Part 4

A second letter from the same lady enclosed a "Poem on My Cat Peter," which had been accidentally omitted from the other envelope. His agent sent him a very welcome cheque for £108, for his newly completed novel. Next came a letter from a stranger, asking for permission to set some verses to music. A charitable countess asked for verses for her new Bazaar Book. An American News Cutting Bureau sent a little bundle of reviews of his book of sketches. The wrapper on the bundle bore a legend in red ink:--

"We mail you 45 clippings of _The Handful_. Has your Agency sent you that many? If you like our way of business, mail us $1.50, and we will continue to collect clippings under your name."

He disliked their way of business. He flung the clippings unread into the fireplace. The next letter asked him to lecture to the Torchbearers' Guild, who, it seemed, admired "the virile manliness" of his style. Last of all came a letter from an unknown clergyman denouncing the pernicious influence of _The Handful_ in words which, without being rude, were offensive beyond measure. He took up the papers.

The first paper, _The Daily Dawn_, treated him _d'haut en bas_, as follows:--

"M. Falempin's latest theatrical adventure, _A Roman Matron_, by Mr. Roger Naldrett (whom we suspect, from internal evidence, to be a not very old lady), was produced last night at the King's Theatre. As far as the audience permitted us to judge, before the piece ended in a storm of groans, we think that it is entirely unsuited to the modern stage. The character of Petronius, finely played by Mr. Danvers, showed some power of psychological analysis; but Mr. (or Miss) Naldrett would do well to remember that the Aristotelian definition of tragedy cannot be disregarded lightly."

The criticism in the second paper, _The Dayspring_, was written in more stately prose than that of _The Dawn_.

"An unreasonable amount of excitement was begotten by the entourage," it ran; "but the piece, which was dull, and occasionally disgusting, convinced us that the New Drama, about which we have heard so much lately, would do better to adequately study a drama more germane to modern ideas, such as we fortunately possess, than libel the institutions from which our glorious Constitution is derived," which was certainly a home-thrust from _The Dayspring_.

The third paper, _The Morning_, in its news column, referred to a disgraceful _fracas_ at the King's Theatre. "The police," said _The Morning_, "were soon on the spot, and removed the more noisy members of the audience. Neither M. Falempin, the manager of the theatre, nor Miss Hanlon, who took a leading part in the offending play, would consent to be interviewed, when waited on, late last night, by a representative of this paper."

The fourth paper, _The Day_, said savagely that _The Matron_ should never have passed the Censor, and that its production was an indelible blot on M. Falempin's (hitherto spotless) artistic record. Roger had written occasional reviews for _The Day_, about a dozen, all told. On the same page, and in the column next to that containing the "Dramatic Notes," was a review signed by him. Roger turned to this review, to see how it read. It was a review of a worthless book of verse by a successful versifier. The literary editor of _The Day_ had asked Roger to write a column on the book. As the book deserved, at most, three scathing words in a Dunciad, Roger had written a column about poetry, a very pretty piece of critical writing, worth five thousand such books fifty times over. Its only fault was that, being about poetry, it had little reference to the book of verse by the successful poet. So the literary editor had "cut" and "written in" and altered the article, till Roger, reading it, on this tragical morning, found himself self-accused of despicable truckling to Mammon, and the palliation of iniquity, in sentences the rhythms of which jarred, and in platitudes which stung him. He flung down the paper. He would never again write for _The Day_. He would never write another word for any daily or weekly paper. He remembered what d'Arthez says in _Les Illusions Perdues_. He blamed himself for not having remembered before.

He ate very hurriedly, so that he might lose no time in getting to the flat in Shaftesbury Avenue, to find out if Ottalie were really there. Ottalie; the sight of Ottalie; the sound of her voice even, would end his troubles for him. The thought of her calmed him. The thought of her brought back the dream, with a glow of pleasure. The dream came and went in his mind, seeming now strange, now beautiful. His impression of it was that given by all moving dreams. He thought of it as a kind of divine adventure in which he had taken part. He felt that he had apprehended spiritually the mysterious life beyond ours, and had learned, finally, forever, that Ottalie's soul was linked to his soul by bonds forged by powers greater than man. A cab came clattering up. There came a vehement knocking at the outer door. "Ottalie," he thought. Selina, the house-maid, entered.

