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 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 6011.O65E5 
 
 English girl; a romance, by Ford Madox 
 
 3 1924 012 972 885 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012972885 
 
AN ENGLISH GIRL 
 
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE SOUL OF LONDON 
 
 THE HEART OF THB COUNTRY 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE PEOPLE 
 
 THE FIFTH QUEEN 
 
 PRIVY SEAL 
 
 IN COLLABORATION WITH JOSEPH CONRAD 
 
 THE INHERITORS 
 ROMANCE 
 
AN ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 BY 
 
 FORD MADOX HUEFFER 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the FIFTH QUEEN " 
 
 METHUEN & CO. 
 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 M 
 
First published in iqoj 
 
 S 
 
TO 
 
 FRAU REGIERUNGSRAT 
 
 EMMA GOBSEN 
 
 WHO RETURNED FROM 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MORE THAN A GENERATION AGO 
 
 AND HAS SINCE BEATEN 
 
 THE ADTHOR 
 
 THIRTY-ONE TIMES 
 
 OUT OF 
 
 THIRTY-TWO GAMES 
 
 OF CHESS 
 
 THIS 
 
 WITH AFFECTION 
 
THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 PART I 
 
 THE AMAZING DEATH 
 
 THE first thing he said when she came into the 
 room was : 
 
 " My father is dead," and the announcement 
 stayed her at the door, her hands falling to her side, 
 open, as if, though a moment before they would have 
 known their place and have lain upon the two 
 shoulders of the man she was to marry, now, so new 
 a creature did this announcement make him seem, 
 that she had, at least for a moment, to hesitate as to 
 whether he could stiU belong to her. It was under 
 the definite spell of that feeling that she uttered the 
 words : 
 
 " Oh dear! " — words that implied more than any- 
 thing else — " teU me all: tell me the worst! " 
 
 And he was so sensitive to her moods that he, too, 
 neither made to take her into his arms nor to utter 
 an endearment. 
 
 " I am the richest citizen in the world, for what 
 it's worth," he said, with a flavour of scorn, as if he 
 were quoting the words of a man for whom he had an 
 infinite contempt. 
 
2 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 She sank down upon one of the hard-seated, fine, 
 mahogany chairs before she uttered the word 
 " How — ! " But she was unable to furnish any 
 adjective. The situation was beyond her : she could 
 say neither " How tremendous! " " How terrible! " 
 nor yet " How magnificent! " 
 
 You may guess at a person's character very 
 efficiently by considering his first abstract remark 
 upon any given happening. Tall, rather dark, with 
 rounded cheeks, hair arranged high on her head, 
 tight-fitting park dress, and a slow, elastic gait, 
 and with her self-control and her clear lines — 
 she was called Eleanor GreviUe — ^you could not 
 deny the epithet " fine " to her, or to the room 
 or to the atmosphere that surrounded her. And 
 four days before she would at least have been 
 ready to give as much insight into her person- 
 ahty: she would at least have been able to utter 
 some moralisation if she had heard that overwhelm- 
 ing wealth had fallen to the share of any of her 
 intimates. 
 
 But, from the Monday on which the first news of 
 his father's death had been cabled from across the 
 water, she had seemed to be lifted out of contact 
 with her own personality. The death had been 
 denied on Tuesday, re-affirmed on the Wednesday 
 by indignant Transatlantic journalists, and re- 
 denied on the Thursday by vastly more indignant 
 Wall Street authorities, who claimed to have " seen 
 him " the night before. So that she had not known 
 whether it would be necessary for her to face the 
 new position, terrible or beneficent, till that 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 3 
 
 moment. She had not faced it : neither had he given 
 her any assistance. 
 
 He had explained to her that the report of his 
 father's death might be true: it might be just the 
 discovery of a genuine newspaper-writer anxious to 
 provide his journal with the earliest report of a good 
 " story." Or it might be a lie invented by his 
 father's enemies who desired to " bear " his father's 
 interests. Or it might be a lie spread abroad by 
 his father himself. And he had explained to her how 
 it might be made to suit his father's turn to " bear " 
 his own interests. She was not lacking in intelligence 
 sufficient to grasp the idea of such a manoeuvre, if 
 she had not an exact knowledge, beforehand, of how 
 it would be worked. She was shut off by the 
 necessity of her life with a father who was called 
 " trjdng " by most people who knew him — a father 
 whose death, if it might have caused some satisfaction 
 to a world that sent a certain class of learned books 
 out for " review," would certainly not have sent the 
 prices of varied stocks tumbling down all over the 
 world. 
 
 For the mere rumour of her lover's father's death — 
 the rumour thus unconfirmed, denied, re-affirmed and 
 re-denied with violent asseverations — had undoubt- 
 edly effected that. She knew it from her Cousin 
 Augustus, who, a solicitor with a too-limited capital, 
 had, upon the very Monday night, dashed down from 
 town to get from her, with cousinly force, some sort 
 of what he called " pointer." Things, he said, were 
 " f allin g " aU over the place: they went down in 
 London and they went down in Yokohama. As for 
 
4 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 what things were doing in the continent that lies 
 westward, between London and Yokohama, he said 
 the report of it beggared description. It had given 
 to her behef in human nature one severe shaking at 
 least. Her Aimt Emmeline, a lady of fifty-two, 
 dessicated and thin-lipped, who more than any of the 
 family had been able to indicate by dogged silence 
 a disapproval of her engagement to " an American " 
 — though to be sure you could not possibly have told 
 that this particular American was anything but a 
 very gentle and unassuming anybody else — her 
 Aunt EmmeUne had come to her between tears 
 and outraged indignation to assure her that if 
 Eleanor's lover's father were dead she would be 
 literally beggared. 
 
 It put a new hght upon the fact — she had dis- 
 covered it whilst her aunt had been spending last 
 Christmas with them — that her aunt received by 
 post a journal called the Investor's Guide. No one 
 had ever exactly known how her Aunt Emmeline's 
 ihoney had been invested: one associated her so 
 definitely with a family solicitor's advice: she took 
 her needs to be so small that it was incredible that 
 she should have tried speculation — and speculation 
 of the wildest sort. 
 
 It came, in fact, to this quiet girl of thirty or so as 
 a revelation — as the shock of an earthquake might 
 have done. It revealed to her her aunt as possessed 
 of a perfect abyss of cupidity — ^though she could not 
 in the least imagine what she would propose to do 
 with money when she had it. It had worried her, 
 too — this revelation — because it seemed to show that 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 5 
 
 the influence of her lover's father had spread from the 
 town with a queer name where he resided even to 
 the decorous and quite ordinary Red Hill, where her 
 aunt's creeper-bedecked villa offered a small white 
 drive to the impeccable suburban street. 
 
 For her atmt had announced that since Eleanor's 
 engagement she had decided to follow the fortunes of 
 the Charles Collar Kelleg companies: she had 
 speculated in the shares of the enterprises that — 
 according to the Investor's Guide — C. Collar Kelleg 
 sustained with his voice from Kellegville, Ma. It 
 was not enough for her to say to her aunt that her 
 lover dissociated himself from his father, his father's 
 enterprises, and — as far as he decently could — ^from 
 his father's State. It did not even mitigate her 
 aunt's wrath when Eleanor said that she herself, in 
 the course of her long intimacy with the son, had only 
 four times heard him mention his father's name. 
 Her aunt had the crushing reply that if her fianc/ 
 had not been his father's son she would never have 
 let herself be drawn into speculating — on the cover 
 system — in the Kelleg group of companies. 
 
 That announcement had, in a sense, relieved the 
 girl's mind. It meant that her aunt might be a 
 solitary speculator on this side of the water. For of 
 late so considerably had the name of CoUar Kelleg 
 figured in the world as that of an engineer of combines, 
 a breaker of American railway laws, or an amateur 
 of the Fine Arts, that she had come to fear that each 
 inhabitant of each ivy-covered house that she called 
 on in Canterbury, Kent, England, was concerned in 
 the fate of — ^was certain to be ruined by — C. Collar 
 
6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 Kelleg, of Kellegville, Ma., U.S.A. Only a fortnight 
 before she had taken her lover to a garden-party at 
 one of the Canons' houses. And when she had 
 introduced him to the Canon himself, the Canon — 
 a wearied-looking cleric with side whiskers and a not 
 too new coat, a clergyman reported to be in difficulties 
 even with his butcher — the Canon had said: 
 
 " Not really a relation of — of the Collar Kelleg? " 
 
 And when her lover had winced, when making the 
 confession of a relationship that he always left 
 undefined, the Canon, exhibiting at once a latent 
 eagerness and an ostentatious official indifference, 
 had asked : 
 
 " And is it true that he . . . that your uncle, is it? 
 . . . meditates buying up . . . acquiring an interest 
 in ... all our railway lines between . . . Liverpool 
 and the Metropohs? " 
 
 The young man had answered : 
 
 " Why : you cannot tell. I cannot. Of course 
 there are so many things that he controls. He might 
 want to send them backwards and forwards between 
 New York and London. And Liverpool's on the 
 way between, of course." 
 
 The Canon had choked in his throat at these words, 
 to which he seemed to accord a huge gravity, and she 
 had been conscious that, in and out among the 
 clumps of cedars on that sunny lawn, no person ever 
 spoke to the Canon that afternoon without hunying 
 away to another group of guests with an announce- 
 ment that caused heads to turn in their direction. 
 It affected her to a pitch of nervousness — so that for 
 a moment or two she was relieved when her lover was 
 
T^flE AMAZING DEATH 7 
 
 disengaged by a lady with a pink dress and a pleasant 
 laugh. She stood alone by a clump of hydrangeas 
 waiting for him to rejoin her, and a voice behind her 
 back uttered : 
 
 " Oh, I suppose he's come down to see if he won't 
 buy the cathedral." 
 
 And another: 
 
 " Oh, he couldn't do that, could he? Doesn't it 
 belong to the State or something? " 
 
 She felt herself grow warm from her feet to the 
 roots of her hair, and she hurried aimlessly away as 
 the first voice exclaimed : 
 
 " Yes. That's the point of my joke. Thank 
 goodness here's one thing these fellows can't ..." 
 
 She hurried away — aimlessly. The Canon's 
 garden had such high walls that it seemed to her, 
 precisely, that what she wanted to do was to sink 
 into the ground. If only her lover had not been 
 CoUar Kelleg ! He had every other possible quality — 
 stabihty, kindness, gentleness, the right brown eyes, 
 the right full voice, the right brown moustache, the 
 right great height. It was only his portentous 
 identity that jarred on the perfection of the afternoon. 
 For the grass was so green that the tall cedars 
 appeared dark blue : the garden was full of pleasant 
 people: the high, brick walls gave a comforting 
 feeUng of privacy; the tallest, square tower of the 
 cathedral peered down upon them, almost golden in 
 the simlight, benignly, hke a great benediction from 
 many tranquil ages. It ought to have been such a 
 perfect afternoon, that on which she introduced her 
 lover to her people, for if they were not — ^the Canon's 
 
8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 guests — her own family, they were, very exactly, her 
 clan; some very rich, some decently poor, some very 
 clerical, some decently scholarly, some with great 
 estates, some with great mortgages — ^but all, down to 
 the red-haired archdeacon from a northern diocese, 
 all quiet, unobtrusive and presentable after you made 
 allowances. And she, if she were the handsomest 
 girl there, was not very noticeably so. She would 
 not have wanted more. 
 
 It was only her lover who stood out, by reason of a 
 portentous name. And she found herself explaining 
 to several intimately sympathetic ladies that he was 
 not really at all closely connected to the Mr Collar 
 Kelleg; that they were not in communication with 
 one another; that her ^awc/had not been in America 
 for fifteen years; that he all but made his own 
 living; that, in fact, you could hardly call him 
 American at all. And she tried to put it, as un- 
 obtrusively as possible, that, if his means would run 
 to it, they intended to settle down in one of the little, 
 old, good houses near the City and live as a nice young 
 couple should. To. the objection that her father 
 would miss her a great deal she went even so far as to 
 hazard that they might settle down with him at the 
 end of the two years or so that their engagement 
 would last. Only of course it was awkward that her 
 flanc^ needed a studio. Her father would not feel 
 inclined to sacrifice a greenhouse or part of his garden 
 in which to build a shed with a north light. 
 
 It had not been through any lack of veracity that 
 she had so painted the probable course of their 
 future. It had so presented itself to her : her lover. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 9 
 
 even, had so projected it. He too loved that simple, 
 tranquil, fine life : he loved, that is to say, the out- 
 ward aspects of it: the broad, smooth downs, the 
 gently-aged houses, the dependable servants, the 
 quiet, filled streets, the soft colours. It was he 
 even who suggested that they might share the house 
 with her father. He could not imagine a better- 
 ordered tjTpe of life. There was only London that 
 was finer — and they could go up to London as often 
 as they pleased. The only obstacle was that her 
 father had a blind prejudice against Americans — 
 against the American point of view: against the 
 American scholarship: against the very name. He 
 went so far — he, the politest of men, who had put no 
 obstacle but muteness against her engagement — 
 went so far as to say that he would discharge his 
 servants, pack up his books and go back to Cambridge 
 before ever an American should take up permanent 
 lodgings in his house. He had never met an 
 American before he met her fianc^; but he changed 
 none of his views when he did meet him. 
 
 Nevertheless, until that fatal Monday when the 
 papers had suddenly — with special cables — an- 
 nounced the death of Charles Collar Kelleg, she had to 
 herself, as to all her relations and friends, mitigated 
 her lover's Americanism, and she and he together had 
 speculated upon which of the many pleasing houses 
 near the ancient valley city should eventually hold 
 them and witness their unobtrusive joys. 
 
II 
 
 THE death of his father put all this in an entirely 
 different light. She felt herself, vaguely, 
 that his inheritance of immense " interests " in the 
 country across the water must render him infinitely 
 more American. You might mitigate the fact that he 
 had been bom in Idaho and had Uved till he was four 
 in the town of Hut, Montana. The truth suggested 
 itself at once that to be bom in a stable does not make 
 a man even a groom. But to have been bom there, 
 and then, in addition, to control the output of thirty- 
 seven billion loaves of bread, three railway and eleven 
 steamship lines — all these things together would 
 make it impossible for him to pass as one of " our- 
 selves." There was, of course, the immense wealth, 
 but that was a thing so invisible that it could not be 
 called any equivalent for the age, comfort and pre- 
 sentability of Cuddiford House — the small manor 
 that they had half decided to take. At the same 
 time it rendered Cuddiford House impossible. You 
 could not live in it and be the wealthiest commoner in 
 England! A week ago they had not been certain 
 that they could afford even Cuddiford! Now . . . 
 Sitting on the edge of her chair in her father's 
 dining-room, where he had awaited her, she said 
 almost faintly: 
 
 " Oh, it can't be as bad as that? " 
 
 10 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 1 1 
 
 He looked at her with his brows wrinkled. 
 
 " As bad as what? " he asked. 
 
 " As that you're the richest citizen in the world! " 
 
 His face cleared, and from the rich enhancing of 
 his colour it might have been said that he blushed 
 with pleasure. 
 
 " You can't tell how glad I am," he answered, 
 " that you call it bad! " He hesitated, and then 
 added: " But I'm determined to end it. To end it 
 or mend it. I've been thinking of that — if you 
 agreed, and I was certain you would agree — all the 
 way down from town." 
 
 He had brown hair that waved a very little; he 
 had a straight nose ; he was dressed in a very perfect 
 suit of brown, and you certainly could not have 
 called him anything but a very perfectly typical 
 Englishman, if it had not been that, just at times, 
 his brown, seal-hke eyes were a very little too in- 
 telligent. He was so tall that his motion across the 
 room was a noticeable fact : he was so good to look 
 upon that to be towered over by him was a pleasure : 
 and the fact that he only held out to her both his hands 
 to take both hers was so exactly the right resealing 
 of their bond of union that, as his large, firm fingers 
 closed upon hers, she felt impelled to utter the words : 
 "Oh, I don't like Americans!" in an inter- 
 mezzo of pleasure and reUef. 
 
 It was the little intimacy that she allowed herself — 
 as another girl might whisper to her lover : " I don't, 
 as a rule, like Roman noses — but the rest of you 
 makes up for yours! " 
 
 He had heard her say the same thing several times 
 
12 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 before, so that he accepted the compliment with a 
 fine, friendly smile and reverted to the first question. 
 
 " It's the trick of my — my compatriots," he said, 
 " to call everything they possibly can the largest thing 
 in the world. I suppose it's because they're — we're 
 — idealists." He pressed her hands gently. " All 
 the same those are the words of my father's head 
 agent in London — ^his very words. And he happens 
 to be an Englishman." 
 
 Whilst she walked erectly to the sofa his soft 
 eyes followed her firm figure, dwelt with ad- 
 miration on the dark hair that rose in the curve of a 
 Phrygian cap, and passed down to her white, firm 
 hands. His brown eyes were indeed full of love and 
 of trustfulness, to which there was added a certain 
 gladness. He had doubted that she would see eye 
 to eye with him, but there had been forced from 
 her, without any lead from him, the one word, 
 " bad," that he needed. She sat stiU and pliantly 
 upon the edge of the long, red lounge. Its walnut 
 back above the velvet cushions was carved into tiny, 
 smiling, cherub faces ; above her head was a circular 
 mirror that reflected, with gracious distortions, in 
 bows and curves, the long windows and the silver 
 candlesticks upon the, table. It was exactly the 
 place in which she should be ; if she had not chosen 
 "the furniture or the darkish, pleasant atmosphere 
 of the not too old room, she had at least inherited 
 the right to fit into it. Sitting there, doing nothing, 
 waiting for life to pass, she seemed exactly to re- 
 present what he most delighted in. If she did not 
 represent — ^if he did not feel for her — passion, she 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 13 
 
 did represent a feeling of the Best. She held all the 
 charm of a life so ordered that, if you did not inquire 
 too closely into whether its domestics had a share 
 in ideals and comforts, represented something as near 
 a perfect, a heavenly, peace as you could find on this 
 earth . . . 
 
 " Bad! " he repeated, as he moved to sit beside 
 her. " It's so bad that it will mean an infinite 
 amount of worry for me — on the other side. I'm 
 quite determined — and you will be, when you know, 
 if you ever do, what it's like — to put things straight." 
 And he clasped his hands over one knee that he 
 crossed above the other. 
 
 She smiled a little. 
 
 " Yes. I suppose you'll have the power to put 
 some things straight now," she said. He gazed at 
 the blue and red pile of the carpet and his eyes 
 strayed, musingly, up the fluted, dark legs of the 
 dining-table. 
 
 " Heaven knows," he said, " it is not power that's 
 given me. It's a burden; it's a duty." 
 
 She dropped one of her hands affectionately upon 
 his fingers. 
 
 " Oh, well, old boy," she said, after a moment's 
 thought, " it's not much good trying to redress the 
 burdens of our ancestry. I'm pretty certain I should 
 not be sitting here if it were not for the crying in- 
 justice one of the Grevilles made his money by 
 centuries ago." 
 
 He clasped her hands with some of his long 
 fingers. 
 
 " Oh," he said, " that's vague and indefinite and 
 
14 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 long ago and undecipherable. Besides, it was in the 
 spirit of the time of your ancestors." 
 
 She laughed at him still. 
 
 " Well, I suppose it would be pretty difficult to 
 discover whom to give our money back to." 
 
 He turned to her a face so full of earnestness and 
 force that she did not laugh any more. His voice, 
 if it was tender, came from deep in his chest. 
 
 " It's precisely because it is not difficxilt to dis- 
 cover whom my father robbed that I'm going to stop 
 the robbery," he said. " Why," he continued, " at 
 this moment you're paying my father — ^you're paying 
 me — half as much again as you ought to for half the 
 things you wear and half the things you eat. It's 
 worse for the poor people here: it's infinitely worse 
 for the poor over there. They've paid taxes to him 
 — they're paying them to me — at this moment — on 
 light, on house rent, on locomotion, on bread, on salt. 
 There's hardly a thing that my father has not made 
 the starving starve worse for need of. Ice now is 
 a necessity in the slums of New York — and you don't 
 know what slums there are in New York." His 
 voice got deeper: he was taking breath for a new 
 outburst. " What do you think my father and his 
 associates have done for ice? They've let the sun 
 into their blockhouses on the Lakes: they've kept 
 back all the ice-fleet a whole month : they've . . ." 
 
 " But is not that," she interrupted him with her 
 slow, submissive and deep tones, " isn't that in 
 the spirit of the time — over there ? Just as much 
 as the peculations of our ancestors, here, were in the 
 spirit of their time? " 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 15 
 
 He swept back a heavy lock of hair from his fore- 
 head. 
 
 " Good heavens, no! " he said. " Do you think 
 that was what the Minute men died at Lexington 
 for? Do you think that's what humanity's come to? 
 It is not in the spirit of the time. It's a throwback : 
 it's a survival. It is not — it is not. What America's 
 there for, is to carry the thing one step further: 
 to do what Europe is too tired to do: Heaven help 
 us: what's America for in the scheme of things if 
 it isn't for that? " 
 
 She said, lightly and tenderly : 
 " I did not know you were as American as all 
 that! " 
 
 He bent his head close to hers. 
 " It's just because I'm not American : it's just 
 because I'm suspended between heaven and earth, 
 like Mahomet's coffin, that I see things so clearly. 
 Consider : you've struggled up here, in Europe, to a 
 certain stage of justice, of peace, of goodness of heart. 
 It's taken you ages to do it. But you are at a fine 
 pitch. Over there they've started from where you 
 left off: they've had the freedom you've had to 
 fight for : they've had the wealth that it's been always 
 so difficult to wring from the earth here. Don't 
 you see? Don't you see ? It is not in the spirit of 
 their time: it is not in the spirit of yours. He's 
 an accident — a phenomenon such as my father and 
 his fellows: it's due to the fact that they have to 
 handle such tremendous masses of things. But I, 
 just because I'm not an American, nor yet a European 
 — I want, now I've got the duty laid on me, to break 
 
1 6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 up one of the boulders that's in the way of their car. 
 They need a fair chance: they need decent treat- 
 ment from Providence. It's too bad that, just 
 because accident has placed the power in the 
 hands of a few throwbacks, a whole, fine, generous 
 step in the progress of humanity should be 
 hindered." 
 
 " You know you can talk," she said. " But I 
 really believed that they were all the same over 
 there — that it was in the spirit of the age to make 
 trusts." 
 
 He came back from the state of mind in which 
 he had allowed himself to voice a great many pent-up 
 thoughts — ^thoughts that he had repressed for years 
 in order to come into line with his undemonstrative 
 environment. 
 
 " Yes," he laughed, " I have been treating you as if 
 you were a public meeting. But whom am I to talk 
 to if I do not to you? " 
 
 " Oh, I quite hke it," she said almost shyly. " I 
 do like to hear you say you'll do things. And I 
 don't doubt you're right." 
 
 " It isn't a change in me," he answered. " I 
 don't change. It would have been fooHsh to talk 
 of doing things when there did not seem the ghost 
 of a chance that I'd ever have any power. Now it's 
 different." He accepted the shy tone of her voice 
 then. "Of course you'd like me to do things. I 
 daresay it's seemed a defect in me that I was mild 
 and ineffectual. But you'll see a change! " 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I don't mean to let you upset things here. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 17 
 
 There's nothiifg that really wants changing. But 
 out there — if you don't go away from me to do it — 
 it doesn't seem to matter." 
 
 He shook his head and put the tip of her ring 
 finger to his lips. When his eyes came back from 
 the carpet to her face he began again : 
 
 " Of course it's a mathematical absurdity," he 
 laughed, " that dl the eighty million inhabitants of 
 the United States should be engaged in founding 
 Trusts. It's the infinitely few that do it." 
 
 " That's why it is not in touch with the spirit of 
 the age? " she asked. 
 
 "That's why," he nodded. "The huge— the 
 infinite — mass of the people are good, decent, hard- 
 working, and awfully idealist. Think of their 
 record! They want Liberty, they want it as they 
 want the air they breathe. And that's fine. It is. 
 Why, it's a fine imagination — even if it's a clumsily- 
 executed lump — the figure of Liberty that you'll 
 have to see for yourself before very long. It is 
 fine. Only it's always so tremendously in evidence 
 that you forget it — ^just as you'd forget the sun here 
 if you ever saw enough of it to make you get used 
 to it." 
 
 She mused. 
 
 " I suppose I shall have to go with you — out there 
 — one day, for a time at least." 
 
 "Yes." He caught at her thoughts. "It will 
 make an incredible change all this. But only for a 
 time. I shall get rid of it all. It won't be very 
 difficult — only, there will be arrangements to make — 
 employees to settle. I've an idea of co-operative 
 
 B 
 
1 8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 factories — ^something large and fine. But of course 
 the ground will have to be studied. It will take 
 time — you'll have to help me. And then, when it's 
 all fixed up, we shall come back here as if nothing had 
 happened — and no doubt we shall be able to afford 
 Cuddiford House. I don't imagine that all my 
 father's money was made nefariously." 
 
 She startled him by saying : 
 
 " I suppose your father is actually dead." 
 
 His mind was so distinctly more upon the future 
 than upon even the immediate present that it was a 
 moment before he could bethink him to draw from 
 a side pocket a long slip of bluish paper. 
 
 " Here's the private cable," he said. " Mac- 
 kinnon deciphered it." 
 
 And whilst, with her eyebrows raised, she ran her 
 glance down the paper, he moved beside her so that 
 his head nearly touched her shoulder, and gave 
 fragmentary explanations. 
 
 " Mackinnon," he said, " was my father's chief 
 agent in London. He holds the secret cipher book. 
 The man who sent it — Maginnis — is an Irishman. 
 He's — ^so they say — my father's dme damn^e — as 
 remarkable a man as my father. At the head of all 
 the combination. So that he speaks with the weight 
 of about six hundred firms, there and here ..." 
 
 She interrupted him with: " Is this possible? " 
 
 "That my father controlled six hundred firms? 
 Why," he said, " I don't know that the figure's an 
 exactly round number, but ..." 
 
 She interrupted him again, a little impatiently: 
 
 "Oh! — that's possible. But that your father 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 19 
 
 should ..." and she pointed her white, Uttle 
 finger at the line of a paper. 
 
 "Ohl—that," he said, "that's entirely likely. 
 You may take it for gospel truth." 
 
 " What a huge sum the cable must have cost! " 
 she said as a side issue. 
 
 " You've got to revise all your ideas," he 
 answered. " The cable may have cost a hundred 
 pounds. But that's not even a drop in the bucket 
 compared with what's always at stake. Why, this 
 combination handles — I don't know — a million dollars 
 a day! I don't know. I don't suppose they know 
 themselves — that anybody ever could know — because 
 the circumstances of the businesses are so vast and 
 change so rapidly that everything might be some- 
 thing else before you could possibly calculate where 
 you stood at any given hour." 
 
 She dropped the consideration with : 
 
 " It makes one feel giddy." 
 
 And he with: " Yes, it's hke trying to think what 
 would become of you if you fell overboard in mid- 
 Atlantic. The depths are bottomless." 
 
 They returned to the consideration of the cable, 
 when she said : 
 
 " But which are we to believe? That your father 
 died because the medicine he took was not properly 
 made up, or because he was drugging himself to 
 look ill for the sake of deceiving the reporters? " 
 
 He removed the hand that held her disengaged 
 fingers to touch his moustache, a gesture that aided 
 his reflections. 
 
 " You can believe either," he said. " Or 
 
20 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 both. Or nothing. Or even something quite 
 different." 
 
 Her dark eyes rested for a moment upon him, 
 affectionately, seeking further explanation, and he 
 added : 
 
 " My father certainly suffered from angina pectoris. 
 He certainly took nitrate of amyl for it. And a 
 chemist over there is equally capable of giving him 
 capsules without any nitrate of amyl in them. No 
 doubt, if the truth came to be known, the chemist's 
 shop was owned by one of my father's own combina- 
 tions. In that case they'd certainly have had 
 instructions to run the business as economically as 
 possible. And nitrate of amyl costs money. In that 
 case, not even a man as rich as my father could have 
 got the stuff pure. No one could in the whole 
 continent." 
 
 He considered again for a moment. 
 
 " But the whole thing with its ramifications is so 
 infinite that it makes one tired. Why, it doesn't 
 even begin to end there. The capsules my father 
 took may really have been perfectly aU right. He 
 may just have died. The whole story may be a lie. 
 But his combination may be now intent on forming 
 a combine of drug stores. They may want to raise 
 a storm of indignation against druggists and then to 
 buy up all the drug stores in America at cheap rates 
 because of the discredit." 
 
 " What a frightful people! " she said. 
 
 " Oh! " he answered, " don't beheve that they're 
 frightful. The only wonderful thing is that we're 
 only just beginning to understand such manoeuvres. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 21 
 
 They've been going on everywhere and always. 
 What's hopeful is that now we're beginning to under- 
 stand the method we shall arrive at a means of 
 fighting it soon." 
 
 She did not answer that, but returned to her 
 paper. 
 
 " But why should your father have wanted to 
 make himself appear ill? " 
 
 " Oh," he answered, " that's simple. It's the 
 only simple thing in the business — because, you see, 
 it's the only place in which a human figure stands 
 alone and is visible. All the rest is combines and 
 numerals. This is a human dodge. It would be 
 just like my father — ^who always was fond of a joke." 
 
 He reflected again for a moment. 
 
 " You've got to think that my father really was a 
 striking man. My mother, of course, taught me to 
 disUke his — his methods so much that I've shrunk 
 from talking about him much, even to you." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " I've learnt a great deal 
 more of him from the papers than I ever heard from 
 you." 
 
 He patted her hand deprecatingly. 
 
 " Well, don't bear a grudge against me for that," 
 he said. " I sort of hoped that I should never have 
 to talk to you about him. And the papers — Heaven 
 knows! — always had enough in them about him for 
 you to learn all you could possibly want to know — 
 for the purpose of marrying me." 
 
 " You mean," she said, " that you never expected 
 to be him — as you are now." 
 
 He smiled a little wearily and then kissed her. 
 
22 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " Never," he answered, and then: " But of course 
 I'm not the man my father was. All the same . . ." 
 and he straightened himself by pulling at the back 
 seam of his coat, " I'm going to stand up against him 
 now. I'm going to fight the influence he's left on the 
 world." 
 
 She considered this announcement for long enough 
 to rejoin: 
 
 " It almost seems a pity! " 
 
 He returned to his parable. 
 
 " You see : my mother, for aU she was only a 
 lady's-maid when he married her, was as Enghsh as 
 you — or your friend the Canon's wife, or your father 
 for that matter. She just hated his ' American 
 methods ' as much as ever your father could. I expect 
 it was as much that as the ' Thing,' whatever it 
 was, that my father had done that made her hate 
 him so terribly." 
 
 She paused before she asked him : 
 
 " What was the thing your father did? " 
 
 He shook his head and answered : 
 
 " I don't know. As I've told you two or three 
 times, there was something. But my mother never 
 told me. She had a sort of loyalty to my father 
 after all. It may have been murder . . ." 
 
 "It hadn't anything to do with another woman? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Oh, dear no," he answered, " my mother had too 
 much knowledge of life to expect my father to be 
 faithful to her. No: it may have been murder — 
 my mother would not have liked murder. But I 
 think it had to do with my father's having been 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 23 
 
 disloyal to a friend. Once or twice before she died 
 she spoke of a man called Kratzenstein. I think my 
 father stole a mine from him. Something like that. 
 My mother, you see, would not have been able to 
 stand — she would not have been able to understand — 
 that sort of crime." 
 
 Eleanor commented: "Ah! " 
 
 " But my father," he continued, " my father, I 
 imagine, would have considered it a good — or 
 sardonic — ^joke to rob a man who trusted him. 
 Probably Kratzenstein was robbing someone else 
 already . . . you can't tell." 
 
 She scratched her cheek reflectively. 
 
 " I think I understand your mother's standpoint," 
 she said. 
 
 " Oh.myfather's is absolutely simple," he answered. 
 " What he wanted was fun. If he diddled Kratzen- 
 stein it was for the pure fun of diddling. If he's 
 made the largest fortune in the world it was for the 
 same reason. If he tried to make himself appear ill 
 to the reporters, that was because it was a lark. 
 No doubt the lark's only huger if he actually killed 
 himself over it. I wouldn't mind betting that if 
 he's left his fortune to me it was because he saw it 
 would be a tremendous bother to me. He was not 
 the type of man who'd want to found a dynasty. I 
 guess he thought I was a terrific prig." 
 
 " I think I'm rather glad he did," Eleanor 
 answered. 
 
 He meditated upon the point as if he were not 
 quite certain. 
 
 " I think my mother was glad of that too. You 
 
24 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 see, she hadn't a sense of humour. I fancy my 
 father thought she was a prig too. He used to be 
 amused at her — and at me. I suppose I haven't any 
 sense of humour." 
 
 " I'm glad of that too," she said softly. She 
 considered once more. 
 
 "I'm sometimes sorry, in a sneaking way," he 
 said. " It makes me seem less of a man." 
 
 She said, with a httle wounded intonation : 
 
 " Then you don't care what I care! " 
 
 " Oh, for goodness' sake," he said, " don't say that. 
 If I did not care what you cared should I be here 
 consulting you? " 
 
 In a swift access of tenderness she put her cheek 
 against his. 
 
 " You dear! " she said in soft tones of emotion. 
 Then she drew back and looked into his eyes from 
 quite close. " At the same time I don't see what 
 we're consulting about." 
 
 He knelt down suddenly and kissed first one foot 
 and then the other, that she held a little out as if to 
 a shoe-black, pulling her skirt a httle back and 
 peering over. 
 
 " We are not consulting about things," he said, 
 from his knees, " we're getting to know each other 
 better and better. We're consulting about our 
 points of view." As he knelt she put her hand upon 
 his head. " That's why we can't keep to any 
 straight line," he concluded. 
 
 " At the same time," she said, " we ought to talk 
 about something. There seems to be such a tre- 
 mendous lot to do" 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 25 
 
 " Oh — to da," he said, with a touch of deprecation. 
 " The only thing to do is for me to show you how I 
 worship you." 
 
 " That is very American, isn't it? " she asked, 
 as if she were incUned to take advantage of 
 both people's traits. He was to behave like a 
 European and to be as devoted as the Transatlantic 
 is supposed to be. He rose, however, to his feet. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose we've got to settle on some line 
 of action," he said. " MTiere are we? " He took a 
 little pencil from his waistcoat pocket and ran it 
 through the hair above his brows. 
 
 " I have not ascertained a single thing," she said. 
 " Not one that's definite. Here's this telegram? 
 Who is it from? What does it really mean? What 
 are you going to do? " 
 
 " I'U write that down," he said, and when he had 
 taken from his pocket an old envelope he jotted down 
 upon his knee the three headings. " We need," he 
 concluded, " some sort of anchor to hold us to the 
 ground." 
 
 He took from her the copy of the deciphered cable 
 and tapped it with the back of his pencil. 
 
 " Where does it come from? " he quoted. " New 
 York. And from Patrick C. Maginnis. That's 
 fairly certain, because it was sent in a code that only 
 Maginnis uses. My father, even, was not acquainted 
 with it. That was their safeguard. Maginnis, in 
 the combine, represented the heads of businesses who 
 were not my father. That settles where it comes 
 from." He wrinkled his brows. " Now, as for what 
 it means? " He reflected for a moment. " Let's 
 
26 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 read the cable word for word." She nodded and he 
 went on : " ' John Collar Kelleg died on Sunday at 
 4.30 in the afternoon.' There's a definite statement. 
 It may be a he. My father may have got Maginnis 
 to cable it for his own purposes." 
 
 " What sort of purposes? " she asked. 
 
 " Well," he answered, " consider the rest of the 
 cable." He cleared his throat and read further. 
 " ' It is urgent that this news be authoritatively denied 
 and re-affirmed in all London papers until after 
 Monday, when associates of all the Kelleg interests will 
 meet and determine on plan.' That may be true: it 
 may be a dodge." He read on again. " ' Use aU 
 your influence with advertising staffs of London 
 journals to give the matter prominence.' " 
 
 He drew in a deep breath. 
 
 " Now, there's a pretty straight proposition at 
 last," he said. 
 
 She moved her hand across her dark eyebrows. 
 
 " I'm an owl, I suppose," she said, " for I don't 
 see it." 
 
 He patted her on the hand. 
 
 " I'd hate it if you did," he answered. " It's a 
 bhghting sort of knowledge that I wish I had not got 
 to have myself. But there it is! " 
 
 He tapped her knuckles with his pencil. 
 
 " It's hke this," he explained. " What's wanted 
 is to keep Kelleg shares in the public eye. They go 
 down when it's reported that Kelleg's dead; they go 
 up when it's reported that he's alive. Well now, 
 someone makes something out of each of those ups 
 and downs. But what's wanted is a doAvnward 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 27 
 
 tendency — ^not too swift just now, because they're 
 not ready." 
 
 "But why?" she asked. "Why a downward 
 tendency? They'd lose, wouldn't they? " 
 
 " You dear! " he answered. 
 
 After a moment he continued : * 
 
 " Now, let's read the next sentence. ' On Monday 
 you will declare tmofficially thai J. C. K. died by his 
 own hand. Upon fall of shares in London markets 
 you will purchase every purchasable cent's worth.' " 
 
 " I am an owl," she said again. But, holding her 
 head on one side, she touched suddenly her dark, 
 smooth hair at the back. " Why! " she ejaculated. 
 
 He uttered: "Yes: you see the key. 'On 
 Tuesday we shall declare the dividend of 17^ per cent, 
 for the year of the whole combine. You will realise, 
 upon the rising market, at your own discretion.' " 
 
 " Oh! " she said, and a certain light came into her 
 dark eyes. He took it for anger, and tenderly 
 stroking her hand he whispered : 
 
 " Of course it's abominable to bring you into 
 contact with these things . . ." 
 
 He looked round upon the comfortable, severe, 
 darkened scholar's dining-room. He touched the 
 red velvet of the sofa : his artist's eyes were gladdened 
 with the Grecian bust of Aphrodite upon the black 
 marble mantelpiece, by the large photographs of the 
 Forum and by the shining clock that stood, as if 
 dubiously hidden, against the light, between the two 
 tail windows. It was symbohc — because Time, 
 there, was not the important matter: the last thing 
 you did was to look at the clock. And it shocked him 
 
28 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 subconsciously that he should be bringing her into 
 level with the times. But after all, as he considered, 
 if they were making acquaintance with th(d sort of 
 thing they were doing it in order to fight in the 
 interests of this sort of thing. 
 
 " It is degrading . . ."he was beginning, but she 
 interrupted him with animation and gratitude. 
 
 "It is very interesting," she said. " It is not 
 exactly the thing for a lady to understand. But so 
 many women have to look out for themselves now- 
 adays." 
 
 " Your Aunt Emmeline? " he suggested. 
 
 She nodded and added: "Let me see if I reaUy 
 understand it." 
 
 She referred again to the paper. " Your father's 
 associates are not — are not simply interested in the 
 sales of what they manufacture, as one would expect 
 of them. They're more interested in the price of 
 their own shares. Then they do not hold all their 
 shares? " 
 
 " Heaven knows what they hold," he said. " Per- 
 haps not three penn'orth at this moment." 
 
