Paul Kelver

PAUL KELVER

“Where have you been, and what have you been doing?” asked Norah. She still retained her grip upon me, and in her grey eyes was quiet determination.

So, with my face turned away from her, I told her the whole miserable story, taking strange satisfaction in exaggerating, if anything, my own share of the disgrace. My recital ended, I sat staring down the long, shadow-freckled way, and for awhile there was no sound but the chirping of the sparrows.

Then behind me I beard a smothered laugh. It was impossible to imagine it could come from Norah. I turned quickly to see who had stolen upon us. It was Norah who was laughing; though to do her justice she was trying to suppress it, holding her handkerchief to her face. It was of no use, it would out; she abandoned the struggle, and gave way to it. It astonished the sparrows into silence; they stood in a row upon the low iron border and looked at one another.

“I am glad you think it funny,” I said.

“But it is funny,” she persisted. “Don’t say you have lost your sense of humour, Paul; it was the one real thing you possessed. You were so cocky – you don’t know how cocky you were! Everybody was a fool but Vane; nobody else but he appreciated you at your true worth. You and he between you were going to reform the stage, to educate the public, to put everything and everybody to rights. I am awfully sorry for all you’ve gone through; but now that it is over, can’t you see yourself that it is funny?”

Faintly, dimly, this aspect of the case, for the very first time, began to present itself to me; but I should have preferred Norah to have been impressed by its tragedy.

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“That is not all,” I said. “I nearly ran away with another man’s wife.”

I was glad to notice that sobered her somewhat. “Nearly? Why not quite?” she asked more seriously.

“She thought I was some young idiot with money,” I replied bitterly, pleased with the effect I had produced. “Vane had told her a pack of lies. When she found out I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced, without a sixpence – -” I made a gesture expressive of eloquent contempt for female nature generally.

“I am sorry,” said Norah; “I told you you would fall in love with something real.”

Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. “In love!” I replied; “good God, I was never in love with her!”

“Then why did you nearly run away with her?”

I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter; it promised to be difficult of explanation. “I don’t know,” I replied irritably. “I thought she was in love with me. She was very beautiful – at least, other people seemed to think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. You must live – understand life, before you can teach it to others. When a beautiful woman is in love with you – or pretends to be, you – you must say something. You can’t stand like a fool and – ”

Again her laughter interrupted me; this time she made no attempt to hide it. The sparrows chirped angrily, and flew off to continue their conversation somewhere where there would be less noise.

“You are the biggest baby, Paul,” she said, so soon as she could speak, “I ever heard of.” She seized me by the shoulders, and turned me round. “If you weren’t looking so ill and

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miserable, I would shake you, Paul, till there wasn’t a bit of breath left in your body.”

“How much money do you owe?” she asked – “to the people in the company and anybody else, I mean – roughly?”

“About a hundred and fifty pounds,” I answered.

“Then if you rest day or night, Paul, till you have paid that hundred and fifty – every penny of it – I’ll think you the meanest cad in London!”

Her grey eyes were flashing quite alarmingly. I felt almost afraid of her. She could be so vehement at times.

“But how can I?” I asked.

“Go straight home,” she commanded, “and write something funny: an article, story – anything you like; only mind that it is funny. Post it to me to-morrow, at the latest. Dan is in London, editing a new weekly. I’ll have it copied out and sent to him. I shan’t say who it is from. I shall merely ask him to read it and reply, at once. If you’ve a grain of grit left in you, you’ll write something that he will be glad to have and to pay for. Pawn that ring on your finger and get yourself a good breakfast” – it was my mother’s wedding-ring, the only piece of dispensable property I had not parted with – “she won’t mind helping you. But nobody else is going to – except yourself.”