"A lady to see you, sir," she said.

He stood up, gulping, expecting Ottalie. The lady entered. She was not Ottalie. She was a total stranger in a state of great excitement.

"Are you Mr. Naldrett, sir?" she said.

"Yes. Yes. What is it?"

"Mrs. Pollock's compliments, sir, and will you please come round at once?"

"What's the matter?"

"It's Mr. Pollock, sir. He's had a fit or somethink. He's lying in the grate with all the blood gone to his apalex."

"Right," said Roger, stuffing his letters into his pockets. "I'll come. When did it happen?"

"Just now, sir. He'd just gone into the studio, to begin his painting. Then there came a crash. And the missus and I rush in, and there he was in the grate, sir."

"Yes. Yes. Have you sent for a doctor?"

"No, sir. The missus said to go for you."

They galloped off in the cab together. Pollock with the bloody apalex was a young artist whose studio was in Vincent Square. Roger was fond of him. He had shared rooms with him until his marriage. Roger wondered as he drove what was going to happen to the wife if Pollock died. She was expecting a child. Pollock hadn't made much, poor fellow.

"Very beautiful paintings, Mr. Pollock does, sir," said the lady with enthusiasm. "Oh, he does them beautiful. But they're not like ordinary pictures. I mean, they're not pretty, like ordinary pictures. They're like old-fashioned pictures."

"Yes," said Roger. "Tell me. Is his big picture finished? The one with the lady under a stained-glass window."

"No, sir. It's got a lot to do yet, sir. O I 'ope nothink's going to 'appen to 'im, sir."

"Now here we are," said Roger, as the cab slackened. "Now you drive to the corner there. You'll see a brass plate with DR. COLLINSON on it at the corner house. Tell him to get into the cab with you and come round at once. Go on, now. See that he comes at once."

The door of the flat stood open. Roger entered hurriedly. Just inside he ran against Pollock, who was hastening with a jug of water from the bathroom.

"What is it, Pollock? Are you better?"

"I'm all right," said Pollock, feeling a bandaged head. "It's Kitty. Not me. Come on in, quick."

"But I thought you were having apoplexy."

"That heavy frame full of Dürers came down. The corner caught me over the eye while I was standing by the mantelpiece. It knocked me out. Come on in. I believe Kitty's in a bad way."

Kitty lay on a couch. Her face was not like a human being's face. Pollock, very white, sponged her brow with cold water.

"There, dear," he kept saying, "O God, O God, O God," those words, over and over again.

Roger ran to the bedroom for pillows. There was a fire in the kitchen. He poked it up, and put water to boil.

"Where's her hot-water bottle?" he called. Not getting any answer he looked for it in one of the beds, which had not yet been made up. He filled the bottle and made up the bed. "Now, Charles," he said, "we must get her into bed. I wish your girl would bring the doctor."

Charles looked at him stupidly. "I believe she's dying, Roger," he answered. "O God, I believe she's dying. I've never seen any one like this. She used to be so pretty, Roger, before all this happened."

"Dying? Nonsense!" said Roger. He turned to the patient. "Kitty," he said, "we're going to put you to bed. Lean on my arm."

The laughter stopped; but the limbs crazily made protest. He had never seen anything like it. It was as though the charming graceful woman had suddenly been filled by the spirit of a wild animal, which was knocking itself to pieces against the corners in the strange house.

"We shall have to carry her, Charles," he said.

"No, no," said Charles. "She's dying."

The doctor, coming in abruptly, took the battle out of his hands. "Come, come," he said. "Come, Mrs. Pollock. I was afraid that you were ill. You'll feel a lot better when you get to bed. I want you to rest."

He turned to Pollock. "Get her into bed," he said. "Have you got a nurse?"