 " But if . . ." and she laid her hand on his as the 
 luminous idea came to her, " if they can make a fuss 
 about your father they will call attention to the 
 shares. And if they can put it about that your 
 father committed suicide, the people who hold the 
 shares will think he did it because the — the companies 
 are ruined and he knew it." He nodded at her 
 reasoning. " And these people will sell their shares 
 for very little money. Aiid your father's associates, 
 who know that a very big profit has been made last 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 29 
 
 year, will buy these shares for almost nothing? " 
 He nodded again enthusiastically. " So that, when 
 your father's associates declare that dividend the 
 shares will go up to huge prices, and they will hold 
 the shares, and they'll take nearly all the huge 
 profits of the dividend and then sell the shares again 
 at a very high price . . ." 
 
 " You make me frightened," he laughed at her. 
 " You've a perfect genius for finance." 
 
 " So that " — she ignored his sarcasm — " they'll 
 have made a large amount of money and done 
 nothing, and have just as many shares as before." 
 
 She was silent for a moment, taking in the vastness 
 of the idea. 
 
 " So that's the sort of thing that goes on," she 
 said. 
 
 " That sort of thing goes on, year in, year out. 
 My father did nothing else all his life after he'd made 
 his first start." 
 
 " But the little speculators — they'll find out now," 
 she said. 
 
 " The httle speculators never find out," he 
 answered. "It's done every year: it's been done 
 every year in full view of everybody and nobody 
 ever grows wiser." 
 
 She reflected again for a moment, and then she 
 said: " What's to become of Aunt Emmeline? " 
 
 " I shall have to lend her something to carry on 
 with," he said. 
 
 She made a quick movement of repulsion. 
 
 "You can't! She's a lady. I can't have my 
 relations sponging on you for money." 
 
30 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " My dear," he answered gravely, " that's the 
 whole thing. She's a lady — ^but she's a fool. I shan't 
 be lending to the lady but to the fool." He paused 
 again for a moment. " It's inevitable. Don't you 
 see? She has not been buying shares. If she had 
 she could hold on to them tUl they rose. But she 
 has not. She's got nothing to hold on to. She'U 
 have to go on dropping money into this well until 
 its water rises and comes back to her reach again." 
 
 " It's degrading," she answered. 
 
 He said, gravely stiU: 
 
 " Yes, everything's degrading — ^to a lady. But 
 I daresay she didn't imderstand." And, after a 
 moment, he added : " You said, a moment ago, that 
 with so many women about who've got to look after 
 themselves it's time women understood this sort of 
 thing. It is." 
 
 " But if they understand — they're degraded," 
 she said. 
 
 He caught her up with: 
 
 " That's the question of the whole theory of 
 education. Does the degradation come with the 
 knowledge or with the action? It's like a cheap 
 debating society's thesis. But if your aunt had 
 imderstood what she was up to she probably would 
 not have been the fool she has been . . . 
 
 " You see, my dear," he added, " it's a question 
 of a whole social side. This sort of thing . . ." 
 and he waved his hand abroad to the clock, the silver 
 candlesticks, the bust on the mantelpiece and the 
 beautifully polished steel fireirons that stood in the 
 high steel fender. " This sort of thing is beautiful. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 31 
 
 but it's expensive. If women have to have this 
 sort of thing, to lead this splendid, cloistral life, 
 someone's got to provide the investments in Consols 
 to do it on. It's a divine ideal: it's you. But you 
 represent all that your fathers have scraped together 
 — or a pretty good share of it . . ." 
 
 " I don't see what you're getting at," she said. 
 
 " We're getting at the fact that you're the most 
 beautiful thing the world's produced," he said. 
 
 " But the world's changing so fast," she said, with 
 her little mouthing of pleasure. 
 
 " No, no," he said quickly. " An ideal does not 
 change." 
 
 She kissed him for that, but while she kissed him 
 she said: 
 
 " But I'm changing. I've learnt an infinite 
 amount this very afternoon." 
 
 With his arm round her fine waist he uttered 
 his confession of faith : 
 
 " No : you haven't changed. It cannot affect 
 you. You're cast in too hard a mould." It was, 
 literally, the hardness of her clean drawn figure, her 
 stays beneath his hand, that had suggested the idea 
 to him. She gave exactly that impression of per- 
 fection that could not be damaged. Her bust with 
 its fine rounding, her skirts with their fine, long 
 lines, her clearly moulded cheeks with their fine, 
 dark colour, the clear outlines of her hair — all these 
 things that he so much admired made him eloquent 
 to say : "It isn't you that are in any danger. You'll 
 always see the ugliness of what my father stood for. 
 It's your business to be a shining example; it's 
 
32 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 your business to teach the Aunt Emmelines of this 
 world what to avoid. You've taught me so 
 much . . ." 
 
 She denied, with a happy and credulous blush, that 
 she had ever taught him anything. 
 
 " Not in words," he conceded. " But merely 
 to look at you is enough ! " 
 
 He moved away from her and leant back in the 
 comer of the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head. 
 He looked at her. " That's enough," he said, " to 
 teach me volumes and volumes! " 
 
 She made a httle, obvious, pleased retort, and he 
 continued speculatively : 
 
 " I'd be an absolute fool if I did not learn from 
 being with you how to Uve the best sort of Ufe. 
 Just as we should be fools if we could not learn from 
 that Venus " — and he pointed to the Aphrodite that, 
 with vacant, dreaming eyes and clear-cut, vaguely 
 smiling Ups, confronted a whole vision world from 
 the black polished mantel — " a whole side of beauty 
 in Art and life." 
 
 " All the same," she said, " I am corrupted. I'm 
 perfectly itching to know more about your father — 
 and what he did — and what you're going to do, and 
 all the sort of thing that people hke that do do." 
 
 He unclasped his hands a little unwillingly and, 
 leaning forward, used them to emphasise his mean- 
 ings. 
 
 " No, that is not corruption in you," he said. 
 " It's the call of duty. If there were not men in the 
 world like my father, and if there were not affairs 
 like my father's, people like you would be able to 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 33 
 
 live your beautiful cloistral lives without having to 
 bother about American business methods. Well, 
 it's our affair — ^yours and mine — to drive that sort 
 of thing out of the world." 
 
 With a sudden access of fury he slapped one fist 
 into the palm of his other hand. 
 
 " And, by Jove," he said, " I've got a chance to 
 cripple one Trust, and I'm — agoing — to — do — it! " 
 
 The animation dropped from his voice, and he 
 leaned once more in his comer of the large sofa. 
 
 " After that's done," he said, " we shall come back 
 here and pick up — no, not the pieces but the whole — 
 of the life we intended to lead, and you'll forget every- 
 thing of this, and I shall be able again to do, as I'm 
 desperately wanting to do now — ^just to look at you 
 leading your beautiful life as if nothing had ever 
 happened to it." 
 
 " But does not everything that happens modify 
 one's hfe for ever? " she asked. 
 
 "Only in novels," he said. " You've got to look 
 at it in a different way. There's one's hfe — and 
 there's the accidental life that goes on aU round- one; 
 If you go to a garden-party it doesn't affect your 
 life in this house : you go out for an hour and a half, 
 that's aU. If I'm painting a picture and I find the 
 canvas is not quite properly stretched I go down 
 into the basement and borrow a hammer from the 
 caretaker of the studio. I come back and tap in the 
 wedges of the stretcher behind the canvas. But that 
 does not modify the picture. It's an excursion. 
 And our excursion to the new world is just going 
 down into the basement to borrow a hammer." He 
 
34 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 paused to survey her unconvinced face. " Only, 
 my love," he said, "I've got the hammer. My 
 father's left it me. All I've to do is tap the wedges ! " 
 
 She took up again the cable that lay upon the sofa 
 between them. She did not wish to continue the 
 arguments, either as to whether she remained un- 
 corrupted or as to whether you can change and not 
 change. She said: 
 
 " You've explained ' Who it's from? ' and a good 
 deal of ' What it reaUy means? ' but you have not 
 at all told me ' What are you going to do? ' " 
 
 He had a great deal of patience even in a contest 
 of wills hke this with her, but he pleaded for grace 
 at this. 
 
 " It'U bore you to hear it twice," he said. " I 
 shall have to teU it all to your father. Let's wait till 
 then." It was her father's pohte practice at half- 
 past six to enter the dining-room when his daughter's 
 suitor was there, and to address to him a certain 
 number of remarks. If, on the other hand, the 
 young couple wished to be alone they retired to a 
 room more private, and Mr Greville, after peeping 
 through the half-opened door, would, in his turn, 
 retire once more to his study till dinnef-time. It 
 was with reference to this established custom that 
 she said: 
 
 " Shan't we go to my sitting-room? " 
 
 But he answered: 
 
 "No: your father's got to be faced and en- 
 lightened and rendered hostile — and the sooner it's 
 done the better." And then, resuming his pleading: 
 " Only, till then " — and his eyes sought the decorous 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 35 
 
 clock — " we've got ten minutes. Let's be desultory. 
 We shall have to be businesslike enough. You'll 
 have it aU and to spare. But till then let's 
 just talk. You've got to hear — and I can't tell it 
 you often enough — that you're the most beautiful 
 thing in the world." ^ 
 
 She leant back now against her end of the long 
 couch, and she had an air of complacent resignation : 
 he was so tall, so brown, so gentle and so fluent, that 
 even eating muf&ns by a good fire in November, 
 after coming in from the rain, was not more pleasajit 
 than being told in his endless digressions that he 
 loved her. 
 
 " You see," he began his flow of words that was 
 to last for ten minutes, " when you're at leisure you 
 taste life — and it's just because this life here is the 
 fine flower of leisure that it's the most perfect thing 
 in the world. It's brought up to its highest pitch. 
 Now you . . ." 
 
Ill 
 
 IT was not only a forecast of his plans that the 
 young man had to offer to Mr GreviUe, it was 
 also a detailed biography. Mr Greville was of an ex- 
 treme height and meagreness: he wore always a 
 black frock coat — ^he had never explained why — ^he 
 was clean shaven, and, because his beard grew with 
 extravagant thickness and speed, he shaved always 
 twice a day — ^before breakfast and before dinner, 
 which he took at nine. The apparent keenness of his 
 black eyes — though he was actually extremely short- 
 sighted — the forward tilt of his head and a habit of 
 listening to every speech with his lips parted and his 
 head a little averted, gave to his whole bearing an air 
 of deaf obstinacy. He had had no history: a 
 younger son of a huge family it gave one the idea 
 that his people must have been of a fabulous richness, 
 that he had never done anything to add to his patri- 
 mony: he had married a woman of no particular 
 dowry, he had always eaten the best things in the 
 world, bought the best printed and the best bound 
 books, and had the best servants. He sought in 
 life for an extreme accuracy of mind, and having, 
 whilst at college, contracted a habit of reviewing 
 books for a magazine started in his day by the imder- 
 graduates, he had continued to review books until 
 that day — consecrating his labours to the service of a 
 
 36 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 37 
 
 journal chiefly distinguished for its staff of reviewers, 
 who were unequalled in discovering minute errors in 
 works of encyclopsedic length. He discovered errors 
 in books on every conceivable subject, and because 
 this sedentary occupation was unnatural to one 
 of his physical robustness he had cultivated the habit 
 of standing at most times when other people sat 
 down. Thus, he stood all through such church 
 services as he attended; it was his custom to take 
 his breakfast standing, and at diimer he remained 
 upon his legs until he had finished his soup. It 
 was, nevertheless, characteristic of the society in 
 which he lived that although he did everything that 
 was possible differently from everybody else, and 
 although he differed in his views from almost every 
 soul that he met, no one seriously considered that 
 he was at aU extraordinary, and his opinions 
 were sought for with anxiety by the higher 
 clergy of the diocese when they were troubled in 
 matters of ritual, or by the Conservative candidates 
 of the county when they were preparing election- 
 eering speeches. 
 
 It was part of his routine of studied politeness 
 to Kelleg that every time the young man dined 
 with them he should deem it his duty to pass exactly 
 fifty minutes in the society of the young couple. It 
 was his habit on those occasions to ask the young man 
 what story he was illustrating for the magazines, and, 
 having heard the plot, he would analyse the idea, 
 state what stories it resembled, and carry back the 
 analogy to Grecian, Indian or prehistoric originals. 
 
 On this occasion, having shaken the young man's 
 
38 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 hand beside the sofa, he retreated to the other side of 
 the dining-table, and so far departed from precedent 
 as to say that he trusted the young man had received 
 less disquieting reports as to the state of his father's 
 health from across the Atlantic. He then turned his 
 face to one side and, resting his knuckles upon the 
 table, prepared to listen. His daughter's suitor 
 replied by passing the cable across the table. 
 
 " It will save time, sir," he said, " if you read this. 
 It will make, you will see, a great deal of difference to 
 everything." 
 
 Mr Greville, with a slightly distasteful expression, 
 fumbled for his pince-nez. He disliked being seen to 
 wear glasses anywhere: he particularly disliked to 
 have to put them on outside his study. Nevertheless, 
 holding the tortoiseshell rims a Httle over to one side, 
 he read down the paper. His first words were: 
 " I trust you will present my condolences to any 
 surviving relatives of your father's." . 
 
 The young man laughed friendlily. The dislike of 
 his fianciei's father couldn't inspire his indefatigable 
 optimism with the belief that they wouldn't one day 
 hit it off together. Besides, Mr Greville's presence 
 acted to such an extent as a tonic upon his mental 
 faculties that he felt always a pleasant hardening of 
 his own backbone when they were together. 
 
 " My father hadn't a relative in the world," he 
 said. " He was born in the workhouse at Rydale 
 in Yorkshire — not a quarter of a mile from where 
 I've heard you say you were bom." 
 
 Mr Greville gazed straight in front of him. 
 
 " That explains his extraordinary name," he said. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 39 
 
 " I recollect that two of the guardians of the poor in 
 our parish in the year 1840 were called, the one Collar 
 and the other Kelleg." 
 
 The young man laughed again. 
 
 " I guess," he said, " that most of the extraordinary 
 American names have some such European begin- 
 ning. And most of the extraordinary American 
 customs too! " 
 
 Mr Greville stored the remark in his memory that 
 he might, at a later moment, demonstrate its in- 
 accuracy. Immediately he asked: 
 
 "And your own name? It is not an American 
 perversion of John? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm called Don," the yoimg man answered, 
 " because my mother was lady's-maid in the family 
 of ' the something Don ' — an Irish family, you know. 
 My mother had a great feeling of gratitude to her 
 employers. They treated her very kindly." 
 
 Mr Greville supplied the name of the Irish family in 
 question and added a slight — and a slightly favour- 
 able — "Hum!" It distinctly pleased him that 
 Don's mother should, in spite of the fact that she 
 became an American, have retained so proper a 
 sentiment of respect for the ancient European family 
 in whose service she had been. 
 
 The yoimg Don was so fortified by this sign and so 
 stimulated by his future father-in-law's presence 
 that he could come straight to the mark. 
 
 " If you don't object," he said, " I'm going to tell 
 you all about myself. It hasn't seemed necessary 
 tin now to trouble you, beyond assuring you, as I've 
 tried to do by the sight of me, that I'm a decent sort 
 
40 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 of citizen and properly devoted to Eleanor. Now 
 it's different, and if you don't mind I'll take up so 
 much of your time." 
 
 Mr Greville assented, as much by moving his 
 clenched fist an inch or two further along the edge of 
 the tablecloth as by any other sign that he gave. 
 Eleanor settled herself more comfortably in the 
 cushions at the end of the lounge. She was com- 
 placently aware that her lover was about to utter an 
 immense flow of words, and if she was afraid that he 
 might, in the course of them, irritate her father by 
 inaccuracies in his generalisations, she knew her 
 father well enough to beware that this would not 
 increase his personal dislike of her lover. He was so 
 nice, so pleasant, and so ingenuous, and he had made 
 that much of a good impression on her father as to 
 make him take in the fact that, although Don's 
 father had been bom in a workhouse and his mother 
 had been a lady's-maid, you could not really call 
 either of them Americans. Mr Greville had never 
 listened to her upon the subject. He had accepted, 
 in grim silence, the fact that she had engaged herself 
 to " an American " : he had been marvellously polite 
 to her lover because he owed that to the future 
 husband of his daughter. But he had not once 
 brought himself to talk the matter over. She had 
 accepted this as she had accepted his obstinacy of 
 drinking his soup standing. It was not a thing you 
 could argue about. In the same way she accepted 
 her lover's decree that he was going to talk, and she 
 let her mind wander away upon the point of what sort 
 of mourning she must wear for his father whilst she 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 41 
 
 kept an attentive ear for any new fact that might 
 appear in a biography that she had already heard 
 more than once. For decidedly she must wear some 
 sort of mourning as soon as the fact of the death 
 should become officially known. 
 
 Don began his story with the succinct statement 
 that he had been bom exactly thirty-one years 
 before, to a day, in the then uncharted territory of 
 Idaho. Mr Greville received this exact statement 
 with satisfaction, but the young man could not 
 remain in a rigour of precision. He had at once to 
 introduce his impressions and his memories. Of his 
 first three years he had not any memories at all, but 
 his mother had told him that they had borne hard- 
 ships, and his father had since told him that his 
 mother had borne these hardships with a courage 
 that was admirable in a woman who had been 
 brought up as she had. 
 
 " And indeed," Don hazarded the digression, " it's 
 one of the wonderful things about America that 
 you'll find there literally multitudes of such women, 
 putting up with a heat, squalor and hard work that 
 they would not stand here for the promise of any 
 riches." 
 
 " I suppose you lived in waggons? " Mr GreviUe 
 pursued his search for the definite. 
 
 Eleanor, for her part, had arrived at the conclusion 
 that she approved of mourning for the relatives of a 
 girl's fiancS. It was a formality : a definite and clear 
 assertion of recognition. And after next Monday 
 there would not be any getting out of having the 
 relationship with the late Collar Kelleg forced upon 
 
42 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 them. She had been able to avoid the subject when 
 fencing with her less intimate friends before. Now 
 Mr Kelleg, by the nature of his death, would create 
 such a splutter that they could not possibly avoid 
 the notoriety. It would have to be faced . . . 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that it ran even to a waggon," 
 Don was answering her father. " I know my people 
 arrived after three years in the State of Montana. 
 Copper was the actual attraction, I think — or it may 
 have been gold ..." 
 
 " No : copper was the cause of the growth of the 
 State of Montana," Mr Greville said. 
 
 " I daresay," Don replied easily. " My father's 
 energies have been so multifarious since then that 
 I'm certainly a little vague." 
 
 " You may take it that it was copper," Mr Greville 
 repeated. 
 
 " No doubt! " Don replied, and Eleanor shivered 
 a little. This indifference to fact was precisely the 
 thing to irritate her father : and indeed Mr Greville, 
 standing sideways at the table, pursed his lips and 
 moved his hand upon the cloth. " Anyhow," Don 
 continued, " my father's actual beginnings were not 
 in copper. He used to say that they lived for the 
 first year upon the price for his vote — paid by both 
 parties and for a vote he had not got, because he was 
 not yet on the register." 
 
 " That must have been an exaggeration," Mr 
 Greville said, " for it is given in evidence that the 
 highest average amount paid even for the votes at the 
 Senatorial elections in Montana was sixty-eight 
 dollars per head of the population of the State. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 43 
 
 Now, if your father had received sixty-eight dollars 
 from each side the total amount would not have been 
 more than twenty-seven pounds — so that they could 
 not have lived for a year on the proceeds." 
 
 " He might have received more than the average," 
 Don answered blandly. " It would have been like 
 ray father. Anyhow," he added, " I was only 
 trying to give you an idea of the sort of thing that 
 went on round my cradle. But I guess, as you seem 
 to know ten times as much about the State of 
 Montana's history as I do, I may as well drop that 
 part of it." 
 
 He considered for a moment, whilst Mr Greville 
 was saying that the facts connected with the Montana 
 elections had come under his notice because he had 
 reviewed for the journal he aided the report of the 
 United States Government inquiry into the contest. 
 
 " And the facts," he said, " were sufficiently 
 singular to remain in one's memory." 
 
 This conclusion gave the young man his opening. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you take the total bribery as so 
 much per head of the population. But you do not 
 take into account the fact that all the population did 
 not receive bribes. . . . Oh, I know" — he was 
 quick to countersigns of protest in Mr Greville — 
 " a pretty large proportion did. I'm not trying to 
 whitewash the State of Montana. The returns are 
 there, certified by our Government. But " — and he 
 grew more earnest — ■" my father was not the man to 
 lie much, even when he was boasting of a — a success- 
 ful misdemeanour. No doubt my father was speak- 
 ing figuratively when he said that he lived for a 
 
44 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 whole year on the bribes. He meant he got a pretty 
 
 good whack — above the average, and a pretty good 
 
 lot of what's to be accounted for by the citizens who 
 
 would not be bribed." 
 
 "Your father," Mr Greville said, "received 
 
 362 dollars from one side and 379 from the other." 
 " Father," Eleanor said, " how could you remember 
 
 that? " 
 
 " It was the most notorious instance cited by the 
 
 Commission in their report," her father answered. 
 
 "There you are!" Don closured the matter 
 triumphantly. " I told you my father would be the 
 most notorious case. He always was." 
 The discussion at that point was so distinctly 
 
 " up to " her father that Eleanor awaited his next 
 attack. But Mr Greville remained silent and she 
 recognised that he was not fighting an argumentative 
 battle; he was trying to pin his young interlocutor 
 down to definite statements. Thus, so far, they 
 both triumphed, and Eleanor was not certain to which 
 to accord the more, or the more affectionate applause. 
 " You say " — Don's pleasant organ took up the 
 tale after he had had time to recover himself — " that 
 copper was the distinguishing characteristic of the 
 State of Montana; my impression of it was dust 
 and petroleum. I do not in the least remember 
 what the town of Hut, Ma., may have looked like when 
 I was four." But he did know that when, by any 
 chance, he nowadays got on a country road and an 
 automobile passed, in the summer time, it made him 
 feel four years old again. There was dust every- 
 where and paraffin in most places. And perhaps that 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 45 
 
 was why — as he put it — ^he passed most of his earliest 
 recollected years in the barber's shop. It had linoleum 
 sides decorated with the portraits of ladies, whom he 
 remembered as supremely beautiful, and portraits 
 of gentlemen lathered up to the ears. And it had, 
 above all, a heavenly odour! The oil of the essences 
 and perfumes must so have pervaded the hot air that 
 the dust could not there find entrance. He must 
 have seen several thousand men shaved there — and 
 half of them had since been hung and half had 
 cottages at NeAvport. He could not remember them 
 -i^hut he could remember Miss Judie Cole, who was 
 now Princess Abucatti. She had been the most 
 disagreeable and the dirtiest child of four he had ever 
 known, and they had fought a desperate battle in 
 the barber's saloon, using the pots of massage cream 
 and the essence bottles for missiles. " I remember," 
 he concluded, and he supposed that the remembrance 
 was t5^ical of the sort of thing that impressed him, 
 " a pot of cold cream was broken against a chair by 
 us and we sprawled in it — Judie Cole and I — and I 
 clawed the blue bows out of her dirty yellow pig- 
 tails." 
 
 He paused to take breath and to light a cigarette. 
 
 " That," he said, " was the sort of infancy I had. 
 Imagine the fraU child amongst desperadoes and 
 swindlers — and Jews! I remember the German 
 voice of the barber — I can't remember his face or his 
 name or what his figure was — but his way of accent- 
 ing ' Ach! Der Goods! ' I suppose they tried to 
 beat down his prices! " 
 
 He paused again. 
 
46 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " And positively the next thing I remember was 
 — Bournemouth ! " He looked round at Eleanor and 
 interjected : " I told you aU this part on top of a 'bus. 
 Do you remember? In Tottenham Court Road? 
 Yes," he continued to Mr Greville. " Not Bourne- 
 mouth, Mass., nor Bournemouth, Fla., but Bourne- 
 mouth, Hants, Eng., and a preparatory school — 
 for the sons of gentlemen." 
 
 He became speculative once more. 
 
 " It's odd how absurd coincidences — ^silly syn- 
 chronisations — ^get into one's life. I relate my 
 biography to you in Canterbury, England, exactly 
 thirty years later, on the very day of the year on 
 which I was born in a nameless spot in Idaho, U.S.A. 
 And on the very day on which I broke the pot of cold 
 cream in the barber's shop my father struck oil, or 
 copper, or whatever it was that he did strike. I 
 suppose that's why I can't remember being strapped 
 for wrecking the barber's. Perhaps my father was 
 too engrossed with his success to attend to me." 
 
 He reflected again. 
 
 " But no ! " he said, " that's not accurate. My 
 father would not have strapped me for wrecking a 
 barber's shop. He'd have given me shares in his 
 mine instead. He'd have applauded the outbreak." 
 He once more reflected and then added eagerly: 
 " Yes, that's it. I got to Bournemouth precisely 
 because my father did applaud that sort of thing." 
 
 Mr Greville turned his face interrogatively towards 
 his prospective son-in-law. 
 
 " Don't you understand? " the young man asked. 
 " That was where my mother came in. And no 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 47 
 
 doubt that was why I loved my mother and never 
 bothered about my father." 
 
 " You're awfully obscure, Don dear," Eleanor 
 interjected. " You must remember that my father 
 hasn't heard all this as often as I have." 
 
 " That's true! " Don said. " I want to be clear. 
 The fact is that my mother was fond enough of me to 
 use the strap mighty often — d.nd my father was fond 
 enough of me to prevent her as often as he could." 
 
 It was at this point that Mr Greville astonished 
 them both by sitting down — a thing he had not been 
 known to do, save when he was " reading for review," 
 for thirty years. He set both his hands upon his thin 
 knees, and with the two tails of his frock-coat drop- 
 ping behind his shins, and his face for the first time 
 turned to Don, he uttered, with an accent of hollow 
 attention : 
 
 " Let me understand. How did these facts con- 
 duce to your arriving at Bournemouth? " 
 
 As a matter of fact Don's involved unfolding of 
 his biography so nearly affected him as a very 
 inferior but interesting book for review would have 
 done; it gave him so much necessity for thought 
 that, as he always thought sitting, he now found it 
 necessary to sit. 
 
 " But it's as plain as Domesday Book," Don said 
 with exasperation. " My mother took me to Bourne- 
 mouth, England, so as to be able to clout me as much 
 as she thought fit ! " 
 
 Mr Greville ejaculated a deep-lunged " Ah! " which 
 gave Don Kelleg a moment to find contrition in. 
 
 " No, that's not a fair statement! " he uttered. 
 
48 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " But there are too many aspects. It is difficult. 
 The coincidences come in again here." He passed 
 his hand up his forehead. When he, as it were, 
 emerged, it was to state that his breaking loose in the 
 barber's shop had so exactly S5nichronised with his 
 father's first fortune that it had precipitated the 
 break between his parents. For, on the one hand, 
 his mother had direfully proclaimed that such a day 
 of outrage must be ended with a thrashing. His 
 father had declared that such a day of good fortune 
 would be celebrated by an absolute amnesty. " He 
 simply would not let her wallop me," Don concluded. 
 " He'd suffered it no doubt in silence before or 
 argued against it. But that day he obstructed it 
 actually." 
 
 Mr GreviUe nodded. 
 
 " And on that day particularly my mother felt 
 sore." 
 
 Mr GreviUe interjected the one word, " Why? " 
 as if he knew the answer. 
 
 " Because "—Don Kelleg faltered a little—"! 
 suppose because on that day he'd found immense 
 deposits — or whatever the word is — of copper on his 
 mine." 
 
 " But your mother," Mr GreviUe continued 
 without passion, "your mother must have been 
 aware, before that day, that your father had stolen 
 the mine . . ." 
 
 It was at this point that Eleanor leaned forward 
 and exclaimed, " Father/ " For it occurred to her, 
 though it missed Don's perception altogether, that 
 her lover had told her that his father had stolen a 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 49 
 
 mine before her father had come into the 
 room. 
 
 " The late Mr Kelleg had stolen the mine at least 
 three months before the day on which he discovered 
 the great stores of copper that it contained. Your 
 mother must therefore have been aware of the theft ! " 
 
 Don scratched his head. 
 
 " Upon my word," he said, " you're right ! I don't 
 see how it works out." He halted, discomfited for 
 a minute, and then he jumped at it. " Why, it's 
 plain enough," he said, " she could not stand the two 
 things. She might have stood his stealing a worthless 
 mine, but she could not stand that the mine should 
 be valuable and that I — I should be corrupted as 
 well. The two together were too much for her." 
 
 Mr Greville moved his hands from his knees and 
 folded his arms. His gesture reminded Eleanor for 
 some vague reason of the Duke of Wellington at 
 Waterloo. It was as if he had really uttered, whilst 
 he closed up his telescope : " Order the v^hole line to 
 advance! " 
 
 " My dear Don," he said, " that's what I've been 
 wanting to get at all along. You've had a decent 
 upbringing." 
 
 He paused and looked at Eleanor. 
 
 " You'll do me the justice to say," he continued, 
 " that I have not opposed your freedom of choice. 
 I have not, till now, sanctioned your engagement. 
 Now . . ." 
 
 With a swift rush Eleanor was already half way 
 round the table. 
 
 " You inscrutable person! " she said, and by that 
 
 D 
 
50 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 time she had her arm on his shoulder. " Why in 
 the world should you do it now that you've discovered 
 his father was a thief? " 
 
 " I've known that all along," Mr Greville said, 
 expressionlessly. Eleanor shrank back from him. 
 
 " You are incredibly mysterious ! " she said. 
 " Have you been using detectives? How Hi you 
 know? Don does not." 
 
 " Don certainly doesn't," her suitor echoed her. 
 
 " That's because," Mr Greville said, " Don hasn't as 
 much desire to know about his antecedents as I have." 
 
 He repeated, after Eleanor had kissed him: 
 
 " Don is not going to marry his own daughter. 
 He's going to marry mine. He mas^n't want to 
 know the worst about himself: I do." 
 
 Don uttered: "By Jove! it'sifMe." But Eleanor, 
 putting her cheek against his as she leaned over his 
 stooped figure, pointed at her lover. 
 
 " You could see for yourself," she said, " that he's 
 the dearest and best and gentlest person in the world. 
 Was not that enough? " 
 
 Mr Greville, who had an air of being politely 
 discomforted by her embraces, Ufted his head so 
 that his piercing glance appeared hotly to challenge 
 the young man whilst his words corrected her inexact 
 superlatives. 
 
 " He appeared," he said to her, " to be excellent 
 and gentle — and no doubt he was dear to you. But 
 that does not provide settlements for you or a good 
 strain for future generations." 
 
 Eleanor left him, to sit down on the chair that 
 faced his across the window space. With her hands 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 51 
 
 on her knees, imitating his attitude, she had the air 
 of making, with him, a pair of wardens of a gateway. 
 
 " Then let's have something definite from you ! " 
 she challenged him affectionately. " You don't 
 mean — ^you don't mean to say that you've written 
 about settlements to his father." 
 
 " I certainly wrote," Mr GreviUe said, " as soon as 
 I'd had time to consider what it was my duty to do — 
 about a couple of months after you had told me of 
 your engagement and when I'd had the chance to 
 satisfy myself that — that Don was not entirely un- 
 presentable." 
 
 Eleanor said : 
 
 " I shall kiss you because you call him Don. It 
 means that you are not going to be very horrid." 
 
 " It means that you do accept me," Don uttered 
 joyfully. 
 
 " I wrote," Mr GreviUe said, when he once more 
 emerged from his daughter's embrace, " to Mr 
 Charles CoUar Kelleg and asked him what settle- 
 ments he proposed to make upon the occasion of his 
 son's marriage with my daughter." 
 
 " How cotdd you? " Eleanor said, but her reason- 
 able nature, which was so like his, coming almost 
 immediately to her rescue, she added in the same 
 breath: " But of course it is exactly what you ought 
 to have done." 
 
 " I understood," Mr GreviUe said, " that Don had 
 from his mother an income of about two hundred a 
 year invested in English railways. He made about 
 another two hundred a year by illustrating stories 
 in magazines. I told him that you had about as 
 
52 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 much as Don from your mother's estate. And I 
 gave him to understand that you might live com- 
 fortably and decently upon twelve hundred a year as 
 a certainty. I was ready to secure my daughter, 
 after my death, another four hundred a year if he was 
 prepared to do the same for his son. I told him 
 that large incomes are rather a curse than the 
 reverse in this country. Of course Don might go 
 on making money by illustrations. But he's not 
 very persevering and magazines are precarious things 
 to have to do with." 
 
 " What in the world," Eleanor asked Don, " would 
 your father have thought at receiving such a 
 letter? " 
 
 " Oh, heavens," Don said, " there is not the least 
 means of knowing. I guess he'll have liked it though, 
 if he wasn't in one of his spread-eagUng fits when 
 everything EngUsh was hell to him." He stuck his 
 head on one side. " But no : I'm pretty certain he'd 
 like any straight business proposition." 
 
 " He answered in about twelve words upon his 
 business paper, written by a typewriter," Mr Greville 
 continued. 
 
 " But what ? " Eleanor asked. Mr Greville 
 erected his head to make an effort of memory. 
 
 " His exact words were : ' Dear Sir : I shall leave 
 my son all my enterprises. But I think he's got too 
 much conscience to make a good husband or anything 
 else. He'll worry your daughter to death.'" 
 
 Eleanor let forth a long peal of laughter. 
 "Well, that's a prophecy!" Don said slowly. 
 " My father was not so muddy witted." 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 53 
 
 " Oh, you think about yourself a great deal too 
 much," Eleanor soothed him. " It's all rot I" 
 
 Mr Greville appeared to be reflecting absently 
 and deeply. 
 
 " In return," he finally continued, " I wrote to 
 Mr KeUeg that, considering the transient nature of 
 American fortunes, I should infinitely prefer him to 
 settle a definite four hundred a year in English 
 Consols." 
 
 Eleanor interjected : 
 
 "Oh, I say! " Mr Greville faced her then: he 
 had been looking at yoimg Kelleg. 
 
 " I did not mean to say that he wasn't to leave 
 your fianci his interests too," he said, " but I wanted 
 to secure something definite." 
 
 " I knew what you meant," his daughter said. 
 " I wasn't afraid you would not do your best for us. 
 I was thinking of Mr Kelleg's feeUngs." 
 
 " My dear child " — Don himself had a flash of 
 inspiration — "your father's point of view was just 
 right. If my father was a reasonable man his feelings 
 would not be hurt by your father's doing his best for 
 you. If he was not a reasonable man his feelings, 
 in Mr Greville's eyes, would not matter a cent." 
 
 Mr Greville moved his head rigidly up and down. 
 
 " I've exactly hit it," Don appealed to him. 
 " And of course my father would not mind. It's 
 the sort of thing he'd have to put up with every day 
 over there. Distrust! Obviously no one ever 
 trusted him except when they had to. And he'd 
 never trust anybody but the sort of person he'd 
 think a fool." He leant his head back against the 
 
54 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 sofa cushions with a little air of being deserted now 
 that Eleanor had gone over to her father's side of the 
 room. "After all," he uttered, "the American 
 business spirit in the matter of trustfulness is 
 exactly that of the English lawyer. You do not 
 trust anybody. You do not waste as much time 
 over seals and tape (an EngUsh lawyer would not 
 if it were not the way he made his money), but you 
 put a mighty deal of mistrust into a half sheet of 
 notepaper. And tliere's a deal of a million dollars 
 concluded." 
 
 He was proceeding to speculate upon how this 
 state of mind had arisen in the Transatlantic con- 
 tinent when he suddenly pulled himself up with : 
 
 " But I was trying to tell you my past — and to 
 find out what my future's hkely to be! " He looked 
 appeaUngly at Mr Greville. "Do" he said, "tell 
 us what my past has been. You do it so much better 
 than I. Let us hear something definite." 
 
 At this appeal Mr Greville did take the matter in 
 hand. Having paused for precisely two minutes by 
 the solemn clock at his back he then had the subject 
 as well arranged in his head as would have been one 
 of his reviews of a contemporary book. In the 
 meanwhile Eleanor had had time to think that Don 
 really was too self-conscious. A man ought not to 
 be so much aware of his own mental attitudes. It 
 was not exactly healthy. And she had a vague sense 
 that she must work him out of the habit and a vague 
 sense that that employment would afford her in the 
 future many delightful opportunities for intimate 
 self-revelations — for those splendid " You's " and 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 55 
 
 " I's " that are, after all, the very food and staple 
 of all love-scenes. 
 
 " I had " — Mr GrevlUe commenced his review of the 
 situation — " two things to settle in my mind : the first, 
 whether this young man was materially fitted to 
 support my daughter: the second, whether he was 
 altogether sane and of well-formed character. As to 
 the first you have heard part of what I did. I 
 wrote to Mr Kelleg those two letters. One asked him 
 what he intended to do for his son ; upon his replying 
 that he intended to leave all his ' interests ' to Don, 
 I replied that I should prefer him to put at least a 
 small portion of it immediately into Consols so that 
 his son should be certain of a sure income. Mr 
 Kelleg's reply to that letter was in these words: 
 ' I don't see what my son has done for me. Why 
 should I give him up part of my capital? He has 
 not been son enough for me to want to assure him 
 peace of mind for ever in England.' " 
 
 At this point Don leaned eagerly forward. He 
 was about to offer a long comment. But when Mr 
 Greville paused to let him speak, he seemed, to 
 Eleanor's eyes, to check himself violently, and her 
 father, having waited for a sufficient interval, took 
 up his own tale again. 
 
 He had replied to Mr Kelleg's second letter that 
 he himself was not interested in his prospective son- 
 in-law's peace of mind, but he was in his daughter's. 
 He proposed that Mr KeUeg should settle upon 
 Eleanor just the sum that he himself was prepared to 
 settle at his death — about four hundred pounds a 
 year. Mr Kelleg had replied that that seemed a 
 
56 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 pretty square proposition, but he did not see why 
 he should be concerned for Mr GrevDle's daughter's 
 peace of mind. If she wanted his son she might take 
 him with all his disadvantages. 
 
 " But he added in a postscript " — Mr Greville 
 concluded this part of his review — " that he'd see 
 that Eleanor should be properly provided for, quite 
 outside any fluctuations of his or his son's fortunes. ■ 
 He said that, for fear the matter might shp his 
 memory, he'd already put into proper hands a siun 
 of money — ^he did not say how much — for the 
 benefit of Eleanor." 
 
 It was at this point that Eleanor made her protest. 
 
 " Don't you think," she said to her father, " that 
 you ought to have spoken to me before putting me 
 upon the market? " 
 
 " Don't you think," Mr Greville asked, " that you 
 ought to have spoken to me before falling in love? " 
 
 " But I couldn't help faUing in love! " 
 
 " And I couldn't help being interested in your 
 future," her father echoed her. " I've left you, as 
 you'll allow, a perfect Hberty to dispose of your share 
 of your personality. But there is my share too." 
 
 His level and quite passionless tones indicated a so 
 great depth of affection for his daughter that Don 
 was moved to exclaim : " Bravo! " 
 
 And this indication of a fact that he had been 
 indulging in a style of psychology — a style that was 
 apparent even to Don, although, indeed, it was no 
 more than a quite definite statement — this indication 
 brought Mr Greville very sharply back to the necessity 
 for sticking to definite things. He was quite con- 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 57 
 
 vinced that, when it came to psychological analysis, 
 he was better at it than his young friend, but he 
 was not for the moment in the least inclined to make 
 even so much concession to his young friend as to 
 show a man of his own dignity indulging in anything 
 at all so trifling as psychological speculations. 
 
