"Oh, no, you won't really. To tell the truth, I've done none to-day. I can't get into the mood."

"So you've been getting Angel to help you. Oh, well, of course, if Angel can be allowed to interrupt you, I suppose I can too. Well, then, I'll stay a quarter of an hour."

"But you may as well take your things off, and I'll make a cup of tea, eh? That'll be cosey, won't it? And then you can read me Mike's last letter, eh?"

"Oh, he's doing splendidly, dear! I had a lovely letter from him this morning. Would you really care to hear a bit of it?"

And Esther would proceed to read, picking her way among the endearments and the diminutives.

"I am glad, dear. Why, if he goes on at this rate, you'll be able to get married in no time."

"Yes; isn't it splendid, dear? I am so happy! What I'd give to see his little face for five minutes! Wouldn't you?"

"Rather. Perhaps he'll be able to run up on Bank Holiday."

"I'm afraid not, dear. He speaks of it in his letter, and just hopes for it; but rather fears they'll have to play at Brighton, or some other stupid seaside place."

"That's a bother. Yes, dear old Mike! To think of him working away there all by himself—God bless him! Do you know he's never seen this old room? It struck me yesterday. It doesn't seem quite warmed till he's seen it. Wouldn't it be lovely to have him here some night?—one of our old, long evenings. Well, I suppose it will really come one of these days. And then we shall be having you married, and going off to London in clouds of glory, while poor old Henry grubs away down here in Tyre."

"Well, if we do go first, you will not be long after us, dear; and if only Mike could make a really great hit, why, in five years' time we might all be quite rich. Won't it be wonderful?"

Then the kettle boiled, and Henry made the tea; and when it had long since been drunk, Esther began to think it must be five o'clock, and, horrified to find it a quarter to six, confessed to being ashamed of herself, and tried to console her conscience by the haste of her good-bye.

"I'm afraid I've wasted your afternoon," she said; "but we don't often get a chat nowadays, do we? Good-bye, dear. Go on loving me, won't you?"

After that, Henry would give the day up as a bad job, and begin to wonder if Ned would be dropping in that evening for a smoke; and as that was Ned's almost nightly custom about eight o'clock, the chances of Henry's disappointment were not serious.



CHAPTER XLII

A HEAVIER FOOTFALL

One morning, as Henry was really doing a little work, a more ponderous step broke the silence of his landing, a heavy footfall full of friendship. Certainly that was not Angel, nor even the more weighty Esther, though when the knock came it was little and shy as a woman's.

Henry threw open the door, but for a moment there was no one to be seen; and then, recalling the idiosyncrasy of a certain new friend whom by that very token he guessed it might be, he came out on to the landing, to find a great big friendly man in corpulent blue serge, a rough, dark beard, and a slouched hat, standing a few feet off in a deprecating way,—which really meant that if there were any ladies in the room with Mr. Mesurier, he would prefer to call another time. For though he had two or three grownup daughters of his own, this giant of a man was as shy of a bit of a thing like Angel, whom he had met there one day, as though he were a mere boy. He always felt, he once said in explanation, as though he might break them in shaking hands. They affected him like the presence of delicate china, and yet he could hold a baby deftly as an elephant can nip up a flower; and to see him turn over the pages of a delicate edition de luxe was a lesson in tenderness. For this big man who, as he would himself say, looked for all the world like a pirate, was as insatiable of fine editions as a school-girl of chocolate creams. He was one of those dearest of God's creatures, a gentle giant; and his voice, when it wasn't necessary to be angry, was as low and kind as an old nurse at the cradle's side.

Henry had come to know him through his little Scotch printer, who printed circulars and bill-heads, for the business over which Mr. Fairfax—for that was his name—presided. By day he was the vigorous brain of a huge emporium, a sort of Tyrian Whiteley's; but day and night he was a lover of books, and you could never catch him so busy but that he could spare the time mysteriously to beckon you into his private office, and with the glee of a child, show you his last large paper. He not only loved books; but he was rumoured liberally to have assisted one or two distressed men of genius well-known to the world. The tales of the surreptitious goodness of his heart were many; but it was known too that the big kind man had a terribly searching eye under his briery brows, and could be as stern towards ingratitude as he was soft to misfortune. Henry once caught a glimpse of this as they spoke of a mutual friend whom he had helped to no purpose. Mr. Fairfax never used many words, on this occasion he was grimly laconic.