She looked at her watch. “I must be off.” She turned again. “There is something I was forgetting. B – “ – she mentioned the name of the dramatist whose play Vane had stolen – “has been looking for you for the last three months. If you hadn’t been an idiot you might have saved yourself a good deal of trouble. He is quite certain it was Vane stole the manuscript. He asked the nurse to bring it to him an hour after Vane had

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CHAPTER IX

THE PRINCESS

OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING

It took me three years to win that handshake. For the first six months I remained in Deptford. There was excellent material to be found there for humorous articles, essays, stories; likewise for stories tragic and pathetic. But I owed a hundred and fifty pounds – a little over two hundred it reached to, I found, when I came to add up the actual figures. So I paid strict attention to business, left the tears to be garnered by others – better fitted maybe for the task; kept to my own patch, reaped and took to market only the laughter.

At the beginning I sent each manuscript to Norah; she had it copied out, debited me with the cost received payment, and sent me the balance. At first my earnings were small; but Norah was an excellent agent; rapidly they increased. Dan grew quite cross with her, wrote in pained surprise at her greed. The “matter” was fair, but in no way remarkable. Any friend of hers, of course, he was anxious to assist; but business was business. In justice to his proprietors, he could not and would not pay more than the market value. Miss Deleglise, replying curtly in the third person, found herself in perfect accord with Mr. Brian as to business being business. If Mr. Bri-

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an could not afford to pay her price for material so excellent, other editors with whom Miss Deleglise was equally well acquainted could and would. Answer by return would greatly oblige, pending which the manuscript then in her hands she retained. Mr. Brian, understanding he had found his match, grumbled but paid. Whether he had any suspicion who “Jack Homer” might be, he never confessed; but he would have played the game, pulled his end of the rope, in either case. Nor was he allowed to decide the question for himself. Competition was introduced into the argument. Of purpose a certain proportion of my work my agent sent elsewhere. “Jack Homer” grew to be a commodity in demand. For, seated at my rickety table, I laughed as I wrote, the fourth wall of the dismal room fading before my eyes revealing vistas beyond.

Still, it was slow work. Humour is not an industrious maid; declines to be bustled, will work only when she feels inclined – does not often feel inclined; gives herself a good many unnecessary airs; if worried, packs up and goes off, Heaven knows where! comes back when she thinks she will: a somewhat unreliable young person. To my literary labours I found it necessary to add journalism. I lacked Dan’s magnificent assurance. Fate never befriends the nervous. Had I burst into the editorial sanctum, the editor most surely would have been out; if in, would have been a man of short ways, would have seen to it that I went out quickly. But the idea was not to be thought of; Robert Macaire himself in my one coat would have been diffident, apologetic. I joined the ranks of the penny-a-liners – to be literally exact, three halfpence a liners. In company with half a dozen other shabby outsiders – some of them young

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men like myself seeking to climb; others, older men who had sunk – I attended inquests, police courts; flew after fire engines; rejoiced in street accidents; yearned for murders. Somewhat vulture-like we lived precariously upon the misfortunes of others. We made occasional half crowns by providing the public with scandal, occasional crowns by keeping our information to ourselves.

“I think, gentlemen,” would explain our spokesman in a hoarse whisper, on returning to the table, “I think the corpse’s brother-in-law is anxious that the affair, if possible, should be kept out of the papers.”

The closeness and attention with which we would follow that particular case, the fulness and completeness of our notes, would be quite remarkable. Our spokesman would rise, drift carelessly away, to return five minutes later, wiping his mouth.

“Not a very interesting case, gentlemen, I don’t think. Shall we say five shillings apiece?” Sometimes a sense of the dignity of our calling would induce us to stand out for ten.

And here also my sense of humour came to my aid; gave me perhaps an undue advantage over my competitors. Twelve good men and true had been asked to say how a Lascar sailor had met his death. It was perfectly clear how he had met his death. A plumber, working on the roof of a small two-storeyed house, had slipped and fallen on him. The plumber had escaped with a few bruises; the unfortunate sailor had been picked up dead. Some blame attached to the plumber. His mate, an excellent witness, told us the whole story.

“I was fixing a gas-pipe on the first floor,” said the man. “The prisoner was on the roof.”