 " So that here " — ^he resumed his review — " we 
 have two definite facts." Mr Collar Kelleg had 
 announced his intention of leaving all his " interests " 
 to Don: he had made, too, a deliberate statement 
 that he had settled something — something probably 
 handsome — upon Eleanor. (" I don't imagine the 
 man was lying." Mr Greville put his reason for 
 rel3dng on Mr Kelleg's word. " He'd probably not 
 have an imagination that went beyond trjdng to 
 surprise me with his generosity.") 
 
 Upon the whole this relieved his doubts as to the 
 pecuniary future of Eleanor and Don. There re- 
 mained the question of the young man's mental and 
 moral fitness for partnership with his daughter. 
 And Mr Greville once more unfolded his arms and, 
 placing his knuckles upon his knees, surveyed the 
 young man with direfuUy piercing eyes that, never- 
 theless, hardly saw the American's face. 
 
 " Oh, don't be very hard on Don," Eleanor said. 
 
 " My dear," Mr GreviUe said, " if I were going to 
 be very hard on Don I should not be sitting here. I 
 trust I'm always polite." 
 
 " You're always frightfully just," Eleanor said. 
 " No doubt that's true pohteness." 
 
 " What has always alarmed me " — Mr Greville 
 ignored her interruption — " what has always made 
 
58 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 me uncomfortable in dealing with American . . . 
 manifestations is the American's singular want of 
 system. And it has struck me — ^it struck me at the 
 very first when I made Don's acquaintance — ^that he 
 had a remarkably developed moral sense. I've 
 noticed on several occasions that he's been unreason- 
 ably kind . . ." 
 
 " He's much too kind," Eleanor said, and Mr 
 Greville uttered the solitary word: 
 
 " Precisely! " 
 
 "And that means," he pursued triumphantly, 
 " that he hasn't any kind of system in his morality." 
 He turned definitely upon Don. " You can't get 
 through life like that! " he said seriously and with an 
 air of shaking his head ever so minutely. 
 
 " You mean," Don said, " that Eleanor will never 
 know where to have me? " 
 
 " That's what your father means," Mr Greville 
 answered, " when he says that you'U make Eleanor 
 unhappy. I think you will myself," he added. 
 " Eleanor's my daughter — and I know you'd give me 
 the fidgets if I had much to do with you." 
 
 Don said: " Oh! " in a grievous tone. 
 
 " The only chance," Mr Greville pursued com- 
 passionately, " is that you may develope a backbone 
 under her hands. After all you aren't American. 
 Your father was not, neither was your mother. 
 Your father obviously had character enough. I've 
 studied his history carefully and I've discovered 
 that ... Oh!" he turned upon Eleanor, "I 
 haven't been employing detectives to look up the, 
 career of Mr KeUeg. But I have subscribed to a 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 59 
 
 press-cutting agency. The American magazines are 
 full of biographies of Mr KeUeg, and portraits, and 
 demands for his indictment or suggestions for raising 
 temples to him as the representative of the American 
 frame of mind." He turned his sharp features again 
 upon the young man. "It is astonishing how 
 equally they're divided in opinions. I've collected 
 642 cuttings relating to your father. Of these, 340 
 clamour for his indictment and 302 eulogise his 
 calmness in ' crises.' " 
 
 " Well I guess," Don said, " he hadn't any nerves 
 at all. I have heard him talking to my mother, who 
 was a formidable proposition." 
 
 " I'll get you," Mr Greville said, " to resume your 
 own biography in a minute. In the meantime I'll 
 just put the dots upon some of your I's." He 
 paused to recollect himself. 
 
 " You were bom in Idaho. You did go to Hut. 
 Montana. You did spend most of your time, very 
 possibly, in the shop of a German barber." 
 
 Don said: " Well, it's fine to be corroborated! " 
 
 " The barber's name was Kratzenstein," Mr 
 Greville said. "And he was your father's most 
 intimate friend. And it was he that your father 
 relieved of the Great Cevanza Mine." 
 
 Don leapt to his feet. 
 
 " By Jove," he said, " the very first thing I've 
 got to do is to make some sort of restoration to 
 Kratzenstein." 
 
 Mr Greville's face assumed a remote air of disfavour 
 and even Eleanor said : 
 
 " But surely there are more urgent things." 
 
6o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 "Only think of poor Kratzenstein! " Don said, 
 " waiting for all these years." 
 
 " We shall never get an3rwhere at this rate," Mr 
 GreviUe said, and he positively turned his head to 
 look at the clock. Don was instantly full of con- 
 trition. 
 
 " Oh, let me get on with my biography," he said. 
 " I'll be ever so short." And he hurried out a great 
 many facts. When his mother had separated from 
 his father she had taken him to Bournemouth. That 
 was because the children of her former master, the 
 O'Something Don, had gone to a private school at 
 Bournemouth. She wanted her son to become a 
 gentleman — ^like the young Something Dons. He 
 had done very well at the private school : he had had 
 the time of his hfe too. When he was fourteen his 
 mother had made a last attempt to Uve again with 
 her husband. His father had come over from the 
 States: they had travelled in a desultory way half 
 over Europe, his mother quarrelling with his father 
 all the way. Don had had a private allowance of 
 fifty dollars a week and permission to buy anything 
 that he wanted in Rome, Paris or Vienna. It 
 seemed to him that there had not been a single thing 
 he wanted in Rome or Paris. In Vienna he had 
 wanted to buy a dancing gipsy to travel with them. 
 But his mother had not allowed it. When they got 
 back to New York his father had begun to build his 
 famous palace, No. 1912 Fifth Avenue. And whilst 
 it was in the building they had lived in a great hotel. 
 They had had the whole of the first floor. That time 
 Don considered to have been the most miserable he 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 6i 
 
 had ever spent. He had had no one to play with 
 but the bell-boys and lift-attendants in the great, 
 marble lounges. And the lift-boys had always been 
 too busy to play any decent game. In the middle 
 they would be called away to whirl up to the twenty- 
 third floor. He could not, he said, to that day see 
 a lift going up in a hotel without feeling miserable — 
 so many of his games had been spoiled. At last his 
 father had hired lift-boys to do nothing but play with 
 him. Then he had discovered that he did not like 
 lift-boys. 
 
 And his father and mother had quarrelled in- 
 cessantly. At least his mother had upbraided his 
 father all day long : his father had always seemed to 
 sit still with a twinkling smile and to catch his mother 
 out in passionately-inaccurate statements. 
 
 "It was unbearable!" Don said. "At least I 
 could not stand it. Our storey of the hotel was fur- 
 nished with no stuff that had not belonged to Marie 
 Antoinette! And those continual rows going on all 
 the time!" 
 
 There had, at that time apparently, been another 
 woman in the case — a Countess Canzano. Her 
 husband did work for his father. But he remembered 
 the Countess — a kind, dehghtful woman who could sit 
 on the Marie Antoinette chairs and look comfortable 
 and in place ! He liked her very much. . . . And 
 finally his mother had become pettish with him too. 
 
 There had come a day when he simply could not 
 stand it any longer. 
 
 " I could not : I could not /"he said, full of emotion. 
 He had had but one idea, to get back to Bournemouth. 
 
62 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 His mother wotdd not come away. She had said that 
 it was her duty to defend his interests against the 
 Countess. So he had run off. " There wasn't any 
 heroism in it," he said, " it was simply running away 
 from something intolerable to something that could 
 not possibly be worse." He had stowed himself 
 away on board a cattle-liner — with one of the Uft- 
 boys, who had wanted to run away too and who had 
 showed him how to do it. 
 
 " It was not a bad time that," Don said. " Some 
 of the cattle hands belted us: some were quite 
 decent and showed us how to catch the birds that live 
 in the holds on the steers' backs. Little chaps with 
 dabs of yeUow on their heads, Uke fire." He added 
 the inconsequential detail that he stUl remembered 
 the Minnehaha whenever he smelt a stable, and 
 that he seemed to smell a stable whenever he saw a 
 golden-crested wren. 
 
 But he had arrived at Bournemouth : the proprie- 
 tors of the private school there had taken him in with 
 a kindness that he had considered to be romantic — 
 until, as years went on, he had argued out the fact 
 that they, too, must have known that he was the son 
 of one of the richest men on earth. 
 
 " There is not, I suppose, anything romantic in 
 the world," Don commenced to speculate. " It is 
 odd. On the face of it my running away on a 
 cattle-ship was romantic. Actually it was not. It 
 was just necessity . . ." 
 
 " Your mother eventually rejoined you in Bourne- 
 mouth? " The sharp tones of Mr Greville cut into his 
 rather dreamy drawl. 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 63 
 
 Don drew himself together and, unwillingly enough, 
 resumed his dutifuUy direct narration. 
 
 His mother had rejoined him at Bournemouth. 
 She had given up the struggle with the Countess — she 
 had, in fact, divorced her husband, but she had not 
 done so very well out of it. Mr KeUeg had had to 
 make her an allowance, not absolutely princely. 
 She had wanted to do things in the style of an English 
 lady because she wanted her son to have the up- 
 bringing of an English gentleman. She had kept 
 rather a good house — she knew how, because she had 
 been a lady's-maid in rather a good house — and she 
 wanted him to be able to bring home his young 
 friends from Harrow and Oxford. 
 
 " I suppose it was not much good to try to make 
 me exactly that sort," Don said. " I wanted to be 
 an artist — there were aesthetic chaps at New College 
 in my day. She wanted me to go into Parliament. 
 She would, of course. I probably should have," he 
 continued. " I should have been some nice, friendly 
 chap's nice, friendly private secretary at this moment, 
 I daresay, if she'd lived." 
 
 He sighed for a moment, regretting perhaps that 
 he had not been forced into those disciplined and 
 ordered paths. For the father of Oxley, who had 
 been his special chum at Harrow, was now Post- 
 master-General, and who knows .... However, he 
 had been set on being an artist. It was, after all, 
 the visual side of things that always appealed to him 
 — or rather, he corrected himself, it was the psycho- 
 logical, the poetic atmosphere suggested by any- 
 thing that he saw. 
 
64 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " For instance," he said, pointing at Mr Greville, 
 " when I look at you it ahnost invariably suggests to 
 my mind — " But he drew himself together suddenly 
 and closed the digression with : " I wish you'd let 
 me make a study of your head. It's so tremendously 
 characteristic! " 
 
 Mr Greville rigidified the muscles of his neck as if 
 he hardly knew what to do with that compliment, 
 and Eleanor stroked his hand to give him patience. 
 
 " Yes," he said grimly, " I suppose that has always 
 been your trouble — the fact that you cannot stick to 
 the point." 
 
 " It does seem as if I never shall settle what I'm 
 going to do," Don uttered plaintively. " And yet, 
 Heaven knows, time presses. My boat — a boat — 
 leaves on the i6th and that's only six days from 
 now." 
 
 " I shall finish my book to-night," Mr Greville said, 
 as if he were announcing that his tailor would be 
 sending him home a suit, and whilst Eleanor, with a 
 little gasp of compunction, was actually saying : 
 
 " Oh, how I've neglected you lately ! I thought 
 you were months off the end of it! " he brought out 
 in the same monotonous tones : 
 
 " I-don't see w^y we can't get our packing done in 
 the five days that will leave us." 
 
IV 
 
 IT was into the flurry of thought caused by this 
 tremendous announcement that Mr Augustus 
 Greville's dark, small, delicately-made and querulous 
 figure was suddenly introduced. Because he dis- 
 liked ceremony of any kind he greeted no one with 
 more than a nod, although he had just made the 
 journey down from town, and had not seen either 
 his uncle or Don Kelleg for quite a number of months. 
 He walked determinedly to the fireplace, turned 
 smartly on his little polished heels, and, his hands 
 encumbered by his bowler hat, brown gloves and 
 thin, silver-mounted cane, said with an aggrieved 
 air that no girls, nowadays, seemed to want to get 
 married. 
 
 Mr Greville rose stiffly to his feet. 
 
 " I gather, Augustus," he uttered, and he care- 
 fully averted his face from the young man, " that 
 some of your female clients have proved insusceptible 
 to your charms." 
 
 "Insusceptible!" Augustus met his formidable 
 uncle with saturnine impatience. "I've spent the 
 whole morning — the whole morning — in a Shoreditch 
 County Court with two nice girls." 
 
 "Two nice, fair, well-brought-up girls!" he 
 repeated, as though indeed the times were out of 
 joint. 
 
 E 65 
 
66 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " We'll finish that discussion in my study." Mr 
 Greville addressed the gently fidgeting Don. " Now, 
 at once." And with his instinct for courtesy he 
 threw over his shoulder to the rufiied Augustus: 
 " I do not see what more a rising young solicitor 
 can want." And with his afterthought of kindness 
 he turned round to say to Eleanor, who, in her eager- 
 ness, had stretched forth her hands to balance herself 
 for rising from her chair : 
 
 " We shan't settle upon an3^hing you won't Uke, 
 my dear." 
 
 " Then I shall go too," Eleanor informed him plead- 
 ingly, as he laid his large, long, scholar's hand upon 
 Don's shoulder to conduct him from the room. 
 
 "The trouble was," Augustus Greville threw at 
 the black taUs of his uncle's frock coat, " that they 
 would not philander with me." 
 
 " Or with any other man," he added in a lower 
 voice, for the door had closed, without noise, but 
 peremptorily. 
 
 Eleanor made swift reflections whilst her cousin 
 caressed his drooping, silky moustache — ^he had laid 
 his hat, stick and gloves upon the dining-table. 
 Its long, fine, black hair drooped downwards, like a 
 tuft of maidenhair fern, and, veiling his little mouth, 
 it masked his expression, or added, with its droop, 
 to his air of gloom. 
 
 " He's thinking of going to America! " Eleanor 
 uttered to herself. " But why? " For if Mr 
 Greville was thinking of a thing he was certain to 
 have imanswerable reasons. The things that he did 
 appeared at times incredible. She could not, ten 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 67 
 
 minutes before, more easily have imagined her friend 
 the Canon preaching a sermon against the Thirty- 
 Nine Articles. But now he was going to do it! 
 Then there must be excellent reasons. It might be 
 merely the desire to see the Thing with his own eyes. 
 She remembered that he had once, for a week, gone 
 to stay with a quite incredible Lady Felix, during a 
 shoot, where tiiey played kiss-in-the-ring in the 
 drawing-room at one at night. He had wanted to 
 see, then, with his own eyes, though it had appeared 
 wildly unthinkable before. Or he might merely 
 want to guide Don Kelleg. Don certainly needed a 
 guide. Or he might merely want a change. You 
 could not imagine a change more complete. 
 
 So she remained, lost between amazement at her 
 father's action — between that and a perfect trust 
 in the sanity of his motives — whilst her cousin talked 
 about the two girls in the Shoreditch County Court. 
 They were quite nice girls, he kept on in his aggrieved 
 monotone: their people were good people. But 
 what did they do? Look after their homes; marry, 
 or anjrthing of the sort? Not at all. They ran a 
 Woman's Trade Union Federation in the interests 
 of match-girls. There were about twenty nice girls 
 interested in that thing. That was what they were 
 about in Shoreditch — a sweating employer had got 
 a girl as apprentice on iniquitous terms. Well, 
 he'd so arranged the case that the Judge called for a 
 pair of scissors and cut up the deed of apprentice- 
 ship. But was that the sort of thing for nice girls 
 to be employed on? 
 
 Eleanor came out of her reverie about the American 
 
68 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 voyage for a sufficient interval to keep the conversa- 
 tion decently rolling. Did he, she asked negligently, 
 talk to his clients, the Woman's T.U.F., in that 
 way? 
 
 He gave one of his sudden, surprisingly radiant 
 and sweet smiles that she hked so much in him — a 
 smile that made her think, half wistfully, that if the 
 right woman had got hold of him his petulant ex- 
 pression — what they called in the family the scowl 
 that wouldn't come off — would never have appeared 
 on his face at aU. But poor Augustus had been so 
 crushed in his youth by his father, the intolerable 
 Bishop, and so worried in his after youth by his 
 mother, who still, after his father's death, had kept, 
 as it were, the great verbose spirit of his father as an 
 immense wet blanket for ever before his eyes, that 
 now at thirty-three, whilst he was stiU a baby he 
 was also a perpetually mutinous old man. He had 
 all the spirit and ideal of extreme youth together 
 with the old man's — and particularly the old clergy- 
 man's — habit of ineffectually bewailing the dis- 
 jointedness of his time. 
 
 And whilst, stUl smiling, he told her that it was not 
 of course a solicitor's duty to express to his clients 
 his views of the Activity of Women and their 
 " proper Fields," any more than it was his duty to 
 explain to his client, the R.C. Bishop of Chichester, 
 what he thought of " Rome," because it was his 
 business to get a practice, and his business lay 
 mostly with Federations and Societies and the 
 Trustees of Roman Catholic Dioceses, who, by-the- 
 bye, did want a deuce of a lot of interest on their 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 69 
 
 investments . . . whilst he was explaining to her, in 
 fact, that he was uncommonly ^eUU and acute as a 
 soUcitor, she was wondering what he would have been 
 like by now if she had accepted him the first time 
 he had proposed to her. He had, indeed, in his 
 neghgent, gloomy and aggrieved manner, proposed to 
 her since then innumerable times; practically he 
 had said, " Look here: why don't you marry me? " 
 every time they had met for the last ten years. She 
 had not ever been very certain of his seriousness: 
 she had not much troubled about it at all. Only 
 from the fact that he had not, latterly, come near 
 them at all, and from the other fact that her Aunt 
 EmmeHne occasionally let drop some of her winged 
 shafts against the "inexpUcable conceit of poor 
 Eleanor," had she been able to gather that her 
 refusals really rankled. Aunt Emmeline, of course, 
 had, when they were quite yotmg, always kept a 
 watchful eye upon them: she did not, she said, 
 approve of the marriage of cousins, and she had 
 never, after they were seventeen, allowed them to, 
 say, skate alone together. But of course, in those 
 days, Augustus was the son of a real, live — and very 
 roaring — Bishop: since then he had become the son 
 only of a remarkably extinct volcano, with a 
 mother who, having rendered herself impossible to all 
 the inhabitants of their " Close," had come to living 
 in a villa— if a very big villa— at Reading, from 
 whence it was poor Augustus's fate to run daily up to 
 town like a blackbird let out at regular intervals to 
 the length of a very short piece of string. But 
 though Aunt Emmeline might really object to the 
 
^o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 marriage of cousins it was pretty certain that she 
 would object still more to the refusal, by a cousin, 
 of her son. 
 
 It would not much have surprised her if, at that 
 moment, he had said once more : " Look here : why 
 don't you marry me? " in his tones which were half 
 masterful and half querulous. Instead his, " Look 
 here! " — ^for he diA utter the words — was followed 
 by: 
 
 " Is that man dead? " 
 
 And it brought her sharply back to the fact that 
 she did not really know whether Mr Collar Kelleg, 
 in his distant and unreaUsable city across the water — 
 whether he were actually dead. It was what you would 
 caU a moral certainty that he was. But she felt that 
 she would never be actually — ^as you might say, 
 physically — certain unless she had actually touched 
 his corpse. She answered him, however, with : 
 
 " Have you been speculating? " 
 
 He answered quickly: 
 
 "God forbid! " as if the mere suspicion were one 
 more insult. 
 
 " Then why," she asked him, " are you so fright- 
 fully anxious to know? You came all the way 
 down from town yesterday to ask : and you've come 
 again to-day." 
 
 He replied only: 
 
 " It is not at all the sort of thing that I should have 
 to do with." 
 
 She quite realised that the minute shrug attending 
 his words was as much as to say: " You've engaged 
 yourself to this man. You cannot expect to have 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 71 
 
 my confidences as you used to." For she had 
 followed the building up of his practice from the very 
 youngest days, when he had been employed by a great 
 and respectable firm of conveyancers, to the day 
 when, with a small but reputable band of clients of his 
 own, he had launched his own little boat. With each 
 new client he had, as it were, bidden her, imperiously, 
 to rejoice — and, in a gentle way, she had rejoiced. 
 He had always " proposed " when he got a new client 
 too. 
 
 She was not, however, going to accept his rebuff. 
 It seemed ridiculous that he should want to shut her 
 out merely because she was going to marry Don — 
 for it would not, that event, in the least affect her 
 accessibility to him. There never had been a time 
 when she would not have burst out laughing at the 
 very idea of it. As she put it to herself : one would 
 not marry Oggie any more than one would marry 
 one's brother or one's spaniel. 
 
 " Not at all the sort of thing," Augustus repeated, 
 referring still to the idea that he should speculate 
 in the enterprises of Mr Charles Collar Kelleg. 
 
 " Oh, well, Oggie," she said, " such extraordinary 
 people do seem to have speculated ..." 
 
 She had in her mind her Aunt Emmeline, and he, 
 who much dreaded that his mother — she kept a 
 flintily hard hand upon her own purse-strings — might 
 be the person she had in mind, asked swiftly : 
 
 " Whom d'you mean? " 
 
 Her own " No one in particular " — for it was not 
 her business to give away her aunt — had all the 
 effect that she had intended — the effect of making 
 
72 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 him think that it was ridiculous that there should be 
 secrets between cousins. And she held out to him 
 an olive branch by sasdng: 
 
 " Everyone I know seems to have been dabbling — 
 I dare not go near Canon Dearmer's, for instance." 
 
 He smiled at that confidence, and in a grateful 
 return gave her his own — for it pained him to keep 
 a wall up against her if he could decently throw it 
 down. 
 
 " They do it on both sides, then," he said. 
 
 " Ah, it's your clients you're concerned for! " She 
 took his meaning. " The Very Reverend ones ! " 
 
 He made a little gesture with his noticeably 
 delicate, pale, dark hands. 
 
 " My friends," he said, " think that assuredly 
 Providence wiU be on their side in the stock market. 
 They think — they reaUy seem to think — that the 
 saints or archangels will contrive to buU their shares." 
 
 " I cannot imagine the poor dear Canon thinking 
 anything but that his gambling is sin," Eleanor 
 retorted. " He's probably dreadfully ashamed of 
 doing it." 
 
 " There's the difference," Augustus chimed in, 
 " that your Canon does it to enrich himself. My 
 clients do it for the furtherance of their Faith." 
 The communion with Eleanor, upon any terms, 
 thawed him swiftly, and the details of his predica- 
 ment came out of him now in a rush. She listened 
 so well: she was so receptive and yet she was not, 
 as he put it, any sort of a humbug. It was not, 
 however, what he got out of her, but the manner in 
 which he got things out of himself, that made him 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 7z 
 
 think that he never enjoyed anything so much in life 
 as talking to Eleanor. 
 
 " It's hke this," he said : " the late Mr— it does 
 not matter about his name — ^left a certain sum to- 
 wards building a church and a mission in a place 
 where there are a number of Irish factory hands. 
 This sum was left to the Bishop and trustees to hold 
 in trust till sufficient money had been raised by 
 subscription to complete the whole thing." Augustus 
 had been made the solicitor to this Trust, mainly 
 because, although he was the son of an Anglican 
 Bishop — a Bishop particularly hostile to the other 
 persuasion — he had managed to help one of the other 
 Bishop's trustees to several very profitable invest- 
 ments. " They'd prefer," Augustus said, " a solicitor 
 of their own persuasion, but it's one of their maxims, 
 you know, that the godly grow fat at the expense 
 of the unrighteous." And Sir George — the trustee 
 in question — had persuaded the Monsignor to come 
 to Augustus for advice. The Monsignor — a foreign 
 prelate — had revealed to Augustus a mind of a wholly 
 pleasing naivety. He had said to Augustus that there 
 certainly existed in the world of stocks and shares 
 certain things that would increase any given sum of 
 money tenfold without the motion of a hand. It was 
 true that the original money was sometimes lost; 
 but with Providence on one's side — and Providence 
 was very good to them — the idea of loss might be 
 negatived. He wanted the Church and Mission 
 money invested in one of these securities. 
 
 And Augustus had suggested that they should 
 follow the fortunes of Charles Collar Kelleg. They 
 
74 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 were the sort of thing, those papers, and he hoped 
 to get some tips occasionally from Eleanor. He did 
 not say that he had never really believed that Don 
 was as much estranged from his father as he and 
 Eleanor had pretended. " But now," he said, 
 " KeUegs are falling as if the bottom had come out 
 of a bucket. And they're saying in the City that 
 Kelleg committed suicide." 
 
 It came into Eleanor's head to wonder how in the 
 world " in the City " they had already come to say 
 that. For the rumour was not to have been spread 
 abroad by Kelleg's agent till the Monday. Or it 
 might have been the Saturday. She could not 
 precisely remember the day mentioned in the cable : 
 but it was some days ahead still. She said: 
 
 " I don't see how it'U affect your pocket. It's 
 only the CathoUcs who will lose." 
 
 " My dear child," he said sententiously, " it will 
 make all the difference in the world to my pocket." 
 
 She wondered for a moment and then said: 
 
 " But surely a solicitor is not responsible for money 
 a client loses." 
 
 He said darkly : 
 
 " That's it. You always remember that I'm a 
 solicitor. You forget that I'm a gentleman too," 
 and she knew that his tone meant : " That's why 
 you've always refused to marry me." 
 
 " Oh dear," she said, " the trouble's always been 
 that I forget you're a solicitor. You're much more 
 like a big baby when you get on the high horse." - 
 
 He choked angrily for a moment, and then re- 
 membered that you could not expect from a member 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 75 
 
 of your family the aloof politeness that you ought to 
 receive from the rest of the world. 
 
 " This is intimacy," he said bitterly. 
 
 " Oh, Oggie," she said quickly, " I wish you 
 weren't so sensitive. One always forgets that you 
 haven't grown out of it." 
 
 " You always forget that I'm in love with you," he 
 answered grimly. 
 
 It bobbed up so quickly that, to retain her self- 
 possession, she could not say anything better than : 
 
 " I've never been in the least sure of it ! " But she 
 had mastered her desire to laugh — a discourtesy that 
 would have shocked her father's daughter — suffici- 
 ently to add: " And of course, in that case the less 
 I go out of my way to spare your feelings the better." 
 
 " For us both? " he asked satuminely. 
 
 " For you," she rejoined determinedly. 
 
 "Then perhaps you'U explain," he said, with a 
 business-like disagreeableness, " why you say I'm 
 more hke a baby than a solicitor.'' 
 
 She told him — to show him that she did not fear 
 that he'd resent it enough to break with her — that 
 he could not in the least withstand his infantile 
 tempers. He could be shrewd enough whilst he 
 kept collected. Take this case in point: there was 
 not the least moral call upon him to guarantee the 
 Bishop from loss. On his own showing the Mon- 
 signor had wanted a gamble — ^weU, Augustus had 
 given him a gamble for his money. But at the 
 suggestion that he should let the church and mission 
 suffer, Augustus got on his high horse and said he 
 was a gentleman! 
 
76 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " Well, I am," Augustus said. " It was a moral 
 duty in me to advise the Bishop against chucking his 
 money away. I let him do it. If I cannot discover 
 whether this chap's dead — ^if I cannot discover it in 
 time and he is dead — I shall consider myself as in 
 honour bound to pay the money back out of my own 
 pocket." 
 
 " My dear Oggie," she said sharply, " I doubt 
 whether you're a gentleman at all. I really do." 
 
 And at his gasp of outraged astonishment she 
 went on : 
 
 " It's romantic, what you propose to do. And a 
 gentleman is never romantic. It isn't fair to others. 
 It's not fair even to the Bishop. He needs a lesson, 
 and if you stand between him and his lesson you're 
 doing him no end of harm." She felt that she spoke 
 with the robust commonsense of her Tory father: 
 she knew that she was perfectly right and speaking 
 Uke a man, not a woman. " It's a gentleman's 
 business — it's a decent man's business — to be normal. 
 You've got to play the game and do what's expected 
 of you; anything else is not fair." 
 
 She wished that Don had ever given her occasion 
 to advise him, as she could always advise Augustus. 
 But Don's problems were always too nebulous for 
 her : he was not a person who gave way to passion : 
 he was always, on the contrary, giving way to 
 scruples. 
 
 " I wonder," Augustus sneered, " that you do not 
 ask me why I should ' throw away my money.' 
 Upon my word, at times you speak just like a 
 desiccated solicitor yourself." 
 
THE AMAZENG DEATH ^^ 
 
 " Well, I hope I've got some commonsense." She 
 answered his gibe composedly. 
 
 " Oh, you've got a little, for a woman," he said, 
 " but you haven't a grain of imagination — any more 
 than any other solicitor." 
 
 He smiled deviously and continued: 
 
 " I'm not such a fool as you think," he said. 
 " I've got it in my head to play the game of getting 
 together a large practice. And I shan't do it if, like 
 one of your sort of dry practitioner, I cut my client's 
 losses — especially if he's the first cUent of a large and 
 unbusiness-like class." 
 
 He looked at her with a little perky air of triumph 
 at the close of this speech. For his little " game " 
 was simply this: that if he indemnified his Bishop 
 against loss when all the world, very markedly, was 
 losing its all, he would, in the little, reverberating, 
 gossiping hill of that communion in England, attract 
 to himself the faith — and the custom — of half a 
 dozen, a dozen, a score — nay, of every Bishop in 
 England. " For they're all the same," he concluded, 
 " desperately greedy — or desperately in need of 
 funds if you like." 
 
 He opened his lips again to shoot at her : 
 
 " So I'm not the fool you take me for and, in the 
 language of your bridegroom, it's up to you. I score 
 one." 
 
 " Oh," she said amiably, " if it's a question of 
 cadging for business it's all the way up to me. I 
 thought it was a question of a gentleman." 
 
 A sudden gloom had descended upon him though 
 he had not listened to her retort. He raised his 
 
78 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 head suddenly to bring out, with a good deal of 
 passion : 
 
 " Look here, Ellie, do the decent thing. Give me 
 a pointer. I've insured at Lloyd's against the 
 chances of the Bishop's loss. But it'll cripple me to 
 keep up the premiums. I can't do it at the pace. 
 You can take my word for it that I won't use the 
 knowledge to make any movements in the market. 
 But just save me personally." 
 
 The deeply-pleading note of his voice, his dark, 
 searching eyes, his graceful, small presence that 
 seemed to move into sympathy with his words — ^his 
 whole atmosphere and her remembrances of which 
 he made so large and innocent a part, moved her 
 deeply. 
 
 " I can't do it, Oggie," she said — and she re- 
 membered when she had nm to help him land a 
 huge conger, on Deal pier, on a wet, blowy day 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 " If I lose the Bishop and the chances of what 
 he'U bring me," he pleaded on, " I may as well shut 
 up shop." 
 
 " Ask Don himself," she said in a low voice, and 
 her eyes wandered to the table. The private cable 
 that she and Don had read together an horn: before 
 lay creased and blurred where her father had left it 
 after perusing it, 
 
 " That sentimental ass! " he said negligently, and 
 resumed his deeper tone with : 
 
 " Look here, Ellie." He stumbled and halted and 
 then went on. " It's not the money. It's the — the 
 — ^my theory — ^my idea of how a practice is to be 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 79 
 
 made. I've had to back my own ideas — I haven't 
 gone on in the old humdrum way. I've told no end 
 of the old, conveyancing, horn-spectacled dodgers 
 that they're fools. If I have to shut up shop mother 
 will keep me: I shan't starve. . . . But . . ." 
 and a minute shudder of violence went all over 
 his dark being, " those other beggars will laugh 
 at me, I won't stand it. By God, I won't stand 
 it . . ." 
 
 His eyes went to the paper, towards which her hand 
 was already reaching out. From where he stood he 
 could read, positively, the first words: " Mr Charles 
 Collar KeUeg . . ." and with a deep, sudden passion 
 his hand raced hers for it. She sank back in her 
 chair nervelessly and without it. His sigh was 
 almost like a sob and he held it close to his eyes, with 
 a cat-like fierceness, for he had inherited the shortness 
 of sight of her father's family. His head in a minute 
 came up from his reading, his eyes sought her face, 
 dilated and wide-hdded. 
 
 "By heaven!" he said. "What a scheme! I 
 can make a hundred thousand if I'm cautious." 
 
 She said, as if now she sought guidance from him — 
 as if, in her grief, she were asking him how far a man 
 — who must in the end know more of what a gentle- 
 man could do — ^how far a man could go — ^just the one 
 word: 
 
 "Oggie!" 
 
 He answered a non-comprehending: 
 
 " Well? " and then slowly he folded the piece of 
 paper into a Httle strip. 
 
 " Yes," he said slowly, " of course it comes to that. 
 
8o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 If you do not feel inclined to give me the pointer I 
 haven't read this precious message." 
 
 She said, with pauses between each word : 
 
 " I only half understand. What do you mean? " 
 
 " I mean," he said, with a deep bitterness, " that if 
 you don't care enough to teU me — ^knowing that I 
 shall be ruined — if you don't care enough to say that 
 you'd have told me in any case, I don't care enough 
 about life to use the knowledge the paper has given 
 me." 
 
 " You mean that you're too decent a man," she 
 said. " Say that that's what you mean." 
 
 " I don't mean anything of the sort," he said 
 pitilessly. " Your American's fair game, papers and 
 all. If a man's fool enough to leave such a papet on 
 a table he's . . ." He stopped and said: " I mean 
 literally that if you do not care for me — at least 
 enough to save me from ruin — I don't care enough 
 about life to keep my end up." 
 
 " You're asking me, in fact, for permission to use 
 your knowledge," she uttered. 
 
 " Look here," he said, and she knew that the 
 moment for his stereotyped form of words had come, 
 " why don't you marry me? " He went on swiftly: 
 " I can make enough with this to keep us for ever and 
 ever. You can make what you Mke out of me. You 
 know it. You cannot make a man out of that — 
 that sponge. You can't marry him. You can't. 
 He's like the tamest sort of cat. He's an incredible 
 ass. . . . Why, the other day I was walking up 
 Buckingham Street with him and a loafer came and 
 offered him a box of matches— one of those wastrels 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 8i 
 
 that ought to be hanged: one of the curses of the 
 day. And what did your Don say to him? — ' No, I 
 thank you! ' " Augustus spurted out the words 
 with a bitter contempt. "He's pohte: he's 
 sweet, like that, to the very pests, the cancers of 
 Society. You cannot marry such a man. Not you I 
 You! " 
 
 " Why don't you marry me? " he repeated, "why 
 — don't — ^you — ^marry — me? " 
 
 It was whilst the words were vibrating in the air 
 that Don came smiling into the room. He had, in 
 her eyes, an air of blind greatness, a vast, credulous 
 benevolence that made him approach Augustus with 
 his hand stretched out and the words : 
 
 " Who's going to marry you? " 
 
 He had heard only the last two words. 
 
 And it was the feeUng that he ought to be warned 
 that there were traitors in the world that she brought 
 out the words : 
 
 " Augustus has been reading the cable." 
 
 But aU the stress died out of the room with Don's 
 next words. 
 
 " WeU, that's famous, I was just going to tell him 
 myself," and Eleanor, with all her sense of sane 
 equity, coidd not bring herself to explain to him, at 
 least at that moment, precisely how overbearing and 
 outside aU bounds her cousin had been. Perhaps it 
 relieved her to escape the necessity ; at anyrate, next 
 moment it was too late. For Don's succeeding words 
 were: 
 
 "It works out at this: we're all going to New 
 York, and Aunt Emmeline is to be of the company! " 
 
82 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 And into the gasp that seemed to come to both of 
 them he threw : 
 
 " Your father is of opinion " — ^he addressed himself 
 to Eleanor — " that you need a chaperon. I tried to 
 persuade him that those institutions aren't modem 
 necessities. But he puts it that if you became ill — 
 which he considers the likeliest thing in the world 
 considering what American cooking is — ^it would be 
 the most awkward thing in the world to have no other 
 woman in the party." He waived, characteristically, 
 their desire to know more facts by diverging into: 
 " It's astonishing how your father can, in a common- 
 sense way, prove that a convention is a convenience. 
 Personally I'm all for kicking conventions overboard. 
 But there it is: there's no doubt that in American 
 hotels — for you cannot, he says, very decently 
 quarter yourselves in any of my half-dozen palaces — 
 the only decent servants are the negro beU-boys, 
 who are not, obviously, adapted for waiting upon 
 a sick lady. Which shows you, once more," he 
 was continuing, " how the New World does re- 
 dress . . ." 
 
 " But what's going to be done ? " Eleanor asked, 
 and for a moment she wished that her lover might at 
 times dispense with his tremendous flow of words. 
 " You forget that whilst you've been settling it with 
 dad we've been sitting here." 
 
 Don's eloquent bronzed face expressed a sudden 
 contrition and concern. 
 
 " It all seems so simple, now that your father's 
 arranged it," he said, "that I've sort of got the 
 impression it's so obviously the one thing to do — so 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 83 
 
 obviously, that of course you'd know it for your- 
 selves! " 
 
 " I'm to go with you? " she asked. " Next 
 Wednesday? " And whilst her mind quickly ran to 
 preparations, he was answering: 
 
 " Oh, it's principally you that go. But there'll 
 also be I and your father, and Augustus here as my 
 chaperon, and your Aunt Emmehne as yours, and 
 your father's man to valet Augustus and him, and 
 your aunt's maid for her and you. Supposing of 
 course that there's accommodation on the boat." 
 
 He added reflectively: 
 
 " Though, as the boats all practically belong to me, 
 there doesn't seem to be much difficulty. For your 
 father says — I don't know how he knows it — that 
 my father always kept a sort of prior claim for himself 
 on a suite of state-rooms for every boat of his 
 Unes . . ." 
 
 " It'll cost a tremendous lot of money," Eleanor 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, money!" Don said vaguely. "It doesn't 
 exist any more. There's nothing left for me but 
 action." 
 
 And whilst she was wondering whether she could 
 altogether like a state of things, a physical condition, 
 in which, as it were, the force of gravity was left out 
 and you just floated, he said himself: 
 
 " It's a most extraordinary feeling! It's as if you 
 could fly and did not want to," so that Eleanor had 
 a quick feeling of delight at their thoughts being so 
 much in unison, as if, by mental telepathy, she had 
 sent him that very image . . . 
 
84 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 Augustus said: 
 
 " But surely Uncle GreviUe isn't going to let you 
 pay for himself and Eleanor. Or has he too . . ." 
 
 For he could not think of his uncle as affected by 
 such a cataclysm, though he felt its effects upon his own 
 self. He knew, in his bones, that he too was going to 
 fly — but his uncle was such a determined pedestrian. 
 
 " Oh," Don answered, " at the rate your tmcle 
 can come to resolutions we've had time to settle 
 that too. He pays for Eleanor and himself and your 
 mother and the servants. He'U do it because, with 
 Eleanor so well ' settled,' from that point of view 
 he can afford to sacrifice his economies of some years 
 to his desire to see for himself what the place is 
 Uke . . ." 
 