"Rat-poison!" he said, shaking his head. "Rat-poison!" It was his way of saying that that was the only cure for that particular kind of man.

It was evident that his generous eye had seen how things were with Henry. He had subscribed for at least a dozen copies of "The Book of Angelica," and in several ways shown his interest in the struggling young poet. As has been said, he had seen Angelica one day, and his shyness had not prevented his heart from going out to these two young people, and the dream he saw in their eyes. He had determined to do what he could to help them, and to-day he had come with a plan.

"I hope you're not too proud to give me a hand, Mr. Mesurier, in a little idea I've got," he said.

"I think you know how proud I am, and how proud I'm not, Mr. Fairfax," said Henry. "I'm sure anything I could do for you would make me proud, if that's what you mean."

"Thank you. Thank you. But you mustn't speak too fast. It's advertising—does the word frighten you? No? Well, it's a scheme I've thought of for a little really artistic and humorous advertising combined. I've got a promise from one of the most original artists of the day, you know his name, to do the pictures; and I want you to do the verses—at, I may say, your own price. It's not, perhaps, the highest occupation for a poet; but it's something to be going on with; and if we've got good posters as advertisements, I don't see why we shouldn't have good humorous verse. What do you think of it?"

"I think it's capital," said Henry, who was almost too ready to turn his hand to anything. "Of course I'll do it; only too glad."

"Well, that's settled. Now, name your price. Don't be frightened!"

"Really, I can't. I haven't the least idea what I should get. Wait till I have done a few of the verses, and you can give me what you please."

"No, sir," said Mr. Fairfax; "business is business. If you won't name a figure, I must. Will you consider a hundred pounds sufficient?"

"A hundred pounds!" Henry gasped out, the tears almost starting to his eyes.

Mr. Fairfax did not miss his frank joy, and liked him for his ingenuousness.

"All right, then; we'll call it settled. I shall be ready for the verses as soon as you care to write them."

"Mr. Fairfax, I will tell you frankly that this is a great deal to me, and I thank you from my heart."

"Not a word, not a word, my boy. We want your verses, we want your verses. That's right, isn't it? Good verses, good money! Now no more of that," and the good man, in alarm lest he should be thanked further, made an abrupt and awkward farewell.

"It will keep the lad going a few months anyhow," he said to himself, as he tramped downstairs, glad that he'd been able to think of something; for, while the scheme was admirable as an advertisement, and would more than repay Messrs. Owens' outlay, its origin had been pure philanthropy. Such good angels do walk this world in the guise of bulky, quite unpoetic-looking business-men.

"One hundred pounds!" said Henry, over and over again to himself. "One hundred pounds! What news for Angel!"

He had soon a scheme in his head for the book, which entirely hit Mr. Fairfax's fancy. It was to make a volume of verse celebrating each of the various departments of the great store, in metres parodying the styles of the old English ballads and various poets, ancient and modern, and was to be called, "Bon Marche Ballads."

"Something like this, for example," said Henry, a few days later, pulling an envelope covered with pencil-scribble from his pocket. "This for the ladies' department,—

"Oh, where do you buy your hats, lady? And where do you buy your hose? And where do you buy your shoes, lady? And where your underclothes?

_"Hats, shoes, and stockings, everything A lady's heart requires, Quality good, and prices low, We are the largest buyers!

"The stock we bought on Wednesday last Is fading fast away, To-morrow it may be too late— Oh, come and buy to-day!"_

Mr. Fairfax fairly trumpeted approval. "If they're all as good as that," he said; "you must have more money. Yes, you must. Well, well,—we'll see, we'll see!" And when the "Bon Marche Ballads" actually appeared, the generous creature insisted on adding another fifty pounds to the cheque.