"No," said Pollock. "She can't come till July."

"Bessie here will do for the moment," said Roger.

Bessie and Pollock helped her to bed. The doctor and Roger talked desultorily.

"No. It's nothing serious. So the frame came down and stunned him? I see. And she came in and found him in the grate? Yes. A nasty shock. Yes. Yes. Of course, it may be serious. It will be impossible to say till I see her. If she had had other children I should say not. But-- Would you say that she is an excitable woman, given to these attacks?"

"No. She used to write a little. She is nervous; but not excitable. Do you find that occupation has much influence on the capacity to resist shock?"

"N-no," said the doctor. "Resistance depends on character. Occupation only modifies character slightly. Life being what it is, one has to be adaptable to survive."

Pollock entered, looking beaten.

"Will you come, doctor?" he said.

They went.

Presently Pollock returned alone. He sat down.

"It's It," he said despondently. "My picture's not done. I shan't have a penny till July. We were counting on its not happening till July. I've not got ten pounds."

"You mustn't worry about that," said Roger. "You must borrow from me. Take this cheque. I'll endorse it. Give me yours for half of it. Don't say you won't. Look here. You must. Now about a nurse. Look here. Listen to me, Charles. You can't leave here. I'll see about a nurse. I know the sort of woman Kitty would like. I'll settle all that with the doctor. I'll send the best I can. You can't leave Kitty, that's certain."

Pollock pulled himself together. The doctor returned. Roger took the addresses of several women, and hurried off to interview them. No cab was in sight. He wasted ten good minutes of nervous tension in trying to find one. He found one at last. As he drove, the desire to be at Ottalie's flat made him forget his friend. He thought only of the chance of seeing Ottalie. He must waste no time. He wondered if he would be too late, as in his dream. He would have to get there early, very early. He prayed that the first nurse on his list might be a suitable woman. The image of the suitable nurse, a big, calm, placid, ox-eyed woman, formed in his mind. If he could find her at once he would be in time. He was longing to be pounding past Whitehall, on the way to Shaftesbury Avenue. A clock above a hosier's told him that it was nine. No. That clock had stopped. Another clock, further on, over a general store, said eight-fifteen. Yet another, eight-thirty. His watch said eight-thirty-five; but his watch was fast.

Mrs. Perks, of 7 Denning Street, was out. Would he leave a message? No, he would not leave a message. Was it Mrs. Ford? No, not Mrs. Ford, another lady. Perhaps he would come back. He bade the cabman to hurry. Mrs. Stanton, the next on the list, could not come. She was expecting a call from another lady. Mrs. Sanders was out, and "wouldn't be back all day, she said." The fourth, a brisk, level-headed woman, busy at a sewing-machine in a neat room, would come; but was he the husband, and could she be certain of her fees, and what servants were kept?

He said that the fees were safe. He gave her two sovereigns on account. Then she boggled at the single servant. She was not very strong. She had never before been with any lady with only one servant. She wasn't sure how she would get on. She had herself to consider.

"I'm sorry," said Roger. "You would have been the very woman. I'll go on to the hospital."

"Perhaps I could manage," she said.

"Will you come?" he asked.

"Is it in a house or a flat?"

"It's in a top flat."

"I dare say I could manage," she said, still hesitating.

Roger, remembering suddenly that Pollock had a married sister, vowed that another lady would be there a good deal in the daytime. She weighed this fact as she stood by the door of the cupboard about to take her hat.

"I don't think I should care to do it," she said suddenly. "I've not been used to that class of work."

Turning at the door as he went out, he saw that she was watching him with a faint smile. Only the hospital remained.

It took him a long way out of his way. It was twenty past nine when he reached the hospital. Very soon it would be too late for Ottalie. His heart sank. He believed in telepathy. He was thinking so fixedly on Ottalie that he believed that she must sense his thought. "Ottalie, Ottalie," he kept saying to himself. "Wait for me. Wait for me. I shall come. I am coming as fast as I can. Can't you feel me hurrying to you? Wait for me. Don't let me miss you." He discharged his horse-cab, and engaged a motor-cab. Two minutes later he had engaged a nurse. She was in the cab with him. They were whirling south.