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“We won’t call him ‘the prisoner,’” interrupted the coroner, “at least, not yet. Refer to him, if you please, as the ‘last witness.’”

“The last witness,” corrected himself the man. “He shouts down the chimney to know if I was ready for him.”

“‘Ready and waiting,’ I says.

“‘Right,’ he says; ‘I’m coming in through the window.’ “‘Wait a bit,’ I says; ‘I’ll go down and move the ladder for

you.

“‘It’s all right,’ he says; ‘I can reach it.’

“‘No, you can’t,’ I says. ‘It’s the other side of the chimney.’ “‘I can get round,’ he says.

“Well, before I knew what had happened, I hears him go, smack! I rushes to the window and looks out: I see him on the pavement, sitting up like.

“‘Hullo, Jim,’ I says. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’

“‘I think I’m all right,’ he says, ‘as far as I can tell. But I wish you’d come down. This bloke I’ve fallen on looks a bit sick.’”

The others headed their flimsy “Sad Accident,” a title truthful but not alluring. I altered mine to “Plumber in a Hurry – Fatal Result.” Saying as little as possible about the unfortunate sailor, I called the attention of plumbers generally to the coroner’s very just remarks upon the folly of undue haste; pointed out to them, as a body, the trouble that would arise if somehow they could not cure themselves of this tendency to rush through their work without a moment’s loss of time.

It established for me a useful reputation. The sub-editor of one evening paper condescended so far as to come out in his shirt-sleeves and shake hands with me.

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“That’s the sort of thing we want,” he told me; “a light touch, a bit of humour.”

I snatched fun from fires (I sincerely trust the insurance premiums were not overdue); culled quaintness from street rows; extracted merriment from catastrophes the most painful, and prospered.

Though often within a stone’s throw of the street, I unremittingly avoided the old house at Poplar. I was suffering inconvenience at this period by reason of finding myself two distinct individuals, contending with each other. My object was to encourage the new Paul – the sensible, practical, pushful Paul, whose career began to look promising; to drive away from interfering with me his strangely unlike twin – the old childish Paul of the sad, far-seeing eyes. Sometimes out of the cracked looking-glass his wistful, yearning face would plead to me; but I would sternly shake my head. I knew well his cunning. Had I let him have his way, he would have led me through the maze of streets he knew so well, past the broken railings (outside which he would have left my body standing), along the weedy pathway, through the cracked and dented door, up the creaking staircase to the dismal little chamber where we once – he and I together – had sat dreaming foolish dreams.

“Come,” he would whisper; “it is so near. Let us push aside the chest of drawers very quietly, softly raise the broken sash, prop it open with the Latin dictionary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the voices of the weary city, voices calling to us from the darkness.”

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But I was too wary to be caught. “Later on,” I would reply to him; “when I have made my way, when I am stronger to withstand your wheedling. Then I will go with you, if you are still in existence, my sentimental little friend. We will dream again the old impractical, foolish dreams – and laugh at them.”

So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to me approvingly a businesslike-looking, wide-awake young fellow.

But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed. My position was by now assured; there was no longer any reason for my hiding myself. I determined to move westward. I had not intended to soar so high, but passing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-covered corner house that my father had once thought of taking recalled itself to me. A card was in the fanlight. I knocked and made enquiries. A bed-sitting-room upon the third floor was vacant. I remembered it well the moment the loquacious landlady opened its door.

“This shall be your room, Paul,” said my father. So clearly his voice sounded behind me that I turned, forgetting for the moment it was but a memory. “You will be quiet here, and we can shut out the bed and washstand with a screen.”

So my father had his way. It was a pleasant, sunny little room, overlooking the gardens of the hospital. I followed my father’s suggestion, shut out the bed and washstand with a screen. And sometimes of an evening it would amuse me to hear my father turn the handle of the door.

“How are you getting on – all right?” “Famously.”

Often there came back to me the words he had once used. “You must be the practical man, Paul, and get on. Myself,

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