As many were afterwards of opinion that Henry never again did such good work as these nonsense rhymes, written thus for a frolic,—and one hundred and fifty pounds,—and as copies of the "Bon Marche Ballads" are now exceedingly scarce, it may possibly be of interest to quote two or three more of its preposterous numbers. This is a lyric illustrative of cheese, for the provision department:—

"_Are you fond of cheese? Do you sometimes sigh For a really good Gorgonzola? Try,

"Try our one-and-ten, Wonderfully rotten, Tasted once, it never can Be again forgotten_!"

Here is "a Ballad of Baby's Toys:"—

"_Oh, give me a toy" the baby said— The babe of three months old,— Oh, what shall I buy my little babee, With silver and with gold?"

"I would you buy a trumpet fine, And a rocking-horse for me, And a bucket and a spade, mother, To dig beside the sea."

"But where shall I buy these pretty things?" The mother's heart inquires. "Oh, go to Owens!" cried the babe; "They are the largest buyers."_

The subject of our last selection is "Melton Mowbray," which bore beneath its title due apologies to Mr. Swinburne:—

"Strange pie, that is almost a passion, O passion immoral, for pie! Unknown are the ways that they fashion, Unknown and unseen of the eye, The pie that is marbled and mottled, The pie that digests with a sigh: For all is not Bass that is bottled, And all is not pork that is pie."

Of all the goodness else that Henry and Angel were to owe in future days to Mr. Fairfax, there is not room in this book to write. But that matters little, for is it not written in the Book of Love?



CHAPTER XLIII

STILL ANOTHER CALLER

One afternoon the step coming along the corridor was almost light enough to be Angel's, though a lover's ear told him that hers it was not. Once more that feminine rustle, the very whisper of romantic mystery; again the little feminine knock.

Daintiness and Myrtilla!

"Well, this is lovely of you, Myrtilla! But what courage! How did you ever dare venture into this wild and savage spot,—this mountain-fastness of Bohemia?"

"Yes, it was brave of me, wasn't it?" said Myrtilla, with a little laugh, for which the stairs had hardly left her breath. "But what a climb! It is like having your rooms on the Matterhorn. I think I must write a magazine article: 'How I climbed the fifty-thousand stairs,' with illustrations,—and we could have some quite pretty ones," she said, looking round the room.

"That big skylight is splendid! As close, dear lad, to the stars as you can get it? Are you as devoted to them as ever?"

"Aren't you, Myrtilla?"

"Oh, yes; but they don't get any nearer, you know."

"It's awfully good to see you again, Myrtilla," said Henry, going over to her and taking both her hands. "It's quite a long time, you know, since we had a talk. It was a sweet thought of you to come. You'll have some tea, won't you?"

"Yes, I should love to see you make tea. Bachelors always make such good tea. What pretty cups! My word, we are dainty! I suppose it was Esther bought them for you?"

Henry detected the little trap and smiled. No, it hadn't been Esther.

"No? Someone else then? eh! I think I can guess her name. It was mean of you not to tell me about her, Henry. I hear she's called Angel, and that she looks like one. I wish I could have seen her before I went away."

"Going away, Myrtilla? why, where? I've heard nothing of it. Tell me about it."

The atmosphere perceptibly darkened with the thought of Williamson.

"Well!" she said, in the little airy melodious way she had when she was telling something particularly unhappy about herself—a sort of harpsichord bravado—"Well, you know, he's taken to fancying himself seriously ill lately, and the doctors have aided and abetted him; and so we're going to Davos Platz, or some such health-wilderness—and well, that's all!"

"And you I suppose are to nurse the—to nurse him?" said Henry, savagely.

"Hush, lad! It's no use, not a bit! You won't help me that way," she said, laying her hand kindly on his, and her eyes growing bright with suppressed tears.

"It's a shame, nevertheless, Myrtilla, a cruel shame!"

"You'd like to say it was a something-else shame, wouldn't you, dear boy? Well, you can, if you like: but then you must say no more. And if you really want to help me, you shall send me a long letter now and again, with some of your new poems enclosed; and tell me what new books are worth sending for? Will you do that?"