 Augustus said: " Ah! " His uncle certainly was 
 a pedestrian. He disliked motor-cars : he would not 
 bicycle : he did not keep a trap : he would not even 
 sit down save when it was necessary — so you certainly 
 could not think of him as flying with another man's 
 wings in the face of the Tory proprieties. 
 
 " I guess," Don was going on, " that he would not 
 approve of letting the fact that Eleeinor was to be 
 well settled help him to make an excursion if it 
 wasn't that he thought I needed someone to give me 
 backbone. What he takes from me in the one 
 obligation he'U restore several hundredfold by saving 
 me from making, as he thinks, an irrevocable ass of 
 myself. I do not mean that he wants to keep me 
 from making reparations . . ." 
 
 " Don dear," Eleanor interrupted him, " did dad 
 say that you were to take Augustus? " 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 85 
 
 The fact that the conversation had, under 
 Augustus's auspices, taken a monetary turn, shocked 
 her sense of the proprieties — though she herself had 
 provoked it. Money, in her scale of things, was a 
 thing you did not talk about. You might say: 
 " It would be too expensive! " But, once you had 
 received the opinion that it wotild not, you did not, 
 in weU-arranged circles, proceed to discuss the shares 
 of the expenditure. That settled itself because the 
 people engaged were decent people; and she was so 
 touched with coldness at Augustus's contribution to 
 the discussion — he ought to have known her father 
 would do the right thing! — that she was anxious even 
 to indicate to Don that Augustus was not the person 
 to take with them, though she saw what a ttemend- 
 'ously " good thing " it would be for him if Don took 
 him up. . . . She could not, moreover, conceive 
 of her father as recommending his nephew as a 
 solicitor or as a travelling companion for himself. 
 Don, however, could not conceive of anybody else. 
 
 " Oh! " he answered her question. " Your father 
 said that I must take a lawyer with me — ^not that the 
 law of the United States is the same as ours — yours — 
 but simply because I needed a trained intelligence. 
 . . . No, he did not tell me to take Augustus: he 
 told me to take my solicitor. And " — ^he put his hand 
 upon Augustus's shoulder, a gesture that Eleanor 
 felt to be wholly " American " — " Augustus is my 
 solicitor." 
 
 Augustus was his solicitor: he had written, for 
 Don, two solicitor's letters to two magazines owned 
 by the same gentleman. The two magazines had 
 
86 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 calmly appropriated two landscape illustrations that 
 Don had exhibited at a Black and White exhibition. 
 Don would not have worried about it if it had not 
 been that the things had been so vilely reproduced. 
 The proprietor of the magazines had replied that the 
 
 mere advertisement of appearing in the P and the 
 
 W ought to be payment enough for a person like 
 
 Don. But Augustus's threat that his cUent would 
 apply for an order to suppress the issues of the 
 magazines had brought tumbhng in two cheques for 
 fifteen pounds— which Don really had not known 
 what to do with — and a commission for further 
 illustrations from the proprietor, who, if he did not 
 like to be bested, conceived a tremendous respect for 
 an artist who would care to stand up to him. A 
 success so considerable — ^it was aU the more con- 
 siderable in Don's eyes in that the proprietor had 
 given an assurance that all Don's subsequent work 
 should be reproduced just exactly as Don desired — 
 had filled poor Don with an immense respect for 
 Augustus's powers. It wasn't everybody who could 
 make a magazine proprietor careful as to reproduc- 
 tions. 
 
 This would not, perhaps, have mattered to Don 
 so much if Don had not been a lonely soul and if 
 Augustus had not been Eleanor's cousin. One 
 might even go so far as to say that Don had invented 
 the occasion of the lawyer's letters — ^he would not 
 normally have bothered even about the bad re- 
 production — especially that he might come in contact 
 with Eleanor's relation. He wanted relations: he 
 wanted, with all his affections, a family feeling. And 
 
THE AMAZING DEATH 87 
 
 if it was not that, in the least, that had made him 
 fall in love with Eleanor — ^he had met her as a solitary 
 figure when she had been living in lodgings in Paris 
 
 to attend the L School of Design, so that she did 
 
 not seem to have any relations at all — ^it was part of an 
 added charm to find that she had so splendid and so 
 typical — so comfortable — an atmosphere of be- 
 longing to a family. He had not himself, since his 
 mother was dead and he had quarrelled with his 
 father, the ghost of a person to feel affectionate 
 towards: but on Eleanor's side he discovered he 
 would be able to sink, as it were, luxuriously and 
 warmly, into all sorts of connectionships. It did 
 not matter that, as he gradually discovered, 
 Eleanor had not very much opportunity to see the 
 members of her father's and mother's family. She 
 did not, indeed, seem ever very much inclined to 
 make at all strenuous efforts to keep up these con- 
 nections. She need not, as he put it, because she had 
 such a tremendous wealth of them that as she had 
 never known the lack — the feeling of being alone in 
 the world — ^she could not be blamed for not feeUng 
 how precious the possession was. But there they 
 were, hundreds and hundreds of aunts and cousins 
 and uncles: and blood is thicker than water. He 
 felt himself at last about to shp into place somewhere 
 on the edge of a ring. He would not any more be 
 without some sort of circle. 
 
 He would, in fact, have called Augustus " his 
 solicitor " even if he had been the veriest of muffs. 
 He had so much need of something that was " his " 
 that he would have proclaimed Augustus one of the 
 
88 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 most remarkable practitioners in England though 
 Augustus had had nothing but a lack of opportunity. 
 As it was it was splendid, because Augustus was 
 soUcitor to the Woman's T.U.F. and to the Diocese 
 
 of ; and he had so efficiently conducted Don's 
 
 own affairs. vSo that, with his general excitement, 
 with the feeling that he had that it was necessary to 
 act — then and there, under the very nose of Mr 
 Greville, and actually under the eyes of Eleanor, Don 
 irrevocably engaged Augustus to be his man of affairs. 
 
PART II 
 BETWEEN SHORES 
 
 THE waves beneath their eyes swayed out from 
 the vessel's side ; the sea was dark a,nd metaUic, 
 Hke slate with white furrings. It was astonishing 
 because the sky was an unbroken pale blue, and in 
 the swept arch of the heavens the sun, hidden some- 
 where by the smoke stacks, had a sway unhindered 
 by any cloud. It affected the girl hostilely, this 
 hard surface, in spite of the pure white paint of the 
 boat, in spite of the fresh feel of the air on her face, 
 in spite of the bouillon in handleless cups, the neat 
 dresses that filled all the nooks of the pleasant decks, 
 in spite of the accent that made you laugh, because, 
 faint as it mostly was, it was, undoubtedly, as all- 
 pervading as the faint smell of tar that-exhaled from 
 every cranny of the immense boat. 
 
 The first bugle was sounded for dinner; the two 
 blessed little intervals of their day had commenced; 
 for though you never observed any noticeable 
 change in their attire, and though they could not 
 possibly have been any cleaner than they always 
 were, they, all of them, except a pallid lady who 
 was said to be " very ill," disappeared into their 
 cabins to do, in half an hour, what Eleanor — it was, 
 she was aware, inconsiderate to the stewards — con- 
 
 89 
 
90 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 trived with deft swiftness to get done in five minutes 
 after the second bugle " had gone." Don appar- 
 ently did not " do " anything at all, for he was 
 always discreetly in his chair opposite hers by the 
 time that, swaying just a little to what was un- 
 doubtedly the inconsiderate motion of such an hotel, 
 she made her way between the filled chairs. 
 
 But Don, apparently, never had any need to " do " 
 anything. He was always astonishingly neat: in 
 England, she remembered, he had always stood out, 
 in this way, from aU the other men she had known. 
 Here, among what she could not help calling to herself 
 his compatriots — though his mother had actually 
 made him naturalise himself — ^he did not stand out 
 at all. It was something that, there in the shadow 
 of a slung boat in the sea air, puzzled her a Uttle. It 
 puzzled her even while Don talked, as he always 
 was talking, in pleasant undertones, about things 
 that she never very well remembered. Or rather, 
 yes, when she brought her mind back to it, he was 
 talking about what it would feel like to drown just 
 where they were. The night before they had 
 desultorily made out in the great gilt-bound volume 
 of charts that was in the great gilt-and-white lady's 
 drawing-room, that the sea there was 1400 fathoms 
 deep — or 16,000 feet, or 1842 feet — or some number 
 that did not convey anything to her, and at that 
 moment Don was vaguely speculating as to how it 
 would differ being drowned in that depth of water 
 from being drowned in a pond. It must, he was of 
 opinion, make an enormous psychological difference, 
 to sink and sink. Whereas she simply felt that if 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 91 
 
 you drowned, you drowned, though she admitted 
 the pleasantness of his allegories . . . 
 
 But what really occupied her mind was the riddle 
 of his odd identity with all these other young men 
 here. For here, somehow, he did not stand out — 
 as Augustus certainly did. There were here perhaps 
 seventy young Americans out of the 400 of their 
 centre of the ship — seventy young men, all gentle, 
 low-voiced, extremely well washed — ^you would 
 not somehow call it well-groomed — and with 
 uncreased coats rather long in the back. It was not 
 that the coats were not made in Regent Street — 
 they all were. But they had, precisely, an uncreased 
 look; you could not tell why. It was not that they 
 were extravagantly new; it was rather as if they had 
 been built — ^built was precisely the word — for people 
 who would never put them to any physical uses out 
 of doors. And yet it was not that the young men 
 never went out of doors or never indulged in violent 
 exercise ; for ten of those young men were returning 
 — a college team — from competing with a Cambridge 
 band of athletes; and two others, at least, had, as 
 war correspondents, done quite astonishing things 
 with rough-riders in some war. Nevertheless, 
 Augustus, who could not tell one end of an oar from 
 the other, who had never been on a horse, who hated 
 cricket, never walked a yard if he could help it, and 
 regarded footballers as " muddied oafs " who in- 
 finitely contributed to our national decay — Augustus 
 gave the idea that he could punch all their heads by 
 sheer force of passion. Don did not; yet Don had, 
 she knew, pulled a very creditable oar in his college 
 
92 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 eight and, tucked away somewhere amongst his other 
 accomplishments, had the gift of shooting out all the 
 pips of a five of spades at twenty feet with an army 
 revolver — and Don stood over six foot in his 
 stockings. Yet you never noticed him, unless you 
 were in love with him, when, after breakfast and 
 before dinner, he joined in the frenzied swift rush 
 round the promenade deck. 
 
 The problem, not the fact, worried her a great 
 deal: for, approaching as she did those new shores 
 with a singular curiosity, she was anxious to dis- 
 cover what were the differences. She was not in- 
 clined to believe — at first she had not been — that she 
 was going to trouble her head in the least about the 
 differences. There were not, she had been ready to 
 advance, any differences. The people would prove 
 just Englishmen who rushed a little faster perhaps 
 but who wanted much the same things. 
 
 But, in spite of herself, she was, she was aware, 
 wondering all the time what made her feel different 
 from anything she had ever felt before. She realised, 
 of course, that she was, really, trjdng to make dis- 
 coveries about her lover: she tried to think that he 
 was not an American. But she felt, in spite of herself, 
 that he certainly was what those people called an un- 
 American American. He was voyaging, indeed, 
 under the pseudonym of " Greville " and passed 
 vaguely for her father's nephew. It was not Don 
 that was in question. But the lady who sat at her 
 elbow at meals — a dark person with an odd variety 
 of German accent who spent all her summers in 
 " Yurup " — had told her that another American, 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 93 
 
 who passed most of his years in Liverpool, was un- 
 American. It was, apparently, undemocratic, if it 
 was not absolutely unpatriotic, to have any ties at aU 
 with any of the several old countries that they all, 
 now they were hastening towards Sandy Hook, 
 affected contentedly to despise. 
 
 Don, therefore, was undemocratic and un- 
 American. She felt, in her loyalty to him, that she 
 would not have minded if he had been both. And 
 yet he fitted in so well with aU the others. And 
 she felt so differently among them. She had been 
 but two days on board and she tried to assure herself 
 that it was the unfamiharity of her surroundings — 
 the private sitting-room with the vast-blossomed 
 flowers, the yellow velvet with gold-work on it, 
 the green marble wash-hand basin in her berth with its 
 silver fittings, or the nickel handles of all kinds and 
 shapes that her Aunt Emmeline in the next berth 
 was perpetually straining her wrists to manipulate 
 for improbable purposes. Her Aunt Emmeline had 
 days of fads when she would not allow herself to be 
 " waited on." Or it might have been the fact of 
 eating with 400 other people at once that made her 
 feel strange . . . 
 
 But though she tried to assure herself that it was 
 this, she was aware that it was not. What at bottom 
 was strange was to be among 400 people and not to 
 attract from any man any of the unsanctioned 
 attention — ceillades or mere droppings of the eyes — 
 that anywhere else would have made her comfort- 
 ably uncomfortable. Augustus, of course, was 
 always eyeing her, but that did not count, and she 
 
94 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 had, as it were, a definite prospect of a sort of lone- 
 liness that stretched out before her eyes. It was a 
 loneliness, for somehow the women. . . . They 
 were not. . . . They were . . . 
 
 She could not somehow size it up. When they 
 came into the diriing-room in crowds they looked all 
 right: but when you took them in detail. . . . 
 Perhaps it was only the voices, the accent. And 
 yet it was not the accent — one had allowed for that. 
 It was rather a sort of intonation — a faint something 
 — a querulousness ! That was it. They seemed all, 
 always, to be complaining, not so much in words as 
 in the tones of their voices. It reminded her — ^with 
 a quite startling vividness — of ladies at home who 
 could not get servants " to stay." They did not 
 interest her somehow: not any one of them made 
 her feel the possibility that she would ever come to a 
 thrill of intimacy. They had not the complexions : 
 they certainly had not the voices: they had not the 
 look in the eyes. They could not ever be her rivals ! 
 
 It was that, to her astonishing discovery — ^for it 
 came to her in a flash — that made her for many days 
 drop entirely the habit of speculating as to her 
 companions, and they sank for her to the almost 
 permanent condition of moderately well-dressed 
 automata. She did not care how they dressed: for 
 the way they dressed would liot certainly interest 
 any man who could interest her : she did not care to 
 hear about their friends, for they certainly would not 
 be her friends ; she did not care to hear their views of 
 Europe and its cathedrals. It did not bother her to 
 have to listen: they simply did not excite her 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 95 
 
 curiosity — ^not any one of them. And by this 
 second of the very long days she had resigned herself, 
 for aU of the time that she could not have Don to 
 herself, to a future of lying in the deck chairs and 
 passing remarks about the weather, or the bouillon, or 
 about who was ill . . . 
 
 It was from a reverie upon one of these subjects 
 that Don aroused her, whilst they leant, before 
 dinner, over the rail together, by offering her two 
 cents for her thoughts. He dropped immediately 
 into the digression that she'd have to get used to 
 considering — over there — that though two cents was 
 in value the equal of one penny, actually the Americans 
 called a cent " a penny," just as a good many of 
 them called a quarter " a shiUing " — so that she'd 
 have to get used to considering that a shiUing con- 
 sisted of twenty-five pence. She answered that she 
 did not suppose that she'd ever get used to anything 
 of the sort. And why should she? She'd have him 
 and her father, not to mention Augustus and Aunt 
 Emmeline, to look after her. She did not suppose 
 she'd ever have to come into contact with " It." 
 
 He had a little touch of disappointment in his 
 voice — of a deeper disappointment than she cared to 
 have given him — as he said : 
 
 " Oh, I hope you'U take some of the problems 
 seriously when you come to see." 
 
 " But is not," she said, " what we're going for, 
 just to give you an opportunity to get rid of your 
 father's affairs and to pay.a good deal of money away 
 to some poor people and then . . .?" 
 
 Their attention was mutually distracted by the 
 
96 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 silvery, wedge-like form of a dolphin that, reduced 
 by the height they were up to the apparent size of a 
 mackerel, dived, in a swift curve, in the hurry of 
 waters .just below their noses . . . 
 
 " And then . . ." She took up her sentence again. 
 " Then? Why, nothing. We go back and it will be 
 all over." 
 
 With his hands upon the rail, swa37ing with the 
 sway of the vessel, he considered this proposition for 
 longer than he'd ever considered before any pro- 
 position of hers — for a space of time that appeared 
 unnatural to her, considering how short were the 
 precious minutes that were really theirs before the 
 next bugle would blow. 
 
 " Isn't that it? " she asked at last that he might 
 waste no more. 
 
 " That's it," he said at last. " But what you've 
 got to consider is that to do the thing — conscienti- 
 ously! — ^will be a thing that'll caU for an immense 
 study. It won't be — I don't want it to be if I can 
 help it — and, if you approve . . ." His voice had 
 in it an almost appealing note. " It won't be just 
 selling a business — as you might sell a shop in the 
 Marylebone High Street. We are not, in fact — ^you 
 and I and your father and Augustus — going out to 
 see how I may retire from business. We're going out 
 as reformers." 
 
 " Dearest boy," she said, and a note of deep 
 tenderness in her tone answered his pleading, " I'm 
 not going to hinder you." 
 
 " I know, I know," he said gratefully, " But the 
 whole point is — the point that worries me is that 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 97 
 
 you'll have to take an interest — ^you'll have at least 
 to study the circumstances. You can't go in and 
 out as we did this morning when we paid a visit to 
 the emigrants' quarters. I've got to plunge right 
 into this eighty millions of people as I might plunge 
 into this water here. ..." He waved his hands 
 downwards. " Right down, to the very bottom 
 almost. And if you do come Avith me, Heaven knows 
 when we shall get out again." 
 
 This was, as Don would have called it, a pro- 
 position that, in turn, made Eleanor pause for a 
 space during which they might have been carried a 
 mile towards the invisible coasts. She met it 
 seriously enough with : 
 
 " I'm ready to do anything that's really neces- 
 sary." She was not, however, even in her most 
 loyal moods, a person to encourage him in exacting 
 boimdless promises. " Wouldn't it be enough," she 
 asked, " if you just shook the whole thing off? Is it 
 really necessary to accept the responsibiUty? " 
 
 He did not pause at all with his answer. 
 
 " I told you at the very first that it wasn't a power 
 given to me. It's a duty. I've got to do my best 
 with these people ..." He stopped to make the 
 confession. " Coming into contact with so many of 
 them has made me tremendously in earnest. I hear 
 so many old phrases: I've got to face, at every word 
 that I overhear, something that represents an old 
 hope, an old inspiration. I've got to do something." 
 
 " You were not, yoti know," she said, " so ex- 
 ceedingly in earnest the Wednesday before last." 
 
 He rubbed his hand up his brow. 
 
98 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " Perhaps I was not," he said slowly. " But it 
 does come back to me — the national feeling. I do 
 not know where it comes from. Perhaps from the 
 days when I played with the beU-boys in the hall of 
 the hotel. I do not know where else. But . . ." 
 He paused, and a look of positive appalment in his 
 face overwhelmed her. 
 
 " My dear thing! " he brought out, " I've been 
 dreadfully unfair to you. If you did not expect. . . . 
 It's shameful," he said ; " of course you could not 
 expect that I'd drag you into such an affair." 
 
 To calm him she put her hand upon his where it 
 rested on the rail, as she was in the habit of doing for 
 her father in church when the sermon irritated him 
 beyond bearing. But the contact did not calm Don. 
 He looked up at the canvas screen of the bridge where, 
 silhouetted against the pale sky, a man, bearded and 
 blonde, with a gilt line roimd his cap, was holding at 
 the moment a glass to his eye. His own, mechanic- 
 ally, followed its direction. 
 
 "There's a ship!" he uttered, and then: "Of 
 course I can't turn the boat roimd — or I might 
 perhaps, only it would be hard on the passengers. 
 But the very minute we get to New York, if you 
 wish it . . ." 
 
 " Dear! " she said, " don't you understand ? " 
 
 He brought out, almost hysterically, it was so swift, 
 a " Yes, but . . ." 
 
 " When I accepted you as my responsibility," she 
 said, with an attempt at a smile to calm him, " I took 
 you with all your responsibilities. I shan't funk the 
 slums of New York when I come to them. Only . . ." 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 99 
 
 " Heavens," he interrupted, " it need not come to 
 that! " 
 
 " Only " — she was determined to finish her 
 speech — "I do not want you to assume more re- 
 sponsibihties than you've got to do for your peace 
 of mind." 
 
 " My peace of mind is irrevocably bound up with 
 yours and your comfort," he said. And she accepted 
 the obvious sincerity of his speech in lieu of the kiss 
 that she felt she had deserved. 
 
 " And mine's so entirely bound up in yours," 
 she said, " that if I thought there was a singfe 
 thing you felt you really ought to do, and if you 
 did not do it for my sake, I should be irrevocably 
 miserable." 
 
 The shrill notes of the second bugle made him move 
 backwards from the rail. 
 
 " Only," she repeated, as they squeezed close 
 together to enter the companion door at the stem end 
 of the deck, " I do want you to make up your mind 
 what will satisfy you." 
 
 "And you'll stand the racket? " he asked, sup- 
 porting himself above her with a hand on the panel- 
 ling as the slow pitch of the creaking vessel elevated 
 him right above her coiled hair. " You are a brick." 
 And she looked back and up at him with an ingenuous 
 pleasure upon her fresh cheeks, so that they remained 
 at gaze until, in revenge, the dropping stemwards 
 of the ship made the stairway almost horizontal and 
 brought her face up to his level. He did not kiss her 
 even then because he was lost in the consideration of 
 whether he ought to accept the sacrifice. 
 
loo THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 This problem occupied him during the greater part 
 of dinner, inordinate though — the second dinner 
 of the voyage being one upon which the resources of 
 the kitchen were strained to show what, as against 
 the competing hnes, the ship could do — ^inordinate 
 though the dinner proved in length to be. The prob- 
 lem of whether he ought really to take her with him 
 any further accompanied him through the indifferent 
 soup, the excellent oysters, the hors d'osuvres; it 
 spoilt his appreciation of the mousse of Westphalian 
 ham ; it made him so inattentive to the needs of Aunt 
 Emmeline that it was positively Augustus who had 
 to reach across the table to fill her glass with Apollin- 
 aris. It cast such a blight, this problem, upon him 
 that he would almost gladly have taken refuge in the 
 belief that it was the motion of the vessel affecting his 
 spirits. But he was too excellent a sailor, and in 
 spite of his dejection his appetite was too good to let 
 him have that solace. And almost he came to the 
 conclusion, since the matter so much affected him, 
 that that alone was proof that he ought not to bring 
 Eleanor into contact, however willing, with his 
 Responsibihty. 
 
 He contrived to be dragged out of his brood- 
 ing by hearing the lady at his elbow exclaim, in 
 tones too triumphant for the most preoccupied to 
 miss: 
 
 " Now, there^s a great man." 
 
 The remark was addressed to Mr Greville, who 
 raised his thin, aquiline face and piercing eyes 
 immediately opposite to her across the table. And 
 Don, in spite of his preoccupation, was subconsci- 
 
BETWEEN SHORES loi 
 
 ously aware that the subject of her eulogy was his 
 own father. 
 
 Mr Greville's poUteness, asking as if for information 
 of an extreme ignorance, came across to her. 
 
 " In what significance do you use the word 
 'great'?" 
 
 " Consider," the lady cried out — she had massive, 
 striking red hair and a massive and very striking 
 pale face of a mealy whiteness — " all the money he's 
 made." 
 
 Mr Greville uttered: " Ah! " 
 
 " And consider," she went on, " his charities." 
 
 " Now what proportion," Mr GreviUe asked, " do 
 you consider that his charities bear to his income? " 
 
 " Ah," the lady said, " I know you're sneering at 
 us. But tell me how many members of your corrupt 
 aristocracy have founded a university? " 
 
 Aunt Emmeline leaned across Don to almost 
 groan : 
 
 " Ah, too true! " 
 
 She had found herself in singular accord with the 
 red-haired lady. She had not ever an5rwhere met 
 people who so intimately agreed with her views of life 
 as she discovered most of the people on board did. 
 She leaned, however, still further across Don, so that 
 the aigrette in her hair discommoded him, to remark 
 that Mrs Sargent was not to take it for granted 
 that all their upper classes were unmindful of their 
 responsibilities; though too few, altogether, recog- 
 nised what — for instance in their relations to the 
 Church — their duties were; and Mr GreviUe in turn 
 begged Mrs Sargent to realise that he was not sneering 
 
I02 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 at her. He was travelling for the sole purpose of 
 informing his mind, 
 
 "So that you're reaUy coming for pleasure?" 
 And the lady, in her agreeable surprise, pulled still 
 further back the glove that dangled from her white 
 and very plump forearm. " Now that is real nice. 
 You're coming to see us as we really are? So few 
 British do." 
 
 Aunt Emmeline said that it was indeed lamentable 
 that the better class of her island had so Uttle curi- 
 osity: it was one of the symptoms, it was probably 
 one of the causes, of British national decay. 
 
 " But don't you think," Mr Greville asked Mrs 
 Sargent, " that if we do not come it's because we 
 believe — ^we're probably very mistaken — that there's 
 nothing to see? " 
 
 " You do not believe anything of the sort," Mrs 
 Sargent cried triumphantly. " Go down to the 
 Battery any afternoon and you won't be able to move 
 for the crowds of British rubber-necks with Baedekers 
 looking at the sky-scrapers and the historic monu- 
 ments. You don't find them like that at the Tower 
 of London! " 
 
 Her triumph — and the incomprehensible word that 
 you had to wait to work out its meaning — caused a 
 momentary silence, into which Augustus was able to 
 introduce the virulent statement : 
 
 " So that you get us both ways! " And to Mrs 
 Sargent's puzzled expression he vouchsafed the 
 contemptuous explanation that she had said, first, 
 that we were such fools that we never came at all; 
 and secondly, that the sights of New York did attract 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 103 
 
 us so much that we abandoned our own to an 
 extent that impeded the native-born American . . . 
 
 Mr Greville turned his head towards his nephew 
 for su£5ciently long to say, over the head of Eleanor, 
 who sat between them : 
 
 " We did not come here to convict people of 
 inaccuracies. We came to hear their views." 
 
 And Mrs Sargent rolled bread triumphantly 
 between her white fingers and thumbs of both hands, 
 accepting Mr Greville's championing and reflecting 
 upon an effective retort. It came after a decent 
 interval: 
 
 " I guess we Americans get you — both ways — all 
 the time ! " And Mr Greville gallantly but enigmatic- 
 ally bowed his head. Mrs Sargent said brightly then 
 she guessed they were the very nicest party of 
 English she'd ever come across — and she herself had 
 been bom in County Cork, so she might claim to 
 know both sides of the water and speak with 
 authority. Augustus, she said, would learn better 
 before he was three months older : he'd find Americaji 
 women very bright, and she reflected with satisfaction 
 upon her retort, repeating, to lose none of its effect, 
 that Americans did get them both ways aU the time. 
 She hoped she'd be able to take them round Spring- 
 field, Illinois, and show them something of the 
 prettiest town in the world . . . 
 
 Don from this, to him, rather painful scene — 
 in his amphibious existence he had heard so much of 
 this Yankee-baiting — retired, a httle strengthened, 
 to the consideration of the problem of whether he 
 ought to take Eleanor any further into these depths. 
 
I04 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 It occupied him so Mly, the problem, that of the rest 
 of the conversation he only caught Mrs Sargent 
 informing the silent Eleanor that she'd find American 
 gurrls vurry bright, and that EngUsh women did not 
 know how to put their clothes on, a remark to which 
 Eleanor only smiled a httle deafly and bowed with 
 an odd Ukeness to her father. And he caught 
 Eleanor replpng in trenchant undertones to a 
 whisper from Augustus: 
 
 " Why, there are ridiculous people ever5rwhere." 
 If he'd been near her chair last night, instead of being 
 in his berth sea-sick, he'd have heard a drunken 
 English country gentleman holding forth to a lot of 
 perfectly silent Yankees about the incorruptibihty 
 of English J.P.s and the perfection of the British 
 system. She'd asked herself just the very words that 
 Augustus had just asked her. " Was it possible that 
 people really talked like that? " For, as against Mrs 
 Sargent's " corrupt aristocracy " the EngHshman 
 had alleged that you could get a verdict from the 
 United States Supreme Court — as all the world knew 
 — by bribing any one of the judges. 
 
 " You do not believe people talk such rot till 
 you hear it," she finished trenchantly. " But 
 they do. And it would be cruel of dad to draw 
 that poor woman out if he had not got a good reason 
 for it." 
 
 The unfortunate Augustus opened his moustache- 
 hidden mouth to retort, but a slow movement that 
 seemed to take the whole place, band, galleries, ferns 
 on the table, and waiters, in one gigantic hand and 
 wave it through the air, made him at first appear to 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 105 
 
 reflect wildly and then to close his mouth. In spite 
 of the fact that he was assured of £10,000 a year for 
 the next five years and sat next to his cousin, so that 
 he could speak to her in undertones, he was not yet 
 having anything like what Mrs Sargent assured him 
 was to be the time of his life. 
 
 It was probably the contact with Mrs Sargent that 
 tipped Don's wavering scale upwards. For he had 
 to face the eternal problem of how much a king owes 
 to his people, how much to his wife : of how much the 
 same king is pledged by promises that he has given 
 before he comes to the throne in face of the sufferings 
 of his tributaries that he discovers after his accession. 
 For he could not disguise from himself the fact that 
 he had pledged himself to let Eleanor lead the 
 orderly, sheltered, almost august life that had 
 seemed to be all that the future promised them. 
 
 It was a definite promise that he had made, and, 
 to his scrupulosity, you cannot be relieved from 
 a promise however willing the other party may be. 
 At the same time he could not be certain that he was 
 not boimd by a former promise, contracted not by 
 him, but, as it were, by his ancestors — ^a promise of 
 which Mrs Sargent was, in her vulgar ignorance, a 
 dismal symptom. For undoubtedly his father— ^cind 
 the men of his father's kidney who had preceded him 
 — were responsible for that poor woman. It was 
 they who were responsible for her candid utterance 
 that Greatness was the power to trick coins out of 
 the breeches pockets of the poor or that having you 
 both ways was the ideal of life. His father distinctly 
 was the great prototype of extraction just as his 
 
io6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 whole life had been a matter of having everybody not 
 both ways, but in every possible way. 
 
 And it seemed to him that it was a duty he had 
 brought with him into the world to re-act against his 
 father. He had, as far as he could, to show that poor 
 woman with the red hair, pasty face, and untidy, 
 flabby, blue cotton shirt waist — who told his Eleanor 
 that she did not know how to put her clothes on 
 and held up to Mr Greville a swindler Uke his own 
 father as a type of what a corrupt aristocracy should 
 emulate — it was his duty to show that poor woman 
 and the millions that she represented, the millions 
 that his father had taxed, swindled and presented 
 with false ideals, to show them that Greatness was 
 something greater than the habit of accumulation. 
 And perhaps because of the optimistic sensation 
 induced by the immense dinner, by the time the 
 sparkling wine, provided by the Company, and the 
 nickel-silver souvenir pocket-books in which you 
 were to keep a diary of the run (provided also by the 
 Company), had been arrived at, he had momentarily 
 squared the circle of his thoughts. It was the old 
 solution. 
 
 For was not he going to the United States to strike 
 a deathblow at what his father represented? Was he 
 not going to cripple all his father's enterprises? Was 
 not he going to — as far as he could — set up a different 
 standard? And would not that standard be the 
 standard of Eleanor? 
 
II 
 
 THE sun that night went down leaving a pink-and 
 golden splendour that put new heart into Mrs 
 Sargent. There lay Mrs GreviUe, with Eleanor by 
 her side, green and brown rugs wrapped almost up 
 to their noses, their feet tendered glorious by the 
 light from the low sky, which gave to all outlines a 
 soft, luminous enhancing. A never-ceasing pro- 
 cession, silhouetted against the hght — of lean men's 
 figures, stout women, children whose little pigtails 
 cut diagonally the lines of the cordage — passed before 
 their faces, the notes of a harmonium, the clashing of 
 pail-handles to simulate C5mibals, laughs and endless, 
 monotonous songs from the emigrants, invisible 
 below their feet, went up to mingle in the brilliant 
 heavens with the rush of the water. It seemed, the 
 darkness down there, to enshroud and to accentuate 
 the jaunty indifference, the squalor, the ferocity or 
 the mere listless, Eastern dejection with which, 
 through the day, the fore-part of the ship, with its 
 kerchiefed, OrientaUy-draped crowd, seemed to 
 confront the serene castle of luxury that rose, white 
 and embattled, half way between stem and stem. 
 
 The sky was a flat, impenetrable pink, and from just 
 to the right of the bows a single backbone of gilt, 
 feathery cloud glowed and slanted, hke a vast spruce 
 tree about to fall transversely, up into the pale blue 
 
 107 
 
io8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 peak of the heavens. It had, the sky, something of 
 a garish splendour, to which the slatey-blue, unchange- 
 able sea seemed to offer a saturnine comment, and 
 from time to time Mrs Sargent led to their feet, for 
 presentation to these extraordinary Europeans who 
 were travelling to the other side " for pleasure," 
 small bands of what they had come to call " Them." 
 They made in this way the acquaintance of a 
 Scottish Presbyterian minister from an aristocratic 
 suburb of Philadelphia, who told them that there 
 was no coal smoke in New York; of a lady whose 
 husband owned a button factory in Froudeville, 
 Connecticut; of a judge from Decatur, Illinois; of 
 the son of a distinguished family called Calliun of 
 Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and of a Mr Houston of 
 Brooklyn, who told them, in gentle and despondent 
 tones, that whatever they did they were to avoid the 
 
 Hotel in a street whose number he could not 
 
 just remember. And each of these people cordially 
 endorsed the remark with which, successively, Mrs 
 Sargent introduced them — that they were going to 
 the land to see sunsets. The lady from Froudeville 
 added the rider that they'd find New York very 
 strange but that they'd hke it immensely when they 
 got used to it. To which the judge's son added that 
 they were not to think that N'York was America, 
 it was just a sink. It appeared afterwards that 
 by this image he had meant to imply nothing 
 opprobrious, but merely that New York, in its 
 cosmopolitan character, was merely the channel — 
 or, as you might say, the funnel into which the wealth 
 of the Transatlantic continent forced itself in its way 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 109 
 
 eastward. But all these silhouettes with querulous 
 voices waved their arms towards the invisible sun 
 and the western skies. The sunset, indeed, they 
 assured her was but a first note of what, hospitably 
 and charmingly, they were going to do for them. 
 And Eleanor's protest, wrung from her at the fifth 
 repetition, that they were not thirty-six hours out from 
 Europe so that the sunset might as well be called the 
 last taste of what Europe could do for them — Eleanor's 
 protest, for which she felt a certain contrition, was 
 summarily quashed by her Aunt Emmeline. She was 
 inclined to put the sunset down to the sturdy Pro- 
 testantism and the energy of the Transatlantic race. 
 They went, she explained, together: skies and 
 energy being synonymous, for was not it a scientific 
 fact that chmate had a vast influence upon character? 
 And inviting the gentle Mr Houston and Mrs Sargent 
 to take the dark, vacant chairs next her own, she 
 sent Augustus, who happened at the moment to pass 
 at Don's side, down to her maid's cabin to inquire for 
 a volume of his father's sermons, in which, by a 
 coincidence, that idea of Transatlantic vigour and 
 the occidental skies was rhetorically foreshadowed. 
 And Don, being roundly accused by Aunt Emmeline 
 of unsociability, was constrained amiably to hook one 
 of his long arms round an iron stay and to hoist 
 himself into a sitting posture upon the hard rail; 
 where, silhouetted, too, against the paling sky — the 
 gigantic gilt spruce tree had become a roisterous old 
 man's head — ^he listened to Mrs Sargent's upbraiding 
 of Mr Houston, who, in the hght of the electric lamp 
 that glowed by now from the ceiling above the chairs. 
 
no THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 had revealed himself as a small, old, tired-looking 
 gentleman in a Homburg hat and with a short 
 goat's beard. He repeated that he had not been able 
 to sleep in the hotel in 29th Street, and to Mrs 
 Sargent's reprimand that it was unpatriotic and 
 altogether un-American to let an Englishman imagine 
 that the worst American hotel could be worse than the 
 very best English hotel, he repeated once more that 
 he supposed, under correction, it was not the best 
 way to give English visitors a good impression of 
 the States to direct them to an hotel under which they 
 were blasting a tuimel. And whilst Mrs Sargent 
 was demonstrating that to sleep over a tmmel in 
 preparation would be just the thing to give English 
 visitors an idea of the overflowing industry and 
 energy of New York (" So that you get them again 
 both ways! " Don could not help interjecting) Mrs 
 GreviUe had turned the topic into that of the social 
 organisations attached to American churches. 
 
 In that, too, Mrs Sargent assured her, America 
 was exceedingly " hve." After slightly sketching 
 the relative positions, socially, of the congregations 
 attaching to various churches — ^it remotely shocked 
 Don, for Aunt Emmehne's sake, to hear her say that 
 the Protestant Episcopal congregation mostly con- 
 sisted of kitchenmaids — Mrs Sargent gave instances 
 of this activity : instancing the fact that at Heydon, 
 N.J., the Christian Scientists had, in the vestibule of 
 their new church, a barber's saloon, so that gentlemen 
 — and ladies too — ^might appear as seemly as possible 
 at the services : and concluding with the triumphant 
 fact that the Rev. Mr Campbell, the Scottish minister 
 
BETWEEN SHORES iii 
 
 to whom they had been presented and whom they 
 remembered as having told them that there was no 
 coal smoke in New York, had erected in his vestry- 
 house a quick-lunch bar, a tape machine in direct 
 contact with Wall Street, and a telephone, telegraph 
 and messenger-boy service. 
 
 " Mr CampbeU," Mrs Sargent said, " has in his 
 congregation some of the wealthiest men in the city, 
 men to whom the delay of a minute might mean the 
 loss of a fortune." 
 
 And whilst Mrs Greville was, approvingly, saying 
 that the only inefficient parallel that her churches 
 had had was the habit of calling doctors out of . 
 service if anyone were ill, Mrs Sargent was saying 
 that it proved her own broadmindedness, inasmuch 
 as, whilst she thus eulogised the Rev. Campbell, she 
 herself was a Catholic. 
 
 " You won't find in America," she said, " any of 
 the narrow intolerance that there is on the other side." 
 And Mr Houston's timid "No, indeed! " which 
 resembled more than an5d;hing else a clearing of his 
 thin brown throat, was emphasised by a much more 
 audible " No, indeed! " from Aunt Emmeline. 
 
 Don lost himself in conjectures as to what exactly 
 could be Mrs Greville's httle game. And as he 
 averaged it out she must imagine herself at last in a 
 milieu where her social, ecclesiastical and organising 
 excellences would enable her to shine as they had not 
 — even in the good days of her husband's episcopacy 
 — enabled her to shine anywhere yet. As she would 
 see it, he mused, she was amongst an infinite number 
 — the representatives of eighty millions — of absolutely 
 
112 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 middle-class people. Not one of the individuals that 
 she saw around her could be reasonably " placed " 
 at all in her mind. So that she had only, whilst 
 paying a purely temporary deference to their odd 
 opinions, to reveal herself as a real Bishop's wife, to 
 stand forth as an absolute dictator of manners, 
 district-visiting and the disciplining of minor clergy. 
 
