Paul Kelver

“What do you know about it?”

“There’s not much to know. I can find out.”

“Take care you don’t find out that there’s more to know than you think. What is this wonderful play of his?”

“I haven’t seen it yet; I don’t think it’s finished. It’s something from the Spanish or the Russian, I’m not sure. I’m to put it into shape when he’s done the translation. He wants me to put my name to it as the adaptor.”

“Wonder he hasn’t asked you to wear his clothes. Has he got any money?”

“Of course he has money. How can you run a theatrical company without money?”

“Have you seen the money?”

“He doesn’t carry it about with him in a bag.”

“I should have thought your ambition to be to act, not to manage. Managers are to be had cheap enough. Why should he want some one who knows nothing about it?”

“I’m going to act. I’m going to play a leading part.”

“Great Scott!”

“He’ll do the management really himself; I shall simply advise him. But he doesn’t want his own name to appear.

“Why not?”

“His people might object.”

“Who are his people?”

“How do I know? What a suspicious chap you are.”

Dan shrugged his shoulders. “You are not an actor, you never will be; you are not a business man. You’ve made a start at writing, that’s your proper work. Why not go on with it?”

“I can’t get on with it. That one thing was accepted, and never paid for; everything else comes back regularly, just as before. Besides, I can go on writing wherever I am.”

“You’ve got friends here to help you.”

“They don’t believe I can do anything but write nonsense.”

“Well, clever nonsense is worth writing. It’s better than stodgy sense: literature is blocked up with that. Why not follow their advice?”

“Because I don’t believe they are right. I’m not a clown; I don’t mean to be. Because a man has a sense of humour it doesn’t follow he has nothing else. That is only one of my gifts, and by no means the highest. I have knowledge of human nature, poetry, dramatic instinct. I mean to prove it to you all. Vane’s the only man that understands me.”

Dan lit his pipe. “Have you made up your mind to go?”

“Of course I have. It’s an opportunity that doesn’t occur twice. ‘There’s a tide in the affairs – ”

“Thanks,” interrupted Dan; “I’ve heard it before. Well, if you’ve made up your mind, there’s an end of the matter. Good luck to you! You are young, and it’s easier to learn things then than later.”

“You talk,” I answered, “as if you were old enough to be my grandfather.”

He smiled and laid both hands upon my shoulders. “So I am,” he said, “quite old enough, little boy Paul. Don’t be angry; you’ll always be little Paul to me.” He put his hands in his pockets and strolled to the window.

“What’ll you do?” I enquired. “Will you keep on these rooms?”

“No,” he replied. “I shall accept an offer that has been made to me to take the sub-editorship of a big Yorkshire paper. It is an important position and will give me experience.”

“You’ll never be happy mewed up in a provincial town,” I told him. “I shall want a London address, and I can easily afford it. Let’s keep them on together.”

He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the same thing,” he said.

So there came a morning when we said good-bye. Before Dan returned from the office I should be gone. They had been pleasant months that we had spent together in these pretty rooms. Though my life was calling to me full of hope, I felt the pain of leaving them. Two years is a long period in a young man’s life, when the sap is running swiftly. My affections had already taken root there. The green leaves in summer, in winter the bare branches of the square, the sparrows that chirped about the window-sills, the quiet peace of the great house, Dan, kindly old Deleglise: around them my fibres clung, closer than I had known. The Lady of the train: she managed it now less clumsily. Her hands and feet had grown smaller, her elbows rounder. I found myself smiling as I thought of her – one always did smile when one thought of Norah, everybody did; – of her tomboy ways, her ringing laugh – there were those who termed it noisy; her irrepressible frankness – there were times when it was inconvenient. Would she ever become lady-like, sedate, proper? One doubted it. I tried to picture her a wife, the mistress of a house. I found the smile deepening round my mouth. What a jolly wife she would make! I could see her bustling, full of importance; flying into tempers, lasting possibly for thirty seconds; then calling herself names, saving all argument by undertaking her own scolding, and doing it well. I followed her to motherhood. What a joke it would be! What would she do with them? She would just let them do what they liked with her. She and they would be a parcel of children together, she the most excited of them all. No; on second thoughts I could detect in her a strong vein of common sense. They would have to mind their p’s and q’s. I could see her romping with them, helping them to tear their clothes; but likewise I could see her flying after them, bringing back an armful struggling, bathing it, physicking it. Perhaps she would grow stout, grow grey; but she would still laugh more often than sigh, speak her mind, be quick, good-tempered Norah to the end. Her character precluded all hope of surprise. That, as I told myself, was its defect. About her were none of those glorious possibilities that make of some girls charming mysteries. A woman, said I to myself, should be a wondrous jewel, hiding unknown lights and shadows. You, my dear Norah – I spoke my thoughts aloud, as had become a habit with me: those who live much alone fall into this way – you are merely a crystal, not shallow – no, I should not call you shallow by any mans, but transparent.

What would he be, her lover? Some plain, matter-of-fact, business-like young fellow, a good player of cricket and football, fond of his dinner. What a very uninteresting affair the love-making would be! If she liked him – well, she would probably tell him so; if she didn’t, he would know it in five minutes.

As for inducing her to change her mind, wooing her, cajoling her – I heard myself laughing at the idea.

There came a quick rap at the door. “Come in,” I cried; and she entered.

“I came to say good-bye to you,” she explained. “I’m just going out. What were you laughing at?”

“Oh, at an idea that occurred to me.”

“A funny one?”

“Yes.”

“Tell it me.”

“Well, it was something in connection with yourself. It might offend you.”

“It wouldn’t trouble you much if it did, would it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it would.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“I was thinking of your lover.”

It did offend her; I thought it would. But she looked really interesting when she was cross. Her grey eyes would flash, and her whole body quiver. There was a charming spice of danger always about making her cross.

“I suppose you think I shall never have one.”

“On the contrary, I think you will have a good many.” I had not thought so before then. I formed the idea for the first time in that moment, while looking straight into her angry face. It was still a childish face.

The anger died out of it as it always did within the minute, and she laughed. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it. I wonder what I should do with him? It makes you feel very serious being in love, doesn’t it?”

“Very.”