"Of course, I will. That's precious little to do anyhow."

"It's a good deal, really. But be sure you do it."

"And, of course, you'll write to me sometimes. I don't think you know yet what your letters are to me. I never work so well as when I've had a letter from you."

"Really, dear lad, I don't fancy you know how happy that makes me to hear."

"Yes, you take just the sort of interest in my work I want, and that no one else takes."

"Not even Angel?" said Myrtilla, slily.

"Angel, bless her, loves my work; and is a brave little critic of it; but then it isn't disloyal to her to say that she doesn't know as much as you. Besides, she doesn't approach it in quite the same way. She cares for it, first, because it is mine, and only secondly for its own sake. Now you care for it just for what it is—"

"I care for it, certainly, for what it's going to be," said Myrtilla, making one of those honest distinctions which made her opinion so stimulating to Henry.

"Yes, there you are. You're artistically ambitious for me; you know what I want to do, even before I know myself. That's why you're so good for me. No one but you is that for me; and—poor stuff as I know it is—never write a word without wondering what you will think of it."

"You're sure it's quite true," said Myrtilla; "don't say so if it isn't. Because you know you're saying what I care most to hear, perhaps, of anything you could say. You know how I love literature, and—well, you know too how fond I am of you, dear lad, don't you?"

Literary criticism had kindled into emotion; and Henry bent down, and kissed Myrtilla's hand. In return she let her hand rest a moment lightly on his hair, and then, rather spasmodically, turned to remark on his bookshelves with suspicious energy.

At that moment another step was heard in the corridor, again feminine. Henry knew it for Angel's; and it may be that his expression grew a shade embarrassed, as he said:

"I believe I shall be able to introduce you to Angel after all—for I think this is she coming along the passage."

As Henry opened the door, Angel was on the point of throwing her arms round his neck, when, noticing a certain constraint in his manner of greeting, she realised that he was not alone.

"We were just talking of you, dear," said Henry. "This is my friend, Mrs. Williamson,—'Myrtilla,' of whom you've often heard me speak."

"Oh, yes, I've often heard of Mrs. Williamson," said Angel, not of course suffering the irony of her thought to escape into her voice.

"And I've heard no less of Miss Flower," said Mrs. Williamson, "not indeed from this faithless boy here,—for I haven't seen him for so long that I've had to humble myself at last and call,—but from Esther."

Myrtilla loved the transparent face, pulsing with light, flushing or fading with her varying mood, answering with exquisite delicacy to any advance and retreat of the soul within. But an invincible prejudice, or perhaps rather fear, shut Angel's eyes from the appreciation of Myrtilla. She was sweet and beautiful, but to the child that Angel still was she suggested malign artifice. Angel looked at her as an imaginative child looks at the moon, with suspicion.

So, in spite of Myrtilla's efforts to make friends, the conversation sustained a distinct loss in sprightliness by Angel's arrival.

Myrtilla, perhaps divining a little of the truth, rose to go.

"Well, I'm afraid it's quite a long good-bye," she said.

"Oh, you're going away?" said Angel, with a shade of relief involuntarily in her voice.

"Oh, yes, perhaps before we meet again, you and Henry will be married. I'm sure I sincerely hope so."

"Thank you," said Angel, somewhat coldly.

"Well, good-bye, Henry," said Myrtilla,—it was rather a strangled good-bye,—and then, in an evil moment, she caught sight of the Dante's head which, hidden in a recess, she had not noticed before. "I see you're still faithful to the Dante," she said; "that's sweet of you,—good-bye, good-bye, Miss Flower, Angel, perhaps you'll let me say, good-bye."

When she had gone there seemed a curious constraint in the air. You might have said that the consistency of the air had been doubled. Gravitation was at least twice as many pounds as usual to the square inch. Every little movement seemed heavy as though the medium had been water instead of air. As Henry raised his hands to help Angel off with her jacket, they seemed weighted with lead.

"No, thank you," said Angel, "I won't take it off. I can't stay long."

"Why, dear, what do you mean? I thought you were going to stay the evening with me. I've quite a long new chapter to read to you."