"No," she was telling him. "I don't find much difference in my cases. I don't generally see them after. Some are more interesting than others. I like being with an interesting case. I don't mean to say a serious case, and have either of them die, and that. I mean, you know, out of the usual. That's why I like having to do with a first child."

She asked if there were any chance of her being too late. Roger, with his heart full of Ottalie, could not tell her.

"I shouldn't like to be too late," she said. "I've never missed a case yet. Never. I should be vexed if I were too late with this one. It's a painter gentleman, I think you said it was?"

"Yes."

"I was with a painter's lady once before," she said. "He gave me a little picture of myself."

They reached the flat. Pollock's sister had arrived. The doctor had sent his son for her. Pollock was moodily breaking chalk upon a drawing. The studio was foul with the smoke of cigarettes. "I can't work," he said, lighting a cigarette from the fag-end of the last. "Sit down." He flung away his chalk and sat down. "You've been awfully good to me, Roger. You've got me out of a tragedy. You don't know what it feels like."

"How is Kitty?"

"Pretty well, the doctor thinks. God knows what he would call bad. This is all new to me. I don't want to go through this again. God knows if she'll ever get through it. I shall shoot myself if anything happens to Kitty."

Roger glanced at his watch. It was eighteen minutes to ten. He would have to fly to find Ottalie. If she were in town at all, she would be out by ten. He was sure of that. His motor-cab was waiting. He had a quarter of an hour. But how could he leave Pollock in this state?

"Charles," he said, "I want you to come out with me. You've got on shoes, I see. Take your hat. Kitty is with three capable women and a doctor. You're only in the way, and making a fuss. Come with me. I'll leave you at the National Gallery, while I see a friend. Then we'll go to Bondini's, in Suffolk Street." He called gently to Pollock's sister. "Mrs. Fane," he said, "I'm taking Charles to Bondini's, in Suffolk Street."

"A very good thing," said Mrs. Fane. "A man is much better out of the way in times like these."

They started. Just outside Dean's Yard Gate the cab broke down. Roger got out. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing much, sir," said the man, already busy under the bonnet. "I won't keep you a minute. Get in again, sir."

A hand touched Roger's arm. He turned. A total stranger, unmistakably a journalist, was at his side. Roger shuddered. It was an interviewer from _The Meridian_.

"Mr. Naldrett?" said the interviewer, taking a long shot. "I recognised you by your portrait in _The Bibliophile_. A lucky meeting. Perhaps you didn't get my telegram. I called round at your rooms just now, but you were out. I want to ask you about your play _The Matron_. It attracted considerable attention. Will you please tell me if you have any particular ideas about tragedy?"

"Yes," said Roger; "I have. And I'm going to express them. I'm in a great hurry; and I must refuse to be interviewed. Please thank your editor from me for the honour he has done me; but tell him that I cannot be interviewed."

"Certainly not, since you wish it," said the journalist. "But I would like to ask you one thing. I am told your play is very morbid. Are you morbid? You don't look very morbid."

"I am sorry," said Roger. "But I am not morbid."

"Mr. Naldrett," said the journalist, "are you going to write any more tragedies like _The Roman Matron_?"

"I have one finished and one half finished," said Roger.

"I hope, Mr. Naldrett," said the journalist, "that you have written them for ordinary people, as well as to please yourself. Writing to please one's self is very artistic. But won't you consider Clapham, and Balham, and Tooting? How will you please them with tragedies? A good comedy is what people like. They want something to laugh at, after their day's work. They're quite right. A good comedy's the thing. Anybody can write a tragedy. What's the good of making people gloomy? One wants the pleasant things of life, Mr. Naldrett, on the stage. One goes to the theatre to be amused. There's enough tragedy in real life without one getting more in the theatre. I suppose you've studied Ibsen, Mr. Naldrett?"

"Have not you?"