 And she confirmed him in this speculation — ^just as 
 Eleanor, by stirring in her chair, exhibited the 
 symptoms that he so much desired, to join him — by 
 suddenly telling him to go and see what had become 
 of Augustus and the volume of her husband's 
 sermons. For she had remembered — ^with regard to 
 Mrs Sargent's claim for a height of tolerance in the 
 United States — a certain sermon of her husband's 
 preached before a ruri-diaconal conference. In this she 
 had herself forced the bishop to say that if the Roman 
 Cathohcs would abandon some of their heresies, and 
 the Nonconformists were to abandon some of their 
 stiffneckedness, how exceedingly good it would be 
 for the Church. For, as Don realised, it is extremely 
 difficult to inform a lady who will not listen to you 
 that you are the wife of a Bishop. Whereas a title- 
 page can't be ignored. 
 
 In the course of long wanderings in the deeper 
 stages of the ship, with their slight but persistent 
 odours, their slight but insistent creakings of polished 
 wood andjtheir perspectives that seemed infinite, Don 
 several times lost his way. It is indeed one of the 
 most difficult things in the world, when you have 
 turned a number of corners, gone down and up a 
 number of oscillating staircases, to retain in your 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 113 
 
 mind just where you are or even to realise whether 
 you are going towards the stem or the stem. And 
 having discovered that Aunt Emmehne's maid was 
 too overcome to begin to consider the problem of 
 finding where in the world Aunt Emmehne's copy of 
 her husband's treatises might be (she addressed 
 instead, through the crack of her door, to Don and 
 the stewardess the unanswerable riddle: Why had 
 she ever left Reading?), Don was faced with the 
 problem of discovering what had become of Augustus. 
 He had, the stewardess said, shown, poor gentleman, 
 half an hour before, unmistakable signs of wishing 
 that he had never come to that atmosphere. From 
 there he vanished. 
 
 Don in his kind-heartedness could not think of 
 taking his valet away from a vastly congenial and 
 just-learned game of poker in the smoking-room, as 
 indeed he would not have thought of leaving poor 
 Augustus to a mere valet. And, his heart filled 
 with concern, and dominated too with a dread that 
 Eleanor might have turned in, Don coursed through 
 what appeared to be miles of passages of shining 
 white paint, shining mahogany and stifled creakings, 
 up to a region where the white paint gave way to 
 fumed oak and painted panels representing cornu- 
 copise, birds of paradise or nymphs. He coursed out 
 along wind-swept promenade decks, peeped at 
 familiar faces of the prostrate occupiers of deck chairs. 
 He found, in their private saloon with the yellow and 
 gilt velvet, Mr GreviUe, lean, rigid and attentive, and 
 in the Socratic manner, extracting from the captain, 
 who was a blaze of gilt bindings, red face and golden, 
 
114 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 harsh hair, facts as to the conditions of service in the 
 United States mercantile marine. 
 
 Because the captain was stiffly anxious to make 
 the acquaintance of Don, whom he called " Mr 
 Ke-Greville," Don was forced to stay and admire 
 the aster heads, each as large as a mop, that the 
 captain had done himself the pleasure of sending in 
 for the ladies of the party. There was not, indeed, 
 anything fulsome about the captain, though, upon 
 hearing the cause of Don's concern, he offered to 
 place at his disposal one of his mates to find Augustus. 
 But it was nainutely disagreeable to Don to be called 
 " Mr Ke-GreviLLe." And he seemed to read into the 
 captain's hard-bitten, defensive blue eyes the fact 
 that with each word he uttered Captain Mulock was 
 sa3dng reaUy: " Look here, you're my owner. But 
 you can't promote me for you've nothing* bigger in 
 this line to give. And you can't, if you're a decent 
 man, deprive me of the ship, for I'm impeccable." 
 
 " Oh, well " — Don was driven to take the bull by 
 the horns — " I trust you'U respect my desire for 
 secrecy. I've got reasons that I'm sure you'd 
 approve yourself." And when the captain laid a 
 great red hand upon the evening shirt-front that gave 
 to his gilded broadcloth a final and tremendous 
 finish, and assured him that he'd taken to America 
 two duchesses, a French Ambassador and an English 
 Cabinet Minister without a soul's even having learnt 
 that they'd been in the States, Don followed his advice 
 and sought for Augustus in the extreme bow and the 
 extreme stem. 
 
 " It's what they all want," he said. " Darkness 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 115 
 
 and privacy," and he laughed a cordial and jovial 
 laugh. He'd crossed the Atlantic, he said, man and 
 boy, three hundred times. 
 
 The episode aroused in Don a vague disquiet, for 
 it reminded him again that he owned all this . . . 
 all this! He had not remembered the fact half a 
 dozen times in the course of the two days. Yet to 
 all intents and purposes it was true. He owned it 
 and it was only an infinitesimal part of his possessions 
 that he knew each minute grew and grew. It was 
 worse, the feeling, when he came among the emigrants, 
 with whom the warm, still night had filled the dark 
 chasms of the encumbered decks. They sat on great 
 iron discs, they hung on to steel ropes, they lay on 
 the smoothed boards, half invisible and wholly 
 unrealisable. You could not distinguish them by 
 names any more than you could tell where one class 
 of the ship began and the other ended once you were 
 out of the central castle. And the feeling dominated 
 him when he had found Augustus leaning beside the 
 flagstaff at the stem and had been simply damned for 
 suggesting that there the motion of the vessel was at 
 its worst. And in that darkness, where Augustus 
 appeared nothing but a huddled, disagreeable black 
 mass, lifted up and down against the horizon, it 
 struck Don that he could not even understand 
 Augustus ! 
 
 In the half way between the stem and the central 
 elevation, where the steerage passengers were massed, 
 some of them had got hold of a storm lamp and had 
 hung it from a bridge that spanned the dark deck. 
 And to the sound of a concertina jerkily wheezing out 
 
ii6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 the air of a Parisian waltz, a pair of Tyrolese — the man 
 in a wide hat with a black cock's plume, dragging his 
 leg as a barnyard cock does, and with a bearded 
 face and ferociously glistening teeth, the woman in 
 short skirts with white stockings — danced, he inter- 
 mittently sending out a volley of hand-smackings 
 from his knees, his thighs, his ankles, and even his 
 heels, to the rhythm which was marked by the 
 clapping of a pail handle. In the same ring the 
 sombre-skirted figure of a solitary man, Roumanian, 
 WaUachian or Cypriote, was turning reservedly as if 
 in a very slow Highland FHng, his hands above his 
 head. And in the dusky niche around them faces 
 indistinguishable — Jewish, Oriental, Italian, blonde, 
 red-haired, or eager Uke those of London street arabs 
 — peered out and muttered. Don asked in German of 
 a shawled figure, half distinguishable near him,where 
 she came from and where she was going. She drew 
 the shawl closer over her head and moved an inch or 
 two away. Not one of all these people noticed him — 
 and obviously in this crowd of strange figures nothing 
 could be noticeable. Not even the dusky Roumanian 
 in his skirts. And he would never know where one 
 of them came from or what they came out to seek. 
 What could he — who, after aU, had immense power — 
 do for these people? He might make one — he might 
 make them all — rich ! But what good would that do ? 
 The good that they needed was to be taught that 
 good did not come with riches. Yet in all pro- 
 bability they were fishing from the tangible ills of 
 hunger, cold, oppression, rapine and even butchery. 
 They sought, perhaps, some of them, Liberty. Yet 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 117 
 
 most of them probably were attracted by deeds such 
 as those of his father's, who had been born in a 
 workhouse to die with an infinite power — to do what? 
 To drink wine? buy women? purchase votes? 
 What, in the inscrutable depths of these poor minds, 
 did immense wealth signify? There might be — 
 there probably were — ^in the thousand or so of them 
 great artists, great thinkers, who went to seek the 
 purely idealistic. How, if he set himself the task — 
 if he interpreted his mission as that of helping those 
 who came first to his hand — ^how was he to ascertain 
 whose ideals were infinite freedom, whose were infinite 
 opportunities for bestiahty, or whose simply the 
 desire for opportunities to live and think? What 
 could he do? — what could he do for any of them? 
 
 A profound discouragement overcame him. He 
 remembered the miles of white and mahogany 
 passages in the centre of the ship. What ideals had 
 all the people who, in the warmth and tranquillised 
 security, slept in those innumerable precisely similar 
 cells ? And this ship that to all intents and purposes 
 he owned was only an infinitesimal fragment of the 
 whole of his problem. For his problem embraced 
 all humanity. He was at that moment the 
 wealthiest — and to that extent the most powerful — 
 of all the men in the world. But what he wanted to 
 do was to use his power to iniiuence minds. Other- 
 wise he could give all these people an extravagantly 
 good dinner, a circus entertainment, or present each 
 one of them with an Old Glory in satin stars and 
 stripes. He might give every tenth man a hundred 
 thousand dollars and see what came of it . . . 
 
ii8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 And although that sort of thing did not appeal to 
 him he could not be certain — ^he had insight enough 
 to be uncertain — that that sort of thing precisely 
 wasn't the best thing that he could do. He might, 
 in that way, form the basis of a fortune for some 
 poet or some thinker great enough to influence all 
 the United States, all these cartloads of emigrants, 
 all the world. In the sort of semi-sociaUst ideals in 
 which he had been brought up, which dominated 
 pretty well the whole world, the panacea was un- 
 doubtedly something in the way of examinations, 
 scholarships, investigations of some sort. Then 
 ought he to hold some sort of examination of all the 
 population of the ship? But what sort of examina- 
 tion? Had any good really come to the world with 
 the prevalence of that school of thought? Was the 
 United States any the better for it — or humanity? 
 He thought it was. 
 
 But, on the other hand, had not all his ideals come 
 from past ages when certainly examinations had not 
 even been discovered. Was not, at bottom, the 
 feeling that dominated all these miles of corridors 
 loathsome, dull, uniform, materialistic? Was there 
 in all this miracle of modernity a single touch of 
 poetry or of the finer feelings? If there were — and 
 he did not deny it — ^he had not yet discovered it. 
 And if he could not discover even the spark of it how 
 was he — he! — to fire it into a blaze? 
 
 Before his eyes that central castle rose up, dark, 
 but glowing through many portholes, so that it 
 appeared to have inside a glowing and radiant centre 
 — ^like the turnip-headed ghost of a country church- 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 119 
 
 yard! He stood among the nameless crowd and 
 it rose up inaccessible to them. 
 
 But was it like a castle? No, it was square, it 
 was obviously of iron plate : at the top the monstrous 
 forms of huge ventilators turned to right and left. 
 The galleries that were formed by the layers of decks 
 made it have a little the air of a Chinese pagoda. 
 But it was not even like a Chinese pagoda ; it had not 
 any quaintness, any grace of outline. It was not 
 like part of a seafaring vessel; it was not like any- 
 thing. Or yes! It was like a gigantic packing-case 
 jammed down on to the gracious lines of a vessel. 
 That was what they had done for ships — ^he and 
 his. They had filled its real decks with a huddled, 
 nameless crowd: they had jammed a packing-case 
 down upon its hold. 
 
 And yet, he was aware, ships had been fine, grace- 
 ful, air-swept vehicles for the Finer Spirit. But it 
 seemed to him that this ship — this ship of his — ^was 
 nothing but an offence, with its trail of smoke to the 
 august, black heavens and the vast swarms of blazing 
 stars. There was not, probably, on that whole 
 vessel a person that you could " place " : there was 
 not a name that mattered. 
 
 The decks of the packing-case were nearly deserted 
 now. In the topmost gallery but one a single figure 
 moved round and round, appearing in the light of one 
 side, disappearing in that of the other. They were 
 going to sleep there. Here around him the sounds 
 of the concertina, the clapping of the pail handles, 
 still went up . . . 
 
 Perhaps the fact that the people in the packing- 
 
I20 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 case had not any names and cotdd not be placed — 
 perhaps the very fact that they were all so hopelessly 
 middle-class and fluctuating would make his task 
 easier. It is, after aU, easier to destroy a packing- 
 case than a feudal castle or even a Chinese pagoda. 
 There were not there any castes, any ranks, any 
 classes to whom the shedding of blood had given an 
 almost moral significance and stabiUty. It might 
 then be easier to infuse into these people a great ideal 
 — an ideal of solidarity, of self-sacrifice, of co- 
 operation — an ideal of a Greatness distinct from the 
 acquisition of riches or of the power to "bluff! " 
 They could not, those two national ideals, have taken 
 a very deep hold. It was a matter of such very 
 recent history, this tradition of evil that had been 
 founded by men like his father. He was not very 
 strong in history: but was not the "millionaire" 
 the product of the half century since '49? Was not 
 he a figure that another half century might consign to 
 obhvion? Because, precisely, you could not place 
 them. They had not the prescriptive rights of having 
 done a service to the community that, in the old 
 world, made one tender to a certain gens, to certain 
 families. It was, was it not? the Transatlantic 
 social mill, just one ant-heap in which any ant 
 struggled through the mass to the outside on the top. 
 You could puU down an ant-heap. You could clear 
 away that central packing-case and the lines of 
 the ship would be once more revealed. After all, 
 what was the sense of writing up First " Class " 
 or Second " Class " on a vessel that went towards 
 the West? It was not a matter of class: it was a 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 121 
 
 matter of a few more coins out of the breeches 
 pocket. 
 
 Then assuredly these class hmits could be swept 
 away from the vessel with a very small struggle. 
 You would perhaps be able to do it by uttering the, 
 to the American, damning word " tmdemocratic." 
 For assuredly that ideal was very strong even with 
 the Mrs Sargents. 
 
 Supposing he were to inaugurate his sway of this 
 " line " by uttering a manifesto that all class dis- 
 tinctions were precisely anti-national. Supposing 
 he were to build steamers without that central mass, 
 but clean, roomy, fine from stem to stern. And 
 then he might issue a bold challenge to all American 
 users of boats, daring them to travel by any others 
 at the risk of being called un-American. Would not 
 that be a great step? And would not the example 
 of it bear fruit even in Europe : would not it cause, 
 even there, a further stage in the gradual euthanasia 
 of class distinctions that was going on all over the 
 world. Example! Was not that really the thing 
 that counted? His father's wide example had done 
 much harm : might not his, by that device, create a 
 new standard? For he had heard it advanced again 
 and again against his countrymen that what they 
 needed, what they absolutely lacked, was precisely 
 standards ! 
 
 And then — because he had not gone to school at 
 Harrow or mixed with Tories for nothing — there 
 came into his head the discouraging idea that no law 
 ever acts as it is intended to do. You pass a law 
 to restrict the number of drink-shops and the children 
 
122 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 see their parents drink at home and the streets are 
 filled with female drunkards — so that Heaven knew 
 what would be the effect of abolishing the classes on 
 his ships. He could not see that any evil would 
 result : but it might mean the disappearance for ever 
 of any mingling of European and American culture. 
 Decent people might refuse to travel. You simply 
 could not tell how it would influence ideals ! You 
 couldn't tell anything. He wanted to help the people 
 pent up before him to a purer type of ideals; he 
 wanted intensely to help all these poor people 
 round him. 
 
 He felt for his watch: it seemed to him that he 
 must have lost hours — that Eleanor would be in bed 
 by now. But his watch wasn't there. He supposed 
 he must have left it in his berth. Yet his pocket-book 
 wasn't there: his cigarette-case was gone — even his 
 handkerchief. It annoyed him — because his pocket- 
 book contained one of Eleanor's letters. However, 
 he had Eleanor . . . 
 
 Of course there would be criminals going to the 
 United States. And he wondered what their ideals 
 were. 
 
 Up on the third deck in front of him there appeared, 
 at the angle, beneath the light, the figmre of Mr 
 Houston. Small, his Homburg hat on the back of 
 his head, his hands deep in the pockets of his smooth 
 black overcoat, his little beard pointing nearly 
 horizontally, he appeared to gaze at something far 
 off in the night. 
 
 And suddenly it occurred to Don that it was 
 absurd to say you can't " place " Americans. This 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 123 
 
 gentle and tolerant old man with the low, tnistable 
 voice was Mr Houston of Brooklyn. Half the people 
 on the packing-case would know him as coming of a 
 good family who had hved in Columbia Road for 
 generations. Mr Houston had " retired," which 
 wasn't quite American, but it was condoned by the 
 ill-health that showed in every line of his figure. 
 It didn't count at aU that the Houstons for genera- 
 tions had made their money by manufacturing stove- 
 pipe elbows. What mattered, even to the people 
 of the packing-case, was that the Houstons had been 
 distinguished for probity, gentleness and benevolence 
 — for character, in short. And wasn't that just as 
 much a class distinction as anything else? Wouldn't 
 it be as cruel not to provide a little privacy for this 
 poor old man with his need for quiet as to force 
 Eleanor to mix with the people who had picked his 
 pocket? 
 
 Mr Houston moved his head round on his thin neck 
 and uttered some inaudible words, and immediately 
 afterwards Eleanor, muffled to the eyes in a golf cape, 
 came to stand beside him and to follow the direction 
 of his hand into the night. 
 
 And whilst in rejoining them Don once more lost 
 himself in the mazes of the packing-case, coming out 
 in a bewildering way where, beneath a rather dim 
 light, the second-class passengers lay about under 
 undistinguished-looking shawls, finding the grille 
 drawn along the long deck and mounting more 
 corridor stairs, utterly unable to locate the particular 
 gallery upon which he had seen them, Don was 
 wondering in his mind whether actually Eleanor had 
 
124 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 any more claim to consideration than Mr Houston. 
 He was quite aware that she wouldn't nowadays get 
 it. Modem philosophy would have it that to 
 manufacture stove-pipe elbows was as glorious a 
 thing as to crack them — and wasn't mediaeval warfare 
 a matter of cracking with a steel bar a stove pipe on 
 another man's head? So that considering an indi- 
 vidual to be no more than a link in the chain of his 
 family, wasn't Mr Houston as precious metal as were 
 Eleanor and her father? Was he or wasn't he? He 
 represented the manufacture of stove pipes, she only 
 their destruction. 
 
 Every modem creed would give the answer that 
 he was better : Mrs Sargent would say so : his Fabian 
 friends would say so — even Eleanor might be 
 sufficiently moved by the life all round her, or by the 
 enunciations of her friend the Canon to say that 
 Peace hath her victories and the rest of it. But was 
 it true? Was it true in the sense of the Eternal 
 Verities and apart from modern accepted Ideals? 
 Was not Eleanor, as representing people who had 
 really acted in their own persons, of a more vital 
 tradition than Mr Houston, whose ancestry had 
 merely taken the profits of poor wretches' toil? 
 
 Before he could feel himself equipped to do 
 anything he would have to settle in his mind all these 
 mere first principles. He felt it himself, but it was 
 forcibly put to him in these very words by Mr 
 Greville ten minutes later. He had found Eleanor 
 hanging on to Mr Houston's gentle support and 
 walking very slowly along the covered deck, from 
 above which the globular lamps sent down a soft 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 125 
 
 glow on their figures. Mr Houston seemed to have 
 discovered a soft, ancient elective affinity for 
 her. With his black-gloved, thin hands he was 
 fending their roll from the side-rail, and he was 
 telling her, as a good joke, how he had taken a 
 row-boat full of oranges to the hghthouse men of 
 the most northerly hghthouse in the world. He had 
 seen from the North Cape the tower on the horizon 
 and he had said: Hullo, he supposed those fellows 
 would like some oranges. He had started on his 
 voyage round the world with a truck load of Cali- 
 fornia oranges — and he still had some left in the 
 steamer's refrigerators. And as he leaned back, 
 small, brown-faced, white-bearded and gentle-eyed, 
 promising her, as he resigned her to Don, to send her 
 a few for herself to-morrOw morning, he seemed to be 
 offering her the homage due from the representative 
 of one fine tradition to another. Noble natures, 
 after all, leap to each other across the ages as across 
 the waters ship salutes ship. . . . And Eleanor, 
 catching her arm into Don's, remarked, as she watched 
 the old man's figure timidly disappearing into the 
 narrow saloon doorway, that he was a rather charm- 
 ing old person. He had, it seemed, been offering his 
 tribute of California oranges to elect natures all over 
 the globe. And what more, Don asked himself, 
 could he demand of his countryman? 
 
 But the young people hadn't made more than one 
 turn of the quarter-mile deck — they hadn't indeed 
 dismissed Mr Houston and his adventures from their 
 conversation before they were joined by Mr Greville, 
 who, with his lean features, his frock-coat and soft. 
 
126 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 wide-awake-like scholar's hat, resembled, extra- 
 ordinarily in the Ughts and shades, Uncle Sam him- 
 self. As Eleanor, saluting him gaily, said: "You 
 couldn't have told he wasn't an American." 
 
 " Ah, wait tiU you hear him speak," Don answered 
 gaily too. 
 
 For, linked to Eleanor, who in turn linked herself 
 to her father, he seemed to feel that they had a 
 solidarity — ^perhaps it came from their added sure- 
 f ootedness now that the wind was freshening. It was 
 as if they were indeed a family, he and they; as if he 
 had acquired their point of view. He didn't seem 
 any more to float, lost and alone. The water roared 
 past them, an infinitely Uttle space of white dimly 
 seen, an infinitely vast space of solid black; the 
 wind, catching them, caused them to pause a little 
 at the forward comer and sent them hunying a Uttle 
 down the other side, where, at the far angle, a man in a 
 grotesquely-shaped ear-cap leaned over the rail, gazing 
 at the blurred stars. The lights and the noises had 
 died away in the inscrutable blackness of the ship's 
 forward deck. There was nothing any longer visible 
 save the black fantastic forms of windlasses and spars, 
 adding with their deeper shadows to shadows already 
 black. And as the ship sped on, leaving in the mind 
 the impression of something immense, trustworthy 
 and intent on its end, through the night, trackless and 
 enigmatic, it seemed to Don — ^it was an impression 
 rather than any reasoned evolution — that all these 
 people, far beneath his feet now, had sunk hterally 
 into still deeper depths of unimportance. They 
 didn't matter, they were the raw material, the ore 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 127 
 
 with which one worked — ^without names, without 
 traditions, with nothing but a future that he should 
 have to mould. 
 
 It was then that Mr Greville delivered himself of 
 his apothegm, after Don had delivered himself of a 
 tranquillised version of his searchings of the soul — a 
 version that in relation to his former vividness of 
 feelings was as the packing-case on which he stood 
 was to the depths from which he had looked up. 
 
 " What you ought to do," Mr Greville said, " is 
 to find yourself." 
 
 He hadn't got to bother about trains of thought, 
 but about what he wanted. And Mr Greville haz- 
 arded the further speech : 
 
 " If a man is determined to inflict himself on his 
 time it is his duty first to consider what he is ! 
 For what is criminal is to wobble once you have 
 begun. A man has to define what his ideal is and 
 then to make for it." 
 
 " Ah," Don said, " that is what people have been 
 telling me all my life ..." 
 
 " Study, if you've got the brain " — Mr Greville 
 cut him short — " or if you haven't, and have the 
 temperance, let things alone. You'll do less harm if 
 you let things alone. But you'll do infinitely more 
 if, once you've begun to meddle, you change your 
 mind! " He spoke without any passion. It wasn't, 
 assuredly, any business of his to meddle with other 
 people. 
 
 It was Eleanor who imparted the personal note. 
 
 " Whatever you do is so certain to be kind 
 that . . ." 
 
128 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " That I'm rather to strain after effects that seem 
 cruel? " Don asked her. " I'm to strain for such 
 effects as drowning new-bom puppies if they're 
 likely to prove mongrels." 
 
 She didn't quite foUow his image, and, under cover 
 of her pause for reflection, he got away into the 
 reminiscence he was determined upon. 
 
 " When I was in Paris," he said, " I worked in an 
 atelier where Whistler used to visit. He made me 
 his monitor. I had to call silence for him and turn 
 round canvases on easels. I thought I was rather 
 fine. But when the atelier broke up, principally 
 because he wouldn't visit it regularly, he told me to 
 come and see him. ' Look here,' he said, * you think 
 I made you monitor because I thought you were 
 promising. You aren't. You're a hopeless duffer. 
 But you're pleasant. That's why I chose you! ' " 
 And when Don, crushed but valiant, had asked the 
 master what he meant, the master had turned, 
 wasplike, upon a sketch of his own. ' Look there,' 
 he said, ' that's painted. That's a masterpiece. 
 Look at that spade! But you'll never paint. You 
 never wiU see. You're a poet. Go and write little 
 verses. Go and moon about.' And when he was 
 stiU further pressed he had brought out : ' You can't 
 paint a spade because you can't see the thing that the 
 light plays on ; you see the hunger in the entrails of 
 the peasant who's going to dig with it! You can't 
 paint hunger! ' " 
 
 And whilst Eleanor brought out : " What a rude 
 bear he always was! " Mr Greville formulated : 
 
 " Did you ever reflect on those words? " 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 129 
 
 He cut, however, Don's flow of protest that he 
 never thought about anything else short with the 
 words that whilst he always saw so many aspects of 
 everything he couldn't ever expect to do anything. 
 It was a form of laziness. 
 
 " And I don't see," he finished, " why you can't 
 be content to go on being lazy." 
 
 And whilst Don was protesting that the thought of 
 people who talked like Mrs Sargent goaded him to 
 desperation, Mr Greville again cut him short. 
 
 " If all you're going to do in throwing your money 
 away is to attempt to change Mrs Sargent and her 
 people, it is sheer waste of effort ; she'll be an odious 
 fool whatever you give her for example. You won't 
 change their hearts or give them intellects. That 
 class of intellect is the same in England or America. 
 They'U always be the same whether you gather the 
 wealth of your country into two hands or distribute 
 it to the eighty miUion." 
 
 And having delivered this staggerer he unUnked 
 his arm from Eleanor's and announced that he was 
 going to fetch his book. He had already erected a 
 custom to suit his new environment, that of sitting 
 in a deck chair in the evenings and stud3dng a 
 United States Baedeker for an hour before turning 
 in. He was intent on getting for himself the lie of 
 the streets in several American towns, so that he 
 would never have to ask the way supposing that — 
 which he doubted — the inscriptions on American 
 street comers were to be found or trusted. 
 
 At the mere mention of this desire Don had 
 sprung forward to the deck door and was fetching 
 
I30 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 the Baedeker. And Eleanor, up in the darkness with 
 her father, fenced the question that she really wanted 
 to ask by asking another. 
 
 " Father," it came, " why don't you ever like to 
 ask your way? " 
 
 He surveyed her with what, in his affectionate gaze, 
 was almost surprise, as if she ought to have under- 
 stood. 
 
 " I'm sure," she continued, " you're always asking 
 people other questions." 
 
 " My dear," he said, " if you'll observe you'll see 
 that I never ask for information as to facts." 
 
 " You only collect foolish points of view? " she 
 said, thinking of the red-haired lady. 
 
 " I collect points of view," he answered, avoiding 
 her adjective. " If I want information — ^facts upon 
 which I'm going to act myself — I find out for myself. 
 I should advise you to pursue the same course." 
 
 She buttoned the golf cape more closely under her 
 chin as a gust of wind from out of the gleaming and 
 black void took the two of them, whirling her white 
 skirts about his legs. 
 
 " Of course it makes one tremendously sure," she 
 said musingly. " But it leaves one a frightfully 
 narrow field." 
 
 He was looking at the invisible windward of the ship. 
 
 " What does one want to do a lot of things for? " 
 he asked, and descending from his impossible gener- 
 alities to his affection and politeness he asked once 
 more: "Don and you know the Yorkshire sasdng: 
 ' A little farm well tilled, A little wife well willed, 
 A little purse well filled '? — that's aU you want! " 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 131 
 
 " But there are great ideas, aren't there? " she 
 countered him absently — ^intent on defending Don. 
 
 " There aren't — great — facts ! " he said slowly. 
 
 And suddenly she brought out her real question: 
 " What are we going for? " 
 
 He went slowly to his deck chair, picked up his 
 dark plaid shawl and draped it round the shoulders 
 of his frock coat. He returned to her, and standing 
 before her, although he strongly disliked answering 
 questions, he gave it her full in the face . 
 
 "To look after Don!" 
 
 " But, dear," she said, as she began to digest this 
 statement, " you know I'm provided for whatever 
 he does." 
 
 Her father leaned back against the ship's rail and 
 extracted one hand from the rug that shrouded his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " So that " — she pursued her commentary on his 
 words — " you aren't looking after my interests. 
 It's him!" 
 
 She reflected and then said softly : 
 
 " He is rather a dear, isn't he ? You do like him ? " 
 
 Her father, leaning, draped, back against the rails, 
 still didn't answer her. But at last he said : 
 
 " Probably pickpockets couldn't strip him fast 
 enough to leave him naked. But tell me what he's 
 paying Augustus ten thousand a year for? " 
 
 This hit Eleanor so closely that she started. 
 
 " It's really great foUy," she said, " all the same, 
 if Augustus appeals to him . . ." 
 
 " Yes! " Her father caught her up. " It's the 
 things that appeal to him that will play the mischief 
 
132 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 with everything he attempts. He'll never do any- 
 thing. He's like every manifestation of his country 
 — hysterical." 
 
 She said softly : 
 
 " If you like him so much, dear, aren't you a little 
 hard on him? " 
 
 He crooked his large forefinger at her from some- 
 where near his hips. 
 
 " You know I'm not," he said. " And don't run 
 away with any false ideas, I'm not in love with Don. 
 But if he's going to do a certain piece of work I want 
 him to do it cleanly. I shouldn't have given myself 
 all this trouble and derangement for the sake of what 
 he'd call his beaux yeux." He looked at her solemnly, 
 but with a certain trouble in his eyes. " It amounts 
 to this: He's bound, in the nature of events, to be 
 brought up against me, with all his troubles, for as 
 long as I've got to live. He'll constantly be depress- 
 ing you : you'll constantly be coming to me. I don't 
 want to meddle with him or his problems. But 
 I shall have to." 
 
 " You mean," she asked, " that he'U be losing his 
 money foolishly and asking you, through me, to 
 retrieve it." 
 
 " Child," he said, " you're astonishingly naive 
 still. It isn't the money he'll lose that wUl distress 
 him. He can't lose money enough. He'll find his 
 father's tied it up too well. It's the siUy things he'll 
 do every time anything appeals to him. He'll 
 found Institutions and find they breed beastlier chaps 
 than ever. He'll raise co-operative factories and find 
 the hands wiU dissipate all their profits in shove 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 133 
 
 halfpenny. I wouldn't mind wagering that he'll try 
 to purify the municipal politics of some wretched 
 town, and he'U find that his money is being used by 
 his reforming, lieutenants to bribe into existence the 
 worst Tammany that's ever been known. And I 
 shall be forced to pay attention to all these muddles. 
 That's why I'm coming with you." 
 
 " You poor old dad! " Eleanor said softly, " you 
 think that you'll be able to guide him." 
 
 He stirred uneasily. 
 
 " No, you don't," she said quickly, " you think that 
 the companionship of a sensible man may harden his 
 backbone a little at the start." 
 
 And she added as swiftly, whilst Don appeared a 
 long way away with the Baedeker in his hand: 
 
 " Don't you think we're both of us agitating 
 ourselves, possibly for nothing? Isn't it just as 
 likely as not he'll see so many aspects of misanthropy 
 that he'll never make up his mind to do anything at 
 all, ever? " 
 
 As Mr GreviUe drew himself to an erect posture on 
 the deck he uttered, almost with tones of misgiving : 
 
 " You talk as if you were an old married woman." 
 
 " Well, you made us understand that you wanted a 
 long engagement," she answered. " I've had time to 
 get used to him by now." 
 
Ill 
 
 I SUPPOSE," Eleanor whispered in Don's ear 
 as, linked now together and alone, they dis- 
 appeared in the darkness of the promenade deck, 
 "that why I really care for you is that you're a 
 poet! " They had left Mr Greville comfortably 
 tucked in beneath a circular lamp, studying through 
 his large glasses one of the plans of New York, and 
 had, with a feeling, minute but dispirited, of escape 
 at last, gone round the comer of the saloon. " I'm 
 as hard as he is but we've both got — though he tries 
 to act as if it weren't so — a very soft spot for dears 
 like you." 
 
 And no doubt her diagnosis was helped by what 
 she certainly considered to be the weakness of her 
 father for Don. She could see what attracted her 
 father and argued from it what attracted her. And 
 their engagement had been of long standing. It had 
 come about in one of those odd, " most natural 
 manners in the world " that are so common in very 
 individuaUstic societies. Nothing in fact was so 
 unlikely as that a girl like Eleanor should seriously 
 take up the study of painting. In her particular 
 type of society a girl dabbles in it, producing mild 
 water-colours that, since they cover their parents' 
 walls, have at least the function of spoiling the market 
 for professional painting, and thus keeping those 
 
 134 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 135 
 
 outsiders in their social places. But it was char- 
 acteristic of Eleanor that, having once, towards the 
 age of twenty-eight, been filled with a desire to paint, 
 she should desire to get to the bottom of the matter. 
 She wasn't going to leave it at water-colour sketches. 
 Similarly, if it were odd that she should go to live in 
 Paris to get at the facts, it was the most logical thing 
 in the world that her father should insist that if she 
 insisted on really taking up the study she should go 
 to the place in the world where it can be most studied 
 au fond. She had accordingly gone to Paris, and — 
 - to go to the very centre of it — she- had. gone to that 
 very atiUer in which Don had been indued with the 
 responsibihties of monitor. The master who. there 
 gibed at the students' productions was, in those days, 
 esteemed at least the most workmanlike under whom 
 it was possible to sit. He had gibed at Eleanor's 
 studies as mercilessly as at any of the others, but it 
 affected her less because she noticed that he didn't 
 gibe more. And when, upon the break up of the 
 atdier, owing to the irregular visits of the master, 
 Don had assured her that the next only man in the 
 world to study under was to be found in a state 
 institution in London, she had very composedly 
 followed Don to her own country. 
 
 The companionable, free life that she had led with 
 him and with other girl and men students had 
 proved, she had found, perfectly compatible with a 
 quite composed observance of the decencies. And 
 it wasn't till she had finally decided — and it was 
 easier to decide it under the more equable rule of the 
 London master — that she hadn't the least gift for 
 
136 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 painting that she had discovered that she had grown 
 so used to Don that she couldn't possibly do without 
 him. It was as if from long looking over portfohos 
 of prints, interchanging remarks on which they had 
 generally agreed, they had suddenly looked into each 
 other's eyes and said, simultaneously: "You are 
 rather a dear! " 
 
 Their approach to that point had indeed been so 
 gradual — they had happened to Hve, both of them, 
 near the northern terminus of a 'bus route, the 
 School of Art being at its further end, and most of 
 their unconscious courting had taken place on the 
 tops of 'buses as you might say in Tottenham Court 
 Road — that there hadn't been any point at which 
 she could have warned her father of an3H;hing. She 
 had indeed been so imconscious that Don's " soci- 
 alism " hadn't seemed to matter. She hadn't, in 
 fact, in the least meant to marry him, and if he 
 were a Fabian, or something hke a Fabian, tempered 
 with passages that made him at times say things with 
 which she couldn't altogether agree, about the 
 populations who Hved sordid Hves round about the 
 Tottenham Court Road, the views had been 
 appropriate enough in the second master of a School 
 of Design. He'd never show any signs of wanting 
 to "do" anything; he'd Umited himself very ap- 
 propriately, considering whose daughter she was, to 
 sa3dng that certain things, in an ideal state of society, 
 would be very much otherwise. He had not even 
 shown any very alarmingly artistic " gifts." On the 
 contrary, at about the date when she had determined 
 that she hadn't any gift at all, he had made the 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 137 
 
 discovery that he wasn't fit to do much more than 
 illustrate stories and songs for the sUghtly better 
 magazines of two continents . . . 
 
 So that there — if we add the fact that Mr Greville 
 was faced by a situation from which he was actually 
 too disinchned to exertion to attempt to extricate his 
 daughter — there they were ! 
 
 And on the top of the packing-case in the dark, with 
 the spray of the sea in the air, as on top of the 
 omnibuses, in the misty glare of the arc lights of the 
 Tottenham Court Road, they were still, as lovers 
 will, talking a great deal about themselves and a 
 little about the problems that lurked behind the 
 gilded signs on the house fronts or behind the im- 
 penetrable blackness of the night. The sea was 
 beginning to get up; the boat threw them about a 
 little as they walked, and to avoid running con- 
 stantly into a solitary slim figure that, save for Mr 
 Greville and themselves, was alone on the deck they 
 turned round and walked the reverse way. 
 
 Eleanor was explaining to Don that it was just 
 because he was a poet that he did such charming 
 illustrations. They were always, his illustrations, 
 infinitely better than the stories they adorned and 
 that was because he saw precisely the side issues. 
 Eleanor had reached this point of her discourse when 
 the natural consequences of their turning to avoid 
 the stranger who had walked before them took place 
 — they ran against him round the bows of the 
 packing-case. And as the vessel at that moment had 
 Ufted its bows, in their run forward they nearly bore 
 him off his feet. In the contact Don's cap fell off and. 
 
138 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 ■with Eleanor on his arm, he stood erect, seeniing 
 ahnost to touch the electric light above. Its rays 
 streamed down on his regular large and friendly 
 features. And the stranger, returning to him the 
 cap that he was free to stoop for, found his gentle 
 apologies cut short by the words, forcing themselves 
 from him: 
 
 " You're Don— CoUar— Kelleg! " 
 
 A slight feeling of dismay beset Eleanor. It 
 immensely suited her that Don should travel 
 incognito : she did not desire that they should 
 journey through the United States heralded with 
 drum and trumpet like the elephants of a traveUing 
 circus. And it had suited Don's book. He imagined 
 that if he went in his tremendous character of the 
 richest citizen on earth he would not ever get to see 
 " conditions " — of labour or of life — as they normally 
 were. It suited Mr GreviUe very well, for it didn't 
 trouble him to move about with celebrities on his arm, 
 and if he didn't beMeve that he would ever leam 
 anything profitable about the " conditions " of the 
 New World in the course of a four months' tour, he dis- 
 liked cordially and with tenacity anything approach- 
 ing to " fuss." It suited Augustus vtry well because, 
 in the circumstances, he would have hated to see 
 Don made much of. And Mr GreviUe before starting 
 had called the two servants before him and had said 
 that it wasn't for him to expect that they wouldn't 
 gossip with other servants about the dispositions and 
 characters of their employers. They might therefore 
 gossip to their hearts' contents and as their consciences 
 allowed. But they were to understand that they 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 139 
 
 were not to speak of Don as other than Mr Don 
 Greville. 
 
 And if the comparatively inconspicuous nature of 
 this tour didn't so exactly suit Aunt Eleanor — she 
 would have preferred infinitely to travel as the aunt 
 of anyone who was the somethingist something in the 
 world — if her tongue constantly itched to bray forth the 
 fact, along with the fact that she was the Bishopess 
 
 of , she had the practical sense to keep silence 
 
 for the sake of Augustus's ten thousand a year. For 
 she couldn't imagine that Don wouldn't be vindictive 
 if he were vexed ; and she had accepted the idea that 
 at least the early part of their tour was to have the 
 aspect of a short preliminary inspection of the ground 
 by Don . . . 
 