"I'm sorry, Henry,—but I find I can't."

"Why, dear, how's that? Won't you tell me the reason? Has anything happened?"

Angel stood still in the middle of the room, with her face as firmly miserable as she could make it.

"Won't you tell me?" Henry pleaded. "Won't you speak to me? Come, dear—what's the matter?"

"You know well enough, Henry, what's the matter!" came an unexpected flash of speech.

"Indeed, I don't. I know of no reason whatever. How should I?"

"Well, then, Mrs. Williamson's the matter!—'Myrtilla,' as you call her. Something told me it was like this all along, though I couldn't bear to doubt you, and so I put it away. I wonder how often she's been here when I have known nothing about it."

"This is the very first time she has ever set foot in these rooms," said Henry, growing cold in his turn. "I'll give you my word of honour, if you need it."

"I don't want to hear any more. I'm going. Good-bye."

"Going, Angel?" said Henry, standing between her and the door. "What can you mean? See now,—give your brains a chance! You're not thinking in the least. You've just let yourself go—for no reason at all. You'll be sorry to-morrow."

"Reason enough, I should think, when I find that you love another woman!"

"I love Myrtilla Williamson! It's a lie, Angel—and you ought to be ashamed to say it. It's unworthy of you."

"Why have you never told me then who made that sketch of Dante for you? I suppose I should never have known, if she hadn't let it out. I asked you once, but you put me off."

Henry had indeed prevaricated, for Angel had chanced to ask him just after Myrtilla's letter about his poems.

"Well, I'll be frank," said Henry. "I didn't tell you, just because I feared an unreasonable scene like this—"

"If there had been nothing in it, there was nothing to fear; and, in any case, why should she paint pictures for you, if she doesn't care for you?—No, I'm going. Nothing will persuade me otherwise. Henry, please let pass, if you're a gentleman—" and poor little Angel's face fairly flamed. "No power on earth will keep me here—"

"All right, Angel—" and Henry let her have her way. Her feet echoed down the stairs, further and further away. She was gone; and Henry spent that evening in torturingly imagining every kind of accident that might happen to her on the way home. Every hour he expected to be suddenly called to look at her dead body—his work. And so the night passed, and the morning dawned in agony. So went the whole of the next day, for he could be proud too—and the fault had been hers.

Thus they sat apart for three days, poles of determined silence. And then at last, on the evening of the third day, Henry, who was half beside himself with suspense, heard, with wild thankfulness, once more the little step in the passage—it seemed fainter, he thought, and dragged a little, and the knock at the door was like a ghost's.

There, with a wan smile, Angel stood; and with joy, wordless because unspeakable, they fell almost like dead things into each other's arms. For an hour they sat thus, and never spoke a word, only stroking each other's hands and hair. It was so good for each to know that the other was alive. It took so long for the stored agony in the nerves to relax.

"I haven't eaten a morsel since Wednesday," said Angel, at last.

"Nor I," said Henry.

"Henry, dear, I'm sorry. I know now I was wrong. I give you my word never to doubt you again."

"Thank you, Angel. Don't let us even think of it any more."

"I couldn't live through it again, darling."

"But it can never happen any more, can it?"

"No!—but—if you ever love any woman better than you love me, you'll tell me, won't you? I could bear that better than to be deceived."

"Yes, Angel, I promise to tell you."

"Well, we're really happy again now—are we? I can hardly believe it—"

"You didn't see me outside your house last night, did you?"

"Henry!"

"Yes, I was there. And I watched you carry the light into your bedroom, and when you came to the window to draw down the blind, I thought you must have seen me. Yes, I waited and waited, till I saw the light go out and long after—"

"Oh, Henry—you do love me then?"

"And we do know how to hate each other sometimes, don't we, child?" said Henry, laughing into Angel's eyes, all rainbows and tears.



CHAPTER XLIV

THE END OF A BEGINNING

And now blow, all ye trumpets, and, all ye organs, tremble with exultant sound! Bring forth the harp, and the psaltry, and the sackbut! For the long winter of waiting is at an end, and Mike is flying north to fetch his bride. Now are the walls of heaven built four-square, and to-day was the roof-beam hung with garlands. 'Tis but a small heaven, yet is it big enough for two,—and Mike is flying north, flying north, through the midnight, to fetch his bride.

