn't fair—it wasn't right that Jimmy should have forgotten. She drew back, and got away from the crowd, and began to pace the streets again.
They would be taking their places now; Jimmy's play would be beginning. Perhaps after all, she thought, she might contrive to get in; it would be good to think that she might sit aloft somewhere and watch it, and tell Jimmy about it afterwards. Yes—she would go in, although shillings were hard to spare. She went round to a door in an alley, and mounted a flight of stone steps; a man behind a little paybox window shook his head at her.
"No good, miss; every seat gone, and not even standing room. Bless you, they've been waiting 'ere for hours."
She turned away again, and went round again to the front of the theatre. The last belated comers were hurrying in, and the crowd had gone; she stood there helpless. Moving away a little, she came to a board hung against the wall of the theatre; there in small print was Jimmy's name. Glancing about her quickly, and seeing that she was alone, she softly touched that name with her fingers, with infinite tenderness, before she turned away.
"Jimmy," she said in a whisper, "you might have remembered, dear."
She did not go back at once, she paced the streets for a long time; perhaps then some hardness was growing up in her heart—some new bitterness at the fashion in which everything and everyone seemed to have conspired to set her aside. When at last she turned her steps towards Locker Street it had grown very late, and she was very tired; she walked with lagging feet.
She got to the house and let herself in; the house was dark and silent. Going slowly up the stairs, she had a mental picture of what she must find when she reached her own rooms—Patience asleep in her chair, or Patience asleep in her bed in her own small room. Perhaps, worst of all, Patience asking questions—demanding querulously to know where she had been; perhaps speaking of Jimmy. No—she would not face that yet; she could not face it now. And so she halted on her way, and listened at the door of Charlie's room for a sound within; rapped lightly, and, getting no reply, turned the handle. The room was empty.
But the fire burned brightly, and the room held a welcome for her after the wet and chilly streets. Charlie would come in presently, and they could talk for a little while before she went to bed. For quite desperately she wanted someone to whom to talk to-night—someone who loved her; and Charlie had said, times without number, how much he loved her. Poor Charlie, who was unsuccessful, and yet had always a good word for her—always a smile with which to greet her.
She took off her hat and laid it down; presently stretched herself at length on the shabby old sofa, and laid her cheek on her palm and looked into the fire. The room was very silent; only the fire ticked a little as it fell together; even the streets were quiet. Lying there, she thought of what her life was to be, in all the days that were coming to her—days of poverty and of struggle such as she had known for so long.
"Charlie and I will be together—and perhaps I shall be able to help him," she murmured to herself. "It won't be so bad—with the firelight in the winter—and a quiet room; and in the summer, when the sun shines, the streets and the parks—and perhaps sometimes a glimpse of the country. It won't be so bad—and there will be Charlie. And perhaps Jimmy will——"
She broke off there, because her eyes had filled with tears, and she could not go on. She turned her face a little, so that her arm hid it from the fire; she seemed to murmur there a little brokenly: "Jimmy—you might have remembered"—and again, "Jimmy!"
Then from sheer weariness she slept, and dreamed that she was back again in the old days and the sun was shining. London was but a far-off dream, and she did not know what it would be like. And so, when presently Charlie Purdue opened the door and looked in, he saw her.
He came slowly across the room, and stood looking down at her; saw her lying warm and rosy in the firelight, with the tears yet undried upon her cheeks. As she murmured in her sleep, he suddenly stooped, and fell upon one knee, and put his arms about her; it was his kiss upon her lips that woke her to some consciousness of where she was.
"Moira! my Moira!" he whispered. "I didn't hope to find you here."
Still almost with that dream upon her, she wound her arms about his neck, and nestled her head against his shoulder, as she might have done as a little child, long, long before. Still in that dream, as it seemed, and yet with a half memory of who she was and where she was, she whispered, with her lips against his:
"Let me stay with you; don't send me away. I can't—I can't bear cold looks to-night; don't speak to me. Let me stay; I want love to-night!"
It was his shame that he did not understand; his shame that he saw in her only what he might have seen in any other woman he could meet and conquer, in such an hour and under such circumstances. He wound his arms about her and held her close, and put his lips to hers. And the fire fell, and died down, and dropped to ashes.
The dawn was stealing in faint and grey, and the room was very cold. She stood against the door looking at him shamed and frightened, she shrank away from him when he would have held her; she beat him off with feeble hands.
"I didn't know, Charlie—I didn't understand," she breathed. And said it over and over many times.
When he would have touched her, she crouched away from him, and looked with wild eyes at the grey dawn that was coming in from the world outside, as though this were a new world on which she looked, and she was afraid of it. And presently fled up to her room, sobbing to herself as she went.