 It came therefore as a relief to Eleanor to discover 
 that upon Don's fine illuminated features there 
 wasn't much trace of perturbation. 
 
 He held out instead a large hand, and with, in his 
 voice, that touch of cordiality that one reserves for 
 people that one has not met for many years, he uttered 
 the words : 
 
 " You're Carlo, of course." 
 
 They moved by unspoken accord to a portion of 
 the deck to which the wind, whipping round the 
 corner, hadn't so much access. 
 
 " I thought," Don said, " that there was a likeness. 
 But I couldn't fi.nd the name in the passengers' 
 list." 
 
 The young man laughed pleasantly. 
 
 " You'd have foimd the name of ' Angeli,' which 
 was my mother's before she married, just as I should 
 
I40 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 have found, I daresay, that there wasn't a ' Kelleg ' 
 in the boat, though you're here." 
 
 Don, who in Eleanor's eyes was plainly reflecting 
 upon something serious, here took a definite step, and 
 she found herself being introduced to a dark, very 
 much muffled young man as the Count Carlo 
 Canzano. 
 
 With his odd, peaked and winged, foreign cap, that 
 was obviously an automobiUst's, removed and in 
 his hand, the dark young man revealed oUve and 
 aquiline features and a nose that curved down over 
 a military black moustache, blue-black hair and 
 a quite radiant smile. There wasn't the least accent 
 in his voice when he said to her: What an odd 
 sensation it was to run suddenly up against someone 
 he had known once so well! There wasn't the least 
 accent, and there wasn't the least inquisitiveness as 
 to her. And she seemed to gather that in his attitude 
 to her there was implied an almost greater imperson- 
 ality than would have been appropriate had Canzano 
 been Don's most intimate friend. He didn't peer 
 even for a second into what she knew were the deep 
 shadows her lace scarf cast down over her features. 
 He stood instead for 'a moment staring at his foreign 
 patent shoes. He smiled a little and said then : 
 
 " Well, let us get our parts correct: you are Miss 
 Greville, you Mr Don Greville, and I am Mr Charles 
 Angeli. It's settled then . . ." 
 
 He paused for a moment, holding out his hand to 
 Eleanor, but then suddenly he turned upon Don. 
 
 " Unless," he said suddenly, " you don't intend to 
 recognise me in the future." 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 141 
 
 " Heaven forbid! " Don said energetically. " I 
 don't see that we need scruple about our parents' 
 misunderstandings. " 
 
 " I'm joining my mother, you understand." 
 Canzano seemed to press the matter further home. 
 And then, recognising from Don's face that that too 
 didn't make any great difference, he said gaily : 
 
 " After all, we were extraordinarily friendly. 
 Boston, I don't mind confessing to you. Miss GreviUe, 
 seemed quite another place when Don was there. I 
 acted as his cicerone." He reflected again and said: 
 " That wUl be six years ago now, won't it? " 
 
 And Eleanor commented : 
 
 " But surely — ^Don hasn't been in the United States 
 for much longer than that? " 
 
 Canzano stuck to it obstinately. 
 
 " It can't be more, for it's six years yesterday since 
 I left Boston with him for Italy . . ." But she 
 noticed that he appeared to catch Don's eye and 
 suddenly he said good-night and disappeared along 
 the deck. 
 
 " Let me see you in the smoking-room for ten 
 minutes," Don called after him. 
 
 She uttered what appeared to her a bright 
 " Then I'd better go," when the anguish on his face 
 and his muttered " Don't be too angry with me! " 
 made her supplement it with : 
 
 " Why in the world should I? " 
 
 " Because," his answer came, " I was in Boston 
 six years ago." 
 
 It was so in her nature to acquiesce in what her 
 menfolk did that she said : 
 
142 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " And why in the world shouldn't you have been ? " 
 
 It took him aback. 
 
 " But," he said, " I had always concealed it from 
 you." 
 
 She repeated in almost the same tones and in 
 almost the same words, adding : 
 
 " If you take a walk now, I don't ask you to tell me 
 every board you've looked at." 
 
 He couldn't still come out of his concern — for it 
 wasn't the measure of her resentment that concerned 
 him, but the measure in which, scrupulously 
 speaking, he had sinned against her. He tried to 
 make a clean breast of it now. 
 
 " My father asked me to go over and see him after 
 my mother died. But there were certain features of 
 the visit that I couldn't — that I couldn't bear, in 
 loyalty to him. . . . After all, he was my father. 
 And then. . . . So I concealed the whole affair .. ." 
 
 In his moments of emotion Don's fine flow of 
 phrases had the trick of deserting him altogether. 
 And, from the jumbled sequence of words of con- 
 trition and of extenuation that he now brought out, 
 she could tell how moved he was if she couldn't teU 
 ■exactly what it was that moved him. 
 
 She answered his final " It's been on my mind for 
 years, ever since I knew you, that I ought to have 
 told you," with a tenderness such as she would have 
 vouchsafed to a too-sensitive chUd. 
 
 " Dear," she said, " it makes me ever so proud that 
 you should have wanted to tell me. But it's a great 
 deal more than I ever desired or ever should desire." 
 
 And she added at his shake of the head : 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 143 
 
 " After all, what sort of relationship between man 
 and woman would call for his bringing his father's 
 dirty Unen for her to see." 
 
 " Ah," he said, " but it would have explained so 
 much if I had told you." 
 
 " I think, dear," she countered him, " that you're 
 a little mad on explaining. What could it have told 
 me about you that I didn't know? " 
 
 He put his hands on both her shoulders and stood 
 swaying her a Uttle on her feet and gazing half 
 humorously, half with suspense, into her kindly and 
 liquid orbs. 
 
 " It might have prepared you for what my father's 
 done." 
 
 " Your father's only done what every father would 
 have," she answered. "And at this moment we 
 don't even know quite what he has done. But you 
 couldn't have explained to me more clearly — ^if I 
 hadn't been a fool — that your father couldn't have 
 disliked you enough to cut you off with a shilling. 
 No one in the world could have done that — to you. 
 And I ought to have known — and I ought to have 
 realised — that you'd one day be the richest citizen in 
 the world." 
 
 She laughed, as nearly gaily as she could, and 
 patted his cheek to imply that it was time that any 
 emotional tension other than that of tenderness 
 should be dropped for the night. He dropped it 
 obediently and with an air of comfort. But still 
 holding her and scrutinising her, he added, still half 
 humorously: 
 
 " Perhaps, after all, the most dreadful revelation 
 
144 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 that I ought to have made to you concerns myself. 
 It is simply that I'm much more American than I 
 ever pretended to be. At bottom I am: I feel it. 
 And it was that visit to Boston that did it." 
 
 " You mean," she was beginning to ask. But his 
 tremendous flow of eloquence had returned to him. 
 
 " At bottom," he said, " I'm tremendously 
 American. If I dislike many of their ways it's 
 only because I feel so intensely that at bottom 
 they're fit for such much better things. And if 
 I've loafed about in Europe it hasn't been from lack 
 of interest in my own coimtry. It's simply been 
 because I haven't seen my way to do better. I've 
 always wanted to do something. Tremendously! " 
 
 " I don't see why I should object to that," she said, 
 " if aU you want is to make them less odious.'' 
 
 "But don't you see," he said, stUl holding her 
 strongly, "how much more American than you 
 thought me this interest in America makes me? 
 That's what I'm afraid you'll hate." 
 
 " Oh, you dear boy," she laughed. " That's what 
 I love. I should rather hate it if you didn't take an 
 interest in your own people. Because it would be a 
 little mean. And if you only want to make them 
 like us . . ." She paused, and then her affection 
 for him gave her what she considered to be one of 
 her flashes of inspiration. " After all one talks of 
 Americans, but they aren't a nation* They aren't a 
 — a race ! " She faltered for a minute. " They're 
 just eighty million individuals on a map. You're 
 one of them. Some of them are odious, you're just 
 a dear. You aren't an American, there aren't any 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 145 
 
 Americans. They're just people, mixed up anyhow 
 hke the passengers on this boat. And that," she had 
 another flash, " is just what the Americans are. 
 Passengers. And it's absurd: you wouldn't talk 
 about the passengers on this boat being ' Kelleg 
 liners ' because they are on it, or because they've 
 been on it for a certain time, or even because they'd 
 been bom on it. They're some of them thieves, and 
 some of them fools, and some of them shopkeepers, 
 and some of them counts — and there's one who's 
 just nothing else but a dear." 
 
 It is probable that he would have applauded this 
 philosophy by at last kissing her, but at that 
 moment, brilliant beneath the light, with his broad 
 bands of gold braid and his bright red face, the 
 captain stepped out of the near doorway and 
 stretched his chest in the night air. Catching sight 
 of Don he remarked pleasantly that it was time to 
 put out the lights on the decks, but if Don desired 
 it they could be left burning a little longer. For that 
 was one of the details of the commissariat : the owner 
 could bear the charge of it if he wished. It wasn't 
 like the nautical rules that no one could change. 
 
 Eleanor, however, had vanished into the doorway, 
 and there wasn't anything left for the captain but to 
 say that he hoped he hadn't been indiscreet in talking 
 of owners before Miss Greville, when Don set out on 
 his journey to the smoking-room. 
 
 He found Canzano in an evening-dress that one 
 could call faultless, and with a foreign air of beingmost 
 carefully " got up," that was as distinct from the 
 English well-groomedness as it was from the 
 
146 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 American well-washed appearance. It expressed 
 itself, perhaps more than anything, in the singularly 
 iron-trimmed appearance of his glossy black hair, 
 in the polish of his nails that, as they rested on the 
 table, reflected, positively, the brownish tinge of the 
 fumed oak, and the massive ring, a signet of lapis- 
 lazuli, upon his httle finger. It had been presented 
 to one of his grandmothers by Pius IX. for services 
 to the Papal troops and he woreitalways— he wouldn't 
 naturally have worn a ring — as a minute but 
 continued protest against the House of Savoy. 
 
 If he didn't stand out from the crowd of men, half 
 Americans interested in the pool and half Germans 
 playing an intricate card game, or from the women — 
 all Germans — ^who looked on, it was perhaps as much 
 because, in such an environment of smoke, lager-beer 
 glasses, heavy oak (galleries and pink sandwiches, it 
 seemed impossible for any man to shine as because 
 he had taken a very retired seat in the angle of the 
 great oak chimne3T)iece and kept his face down over 
 a journal devoted to the sport of automobiUng. It 
 added perhaps a Uttle to Don's sense of bewilderment 
 and discouragement that this young man who occu- 
 pied a very definite place in his own mind didn't, in this 
 place that belonged to him, stand out at aU. For, 
 for Don, Canzano represented very exactly and very 
 shiningly the Latin temperament: he was so 
 poUshed, so unconcerned, so gay, so resigned, so 
 very definitely clear and " all there." Yet here, 
 somehow, he seemed to sink into the general ragbag of 
 humanity, to become merely one of them, and the 
 train of thought led Don to notice that the Germans 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 147 
 
 weren't any longer Germans any more than the Anglo- 
 Saxons were any longer distinctive. You seemed 
 there to forget distinctions, so that if, by fixing your 
 eyes very carefully upon a rather haggard man with 
 a heavy moustache, you might say : " He's probably 
 from Philadelphia," or if, looking carefully at another, 
 fat, exaggeratedly distinguished, iron-grey, and with a 
 mouth apparently as large as a frog's, standing with 
 his hands very much in his pockets near the red-faced 
 man in a yachting cap, who was shouting out sums in 
 dollars, you said: "Why, he's obviously Dash, the 
 actor, or his double ! " the effort to keep your mind upon 
 these individuals seemed to become very soon hardly 
 worth the trouble. You were simply in a crowd in 
 the largest, the most undistinguished and the most 
 commonplace smoking-saloon in the world. And 
 the trouble was that though you were in a crowd you 
 didn't — and no one in it — seemed to belong to the 
 crowd. It hadn't any common interest . . . 
 
 Canzano looked up from his paper and uttered : 
 
 " It really looks as if this man's claim to have 
 discovered a new form of differential was justified. 
 But you never can tell! " 
 
 Don slid himself into the pohshed leather seat 
 beside his friend. 
 
 " Is it such a very engrossing topic? " he asked. 
 
 Canzano raised his eyebrows pohtely. 
 
 " It's hke the new cure for cancer that the papers 
 discover every week," he said. " It's the most 
 important thing in the world. Think of being able 
 to go round any comer without the least slackening 
 of speed! " And his eyelids closed almost ecstatic- 
 
148 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 ally. As suddenly, however, he raised them and 
 regarded Don quizzically. 
 
 " Is it possible," he asked, " that my dear and 
 excellent Don isn't interested in automobiling? Or 
 is interested in the fate of the miserable can- 
 agUa — the pedestrians? Then what in the world 
 is the most important thing in the world in his 
 philosophy? " 
 
 And at Don's pause for evasion he permitted 
 himself to continue rhapsodising, a departure from 
 self-containment that he would never have allowed 
 himself before any other mortal save his mother. 
 
 " Confound it," he said ironically and lightly. 
 " By Bacchus ! it's still some point of conscience with 
 this good gentleman. Then tell me what it is that 
 equals in real importance a new differential? How 
 are you going to add to the sum of human sensation in 
 any other way? Think of being able to ' speed ' — ^as 
 your compatriots say — down the most fearful hill in 
 the world without the least fear of the worst comer 
 in the world at the bottom of it. I've taken most 
 comers in the world fairly fast. But to do them 
 without a check! . . ." 
 
 " Then you're interested in motors? " Don asked, 
 carefully using the British word. 
 
 " My dear chap! " Canzano remonstrated, " I'm 
 just the same as I always was." And at Don's smile 
 he added: "I'm still interested in killing time! 
 An automobile is a clumsy, evilly-smelling, odious 
 contrivance. But so are most human contrivances 
 and nearly all the beasts that you sit on or guide — 
 horses and women and Constituent Assemblies. 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 149 
 
 They're all a bother at one time or another, and 
 if they go wrong you have to think yourself a fool 
 for not having managed them better. It's so 
 with horses : it's so with women : it's so with the 
 pictures you used to want to paint. It's parti- 
 cularly so with votes and voters. Whereas an auto- 
 mobile . . ." 
 
 He paused and then added : 
 
 " I'll bet my hat you're interested in poHtics — and 
 women. Or let's say a woman. I saw it coming in 
 Boston — six years ago." He went off again at a 
 tangent : " I say, I'm awfully sorry if I've given you 
 a bad quarter of an hour." And still, before Don 
 could get any sort of a say, he continued : " It's 
 fellows Uke you who mislead the psychologist. On 
 the face of it it wasn't any manque de tact to refer to 
 your visit to Boston. After aU, you can't have any 
 considerable peccadillo to conceal in that voyage. 
 I know it: I'll vouch for it to the lady. Heavens! 
 Did not I meet you on the quay at New York? 
 Didn't I take you to your father? Didn't I lead you 
 about Boston ? Didn't I accompany you to the quay 
 and on the very voyage back? I repeat I'll go to the 
 lady and swear to your utter iimocence." 
 
 " My dear Carlo," Don said, " it's me you've got 
 to come to and convince." 
 
 Canzano raised his eyes in a sort of blank bewilder- 
 ment, and then swiftly catching at the key of this 
 enigma uttered the words : 
 
 "Oh, if it's a question of your conscience and not 
 her jealousy I don't volunteer." He looked at Don 
 with incredulity, half mixed with sardonic pity. 
 
I50 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 "And you mean to say that you still possess it? 
 You can't even yet dispense with that luxury? " 
 
 "A conscience? " Don asked, and Canzano shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 " Oh pour cat " he ejaculated, " we all possess that, 
 I hope. We've all — aU the benighted of the Old 
 World got things that we don't do. No, no. It's 
 not a conscience that you've got : it's. . . . What's 
 the phrase? A New England Conscience? Moral 
 nervous dyspepsia. Chi lo sa ? No : hypochondria ! 
 The finger for ever on the pulse of your ethics! " 
 
 He resumed: 
 
 "And so the lady? An amourette? But no: 
 one does not take such as that to the graveside of 
 one's father. At least I shouldn't. But there's no 
 knowing what wiU be done by moral enigmas like 
 you." 
 
 It was at this point that the electric lights, hidden 
 in pink globes in the roof, began to play the bewilder- 
 ing tricks that at sea one accepts as equivalent to 
 the " closing time, guests, please," of the terrestrial 
 smoking-room. Don, however, called to him a 
 steward, and into the incredulous ear of a semi- 
 insolent man whispered the quite peremptory 
 command that he desired the captain informed that 
 he desired the chief steward to inform the bar-keeper 
 that the lights were to be kept burning till it suited 
 him to finish his conversation. 
 
 Canzano, leaning upon one white hand, regarded 
 him with a Uttle smile of sardonic impertinence. 
 
 " So you have come into your kingdom? " he 
 asked. 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 151 
 
 " Well, it's the first exercise I've made of my 
 power," Don said. 
 
 "And how syniboUcal an exercise," Carlo said. 
 " He deranges that most perfect of all things — the 
 routine of a ship ! Qa sent bon, hein ? " 
 
 " Oh, it smells good enough," Don said. " And I 
 hope to derange a few more routines before I've 
 done with things." 
 
 Canzano leaned over to pat him on the back. 
 
 " My congratulations! " he said. " But have you 
 thought of the poor stewards who must yawn and 
 the poor wives of the Germans who must sit watching 
 their husbands' skat for hours longer than it is 
 legal for them? " 
 
 "No, I hadn't," Don said. "But one can't 
 refine for ever." 
 
 Canzano looked at him with a sudden and radiant 
 smile. 
 
 " My dear chap," he said, " mon bon vieux ! It's 
 good to hear you lay down the law in the old way." 
 
 Suddenly he touched Don's hand on the table with 
 his httle finger. 
 
 " Mon vieux," he repeated, " you needn't avoid 
 me any more . . ." And at Don's hasty, finely 
 insincere start of negation he continued: " Oh, Id, Id! 
 Do not teU me that you have not tried to forget me 
 because it was disagreeable to you to remember me. 
 Why have you never written? Why did you never 
 seek me out? Have I not been in Paris, in London, 
 at the University of Oxford, at the University of 
 Bonn? Might you not have found me at any 
 minute? Weren't there at least Christmas cards you 
 
152 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 might have sent? Do you believe I have not 
 understood? " 
 
 Don got in an " Oh, well . . ." but Canzano was 
 beforehand with him. 
 
 " I can tell you the very hour the idea came to 
 you. It had missed you in Boston (it hadn't missed 
 me !) : but it came into your head upon the boat when 
 we returned together. We were leaning over the rail 
 looking at the SciUies and the idea came to you. 
 And then, when you received your letters you 
 pretended you had business that called you to 
 London. What was your business ? Can you pretend 
 that you had one ? Not this lady — for after six years 
 of you it is not such a lady that will look at you as this 
 one does. Hein? Then what was your business? 
 To remove from your mind a disagreeable thought! " 
 
 Canzano began again. 
 
 " Look at me. Look at me very carefully! " 
 And he pushed his face forward. 
 
 Don looked instead at the ash-trays on the table. 
 
 " I know what you mean," he said. " But it 
 doesn't seem to me to be very delicate." 
 
 Canzano uttered a rather hard : 
 
 " Hein. Then we have different ideas of delicacy 
 we two. I say it is better to settle clearly a thing. 
 You wish to shirk it. But then it will be always 
 there. For obviously you must see my mother in 
 Boston. It is unavoidable. She is coming down 
 from the Berkshires for nothing else but to see you. 
 And as for deUcacy! Isn't it your duty to satisfy 
 yourself? Isn't it my duty to see that you do so? 
 For her sake! " 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 153 
 
 It was at least Don's pleasure — it was always his 
 habit — ^to let this young man conduct their con- 
 versations as he pleased. In his presence Don 
 contracted a power to listen that anyone else, when 
 he talked to them, had to find for themselves. He 
 simply couldn't, in short, keep up with Canzano. 
 And he didn't care. He had always found it so 
 pleasant to listen to Canzano's topsy-turvy moralities 
 that, even at meeting him again, he dropped naturally 
 into his old indulgent part. 
 
 " And — as for indelicacy," Canzano repeated, " I 
 will take it upon my own shoulders: it is I who 
 should suffer, on the point of my mother. Aren't 
 we, you and I, in what we might call a comity de 
 famille — a family council? For you can't," he 
 concluded, " get over the fact that — ^however it may 
 be with regard to half-brothers — ^we're certainly 
 step-brothers." He reached out his hand and again 
 touched Don's. "Then look at me minutely: 
 scrutinise each of my features! " 
 
 He held once more his face towards Don, a little 
 expressionlessly, as if he were sitting for a photograph. 
 His eyes, when he wasn't using the lids for purposes 
 of expression, were singularly large and of a dark 
 brown : his nose was very hooked but a little flattened 
 at the extreme tip: the hairs of his moustache ran 
 hard and perfectly horizontal from each side of the 
 little hollow above his Ups: and between his Ups 
 themselves, in the very centre, there showed a minute 
 gleam of white teeth: his chin, which protruded 
 slightly, seemed to form an almost perfect globe of 
 firm flesh, very slightly bluish with the colour of his 
 
154 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 beard that ran up the sides of his cheeks to merge 
 beneath the skin into the almost perfect pallor 
 beneath his eyes and of his forehead. You couldn't, 
 when his face was still, fix him in the least, he was one 
 of a thousand. But when he smUed, as he did the 
 moment Don had finished his scrutiny, you felt at 
 once a whole number of indefinite emotions — that 
 you could trust him to lead a forlorn hope or would 
 pardon him for nmning away; that you could trust 
 him to take your womenkind to any theatre though 
 conceivably he might — and you would rather 
 Uke him to — make a commission out of the tickets; 
 that you could trust him to have the most gratif5dng 
 excuse for missing an appointment; that he would 
 chat gaily with any beggar on any church step or run 
 your motor-car as gaily over the same beggar five 
 minutes later. But you could certainly trust him 
 to keep you entertained; to behave as if you were 
 really lovable and important, and to despise you a 
 little. 
 
 " Well, then," he said at last, " of whom do I 
 remind you? " 
 
 And Don answered with irresistible conviction: 
 
 "Of your mother!" 
 
 Canzano laughed and leant back on the leather 
 cushions. 
 
 " You can certainly say that if I'm not a bit Uke 
 my father, who looked, you probably remember, Uke 
 a blonde Titian in a cowboy's hat, I look still less Uke 
 yours, who had a nose Uke a gourd, the eyes of a 
 raccoon and your — exactly your — ^long, low fore- 
 head." 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 155 
 
 He put both his hands in his pockets and stretched 
 forth his legs. 
 
 " Tiens, mon ami" he-said, " I too had your ideas. 
 But I'm convinced now. After all: consider! 
 I'm twenty-eight: you thirty-three. I don't say 
 that my father and mother weren't in Montana 
 prospecting just after your mother deserted your 
 father. But it is hardly probable. I repeat, it is 
 hardly probable. I do not wish to speak evilly of 
 my father, more than is necessary. But at the time 
 your father wasn't rich enough. You must re- 
 member that my father came of the Roman nobility. 
 If they haven't anything else, they've large ideas in 
 money matters." 
 
 " He's still in the West? " Don asked. 
 
 " He's stiU there," Canzano answered. " The last 
 I heard of him was that he had married — positively 
 married — an Indian woman. But I think it is 
 certain that now he wUl come to blackmail my mother 
 in Boston. Therefore I go to protect her. I have 
 probably a not very pleasant interview to go through 
 with my father." 
 
 He came out from this reflection with : 
 
 " So that, for the credit of the family, we may agree 
 to the perfectly true facts." 
 
 Don said : 
 
 " I'm not much accustomed to considering the 
 credit of the family." But the thought of Eleanor 
 came into his mind. 
 
 " Why, it is all dead and gone," he said. 
 
 Canzano laughed. 
 
 " Consider before you speak," he added, " there's 
 
156 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 a huge mass of money. Heaven knows what sums 
 your father won't have left his widow! " 
 
 Don brushed his hand Ughtly across the table, as if, 
 in brushing away the cigarette ash, he brushed away 
 too the consideration of that. 
 
 " He has left money — a decent sum — to his stepson 
 too," Canzano said. 
 
 "Oh, I don't grudge you thai," Don answered; 
 " you understand I quite expected you to have 
 all my father's money." 
 
 Canzano raised his eyebrows at the statement, but 
 he did not abandon his main line of argument. 
 
 " Let's put it then," he said, " that we're im- 
 mediately concerned for the honoiu: of the family." 
 
 Don nodded. 
 
 " And the facts, for our pubhc conversation, are 
 the facts exactly as they took place." 
 
 Don nodded again. 
 
 " That your mother divorced your father for 
 incompatibilities of temper: that my mother 
 divorced my father for infidelities innumerable: 
 that after your mother was dead my mother married 
 your father and that you and I are the best friends in 
 the world." 
 
 Don considered the matter and added seriously : 
 
 " I don't see why we can't add the comment that 
 your mother behaved very creditably in not marrying 
 my father till my mother was actually dead." 
 
 " It certainly sounds less . . . less Transatlantic." 
 Canzano joyfully accepted Don's offer. " But I 
 daresay," he reflected, after an instant, " that it's 
 really quite ItaUan. In a sense, I daresay, you don't 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 157 
 
 realise what it meant to my mother — she is the most 
 wonderful woman in the world ! — ^her marrying your 
 father even after your mother was dead. I discussed 
 it with her whilst you were in Boston. For, in our 
 creed, the marriage wasn't a marriage as long as my 
 father was alive. She risked, in fact, damnation for 
 your father's sake. She'd have risked anything for 
 his sake. But she wotddn't do it whilst your mother 
 lived." He paused and added: "So that, even as 
 your mother's son, you haven't a particular, scrupul- 
 ous need to avoid either of us." 
 And Don nodded his head. 
 
IV 
 
 IT was on the afternoon of the day before they 
 were to reach New York that Mrs Greville first 
 manifested to Eleanor any symptoms of the peculiar 
 methods that made the rest of the family call her 
 " so terrible." She had stiU upon her one of her fits 
 of not letting servants wait on her. It had lasted 
 from the moment she had set foot on the boat. 
 They came on, these fits, for reasons that were 
 difficult to discover, at irregular intervals, at periods 
 usually the most inconvenient, and they were ac- 
 cepted by the rest of the family in much the same 
 spirit as Mr Greville's habit of standing at table. 
 And it was in the same spirit accepted by Eleanor 
 that she must answer her aunt's call to help her in 
 packing her cabin trunk for the landing. Large- 
 nosed, brown-featured, emaciated, and with long, 
 bony fingers, whose joints were large and obstructed 
 by many rings with green, red and yellow stones and 
 a great deal of gold. Aunt EmmeUne was constitution- 
 ally incapable of folding a dress or of-making any- 
 thing " go in " an5rwhere. At the same time, imder 
 the obsessions of her particular disease, she had the 
 theory that when a maid packed your trunk you 
 could never, for ever after, find anything that you 
 happened to want. So that it became the duty of her 
 
 relations to perform these services under her eyes, 
 
 IS8 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 159 
 
 and it was whilst Eleanor, in the white, hopelessly- 
 encumbered berth, was taking down a black silk 
 petticoat from an electric light globe, where it hung, 
 obscuring the view of a panel representing a very thin 
 Orpheus raising his hand towards a highly-draped 
 Eurydice, that her aunt brought out: 
 
 " I wonder dear Don doesn't notice the way you 
 behave with Augustus! " 
 
 Eleanor had both her hands engaged with the violet 
 tape bindings of the petticoat, and she had in her 
 mouth a turquoise brooch, which she had rescued 
 from the hem where her aunt had stuck it, and which, 
 for the moment, she dared not put down anywhere. 
 It would be certainly lost. It was not therefore tiU 
 she had folded the skirt in the tray that lay on the 
 red satin counterpane, and having removed the 
 brooch from her mouth had begun to search for her 
 aunt's jewel-case, which she fotmd eventually be- 
 neath the very red mahogany cover of the green 
 marble wash-hand stand, that she had time to answer: 
 
 " I do think you might understand that I won't 
 say anything against Augustus to Don! " 
 
 Mrs GreviQe leaned back upon the green velvet 
 of the sofa, opened her eyes to an extraordinary size, 
 and having angrily ejaculated: " You're treading on 
 the photograph of the Cathedral ! How can you be so 
 clumsy? " she brought out with a pained expression: 
 
 " I never knew you to be disingenuous before. 
 I've long had cause to consider you vain." 
 
 At that moment, with some of the feeling of 
 triumph that one has when one finds the thimble that 
 a child, in the game, hides in unlikely places, Eleanor 
 
i6o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 had lifted up the lid of the wash-hand stand. The 
 problem then presented itself to her as to where 
 she should place the jewel-case for safety; she 
 couldn't pack it, because her aunt would need all her 
 jewels that evening. It was as much because this 
 problem occupied her mind as because she couldn't 
 exactly understand what her aunt meant, or because 
 she had any desire to irritate her by not retorting, that 
 she retained a silence than which nothing could have 
 been more irritating. 
 
 " I might call it by a worse name than vanity," 
 her aunt continued slowly; and again uttering the 
 remark that Eleanor was standing on the photo- 
 graph of her Cathedral, she continued : " It's my 
 duty to speak to you though I'm sure it's distasteful. 
 But dear Don is so patient and your father so obtuse 
 that there's no one else to do it." 
 
 Eleanor — ^who had decided that, upon the whole, 
 the basin was the best place for the jewels — ^re- 
 membered at this point that it was a family practice 
 to try not to be irritated by what Arnit Emmehne 
 said. For Aunt Emmeline had, besides the actual 
 purport of her words, a power in her voice, in her 
 whole bearing, to depress, or render frantic, most 
 members of her family. And it was with just a 
 heightening of her tone that she said : 
 
 " Don's patient enough to put up with Augustus 
 or anybody else. And I've told you that I certainly 
 shan't rim down Augustus to him." 
 
 She resumed command of her temper with a strong 
 hand, and turned to consider the problem of how she 
 should get rid of an ounce of face powder that her 
 
BETWEEN SHORES i6i 
 
 aunt had upset into one of her bedroom slippers. 
 Her aunt didn't raise her voice; she didn't adopt 
 any of the majestic gestures which sometimes marked 
 her less serious emotions of indignation. Instead, 
 she slowly shook her head and drew a deep breath. 
 
 " When you've learnt as much of men as I have," 
 she said, " you'll know that these quiet and patient 
 men are the most vindictive in the world if they're 
 once roused." She leant forward. " You think 
 you can do what you like with him, but you'll find 
 that when he does act he'll be terribly revengeful." 
 And at this point she even stretched out her hand. 
 " You'll ruin us all: Augustus, me, your father — 
 who can't really afford this voyage — yourself, for you 
 can't ever expect at your age to make another match. 
 And the poor young man himself. Heaven knows 
 what he might not do! You know what terrible 
 things these American millionaires' sons are capable 
 of!" 
 
 This struck Eleanor as a view so bizarre of Don's 
 character that she couldn't help saying: 
 
 " Oh, you'd hardly notice that Don was a million- 
 aire's son at all! " 
 
 And the smile brought it upon her in full force; 
 her aunt even leant forward to pick up the photo- 
 graph that Eleanor still stood upon. Dusting it 
 carefully with her handkerchief, Mrs Greville held 
 the pasteboard extended at the end of her bony 
 fingers with the great rings. 
 
 "That's a specimen of it!" she continued. 
 " That's a specimen of the way you and Augustus — 
 all young people of to-day — trample upon the finer 
 
1 62 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 feelings! " Would she, she continued, as a child, 
 have trampled upon the picture of her almost 
 mother's beloved home ? Yet she verily believed that 
 Augustus would applaud Eleanor for doing it! 
 And she asked what Augustus was doing at that 
 moment. He ought to have been there, in the 
 cabin, helping her to pack. What had become of the 
 feelings of young people for their elders? What had 
 become of the very feeling of the family? Did 
 Augustus wait upon his mother as he ought to? No : 
 he was dangling after the first petticoat that came 
 across him! She ought to have tender reverence 
 from her children, for, after all, wasn't she all the 
 mother that Eleanor had had for the last ten years. 
 But both Augustus and she thought that she was 
 to be fobbed off with servants! Servants were 
 good enough for her! Any woman was good enough 
 to pack her things. They did not — Eleanor and 
 Augustus — in the least seem to see that it was their 
 duty to set a good example to the people they were 
 travelling among. What would these Americans 
 think of them when they saw that Augustus hardly 
 ever tucked the rugs round his mother's feet? He 
 hadn't once, since he'd been on the ship, brought her 
 her cup of chocolate in the morning as he'd been 
 accustomed to ever since he was a boy. It was as 
 much as he'd do if he sat beside her chair and read 
 to her from lunch till tea . . . 
 
 " He's traveUing after all as Don's solicitor." 
 Eleanor felt at last impelled to defend poor Augustus, 
 for whose poor aching legs she felt a sympathetic 
 twinge at the thought of the number of times they 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 163 
 
 had been used in descending from the topmost deck 
 to fetch her aunt's vinaigrette. 
 
 " Then why doesn't he remember it? " her aunt 
 iixed her with. " He finds time enough to dance 
 after you! " 
 
 And Mrs Greville gained so much strength from 
 that retort that she was able to continue without 
 even taking a breath. 
 
 " He talks to you all through meals : he's got his 
 eye on you all the rest of the time. He answers 
 me in the most vacant manner, as if I weren't worth 
 listening to. I've had to ask waiters — paid servants 
 — to fetch me cups of tea." 
 
 " 1 wish to goodness," Eleanor said — she had by 
 now cleared the cabin of almost everything that 
 could be tidied — " I wish to goodness you'd take him 
 over to your side of the table. He worries me where 
 he is." 
 
 Mrs Greville swiftly erected her neck and her 
 voice became deep. 
 
 "Never in my Ufe would I do such a thing! " 
 she said. " No one can ever accuse me of having 
 been exacting. If people's affections won't induce 
 them to serve me I despise their services." Eleanor 
 had, at this point, succeeded in tearing one of her 
 aunt's hair nets, which Mrs Greville had rather 
 elaborately entangled in the fretwork above the 
 mirror, whilst uttering a gasp of exasperation her 
 aunt managed to continue speaking. (The spoilt hair 
 net was a thing you could return to.) " It has been 
 a firm principle throughout my hfe to leave everyone 
 their freedom. You have never heard me speak of 
 
1 64 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 family ' ties ' ! I would no more think of com- 
 manding Augustus to do his duty and sit — as he cer- 
 tainly ought — beside me instead of you, than ..." 
 
 Eleanor had succeeded in drawing one of her aunt's 
 hairs from an untidy bunch in a tidy, and holding it 
 between two fingers, with her head sedulously bent 
 above the invisible filaments, she was beginning the 
 task of repairing the rent. So that it was almost 
 more than her aunt could bear — it gave Eleanor such 
 an air of throwing off a repartee with incredible ease — 
 when she heard the girl utter : 
 
 "Then why do you make it so extremely unpleasant 
 for me when he doesn't attend to his ' ties '? " 
 
 Aunt Emmeline's jaw dropped so wide that the 
 gold plate inside her lower teeth shone bizarrely in a 
 chance ray of sunlight which pierced an eyelet hole in 
 the canvas screen outside, shot through the port- 
 hole, impinged on the mirror, and struck back into 
 Aunt Emmeline's mouth. She paused silently for 
 fully two seconds, whilst Eleanor held the hair net 
 up to the hght, cut off an invisible end with minute 
 scissors, and again began her operations on a place 
 that her aunt had torn the night before. 
 
 " Eleanor, my child," her aunt uttered in a hollow 
 and emotional tone of great tenderness, " this is 
 very serious. Have you never considered that you 
 belonged to a very distinguished family? Let me 
 give you a little lesson. We are only women, but 
 women have been listened to when they spoke from 
 their proper places! " And with a voice full of 
 tender concern, as of one speaking to a Magdalen, she 
 entreated Eleanor to listen to her views of what the 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 165 
 
 family relationship should be. It was founded upon 
 Love: a fact to which she returned several times. 
 And in the tones of her voice she seemed to be in- 
 viting Eleanor to return to a family fold whose 
 canons she had outraged. However, by the time 
 that Eleanor, having finished the hair net, and having 
 found nothing more that she could pack away, had 
 come to an erect position with her hands folded before 
 her, Mrs Greville had once more diverged upon the 
 fact that they were the only EngHsh on board. And 
 Mrs Greville in particular was much observed — so that 
 Eleanor's behaviour too might at times be noticed. 
 
 " And let me repeat," Mrs Greville prepared to 
 approach her peroration, " that you and Augustus 
 have neglected your duty to your family in a Way 
 that I should have deemed incredible in a family 
 hke ours. For, when they haven't been able to be 
 distinguished, the Grevilles have never been notice- 
 able. They've never been eccentric: they've be- 
 haved like a representative English family." She 
 repeated, however, that Eleanor and Augustus had 
 shocked her. They hadn't remembered, apparently, 
 one of these things. She herself, Mrs Greville 
 herself, had made sacrifices for Augustus that no one 
 else would ever understand: even Eleanor's father 
 had made sacrifices for Eleanor. If Eleanor didn't 
 succeed in bringing off this marriage Mr Greville 
 would undoubtedly suffer in pocket for the rest of 
 his career. And let Eleanor remember what would 
 become of her aunt if Don should repudiate the 
 engagement ! 
 
 Eleanor's face — ^it was the first unoccupied 
 
1 66 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 moment she had had in which really to attend to her 
 aunt's words — assumed a gradual expression of in- 
 creduUty that a httle stiffened the fine curves of her 
 cheek, so that she had the air of listening to sounds 
 from a distance. 
 
 "As I've so much at stake," Mrs Greville said, 
 " I keep myself informed of the course of the market 
 twice a day! " And she pulled out from the watch- 
 pocket in her breast the buff-paper slip of a wireless 
 telegram : " Kellegs are falling — and falling, and 
 falling. I don't know what it means. But dear 
 Don has lent me the money to go on covering the 
 deficit. He seems to regard it as a moral responsi- 
 bility to do so. He insisted that I should take the 
 money. Do you realise what it means for me if you 
 and Augustus should cause him to grow vindictive? 
 Do you realise that I — I — shall be left without a 
 penny? I must go on tiU these shares rise. I must. 
 I must. If you actually insist on flirting with 
 Augustus : if you can't do without him at your skirts : 
 for God's sake have the decency to wait until I'm 
 safely out of this hole." 
 
 Eleanor's eyes had grown larger and larger. 
 
 " You mean," she asked, " that I'm not to let Don 
 see me flirt with Augustus till he's lent you all the 
 money you want? " 
 
 " I shall be ruined if Don turns against me now! " 
 her aunt answered. 
 