Henry and the morning meet him at Tyre. Blessings on his little wrinkled face! The wrinkles are deeper and sweeter by a year's hard work. He has laughed with them every night for full twelve months, laughed to make others laugh. To-day he shall laugh for himself alone. The very river seems glad, and tosses its shaggy waves like a faithful dog; and over yonder in Sidon, where the sun is building a shrine of gold and pearl, Esther, sleepless too, all night, waits at a window like the morning-star.

Oh, Mike! Mike! Mike! is it you at last?

Oh, Esther, Esther, is it you?

Their faces were so bright, as they gazed at each other, that it seemed they might change to stars and wing together away up into the morning. Henry snatched one look at the brightness and turned away.

"She looked like a spirit!" said Mike, as they met again further along the road.

"He looked like a little angel," said Esther, as she threw herself into Dot's sympathetic arms.

A few miles from Sidon there stood an old church, dim with memories, in a churchyard mossy with many graves. It was hither some few hours after that unwonted carriages were driving through the snow of that happy winter's day. In one of them Esther and Henry were sitting,—Esther apparelled in—but here the local papers shall speak for us: "The bride," it said, "was attired in a dress of grey velvet trimmed with beaver, and a large picturesque hat with feathers to match; she carried a bouquet of white chrysanthemums and hyacinths."

"The very earth has put on white to be your bridesmaid!" said Henry, looking out on the sunlit snow.

"After all, though, of course, I'm sad in one way," said Esther, more practical in her felicitations, "I'm glad in another that father wouldn't give me away. For it was really you who gave me to Mike long ago; wasn't it?—and so it's only as it should be that you should give me to him to-day."

"You'll never forget what we've been to each other?"

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, but our love has no organs and presents and prayer-books to bind it together."

"Do you think it needs it?"

"Of course not! But it would be fun for us too some day to have a marriage. Why should only one kind of love have its marriage ceremony? When Mike's and your wedding is over, let's tell him that we're going to send out cards for ours!"

"All right. What form shall the ceremony take—Parfait Amour?"

"You haven't forgotten?"

"I shall forget just the second after you—not before—and, no, I won't be mean, I'll not even forget you then."

"Kiss me, Esther," said Henry.

"Kiss me again, Esther," he said. "Do you remember?"

"The cake and the beating?"

"Yes, that was our marriage."

* * * * *

When all the glory of that happy day hung in crimson low down in the west, like a chariot of fire in which Mike and Esther were speeding to their paradise, Henry walked with Angel, homeward through the streets of Tyre, solemn with sunset. In both that happy day still lived like music richly dying.

"Well," said Angel, in words far too practical for such a sunset, "I am so glad it all went off so well. Poor dear Mrs. Mesurier, how bonny she looked! And your dear old Aunt Tipping! Fancy her hiding there in the church—"

"Of course we'd asked her," said Henry; "but, poor old thing, she didn't feel grand enough, as she would say, to come publicly."

"And your poor father! Fancy him coming home for the lunch like that!"

"After all, it was logical of him," said Henry. "I suppose he had made up his mind that he would resist as long as it was any use, and after that—gracefully give in. And he was always fond of Mike."

"But didn't Esther cry, when he kissed her, and said that, since she'd chosen Mike, he supposed he must choose him too. And Mike was as good as crying too?"

"I think every one was. Poor mother was just a mop."

"Well, they're nearly home by now, I suppose."

"Yes, another half-hour or so."

"Oh, Henry, fancy! How wonderful for them! God bless them. I am glad!"

"I wonder when we shall get our home," said Henry, presently.

"Oh, Henry, never mind us! I can't think of any one but them to-day."

"Well, dear, I didn't mean to be selfish—I was only wondering how long you'd be willing to wait for me?"

"Suppose I were to say 'for ever!' Would that make you happy?"

"Well, I think, dear—I might perhaps arrange things by then."



THE END