"I don't believe in him. He may be a thinker and all that, but his view of life is very morbid. He is a decadent. Of course, they say his technique is very fine. But he has a mind like a sewer."

"Quite ready, sir," said the chauffeur, swinging himself into his seat.

"I must wish you good-bye, here," said Roger to the interviewer. "Mind your coat. It's caught in the door. Mind you thank your editor." The cab snorted off, honking. The interviewer gazed after it. "H'm," he said, with that little cynical nod with which the unintelligent express comprehension. "So that's the new drama, is it?"

The car reached Trafalgar Square without being stopped by the traffic. St. Martin's clock stood at a few minutes to ten. Roger was in the dismal mood of one who, having given up hope, is yet not certain. He dropped Pollock at the Gallery, and then sped on, through Leicester Square, up a little street full of restaurants and French book shops. The car was stopped by traffic at the end of this street. Roger leapt out, paid the man hurriedly, and ran into the Avenue. Within thirty seconds, he was running up four flights of stairs to the door on which he had knocked in his vision.

He peered through the glass in the door. As in his dream, something lay in the passage beyond, some glove or handkerchief or crumpled letter, with a shaft of sunlight upon it from an open door. No one came to open to him; but Roger, knocking there, was conscious of the presence of Ottalie by him and in him; he felt her brushing past him, a rustling, breathing beauty, wearing a great hat, and those old pearl earrings which trembled when she turned her head. But no Ottalie came to the door, no Agatha, no old Mrs. Hicks the caretaker. The flat was empty. After a couple of minutes of knocking, an old, untidy, red-faced woman came out from the flat beneath, gasping for breath, with her hand against her side.

"No use your knockin'," she said crustily. "They're gawn awy. They i'n't 'ere. They're gawn awy."

"When did they go?" asked Roger, filled suddenly with leaping fire.

"They're gawn awy," repeated the old woman. "No use your knockin'. They're gawn awy." She gasped for a moment, eyeing Roger with suspicion and dislike; then turned to her home with the slow, uncertain, fumbling movements of one whose heart is affected.

Roger was left alone on the stairs, aware that he had come too late.

The stairs were covered with a layer of sheet-lead. When the old woman had shut her door, Roger grovelled down upon them, lighting match after match, in the hope of finding footmarks which might tell him more. Agatha had rather long feet, Ottalie's were small, but very well proportioned. Mrs. Hicks's feet were disguised by the boots she wore. A scrap of brown linoleum on the stair-head bore evident marks of a man's hobnail boots which had waited there, perhaps for an answer. There were other, non-committal marks, which might have been made by anybody. On the whole, Roger fancied that a woman had made them, when going out, with dry shoes, that morning. The problem now was, had she left London for Ireland or for the Continent? With some misgivings, he decided against Ireland. On former occasions she had always made her stay in London after her visit to the Continent. If she had been staying in London for more than one night, she would have written to him; he would have seen her. As she had not written to him, she was plainly going abroad, probably for a month or six weeks, after resting for one night on the way. He would not see her till the middle of the summer. That she had been in town, for at least one night, was plain from what the woman had said. The thought that only a few hours ago she had passed where he stood, came home to him like her touch upon him. He sat down upon the stair-head till his disappointment was mastered.

He took a last look through the door-glass at the crumpled thing, glove, letter, or handkerchief, lying in the passage. Then he went out into the avenue. The disappointment was very bitter to him. It was so strong an emphasis upon the prophetic quality of his dream. Ottalie had been there, waiting for him. He had come there too late. He had missed her. The thought that he had missed her, suggested the cause. He would have to go back to Pollock. He could not leave his friend alone in that wild state of mind. A smaller man would perhaps have felt resentment against the cause. Roger was without that littleness. He saw only the tragic irony. He saw life being played upon a great plan. He felt himself to be a fine piece set aside from his own combination by one greater, stronger, more wonderful. It seemed very wonderful that he had been kept (so unexpectedly) from Ottalie, by the one thing in the world strong enough so to keep him. Nothing but a matter of life and death could have kept him from her.