 Eleanor uttered a slow : " Then all I can say is . . ." 
 and hesitating whether to let her aunt have it or 
 not, she couldn't at last think it was right to spare 
 her and she finished : 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 167 
 
 " You're so ridiculously jealous of Oggie that 
 you're a little mad at times. Why, if you were a 
 childless wife you couldn't be worse. You've had 
 the poor boy so tied to your skirts that it's no 
 wonder he's as ridiculous as he is. And, goodness 
 only knows, it isn't easy for him to give you cause 
 for jealousy. Why, he says himself that not a 
 woman will look at him! " 
 
 Her aunt had dropped her tone of affectionate 
 entreaty: she passed now even through the phase 
 of paralysed indignation and came out into what 
 Eleanor in her own mind was accustomed to call 
 her snaky chiU. She sat up rigidly, but her eyes 
 looked at the floor which still, on its green, velvety 
 pile, had large traces of face powder, and all she 
 uttered was: 
 
 " You surpass even yourself ! " 
 
 " I can't help it. Aunt EmmeUne," Eleanor said, 
 and she was vaguely aware that she would have liked 
 to say : "It hurts me quite as much as it hurts you — 
 but it's for your own good." She continued however : 
 " I'm perfectly certain that Don's entirely satisfied 
 with my behaviour," and at her aunt's virulent titter : 
 " I'm perfectly satisfied with my own behaviour. 
 Augustus is a nuisance. I'm just civil to him and 
 that's an end of it! " 
 
 It is possible that if Aunt Emmehne had actually 
 been a GrevUle Eleanor would not have spoken. 
 It was, probably, because she wasn't and had 
 arrogated to herself that title that she had finally been 
 goaded to speak. She had married a GreviUe — 
 Eleanor's uncle — but she was only a Corbyn; and it 
 
1 68 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 wasn't for a Corbyn to tell a Greville how a Greville 
 should behave beneath the eyes of Americans. And 
 going along the corridors towards the outer air 
 Eleanor smiled to herself. She hadn't found that 
 the Americans troubled themselves much even about 
 a Greville! For positively a lady who had laid 
 herself in the deck-chair next her own that morning 
 had asked whether her father were not a Graecher 
 from IndianapoUs! The Graechers were noted for 
 saying inordinately long graces, and she had taken 
 Mr Greville's habit of standing during the soup 
 course, for some sort of reUgious exercise; she had 
 also taken his long frock-coat for some sort of 
 deacon's uniform. And again Eleanor had had to 
 smile when she replied that her father was not an 
 American, was not a Graecher, was not a deacon 
 or priest of any kind, but just a plain, ordinary 
 English gentleman. It certainly was, it struck her, 
 a very extraordinary thiag to do. But then nearly 
 everybody she knew was a Uttle extraordinary. After 
 all, couldn't plain, good English people afford to be so ? 
 
 Whilst she sat, perched on a white life-raft, on the 
 top deck, as if on a sort of island, with Don and two 
 yoimg girls and a young man in a blue serge jumper 
 playing deck-golf round her feet, she kept up a long 
 conversation with Canzano about dancing, and in 
 her private thoughts justified herself for having 
 " spoken " to her aunt. 
 
 " After all," Canzano would say — and she noticed 
 that his white, duck-twill hat threw white reflections 
 on to his smooth, olive cheeks — " it's a foolish exercise 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 169 
 
 to dance. Yes. And you are limp all next day. 
 Yes. But a dead emotion is a tremendously precious 
 thing." 
 
 The sea all round them was boundlessly blue and 
 hard : the air all round them was dry and crisp : the 
 young men and young girls pushed broom-handles 
 about the deck as if they were sweeping ice, and the 
 continual click of the Marconi spark beneath their 
 feet seemed to her the dominating sound. Canzano 
 lay on his back beside her, his hands behind his head 
 when she answered him, but each time that he spoke 
 he rolled over on his elbow to see her. His canvas 
 shoes were of an extravagant whiteness. 
 
 " I hate dead emotions," Eleanor said. And the 
 more she thought about it the more she was certain 
 that in speaking to her aunt she had done exactly 
 what was right. She had had to act. You couldn't 
 let people continue to behave as her aunt had begun. 
 And it wasn't as if this were a thing she could pass 
 over — as she had done all the former disagreeable- 
 ness of her aunt. Formerly she had kept her and 
 her son at a distance. It had been quite easy. Now 
 that Don had brought them all, rather extravagantly, 
 together she had had to put them in their places. 
 And it came into her head that at the very beginning 
 she had told Augustus that it was only fair to let 
 people know how they stood. If she had let her aunt 
 imagine that she was going to be able to go on as she 
 had begun it would be unfair, too . . . 
 
 " Dead emotions! " Canzano rolled himself onto 
 his side to say : " You can allege that you hate them ! 
 But what else is there in life? Do you think you'll 
 
I70 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 ever be as happy as you were at some ball? — (when 
 was it? Last year — the year before last? How do 
 I know?) But on the night when you had, as the 
 sa3dng here is, the time of your Ufe. Do you think 
 that to-night — or any other night — the band will 
 play as it played on that night? Do you ever expect 
 — do you ever find — your anticipations come up to 
 your memories? " 
 
 Eleanor looked reflectively down into his eyes. 
 
 " I'm afraid you're a pessimist," she said. And 
 she returned again to her thoughts. She was glad 
 that she had spoken to her aunt. It had put them all 
 into their proper places. And she had meant for 
 years to speak a word for poor Augustus. If he were 
 — and he was very nearly — a miserable Uttle wretch, 
 it was, she hadn't the least doubt, entirely the fault 
 of his mother's miserable jealousy. Her aimt had 
 never even let him think a thought that was different 
 from her own. And the poor boy had never had even 
 the physical strength to stand up against his mother 
 — ^not the voice, the mere lung power. He had 
 always had sick headaches, neuralgias — she couldn't 
 think of anything more miserable than to have 
 neuralgia and to be told by Aunt EmmeUne that one 
 was free to do what one Hked. Free! He hadn't 
 even been free to change his newspaper. He wasn't 
 now! If only she had done him a good turn. . . . 
 At anjnrate she had taken her own line! 
 
 Canzano, in the meantime, had sprung into a 
 sitting posture beside her, with a motion so sharp 
 that his white shoes had performed against the blue 
 of the sea a flashing parabola. 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 171 
 
 " A pessimist. I ! Jamais de la vie ! " he said. 
 " My dear half-sister! Don't imagine that I'm the 
 sort of person that your Don oughtn't to have to do 
 with. / shan't spoil him." 
 
 " You couldn't, you know, anyhow," Eleanor 
 laughed. " Nothing could! " 
 
 Don looked up from his broom-handle at the 
 moment and embraced the two of them in his fine 
 and friendly smile. 
 
 " We're winning all along the line," he called out. 
 " Five up and seven." 
 
 " Ah, he'd be the biggest creature in the world if 
 he wasn't a poet," Canzano uttered to her. He drew 
 up his knees to the level of his chin that his feet 
 might avoid the sUde of a leaden disk. " But I want 
 you to examine me carefully so that you mayn't 
 find it necessary to forbid him to know me." 
 
 Eleanor said : 
 
 " Oh, he's free enough." 
 
 " Who is not? " Canzano asked; and as she didn't 
 answer he continued: " Don't think I'm a pessimist 
 if I tell you to treasure your dead emotions. They're 
 the best things we've got. I'm a person who savours 
 life: I enjoy it immensely. It's a good world: 
 there's a good sun in the sky. It's all good. But 
 isn't it made immensely better because of such good 
 memories as you've got? " 
 
 Eleanor said that for herself she looked forward, 
 but he shook his head. 
 
 " If you did you'd be much more masculine than 
 feminine. And I can't believe you are. Women 
 almost always look back : men of action always look 
 
172 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 forward. Now I'm a man — God forbid that I should 
 say of taste — but one who hves to taste life. So I've 
 got the taste of the past still in my mouth and the 
 taste of the present on my lips." 
 
 Eleanor looked at him seriously, with wide eyes and 
 with a certain affection, because he was such a very 
 good friend of Don's. 
 
 " I believe," she uttered, " that it would be a very 
 good thing for some people " — and her eyes sought 
 Don's figure — " if they had a httle of your phil- 
 osophy." 
 
 Canzano stretched himself a httle, looked at his 
 white shoes and rested an elbow upon the hfe-raft. 
 
 " By avoiding unpleasant things I find that life 
 is very good," he continued his own speech. 
 
 " Well," she answered him humorously, " I don't 
 find life at all troublesome." 
 
 " You're perfectly happy? " and he surveyed her 
 with a pleasant incredulity. 
 
 " I'm perfectly — ^happy," she answered, and she 
 glanced at the dark blue sea, at the light blue sky, 
 at Don, at the deck quoits and the volume of smoke 
 that blew away to their right. 
 
 " Don't you worry? " he asked, with the increduUty 
 still in his voice. 
 
 " I don't know what worry is," she answered him 
 confidently. " If you know what your duty is it's 
 simple to do it." 
 
 He mused : 
 
 "Well, well: it's simpler to avoid it! But 
 still . . ." 
 
 He looked at her unfurrowed, fresh cheeks; at her 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 173 
 
 unruffled, full figure; at her brown, round and 
 confident eyes, and she made upon him such a full 
 impression of tranquillity, of opulence and strength 
 that he said : 
 
 " I don't think I've ever reaUy known any of your 
 countrywomen, or are you an exception? " 
 
 Eleanor looked at her shoulders. 
 
 " Of course," she answered, " I am open to receive 
 compliments. But I'm not in the least exceptional, 
 mentally. In my class there are thousands like me." 
 
 " One sees you, you know," he said, " in droves all 
 round our monuments — in Italy I'm speaking of — 
 with red books and anxious faces and bags slung 
 round their necks by straps." 
 
 " Oh," she answered seriously, " I don't think that 
 the ones with red books and anxious faces are of my 
 class at all — and I'm absolutely certain that the ones 
 with bags aren't even my countrywomen." 
 
 " They speak EngHsh, you know," he said. 
 
 " Even that's a matter of opinion," she answered 
 him. 
 
 He reflected gaily for a moment, appearing to dig 
 the tip of his nose into his moustache, and gazing 
 down it as if for the sheer pleasure of the contempla- 
 tion. 
 
 " So that," he arrived at his conclusion, " you're, 
 according to your own showing, at least as wise as I. 
 You have at least as good a time — and you do, in 
 addition, your duty. That, no doubt," he started 
 again, clasping the striped cuff of one wrist with a 
 delicate, long-haired hand, " that, no doubt, gives 
 you an excellent appetite for dinner." 
 
174 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " Why," Eleanor said, and she laughed, " I'm as 
 unromantic as you could wish. Sound wind and 
 limb." 
 
 He suddenly removed his white hat. 
 
 " And what in the world," he said, " can be more 
 romantic than a beautiful woman with a good 
 appetite, if she can tell good food from bad? And 
 I hope you're serious about that." 
 
 " Oh, I like the best of everything," Eleanor said, 
 and she added, with her eyes on Don, who at that 
 moment was waving his hand to induce a coy disk 
 to glide faster along the deck, " I generally get it! " 
 
 "Heavens, what an idyll!" he uttered. "The 
 best of everything and you haven't a care." 
 
 " I certainly haven't a care," she answered, 
 "unless. . . ." And he caught her up swiftly with the 
 word repeated interrogatively : " Unless it's Don's 
 too great scrupulousness." 
 
 " Oh, don't say anything against him !" he 
 uttered. " He's the best creature in the world." 
 
 She thanked him with her eyes for that praise and 
 continued : 
 
 " It's only at close quarters — in the family, as you 
 might say — that he's apt to create worries." 
 
 " But, my dear," he said, figuring astonishment, 
 " don't / know all about it? Hasn't he been in my 
 family for years. And, believe me, my step-brother 
 has cleared all the worries out of my path." 
 
 She said : 
 
 " Do you use the word step-brother seriously? " 
 And through a sort of bewilderment the suspicion 
 that she'd had all along — though she hadn't felt called 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 175 
 
 upon to question Don, and Don hadn't enlightened 
 her — the suspicion took a firm hold upon her. 
 
 It gave him the opening that, quite desultorily, 
 he had been angUng for, and his story put together 
 all the little bits of material that she had noted for 
 herself. 
 
 " I think Don has acted quite rightly in letting you 
 tell me," she said, as she gave him her hand to 
 acknowledge his brotherhood. " After all, it was 
 yoMr story." And he answered : 
 
 " You can't tell how we all^my mother and I — 
 adore Don, and you'll find out," he added, " that 
 whenever Don does act — if it's not very often — he 
 invariably does do the right thing. He does more 
 than the right thing. He's princely: he's sublime." 
 
 " Oh, come! " Eleanor said with deUght. 
 
 " It's perfectly true," Canzano answered. " He 
 gives blank cheques. You haven't yet learned 
 what a gallant thing the American spirit is at its 
 best! " 
 
 " I'm only wanting to learn," she answered him. 
 
 But he had dropped his enthusiasm, and along with 
 it his figures of speech. 
 
 " I don't know," he said, and he lowered his voice, 
 " if Don exactly knows how he'll stand — I mean 
 financially — vis-a-vis of my mother and me." 
 
 " Do you think you ought to tell me," she asked, 
 " if he doesn't know? " 
 
 " I don't know that I know myself," he said. " I 
 think we may discuss it because we both love him. 
 I leave it to you to break it to him or to leave it to 
 my mother. But I'm pretty certain that his father 
 
176 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 won't have left him much chance to smash up his — 
 his nefarious affairs." 
 
 Eleanor opened her eyes. 
 
 "You mean," she* said, "that we shan't be so 
 fabulously rich." 
 
 " Oh," he answered, " you'll be fabulously rich. 
 But I fancy Don won't be able to throw his bombs 
 into the House that Jack Built." 
 
 Eleanor heaved a deep sigh. " Poor Don! " she 
 said, and then : " But I daresay we shall be able to 
 find out a way! " 
 
 It was his turn to open his eyes. 
 
 " You sympathise with his ideas? " he asked. 
 
 And Eleanor answered, with a perfect candour : 
 
 " I don't know what his ideas are. I don't know 
 ' that he knows himself. But I want him to be able to 
 do what he wants to do — ^when he finds out what it 
 is." 
 
 Canzano heaved a rather ludicrous sigh. 
 
 " How Uke a woman! " he said. " I don't beUeve 
 they differ whether they're American, or English, or 
 Italian! " 
 
V 
 
 IT was upon that same life-raft in the moonlight, 
 six hours later, that Eleanor suddenly felt 
 herself clasped violently in a man's arms and kissed 
 on the forehead, the cheeks, the lips,' on the very 
 eyes. She didn't need, considering the tense feel 
 of the arms, the hungry violence of the lips, to be told 
 that it wasn't Don. Instead, his face bluish and 
 shadowed in the moonlight, the whites of his eyes 
 glistening, his moustache ends drawn back Uke an 
 angry cat's, she saw Augustus. He said, with a 
 harsh, jaunty misery: 
 
 " I don't care." 
 
 She felt the seat on which she was sitting as if 
 to be quite certain that her senses didn't deceive her. 
 And then she uttered, without recoiling or moving, 
 simply the words : 
 
 " Ah, something will have to be done to settle you 
 in your place too." And she wasn't, after the first 
 instant, particularly perturbed. It didn't seem that 
 the violence really concerned her. 
 
 "I don't care! " he said again. "I don't care 
 what any one can do. I'm at the end of my tether." 
 
 " You haven't been drinking? " she asked. 
 
 " No," he answered harshly, " I've been listening to 
 mother! " 
 
 Eleanor said : 
 
 M 177 
 
178 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " Oh, if it's that . . ." 
 
 " She's been telling me that you said I was odious 
 and contemptible and that no woman would ever 
 look at me. So that I don't care any longer." 
 
 Eleanor nerved herself to put into order a strand 
 of hair that she felt was loose upon her neck. 
 
 " Hadn't you got the sense to see that she was 
 simply trying to drive you mad? " she said hardly. 
 " You are an idiot." 
 
 Augustus had an air of settling down on his heels 
 and folding his arms. 
 
 " You didn't say those things? " he almost grunted. 
 
 " I didn't say them because I don't think them," 
 she answered. " I think she has bullied you till you're 
 no better than a baby. I told her that I was trjdng to 
 stand up for you, not to run you down. I do think 
 her jealousy has ruined your life." 
 
 He took an odd little step forward. 
 
 "Ellie!"hesaid. 
 
 " Well, of course I was standing up for you," she 
 said. " Do you think I'd run you down except to your 
 face? " 
 
 He made an extraordinary expiration of his breath. 
 
 " You are such a silly sort of fool, Oggie," she 
 said regretfully. " Of course, I'm not going to take 
 you and this seriously." 
 
 He understood her well enough to grunt out : 
 
 " You think it would be flattering me?" 
 
 " It would be flattering you," she repeated simply. 
 " Besides, I won't have scenes and situations and 
 things. I don't like them and I won't have them." 
 
 He looked at the moon that washed aU the white 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 179 
 
 wood with a tranquil splendour. It left, beneath 
 the swinging boats, great gouts of black shadow, and 
 left the ocean all around them a heaving black 
 shadow itself. And it was referring to their soUtude, 
 to his violent passion and the moonlight, that he said 
 sardonically : 
 
 " Don't you call this ' a scene or a situation or a 
 thing'?" 
 
 She said, without any shadow of emotion : 
 
 " Oh, I know what I'm about, Oggie. I'm 
 perfectly able to take care of myself where you're 
 concerned. It would only be a scene if I weren't." 
 
 He couldn't, from the position of the moon, see her 
 face other than shadowily, and he brought out: 
 
 " You aren't even angry with me." 
 
 It did not at that moment suit her to say how she 
 felt, and all she vouchsafed was : 
 
 " If you like to apologise to me you may. But it 
 isn't necessary, I suppose, between cousins. You'd 
 lost your temper." 
 
 And she proved to her own satisfaction that she 
 knew pretty well how to handle Augustus when a sort 
 of barrier seemed to be swept away in him. 
 
 " EUie! " he brought out in a deep tone that was 
 astonishing in such a little person, " I've not acted 
 badly upon the whole. I haven't, I haven't. You 
 can't say I have." 
 
 " I'm not sa5dng you have," she answered a little 
 coldly. 
 
 " You don't know what it is," he said, " you 
 haven't any means of knowing. You never cared 
 for anyone. Why, I never have a minute's rest: 
 
i8o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 I'm thinking of you every minute of the day. It's 
 hell. When I wake up in the morning I've two 
 minutes of tranquillity — of not thinking of anything. 
 And then it begins . . ." 
 
 " Oggie dear," she said softly, " oughtn't a man — 
 a man of our class — to be less a slave of his passions ? " 
 
 " Oh, you intolerable woman! " he brought out 
 like a curse : " one is, or one isn't. Do you suppose I 
 want to love you? I'd give my eyesight and my hear- 
 ing and my taste and my touch not to care for you. 
 Do you suppose I am ' indulging ' in some- 
 thing? Why, you talk like a temperance reformer 
 telling a sot to abstain from drink. I'm not 
 drinking, am I? I don't get any pleasure out of 
 it." 
 
 " Well, Oggie dear," she said, " I'm not blaming 
 you. I asked you a question. I don't know how 
 men are made. I thought you ought to be able to 
 find distractions." 
 
 " Distractions ! " he said, with violent contempt. 
 " What's to distract me? If the only thing that is 
 interesting is you, what else is to interest me? And 
 how is one to be distracted without being interested?" 
 
 " Then I don't see what's to be done," she said. 
 She sat still, rather depressed, looking at the paste 
 buckles on her shoe that, in the moonlight, shot 
 direful rays at her eyes as the boat swayed a little. 
 " I'm sorry for you. But I can't mend anything." 
 
 " Yes, I know you're sorry," he said, " you've 
 been very decent to me." 
 
 An odd, draped, white object poked itself from the 
 hatchway beside them, and in the pale stillness had 
 
BETWEEN SHORES i8i 
 
 a ghostly semblance of pricking up fantastic 
 ears. 
 
 Augustus's voice hissed out : 
 
 " I see you, mother. Come and listen if you want 
 to listen. But, by God, you're driving me to 
 suicide. It's as much murder as if you put arsenic 
 in my toast." He was shaking violently in his 
 dancing slippers, his face grew even bluer in tinge. 
 And accompanied by a deep exasperation from 
 Augustus the figure turned its face towards them and 
 then slowly disappeared below the level of the deck. 
 His mother had gone to find Don. 
 
 " No, I haven't." Augustus plunged straight back 
 into his speech. " I haven't behaved badly. Con- 
 sidering what I've had to put up with. I've kept 
 out of your way a good deal at times. Haven't I? 
 And think of what it's been. Think of what I've 
 had to bear from those two — ^your Don and my 
 mother. There's the one of them chasing me about 
 with remedies for sea-sickness, and the other con- 
 tinually yelping that I'm ruining myself, and you, 
 and her, and all the family." 
 
 " Poor old Oggie! " Eleanor said, and she had the 
 image of her aunt before her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, I'm used to mother," he said. " All my 
 hfe she's tried to separate me from everybody that 
 I've ever liked. Bad influences she called them. 
 But that other ass . . ." 
 
 " Don's been unspeakably good to you, Oggie," 
 she said. 
 
 "Sea-sickness!" he snarled out. "Yes, he's 
 tried to give me bromide and brandy and patent 
 
1 82 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 mixtures ; when I've tried to get away into dark holes 
 — ^when I've almost found a little forgetfulness — ^he's 
 come blundering after me. Oh, yes: usually just 
 after even mother has had the decency to leave me 
 alone, he's come along and begged me to be ' sociable.' 
 He's come along and told me to talk — even to you ! 
 On the very second night I'd got as far as I could 
 from you, as far as it's possible on this rat trap — right 
 out by the flag-staff at the stem — and I was counting 
 the revolutions of the thing they've got in the patent 
 log and forgetting. And then I feel him tapping at 
 my elbow and telling me to come where the vessel 
 doesn't move so much — to come where it's more 
 cheerful! " 
 
 He sighed with an utter exasperation. 
 
 " Fimny, isn't it? " He used a little Cockney 
 trick of phrase that he had caught from one of his 
 clerks. " That fellow with his ownerships. He 
 owns the ship : I expect he thinks he owns the sea 
 and the sky and the smoke after it's come out of the 
 funnels. And he owns me too. And he runs along 
 and bleats: 'Here, don't be sea-sick, come and be 
 cheerful seeing me own her f It'll do you good ! I've 
 got her . . .'" 
 
 Eleanor said : 
 
 " Oh, I know all that part of it, Oggie." 
 
 " Funny, isn't it? " he repeated. " What have I 
 got? — what have I got to look forward to? Mother, 
 I suppose. And nothing else in the world. And 
 I'm tied up to that fool, and he can't even let me be 
 miserable in my own way. I expect that's what his 
 wretched factory employees will say when he has 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 183 
 
 inproved their conditions — that he can't let them 
 be miserable in their own way ..." Eleanor 
 interrupted him again with: 
 
 " Now, Oggie dear, drop it. What did you come 
 for if you take it hke this? " 
 
 He snorted at her with astonishing vivacity: 
 
 " To see you grow sick of him and to catch you at 
 the rebound. I wasn't going to let you go away 
 with him right over the world and not be on the spot." 
 
 She said: 
 
 " You see, you haven't the least chance. You'd 
 much better do what you're paid for and behave like 
 a man." 
 
 " Well," he answered, " I can. I have till this 
 moment. I should have gone on but for mother." 
 
 She answered : 
 
 " You ought to have been able to see through your 
 mother's manoeuvres." 
 
 He ran his hand over his eyes. 
 
 " How could I tell? " he said. " Of course I 
 ought to have. But you don't know how it bhnds a 
 man. I'll tell you plainly that when mother told me 
 you'd told her that you despised me — ^why — I went 
 frantic. ... I was going over the side . . ." 
 
 " It was rather silly to want to make me hate you 
 before you did it," Eleanor said. 
 
 Augustus suddenly sprang back. The voice of 
 Don was heard from the hatchway saying that indeed 
 the moon was a glorious sight and he ought to be 
 ever so thankful to Mrs Greville for telling him to 
 bring her up there. And their figures loomed in the 
 moonUght just before Eleanor's face. 
 
1 84 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 Eleanor didn't move. Mrs Greville was panting a 
 little and there was a victorious smile on her face that 
 the moon hardened. 
 
 Eleanor said : 
 
 " Don dear, I wish you'd take Aunt Emmeline 
 away for a minute or two. I'm just talking to 
 Oggie." 
 
 Whilst Don obediently turned upon his heel, 
 Mrs Greville brought out, with a high, snickering 
 voice : 
 
 " Oh, can't even we share this wonderful secret? " 
 She began indeed to pant a little with the speed she 
 had made in finding Don. 
 
 Eleanor said, with a touch of disdain : 
 " It is not a wonderful secret. It's something 
 I'm arranging with Augustus." 
 
 She moved her hand a little as if she were brush- 
 ing dust away from her dress. She left it in fact to 
 her aunt to ruin her son if she wanted to. And 
 with an extraordinarily hateful: 
 
 " Oh, one would think . . ." and a sudden gulp 
 for breath, Mrs Greville clutched Don's arm and 
 they faded away into the distance. 
 
 " It's got to be arranged, Oggie," Eleanor said, 
 speaking in a swift, low voice. " And I don't want 
 to have to speak again. I don't want to have to 
 ruin your prospects — but I shall have to if you're 
 going to misbehave. You may take it that I 
 shouldn't abuse you to your mother or to anyone 
 else. I'm far too sorry for you. If you can behave 
 in the future I'll take what's past as the sort of ill 
 temper that one's got to expect from one's relations 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 185 
 
 — a silly display. But it's not to happen again. I'm 
 not going to be worried. And I'm not going to have 
 anyone else worried, except Aunt Emmeline, who has 
 only herself to answer to if she's miserable. Of 
 course I'm fond of you. Of course I want Don's 
 good fortune to help you if it can. But it ends there, 
 and you've got to understand that ..." 
 
 " Ah, you've a talent for arranging things," 
 Augustus said — and for a moment he felt an extra- 
 ordinary relief. It was the definite relief of a man 
 whose life had been reprieved — for he had been 
 perfectly resolved, as he had said, " to go over the 
 side." He wouldhave been there at that moment. And 
 an extraordinary medley of joyous feelings raged 
 in his brain — so that he wanted to sing. 
 
 " It is not," she said, " that I've a talent for arrang- 
 ing things. It is simply that I'm determined to 
 have around me the sort of things that are capable 
 of arranging themselves! " 
 
 In his gladness he brought out with a laugh : 
 
 " You don't think I'm a sort of thing that is 
 capable of arranging itself." 
 
 She answered: 
 
 " If I didn't hope it— if I didn't think that you'd 
 have a chance of becoming a decent being when Don's 
 taken you away from Aunt Emmeline I shouldn't 
 be- here." 
 
 He reflected for a moment: 
 
 " You think that when Don leaves me in America 
 to look after his affairs I shall turn into an — an 
 English gentleman? " he asked half sardonic- 
 ally. 
 
1 86 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " I hopp," she retorted, " that you'll have a chance 
 to grow up — and take it." 
 
 And whilst he still reflected she added: 
 
 "I won't have scenes: I won't have ourselves 
 made noticeable. No Grevilles that counted have 
 ever been noticeable. I won't have my father 
 worried: I won't have Don worried: I won't be 
 worried myself." 
 
 " So you won't tell Don about this night." 
 
 She reflected for a moment : 
 
 " No," she said at last; " if I couldn't take care of 
 myself I'd tell him. If it would do any good I'd 
 tell him. But I think it was all a silly freak : it's not 
 a matter of the least importance." 
 
 He too was silent for a minute and then he said : 
 
 " By Heavens, I'd like him to know. It would 
 gall even his self-complacency." 
 
 " It is precisely because of that that I shan't tell 
 him," Eleanor said. " You'd like to sacrifice your 
 position and all you'll probably ever be worth for 
 the chance of hurting his feehngs. It probably 
 would hurt his feelings. If telling him would undo 
 it, I'd tell him. But your kiss is irrevocable — and 
 just because it's irrevocable I choose to regard it as 
 unimportant. If I liked to consider it worth making 
 a fuss about, it would be important. But it doesn't 
 dishonour me — and if I like to look at it as the un- 
 important act of an oaf — why, that's your punish- 
 ment. You've kissed me at good-morning and good- 
 night often enough when we were children. It's not a 
 great achievement to have done it again, so don't 
 look upon it as a feather in your cap! " 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 187 
 
 She felt a sudden, rather inexplicable anger rising 
 in her. Now that she had explained for herself as 
 for him that it was unimportant, there was coming 
 upon her a strong feeling of the indignity she had 
 suffered. And because she never liked to speak 
 bitter words she said suddenly that he'd better go 
 now . . . 
 
 And because, too, she felt in need of some tender- 
 ness it distressed her to find that on the lee side of 
 the deck-house, where her aunt and Don were 
 ensconced in darkness, there was also Canzano, 
 smoking his last cigar of the day. Her aunt indeed 
 rustled silently away at the first showing of Eleanor's 
 cloak round the house-side, but Canzano stayed, 
 smoking and talking softly and mellowly about 
 the glory of the immense moon, about the warmth 
 of the Gulf Stream that they had dipped into for a 
 few hours, about the goodness of the band whose 
 soft strains reached them on that side of the deck. 
 
 Nevertheless, sitting close to Don upon another 
 life-raft that had been arranged to take the form of 
 a garden seat, she did feel a pervasion of her spirit 
 by lassitude and satisfaction. They could feel the 
 immense vessel as it seemed to soar through the 
 night: the air was very warm and, where the light 
 waves broke, there was, even in the moonlight, a 
 glow of phosphorescence. She had set her aunt in 
 her place : she had settled Augustus. The outbreak 
 had been bound to come, now it was over and done 
 with. It seemed to her as if, having done her duty, 
 she might now rest, and her limbs felt filled with a 
 soft warmth, a good and pleasant heaviness. So 
 
i88 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 that when, after a decent interval, Canzano drifted 
 away she let her head rest against her lover's 
 shoulder and, looking at the track of the moon 
 through the spidery railings that swayed very slowly, 
 she listened to his pleasant talk . . . 
 
 On the morrow their real life work would begin, 
 he said. And, as if it were miles high, towering 
 above the masts of the ship. New York seemed to 
 be just on the horizon. . . . And to think, he said, 
 that he should be about to attack his problems 
 with her at his side! They were, all of them, such 
 a united and tranquil band. It wouldn't be easy — but 
 it would be just good hard work. Things after all 
 would be simpler there, and since he would have 
 her with him there wouldn't be any uprooting or 
 any pain. 
 
 And he began to mingle little definite plans with 
 the broad forecast. Augustus was to be detailed 
 to make a study of just what his resources were. 
 He himself wasn't much good at that : but Augustus 
 would have to see how things were run in the offices 
 and give him a bird's-eye view of the whole. And 
 he himself would study, as best he could, the con- 
 ditions of life. He was going to visit schools and 
 workshops, factories and large stables. He had 
 made some useful acquaintances on board — an 
 inspector of schools with a German name and an 
 entertaining Irishman who seemed to know all the 
 slums in every city in the States. And she herself 
 could go with him as much as she liked, and her 
 father. Or there were all sorts of pleasant sights 
 for her to see, and quite nice people, whilst he*was 
 
BETWEEN SHORES 189 
 
 at work. Assuredly life wasn't going to be dull for 
 them . . . 
 
 The moon sank a Uttle towards the bow of the 
 ship: the air seemed to grow warmer: the ship's 
 bells rang out in little dings, in sonorous notes that 
 were echoed from fore and aft : the last sounds of 
 the band died away over the moonht stretches and 
 there was nothing save the pervading rustle of the 
 waters . . . 
 
 From time to time she kissed his shoulder upon 
 which her cheek rested, and she whispered: 
 
 " You're a dear! A dear! A dear! A dear! 
 A dear! . . ." 
 
 He held her in his arms and once he kissed her 
 on the forehead and whispered that he thought of 
 her as a Papist thinks of his saints . . . 
 
 But when, in her cabin, between the cool sheets, 
 she had turned out the light, there came to her 
 the dreadful thought that Augustus might, at 
 that moment, have been, wet and ghastly, some- 
 where in the miles and miles of water behind them. 
 And she felt on her face, on her lips, on her eyehds, 
 the hxmgry warmth of his kisses. It was so disagree- 
 able, the one vision, and it was so strange that the 
 feeling was not more disagreeable, that for quite a 
 long time she could not turn upon her side to sleep. 
 She rose at last, and kneeling upon her bed looked 
 out of her port-hole. The ship's bells were answer- 
 ing each other again. And suddenly, in the light 
 of the moon, she saw a man's figure, black and in- 
 distinct, leaning against the rail and looking towards 
 her. She thought she could recognise Augustus, 
 
I90 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 and with a feeling now of pure dislike for the hungry 
 and the outcast — such as the rich and the wealthy 
 feel — she lay down once more and pulled the 
 linen to her face. She fell asleep wondering how 
 Don would be behaving if she had refused herself 
 to him. 
 
PART III 
 THE SOLID LAND 
 
 IT was odd how bustle seemed to pervade the 
 ship. You couldn't tell how. It showed it- 
 self most in the emptiness of the decks when she 
 stepped out of her door in the morning, in the 
 engrossed air of hastening passengers, listening deck 
 stewards, in the fact that no one turned on their 
 heel at the corners as they had been wont to do. 
 They seemed, instead, to be all bent upon errands. 
 It was extraordinary, too, how tepid the air was, 
 how pervaded by a mist of a new yellow colour. 
 The ship seemed to be speeding through a mill-pond 
 of yellow satin, and the peopled nature of the high- 
 way made itself manifest in a train of tugs drawing 
 each six or seven black, long cylinders almost 
 awash in the tepid waves. It wasn't like being in 
 a hothouse exactly, but it wasn't at aU like being 
 anywhere out of doors that she had experienced, 
 and it was with an abiding sense of oddness that 
 she heard Canzano's voice greeting her with : 
 
 " Well, here's your first sight of the New World! " 
 
 In his shore^going clothes of black cloth, with his 
 
 black tie and his very black hair, he too seemed 
 
 more foreign, more odd than he had ever seemed 
 
 before. His hand seemed whiter and the lapis- 
 
 191 
 
192 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 lazuli ring upon his little finger once more caught her 
 eye as he pointed straight before him — she had 
 come out upon the covered deck to stand beside 
 him — and said: 
 
 "There it is!" 
 
 And she was aware, in the yeUow tones of sea and 
 sky, of something long, blue and tranquil — a smudge 
 in shape like a gigantic whale. And it did affect 
 her with a minute touch of hostihty when he said: 
 
 " That is the Jersey coast ! " — for aU the world 
 as if he too were not a European to know that 
 Jersey is a European possession. It was so big, 
 so intangible, that great smudge, that it seemed to 
 her to savour almost of disloyalty to really appro- 
 priate that old, real name to something belonging 
 to what after all was all new and not very seriously 
 to be considered. The ship moved onwards with a 
 more steadfast tranquillity, so that almost for the first 
 time she seemed to realise the irrevocability of their 
 journey. It hadn't seemed perfectly serious before. 
 
 " The New World! " he said again, " what a fine 
 sound there is in those words! Aren't they full of 
 promise and irresponsibility and romance? I 
 always think, still, that it's the finest thing in the 
 world coming in here." 
 
 She felt almost injured as she said: 
 
 " But you aren't an American! " for it seemed to 
 her as if they ought to have drawn closer together 
 in a common bond of protest. 
 
 " Why," he answered, " if I were an American I 
 might not say it. The New World would probably 
 be as dull to me as the Old." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 193 
 
 She looked at his foreign, olive face with a new 
 interest. 
 
 " Is that the way to take it? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, that's the way," he answered; " if you take 
 it like that you'll find it's awfully good. It's not a 
 medicine you're going to swallow: it's a purely 
 irresponsible joke." 
 
 She began: 
 
 " But surely we are Europeans." 
 
 When he interrupted her quite earnestly: 
 
 " No, assuredly we aren't" And he put both his 
 hands upon hers as it lay upon the dull red wood of 
 the rail. " For Don's sake consider that we aren't 
 anything that we started out with being. We've got 
 to leave all our standards behind : we've got to leave 
 our prejudices. Do, for Don's sake, make the effort." 
 
 " It needn't be an effort," she said, " if it's really 
 the way to take it." 
 
 " It's the only way," he said. " For you won't 
 find here anything that you've ever valued before. 
 I don't find anything that I should think amusing 
 on the other side. But del! I amuse myself. I 
 forget that I am a Canzano: I am just a person at a 
 picnic. And believe me, it's very.funny." 
 
 She didn't remove her hands from his when she 
 asked: "But surely it isn't fair to . . ." and she 
 indicated with her chin the Jersey hills that they 
 were leaving behind — "it isn't fair even to these 
 people not to judge them by our standards." 
 
 He clasped her hands more tightly: 
 
 " Believe me," he said, " believe me, it wouldn't 
 be fair to Don to do any such thing." 
 
194 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " You mean," she said, " that if I don't leave my 
 prejudices behind me . . ." 
 
 He interrupted her with, " Don't call them 
 prejudices: call them standards — the highest 
 standards in the world. But all the same they 
 don't apply here; they don't begin to apply. And 
 if you can't leave them in abeyance you'll be miser- 
 able yourself all the time. And you'll draw a trail 
 across Don's activities, and that wiU make him 
 unhappy, and . . ." 
 
 She interrupted him in her turn with : " But 
 wouldn't Don want me to judge . . ." 
 
 " Don might or Don mightn't," he was quick to 
 catch her up. " Half he would or half he wouldn't. 
 He'd want you to judge and to be tender. But 
 that isn't possible here. I assure you it isn't. The 
 moment that one begins to judge one condemns. 
 But as long as one forces oneself to accept one has 
 the best time in the world. ..." He broke off and 
 suddenly appealed to someone who was behind her 
 back. " Isn't what I've been sa3nng perfectly 
 true? " 
 
 "I imagine: singularly just!" she heard her 
 father's voice say. 
 
 Mr Greville was leaning against the doorway; 
 his long coat flapped in the hot draught that 
 came from the interior of the vessel; he was rub- 
 bing his eyes in preparation for putting on his 
 glasses. 
 
 " You've got, my dear, to consider," he said, 
 " that you're in the position of making a visit to your 
 husband's people." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 195 
 
 " As if I were visiting a coachman's lodge? " she 
 asked a little rebelliously. 
 
 Mr Greville shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " That's as you like to take it," he said, " but it 
 would be more discreet to put social conventions out 
 of your head." 
 
 "Oh, put aU conventions out of your head!" 
 Canzano urged her. " It's not a question of class 
 and class. Believe me, it isn't. It's a question of 
 another race; of a different planet: of a different 
 species even. Don't judge: observe. Don't con 
 demn : just have a good time." 
 
 She felt as if, in this discussion, she could trust 
 even more to Canzano than to her father. For Mr 
 Greville affected her as being too reasonable. He 
 hadn't, at bottom, any respect for class. He 
 wouldn't, she felt, have liked her to marry a shop- 
 keeper or a clerk, because these professions were 
 sedentary and mean-spirited upon the whole. He 
 wouldn't have minded — theoretically at least — an 
 efficient ploughman. 
 
 But Canzano was a mine of class-prejudices: he 
 didn't, she had discovered, consider his inferiors as 
 even human. He would be polite to them, but they 
 were canaglia. So that if he, who in this matter 
 came closer to her than even her father did — ^if he 
 advised her that it was possible to abandon oneself 
 and, over here, j ust have a good time, she could vaguely 
 see the possibilities of a workable point of view. 
 
 " I'm not, in short," she said, " to consider . . . 
 these people . . . as if they were Europeans — or even 
 as grown-up people at all." 
 
196 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 Canzano positively rubbed his hands. 
 
 "Consider them as children!" he said. "Ex- 
 cellent! Excellent! Then they'll hardly worry you 
 at all." 
 
 He appealed suddenly to Mr GreviUe. 
 
 " You don't know," he said, " you can't — ^what an 
 excellent fellow Don is. I love him quite unspeak- 
 ably. And just as if he were a child too. I want 
 him to have a good time if no one else has. And I 
 want him to have it at the hands of us Europeans 
 too." 
 
 Mr Greville looked away from him with his mouth 
 open: he didn't, however, utter anything. 
 
 " You think I'm a rock on which he might possibly 
 split? " Eleanor laughed. 
 
 "Oh, heavens!" Canzano answered, "I think 
 you're the only island upon which he could ever 
 really taste felicity." 
 
 " But you don't," Mr Greville brought out, 
 " imagine that he's going to attain to felicity with 
 his own countrymen or his own schemes." 
 
 Canzano shrugged his shoulders up to his ears. 
 
 " His poor old schemes! " he said. 
 
 " Why don't you say his poor old countrymen? " 
 Mr Greville asked. 
 
 "Look here!" Canzano said, "we've got — we 
 three — to work for his happiness. We've got to 
 rescue him from his follies — not by telling him that 
 they're folUes, but by letting him prove to himself 
 how futile they are. And," he bowed to Eleanor, 
 " by proving to him how much more charming life 
 elsewhere may be." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 197 
 
 " You think, in fact," Eleanor said, " that if I try 
 to cross him he'll feel homesick for his ideals for ever 
 and ever." 
 
 Canzano embraced the sea, the sky, the sludge 
 boats, and a lady in a bright green satin dress, with a 
 circular shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 " Poor dear Don," he said, " will soon get tired 
 of trying to put the sky where the sea is, and trying 
 to make cette dame wear colours that won't set our 
 teeth on edge. He'll have, eventually, the sense to 
 see that his compatriots too are having in their own 
 way the best kind of time and only want to be let 
 alone." 
 
 Mr Greville interrupted him to say that though he 
 perfectly agreed he'd like to suggest that they 
 breakfasted in time for Eleanor to get up her strength 
 for when she was asked what were her impressions of 
 New York Bay. Noting pleasantly that her father 
 must be in the best of spirits, for she couldn't 
 believe that he was serious in saying that these people 
 would really ask her what her impressions were, 
 Eleanor turned in at the doorway, leaving behind her 
 a glimpse of yellow sky, yellow sea, a yellow spit of 
 sand and a house, resembling, with its yellow sides 
 and red roof, a Shoreham bungalow. And at 
 Canzano's saying that that was Sandy Hook, she 
 couldn't help wondering if the United States State 
 expressed its considerable majesty always in edifices 
 so like the houses that the retired tradesmen ran up 
 round her Canterbury. The spirit of hurry pervaded 
 now every corner of the ship. It rendered their 
 breakfast perfunctory, for the stewards fidgeted on 
 
198 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 thin ankles around Mr Greville's standing figure: 
 half of the tables had no cloths, and already the 
 passengers were grouping themselves in the chairs in 
 the middle of the saloon to await the Customs 
 officers. There were bags in all the corridors, and 
 even Don twice left the breakfast-table at the 
 summons of the distracted maid. It was, however, 
 MrGreville who — to have the experience — was to 
 make the declaration in the saloon, and it was 
 upon Don's arm that, hunying a little to see the 
 entrance to the finest bay in the world — ^Don had 
 told her that it really was fine — ^she stumbled slightly 
 over the threshold of the promenade deck and was 
 immediately rushed up to by a girl in blue with red 
 hair — a girl who, Uke half the other passengers, 
 appeared now for the first time to have emerged from 
 some hidden place to ask breathlessly: 
 
 " Well, and what are your impressions? " and to 
 dash away without waiting for an answer. 
 
 Immediately confronting them, above the slate- 
 grey sails of an immense schooner, dominating 
 Eleanor's shght bewilderment, greenish grey, and 
 with a duU gilt crown of spikes, there rose a colossus 
 in a bronze nightgown. 
 
 " So there it is! " Don said beside her. 
 
 But to her it didn't lend itself to any impression 
 at all and she asked gaily — ^for after what Canzano 
 had said she was determined to be gay: 
 
 "So there is what? " 
 
 " Liberty! " he answered. 
 
 Her gayness — though she apprehended that he was 
 referring to what must be the statute — made her say : 
 
THE SOLID LAND 199 
 
 " The liberty of an absolute stranger's asking me 
 what my impressions are? I've never seen that girl 
 before." 
 
 His face expressed a sudden concern. 
 
 " Oh, don't take it as an odious liberty," he said, 
 " it isn't. You don't probably reahse what it is to 
 these people to be able to show someone what they 
 really believe's iine ..." 
 
 " Oh . . ." she was beginning. 
 
 " It is part of their lives," he continued neverthe- 
 less to plead with her. "It is the oldest and the 
 finest thing they can remember. It's as old for 
 them as Canterbury Cathedral, because it's been here 
 all their conscious lives. And remember, too, that 
 they've probably — all of them — been being ' shown ' 
 things innumerable for months past . . ." 
 
 " My dear old boy," she cut in on his pleadings, " I 
 know it all. I don't in the least resent it. The only 
 thing I resent is that I wasn't up here in time to see 
 the statue from a distance. I was looking forward 
 to catching it against the sky. And now . . ." 
 
 So quickly had they passed the columnar mass and 
 the schooner that the vessel already looked small 
 and dark-saUed against the mist and the morning sun, 
 and the statue had taken a heavy form against the 
 pale yellow sky. The shores of the bay spread out 
 before them, low and greenish, without sparkle in 
 the waters, where innumerable black posts stood up 
 or slanted over and innumerable small steamers 
 raised the foam at their bows. There was a great 
 impression of pale largeness, of swift gliding, and of 
 strangeness. 
 
200 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " I've never seen anything like it," she said. 
 '' I've never been so excited, and do believe me 
 when I say I'm having a good time. And I'm going 
 to have one. I'll try to get all sorts of impressions 
 ready to tell all sorts of nice people. But there are 
 so many, it's a little bewildering." 
 
 He pressed her arm with a great pleasure. 
 
 " Oh — well," he said, " I can't keep the boat still 
 even for you to have time to see everything." 
 
 " I don't want the boat kept still," she said, beating 
 one of her feet upon the boards, " it's simply thrill- 
 ing." 
 
 A bewildering rush of subjects for information 
 didn't exactly overwhelm her, but in her new attitude 
 of ijiind she let them excite her tremendously. An 
 odd little island, with a sandy shore and what was 
 apparently a collection of railway stations and large 
 villas out over the water to the left, gave her at once 
 the odd satisfaction of really seeing American soil 
 and the little feehng of grimness at learning that it 
 was ElHs Island where all the dim crowd of emigrants 
 forward and astern would be interned. It depressed 
 her a Uttle to have it forced upon her that here, 
 on the hind side of the statue, the first thing 
 that you ran against — after you had had yourself a 
 liberty taken with you — ^was at least an impression 
 of imprisonment for the offenceless. But she had 
 immediately to face the problem of why all the 
 women — and here was an extraordinary crowd of 
 them bedizened and plumed, silhouetted against and 
 obscuring the view on the forward rail, uttering an 
 indescribable babel of cries, pulling each other by the 
 
THE SOLID LAND 201 
 
 shoulders to attract attention to some new point of 
 view — as to why the women looked all so extraordin- 
 arily different. On the voyage they had seemed 
 simple rather to supererogation : simple at least to a 
 point of quite good taste. Now they were cloaked, 
 furred, in spite of the tepid mist, ribboned, bonneted, 
 jewelled. It struck her as extraordinary that these 
 people — who did in a way know how to dress when 
 there was comparatively no one to see them — should 
 have adopted war-paints so portentous in which to 
 go before the public in the streets. 
 
 But Don's explanation that they hadn't done- it 
 because of a sudden madness of bad taste or 
 out of a desire to label themselves as just landed 
 from Yurrup, but merely to avoid outrageous 
 Customs' dues — Don's explanation was lost a little 
 in her mind by the fact that by the time he had 
 arrived at it he had also arrived at piloting her 
 round the comer, through the excited crowd. It 
 wasn't, however, too excited to yield her precedence 
 so that she might gather the impressions they so 
 much wanted her to be overwhelmed by — and she 
 reached a position where she took in at once, as in 
 a blaze, the fact that she was beside her father, in a 
 little, as it were, cleared space, and being borne 
 forward by the steamer into a great gulch filled 
 with a vast cloud of vapours blowing from on high 
 towards her left hand, paved with a flat floor of pale, 
 cream-coloured water. 
 
 It took her a gasping moment to realise that the 
 cMs on the right were buildings, the black mudbanks 
 on the left were really the arched glass roofs of stations 
 
202 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 and steamer quays, and the shuttles, like beetles that 
 glided in an extraordinary maze, with, as it were, odd 
 elbows jerking out of their roofs and httle gilt eagles 
 stuck about over them, were steamboats of a sort. 
 And in this confusion she was aware of a man, 
 wonderfully florid, pink-cheeked, shaven and blue- 
 eyed, who, as if he were the leader of the band of 
 watchers around them, held her father by his black 
 shoulder and pointed a red hand towards what 
 seemed a thin filament high in the air, half invisible 
 in the mist and rapidly being hidden behind the 
 pigeon-holed white chffs that she had again to make 
 an effort to remember were buildings. The man was 
 saying that that was the finest bridge in the world, 
 and something in the minatory tones of his voice 
 brought to Eleanor's lips the remark : 
 
 " Why, you said there was no coal smoke in New 
 York! " 
 
 It wasn't indeed that she wanted to convict him 
 of error — it was simply that in her excitement she 
 wanted to say something to him, and all at the 
 moment that came into her head was that on the 
 night of the sunset he had made that statement. 
 Immediately afterwards she recollected also that he 
 was the Reverend Mr Campbell. ... He turned 
 upon her with a violence that for a minister seemed 
 singular until she remembered that it might be part 
 of a creed and said, with a loud, beautifully-trained 
 and remarkably-overbearing voice : 
 
 " There — is — no — coal — smoke — in — New — 
 York! " 
 
 Eleanor — since they were both of them gazing at 
 
THE SOLID LAND 203 
 
 three black and gigantic pillars of smoke that issued 
 from three black and gigantic chimneys in the wilder- 
 ness of yellow mist and white vapour — Eleanor 
 uttered an : " Oh, but — " But the clergyman's hard 
 eyes and a feeling that he would certainly knock her 
 down if she persisted in disbelieving in his particular 
 miracle made her rejoice a little when there came 
 from behind her back the gentle voice of Mr Houston. 
 
 " You must remember, my dear, that Mr 
 Campbell's a Scotsman! " 
 
 " At anyrate," Mr Campbell fulminated, " the 
 State of New York has laws against coal smoke." 
 
 But Eleanor had by now afforded herself the relief 
 of turning her back to the clergyman. 
 
 " My dear," Mr Houston addressed her directly 
 again. He jerked back his tired, brown face with 
 the white, fragile beard and showed his thin neck. 
 " You'll find it much the same all the world over. 
 Good Americans don't go to Europe because they like 
 America. And Scotsmen who'd probably make very 
 bad Scotsmen at home — why, they come to America 
 and pretend to like it. Of course you've heard of the 
 tail-less fox! " 
 
 Don gave him a look of the most intense gratitude 
 and threw at Eleanor another of a sort of agonised 
 pleading. 
 
 " Indeed," he said, " it's true. You wouldn't 
 find any real Americans so rude as that." 
 
 " Dear thing," she whispered, " it's aU right. I'm 
 enjoying it all. I believe about the tail-less fox." 
 
 It was at this moment that Mr Houston touched 
 Don upon the shoulder, and jerking his beard back 
 
204 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 with an odd gesture of implying that he desired a 
 little secrecy, asked him in a whisper how they were 
 going to get to their hotel. He hadn't heard Don 
 or his uncle speak of their having anybody to meet 
 them. And left to herself for the minute — the 
 numerous persons who had asked her for her impres- 
 sions having dwindled away — Eleanor had time to 
 form a new impression of the fact that the entering of 
 New York harbour — and she regretted it quite a 
 little! — ^was over. The voyage was over: it was 
 done with. For the great vessel had stopped. It 
 moved no more its spars from building to building; 
 it began to turn. She saw upon the one bank the 
 name of a firm that supplied patterns to aU creation — 
 a name in letters as high as the column in Trafalgar 
 Square — a name that seemed to give to the city on 
 the further side an odd cachet of being connected — 
 of having for its mission the supplying to civilisation 
 of the Uttle flimsy bits of paper she had often enough 
 " cut out " by. And quite close at hand, in letters 
 much smaller, but each still as large as a house, was 
 the name she expected to hear. The Collar KeUeg 
 Lines! There they were: a dozen openings Uke 
 railway tunnels: grey wharves: grey piles: the 
 home of this ship and of how many more? She had 
 an odd little shiver. She hadn't ever thought that 
 she would come to see her name — her name dominat- 
 ing the most important estuary in the world. It is 
 true that the letters were merely in white upon a 
 black board. But she saw all round each letter a 
 bevy of electric lamps. By night then they would 
 flare, she and Don, in the face of a whole civilisation! 
 
THE SOLID LAND 205 
 
 And she wondered if this, too, were one of the things 
 that Canzano would wish her to have a good time with. 
 But she swallowed it with the reflection that this at 
 least was the other side of the world. It was in a 
 sense terrible — but it was in a sense as if she had 
 attained to a sort of irresponsibility. She wouldn't, 
 in the Park at home, like to ride on a horse painted 
 blue with the name of her soap upon it. But she 
 could just imagine herself doing it in the Park here — 
 if there were a Park — for probably it was, as you 
 might say, a custom, and all these people had their 
 names stuck up somewhere to blaze through the 
 astonished nights. In that way it mightn't be 
 worse than putting on a hat manufactured in Fifth 
 Avenue. 
 
 She had determined to bear it and grin — or rather 
 to take it as one of the ingredients of the general grin 
 with which, for Don's sake, she was to embrace aU of 
 life here^ — when Don came back to her. His face 
 was an odd mixture of smile and concern — his lips 
 being curved upwards, his eyes, as he came, searching 
 her face. 
 
 " Would you believe ? " he shouted, for a din 
 was beginning to drown even the insistent, 
 broad, melodious and continued hooting of steam- 
 syrens that for the last hour had seemed to be the 
 pervading note of the landscape, " that old man 
 Marconi'd from mid-Atlantic for carriages to take us 
 to our hotel ! He was asking me just now if I thought 
 three would be enough to take us all and the servants." 
 
 " The old dear ! " Eleanor shouted to him, and sh.e 
 heard him cry : 
 
2o6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " That's cheering! " And it was a httle thing that 
 puzzled her for the rest of her life — she never re- 
 membered to ask him — ^whether he meant that Mr 
 Houston's kind thought had cheered him or whether 
 the sounds that now overwhelmed all others — the 
 high, wailing, insistent and ferociously exciting 
 tumult — were the product of welcoming lungs. 
 She couldn't ask him at the moment, it seemed to 
 blind and to confuse her so, but he took her by the 
 hand and led her round to the other side of the deck. 
 
 The ship was imprisoning itself, with an im- 
 perceptible ghding, against a shed that appeared to 
 be a mile long — a shed whose sides, of what she could 
 not help thinking were unnecessary ugly black 
 planks, had in it long openings from which there 
 appeared to spurt innumerable pocket-handkerchiefs. 
 And she realised that the extraordinary high wail 
 came from thousands and thousands of human 
 beings behind the handkerchiefs. At that same 
 moment she realised that the handkerchiefs 
 themselves were liberally interscattered with tiny 
 editions of that blue and pink and white flag 
 which amidst the more assertive flags of the nations 
 is as frailly pretty as is the American pretty woman 
 amongst the beauties of the world. 
 
 She found herself thinking: "Fancy owr people 
 producing Union Jacks! " and "Fancy our people 
 making such a noise at a landing! " dimly, amidst 
 the turmoil, for each sound seemed to be having 
 added to it the wailings of new contingents, waving 
 from every cranny of the vessel itself new hand- 
 kerchiefs or new flags. 
 
THE SOLID LAND 207 
 
 " And, after all," she was reasoning to herself, 
 " why shouldn't there be an excitement?" There 
 were, when one came to remember it, three thousand 
 people on board, and perhaps three had come to 
 welcome each of them. It was only the high note of 
 the soimd itself — the whoop, the yell, the resonant 
 quality like that of the wailing overtone of a bell — 
 that remained surprising. You wouldn't find any- 
 where ia the real Eastern world a crowd capable of 
 producing it. It was the real difference! 
 
 She began to think that the spirit of the place had 
 infected her, for she had forgotten her aunt. But 
 already it was too late to think. She was taken, at 
 Don's side, by the crowd in the tiny space. The 
 vessel had touched the quay, and at the contact, as 
 if the time for action having come the time for 
 shouting had passed, there fell a dead silence — and 
 in the silence the battle raged. A lady thrust a 
 bundle of umbrella handles into her face at the 
 moment that a man thrust a bag into her back, and 
 half a dozen, rushing out of the door of the saloon, 
 pushed Don over upon her so that she was crushed 
 against the rail. It astonished her: but a minute 
 later it excited her; she set her white teeth, used her 
 elbows, and laughed at Don's perturbed expression 
 as she had often enough done at home when pushed 
 into the pit at a theatre. And after all, if the bangs 
 that she got were harder, wasn't the spectacle she 
 was going to see more exciting than anything she 
 had ever experienced at home? And with a laughing 
 nod at him, as he stood on the inchned gangway above 
 her, holding his arms across from rail to rail and 
 
2o8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 supporting the crowd off her with his back, she ran 
 down the planks as if she were shooting a chute at a 
 suburban exhibition at home and uttered, as he was 
 propelled down upon her by the crowd behind him: 
 " Well, now, shall I fall down and kiss your native 
 soil? " 
 
 The native soil was of tarred planks : the building 
 was apparently miles and miles long, roofed with a 
 waving span of corrugated iron, decorated with the 
 queerest advertisements she had ever seen. It was 
 filled with a crowd of women in Paris frocks being 
 shouldered by men in shirt sleeves — a bewildering 
 crowd in the half light that, little by little, resolved 
 itself into men in blue uniforms with bits of chalk and 
 labels. They wandered about unconcernedly with their 
 hands behind their backs amidst the largest travelling 
 trunks in the world from which there foamed over, 
 as if from tankards of stout, lace undergarments that 
 delighted her eyes. And whilst Don still distractedly 
 pulled her by the arm in the search for what he called 
 " their letter," she had time to get the distinct 
 impression that they were in France. For in and 
 out among the distracted women, the men in shirt 
 sleeves, the men in uniforms and the overflowing 
 trunks there wandered, melancholy, sad-faced, dark- 
 eyed and aloof, a slow army of foreigners in blue 
 blouses wheehng large trunks upon porters' barrows. 
 
 She made out upon the wall, high up between the 
 vast picture of a bull and the vaster picture of a green 
 tin labelled " Baked beans," a quite tiny letter : 
 " G." And to this she called Don's attention. 
 
 " Our boxes will be under that," he said, and he 
 
THE SOLID LAND 209 
 
 added, whilst behind him a melancholy man in blue 
 uttered a yelp that she took to be Italian: " It's 
 wearily badly managed." 
 
 " Oh, it's awful fun ! " she reassured him, and 
 she had a view of the Reverend Mr Campbell pushing 
 swiftly past them, very heated and very red, exclaim- 
 ing to an unconcerned old gentleman, apparently a 
 general, in a blue uniform and a straw hat, that some- 
 thing was a worse scandal than in Italy. And 
 whilst they made their way through the piles of 
 boxes towards the G. that was their sheet-anchor, 
 she had, a little regretfully, a vision of the famihar 
 faces of many fellow-passengers whirUng past her. 
 It was the ship's company dissolving, disappearing, 
 part of a past phase. 
 
 But even when, in the comparatively calm back- 
 water of their own extraordinarily huge pUe of 
 boxes, she was able to sit down in a deck-chair that 
 Mr Houston was waiting to offer her, she had still 
 before her the task of reassuring Don. 
 
 " It's extraordinary," he said, " that we can't 
 manage even a Customs examination better than 
 this! " 
 
 " But, dear boy," she said, " it's such a vast crowd." 
 
 " Oh, go up the Thames," he said wearily, " there's 
 a crowd there every day bigger than they get here in 
 a year and they do it all in ten minutes, without a 
 shove in any single passenger's back." She knew 
 very well that he was apologising to her, that he was 
 trying to deprecate to her the sufferings that she was 
 undergoing, and she tried very hard to think of some 
 words of real genius by which she could make him 
 
210 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 feel certain that she was really going to have a good 
 time : but she had not got a word out before a man 
 in a blue flarmel shirt with turn-down collar, buff 
 trousers, a slouch hat and a drooping, blonde mous- 
 tache, was saying to her in a sharp, clear, odd accent — 
 she took him for a cowboy : " I'm telling Mr Houston 
 here that you won't want no more'n three cabs. I 
 guess yours ain't sich a plump lot if yeh're a sample 
 of the rest ! " He had the breezy air of a man used 
 to commanding vast bodies of things, and he didn't 
 seem to consider her as of more than passing im- 
 portance. 
 
 Don said, and his voice rose a note in agony : 
 
 " Oh, for goodness sake don't think we're all Uke 
 that! " 
 
 And she had her stroke of genius. 
 
 " I expect," she said, " that he doesn't know I'm 
 a GreviUe! " And whilst his eyes devoured her face 
 she put a finger on his sleeve and added : " Dear, 
 I'm going to forget it myself." 
 
 And the trouble she was at to persuade him, imder 
 the eyes and ears of many people, that she was 
 prepared to take everything as it came — this trouble 
 modified extraordinarily the vividness of her im- 
 pressions. It took away indeed from the squalor 
 of the singularly squalid approaches: it made her 
 tolerate the odd procession of coaches, Hke that in a 
 fimeral procession at home, with which, when they 
 were finally out of the uniformly brown, rigid and 
 rather appaUing quarters of docks and warehouses, 
 they approached the fine untidy streets that 
 led to their quite tremendous hotel. She was 
 
THE SOLID LAND 211 
 
 indeed so impressed with the fact that Don was 
 suffering mental pains that she couldn't do more 
 than give half an eye to what passed their carriage 
 windows. If she looked at and if she noticed what 
 at home she would have called the lower classes — 
 but what here she was sufficiently attuned not to be 
 able to call anything at all — if she looked rather at 
 the men driving enormous express waggons, throwing 
 bricks from the housetops or lying on the doorsteps 
 of dingy boarding-houses — if, in fact, she attended 
 rather to the poor it was because she knew that it was 
 the poor who were going to interest her lover. When 
 she passed out of the crosstown street region of dingy, 
 brown stone houses, where she supposed the poor to 
 dwell, she leant back in the carriage. Don told her 
 that they had struck the Avenue that was said to 
 rival or surpass any Boulevard, A116e or Lane of any 
 European city. But she thought she might lean back 
 and rest her eyes, for except for the shape of the 
 policemen's helmets she wasn't prepared to see any 
 great differences. Her eyes were a little aching, 
 they had seen so much of what she thought must be 
 poverty, and so much of what, she was quite certain, 
 was Latin blood. There had been paper all over the 
 pavements, endless processions of little brasiers with 
 tin furnaces in the charge of dusky men with vivid 
 whites to their eyes. There had been innumerable 
 children, bare-footed, with broken trousers girt up 
 to their shoulders, red-headed, or with their heads 
 inverted, hidden in tubs that stood upon the stones 
 on the broken sidewalks, their bare, dirty little feet 
 waving in the air; she had seen over the dismally 
 
212 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 uninviting stores signs that — ^if they didn't repel her 
 because she couldn't imagine herself pm-chasing 
 anything there — ^filled her with pity for the poor 
 people who did have to. 
 
 It tired her: so that when at last in the more 
 imposing quarters she tried to lean back and rest it 
 wasn't the least of her troubles to see on Don's face 
 a look of intense concern. 
 
 He leaned forward to touch her knee and said: 
 
 " Now look, we're just turning into Fifth. There's 
 Broadway: this is Madison Square." And his eyes 
 said : " You've looked so hard at all our dirty places, 
 now look at the best we've got to show." 
 
 And if her father hadn't been there, on the seat 
 beside her, silent, but taking it all in with his black 
 eyes she would have said : 
 
 " Dearest, I'm only interested in what interests 
 you. And I know you don't care for these streets! " 
 His eyes were saying (for she hadn't yet been able 
 to make him understand) : " I know you're more 
 interested in what's fine in life." 
 
 It was at the comer where the 28th Street cars 
 cross the Avenue that Mr GreviUe spoke his first 
 words since they had crossed the ferry. 
 
 " You'U have an extraordinary difficulty in getting 
 at any facts, Don," he said: " so far, every single 
 thing that I have seen with my own eyes has flatly 
 contradicted every single piece of information to the 
 same effect that I've read or been told on board the 
 ship! " 
 
 Don came out of his agonised perturbation about 
 Eleanor to look at his father-in-law. Mr Greville said. 
 
THE SOLID LAND 213 
 
 pointing a thin finger at the tram that was crossing 
 their route: 
 
 " That's the only tram I've seen so far and it's 
 drawn by horses. You will remember that the 
 Journal of Engineering I showed you on board 
 stated that the ugly and insanitary horse-drawn 
 car — I remember the exact words — ^had been swept 
 entirely from the streets of New York. Another 
 print informed me that the whistles of the pea-nut 
 barrows had been entirely swept out of existence by 
 a law that came into force last March. The streets 
 of the city were said, in consequence, to be abso- 
 lutely the quietest in the world. I have counted 
 seventy-two pea-nut barrows each with a quite loud 
 whistle." 
 
II 
 
 THEIR earliest hours in New York were com- 
 plicated by family troubles that, for the 
 moment, drove out of Eleanor's head even her 
 solicitude for Don's wretchedness. He was, un- 
 doubtedly, she considered, quite ill. It seemed as 
 if his arriving on the field of battle caused him an 
 amount of excitement that amounted to nervous 
 prostration. 
 
 Don — ^positively Don! — made a wonderful worry- 
 ing fuss with the clerks at the enormous mahogany 
 counter, in the enormous marble and tiled hall. He 
 had, for reasons that appealed to himself alone, made 
 up his mind that his fiancie and her aunt and her 
 father and the maid and the valet should occupy pre- 
 cisely the same suite of rooms with precisely the same 
 suite of furniture — ^it had belonged to Marie Antoinette 
 — that his father and mother had quarrelled in years 
 befbre. And the trouble was that the rooms were 
 still there and the furniture was stiU there, only 
 the furniture — because it was, by that time, too 
 dingy to suit the tastes of succeeding magnates and 
 of at least one Royal Duke — the furniture had been 
 moved several floors higher up. The clerks at the 
 counter were rather impolite: the assistant sub- 
 manager — a Frenchman — was almost too polite: 
 
 the sub-manager, an Englishman, was too blandly 
 
 214 
 
THE SOLID LAND 215 
 
 explanatory. He explained, that is to say, that, 
 at that hour of the day they simply couldn't, in 
 that country, expect workmen to move the furniture 
 down. And he pointed out that the change would 
 cost a quite unreasonable amount of money, and 
 that even if they brought the Marie Antoinette 
 chairs down from the upper floors, they would, the 
 chairs, be quite violently out of keeping with the 
 present fixed ornaments of the lower rooms, which, 
 to give a feeling of homeliness to a certain king, 
 had been decorated exactly in the style of the 
 
 palace at L n. The rooms presented a singularly 
 
 dazzUng spectacle of plate-glass mirrors, real gold 
 leaf and elephant tusks. 
 
 And Eleanor had the spectacle — a little saddening 
 and bewildering — of poor Don battling quite furiously 
 with a number of hard-eyed gentlemen in frock 
 coats and with singularly shining heads of hair. 
 And she had the feeling, too, that they simply didn't 
 care much whether he were pleased or no. And 
 Augustus, with a sardonic air, was carefully avoiding 
 her eye in his triumph over poor Don's exhibition 
 of emotion. She fired up in Don's defence to the 
 extent of assuring herself that she didn't care if 
 they were, all the body of them, blocking up the 
 tremendous hall, with its marble, its mahogany, 
 its ducal chairs, its lounges, its guests in irreproach- 
 able costumes or its guests in cowboy hats, red ties, 
 frock coats and an air of having revolvers somewhere 
 upon their terrific hips. Waiting for Don to get 
 something settled she took in these details little by 
 little and assured herself that if they were attracting 
 
2i6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 attention it didn't matter because they were where 
 they were. But, upon the whole, she was glad 
 when her aunt discovered a faintness. It meant 
 that the five of them — ^for Canzano was awaiting 
 an opportunity to settle some details before leaving 
 for Boston — the five of them, leaving Don to his 
 battles, could go to lunch in a quite small octagonal 
 limch room that didn't positively hold more than 
 twenty-five tables for four. It was indeed her 
 father who made this statistical discovery, just as 
 it was he who, before they had been there two 
 minutes, inquired of Canzano if it was characteristic 
 of the best American hotels to have walls like that I 
 And he indicated the yellowish spaces that, beneath 
 arches of green marble, formed a background for 
 aU sorts of lunchers' heads and hats. 
 
 It comforted her to have Canzano to direct, in 
 their native Italian, the half dozen waiters who had 
 borne down upon them, and — because she was so 
 anxious to be pleased — ^it comforted her, too, to be 
 able to feel that this light, gay, weU-glazed and 
 domed room was quite as good as anything, any- 
 where else, could be. 
 
 " Like what? " Canzano asked, and he glanced 
 over his shoulder at the notable walls. 
 
 " What I mean," Mr Greville answered, " is that 
 every other piece of wall space here appears to be 
 of marble. These are only painted brick! " 
 
 Canzano said, with a sort of gay contempt for 
 his environment: "Oh, my dear sir! This is an 
 extraordinarily old-fashioned place. I should have 
 taken you somewhere quite different." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 217 
 
 " But the walls? " Mr Greville pinned him to his 
 topic. 
 
 " What about the walls? " and Canzano wiped 
 his fork with a napkin. 
 
 " Are they s37mptomatic of a want of finish ? 
 Or were they once a fashion? " 
 
 " Oh, heaven in its wisdom knows," Canzano 
 answered. "They may have been the fashion. But," 
 he added brightly, " if you go about this country 
 looking for evidences of want of attention to finish 
 you'll find plenty." And he looked significantly 
 at Eleanor : " You'U find plenty of everything you 
 look for here." 
 
 They did indeed find plenty of everything 
 when, very soon afterwards, they got to the 
 rooms that Don had at last sanctioned. He 
 came in, finally, noticeably calmed and even 
 smiling. 
 
 He had satisfied himself after investigation that 
 the suite of rooms that contained Marie Antoinette's 
 furniture so exactly reproduced those that his father 
 had occupied that except that you had to stay about 
 ten seconds longer in the elevator you couldn't 
 well tell the difference. And he accepted quite 
 gaily Canzano's criticism upon his choice of an 
 hotel. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if this hotel's old-fashioned 
 you can at least get something near what you want 
 by making a fuss here. Anywhere else in America 
 they put you into the elevator and throw you out 
 on a floor that you haven't a voice in choosing. 
 And there you've got to stick." 
 
2i8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 He was eating chicken with a cheerful voracity. 
 And Eleanor couldn't make up her mind whether 
 he'd taken himself in hand very vigorously after an 
 attack of nerves or whether irritation was a necessary 
 concomitant of taking rooms in an hotel over here, 
 a thing that you had to go through and that didn't 
 leave traces. But that speculation too had to give 
 way to other troubles. They hadn't, it appeared 
 immediately, come to New York merely to have a 
 good time . . . 
 
 Their great drawing-room, which had six windows 
 in the side street and four looking into Fifth Avenue, 
 had too, along all the waU spaces, priceless, dim 
 tapestry designed by Watteau, and all the chairs and 
 tables had graciously bowed legs and delicately 
 painted tops and lyre-shaped backs of embroidered 
 work faint and paled by age. AU these things had 
 known in former days the presence of a dead Queen 
 of France, and in a quite beautifuUy-ccmceived 
 contrast there was, in a little Buhl cabinet, a flap 
 that let down and disclosed the black and nickel 
 fittings of a telephone. And to it Canzano attached 
 himself before even their coffee had reached them 
 up there. The problem was to find Mackinnon. 
 And in this search Canzano opened a long battle 
 by saying in at the table: "Get me Boston!" 
 His ear glued at the httle cup of nickel, his face 
 went through an attentive pantomime whilst at 
 intervals his mouth uttered: "Boston . . . Boston, 
 Massachusetts. ... I can't hear . . . Give me a 
 better connection . . . Yes ... I want Boston 
 . . . Boston, Massachusetts. ... No . . . Yes 
 
THE SOLID LAND 219 
 
 ... I want Boston . . . Boston, Massachusetts." 
 And holding a fmger to his disengaged ear he went 
 on uttering these monotonous words with an en- 
 grossed expression. Their own man brought them 
 in their coffee with a varied and rather bewildered ex- 
 pression. Mr Greville attentively surveyed Canzano 
 at the telephone, and Eleanor knew that he was 
 noting down facts as to the telephone system of 
 the United States. Don wag explaining to Mrs 
 Greville, who, with her bonnet-strings untied, was 
 sipping her coffee vindictively from a gilt cup 
 without a handle, why he had been so careful about 
 the rooms. It was, he said, absolutely imperative 
 that if you wanted in America anything at all out 
 of the ordinary to know what you wanted and to 
 stick out tiU you got it. As a general rule, he ex- 
 plained, he'd be content himself with everything 
 quite ordinary. But for her and Eleanor he'd 
 wanted to be quite certain of something comfortable 
 and in good taste. And positively the only things 
 he'd been certain of in New York — where everything 
 changes so rapidly — ^were that suite of rooms and 
 that furniture. So he'd made up his mind to have 
 them. He'd known that that nook was bearable, 
 and he'd been determined to place them just 
 there . . . 
 Augustus, who had been looking out of the window 
 
 at the tops of the carriages in th Street, suddenly 
 
 turned and came to where Eleanor was sitting by 
 the coffee equipage on a blue and gold and white 
 table. He stood holding his cup and surveying 
 her sardonically. 
 
220 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " I'm to go to Boston," he said at last. 
 
 Eleanor made a swift review of the position. It 
 meant that poor Augustus would be separated not 
 only from her but from his mother. 
 
 " How splendid! " she blurted out. 
 
 He scowled and uttered: 
 
 " Yes; " and then, glancing at Canzano at the 
 telephone: "That fellow's mother is the chief 
 executrix of the will! He's going to talk to her 
 now." He shrugged his shoulders and his eyes 
 had in them so much of gloomy maUce that she felt 
 irresistibly called to ask what he meant. 
 
 " Only," he answered gleefully, " I fancy there 
 won't be much left for you and Don when they've 
 finished." 
 
 It was at this point that Mrs Greville, with an 
 extraordinary rustling of her black silk petticoat, 
 rose and said that she must go to superintend the 
 unpacking. 
 
 " I suppose," she added, " that Kirsen will have to 
 do for me. I suppose a maid is quite good enough 
 to help me ! " Don hastened to assure her that 
 there was in the hotel a whole staff of professional 
 unpackers, but with her head rigidly fixed away 
 from them she passed through the doors with their 
 gracious scrolled panel work and their paintings by 
 Fragonard of d^colktee shepherdesses with beribboned 
 necks. 
 
 She put, indeed, her head once more out between 
 the panels to utter: 
 
 " Augustus, I want you! " 
 
 But Augustus remained standing by Eleanor, 
 
THE SOLID LAND 221 
 
 his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his lips Ufted 
 to show his teeth in a snarl. 
 
 " Funny, isn't it? " he asked. And, at her ask- 
 ing what was funny, he brought out in a whisper: 
 " That I'd like to see him jolly well ruined — and 
 yet I'm sent to defend his interests! " Don, indeed, 
 approached them nearly on his way over to Canzano 
 at the telephone: but under cover of the Italian's 
 patient but persistent calls, he had by this time " got 
 on to " Boston and was asking by turns for the 
 Information Bureau, so that he might discover his 
 mother's number and for a better connection, 
 Augustus was able to raise his voice and bring 
 out with an effective hiss : " What you might call, 
 ' 'Twixt hate and duty! ' " 
 
 " Oh, well," Eleanor laughed at him, " you've 
 got to remember that my interests are concerned as 
 well." 
 
 She moved across the large room, with its old, 
 bluish mirrors, its dusty, charming and precious 
 clock upon the mantel, and she took her father by 
 the elbow where he stood with his hand on the gUt, 
 scrolled back of a chair with a faded tapestry seat. 
 She moved him right across from the telephone, 
 
 which was near the last window giving on to th 
 
 Street, and sat herself down on the panelled seat 
 of a window that overlooked the Indian knicknack 
 shops on Fifth Avenue. The October afternoon 
 sun was shooting right down the side streets so 
 that, at the parts of the Avenue between the blocks, 
 the few carriages, the many hansoms, and the 
 occasional motor vans were spangled with dusty 
 
222 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 light. There were visible upon the broad side-walk 
 just three weU-dressed men and fomr ladies, but, 
 just opposite, an immense building was being 
 dustily puUed to pieces, and a great crowd of ItaUan 
 workmen, in blue blouses and with battered straw 
 hats, was surging out, and weUing on to the carriage 
 way, Uke a congregation leaving a church. She 
 was far enough away, with her father, from the others 
 to talk discreetly to him if he bent his ear, and 
 pulling the elbow of his coat she lifted her head to 
 his with a query: Was it true that Augustus was 
 going to Boston to see the wUl? Mr Greville said 
 that it was, apparently, perfectly true. Canzano 
 had found from letters forwarded to him on the 
 steamer that Mr KeUeg's will was definitely in 
 the hands of Mrs Kelleg — the Countess Canzano. 
 
 Eleanor whispered again: 
 
 " Augustus says that he suspects the Canzanos 
 of desiring to swindle Don. Do you think it's in 
 the least true? " 
 
 Mr Greville, with his head a little inclined, looked 
 at the floor and said: 
 
 " It's utterly untrue, and Augustus doesn't think 
 anything of the sort." 
 
 " I didn't think he did" Eleanor answered, 
 "but if he's capable of talking like that, do you 
 think he's capable of doing what Don wants done? " 
 
 Mr Greville still retained his head's inclination 
 and stiU looked at the floor. 
 
 "Augustus," he said, "only talks in that silly 
 way in order to give the effect of being cyiiical. He 
 only succeeds, to my mind, in appearing idiotic. 
 
THE SOLID LAND 223 
 
 But he's perfectly capable of transacting business 
 efficiently." 
 
 Eleanor said: "Ah! " 
 
 She leaned back a little, with the back of her 
 head against the window panes, and far down the 
 Avenue, which in its very high, straight length 
 seemed to be washed in with clear, purple, beautiful 
 shadows, she saw faintly what appeared to be a 
 tall column of virgin whiteness. Its colour touched 
 her with a certain excitement of pleasure, but she 
 couldn't, owing to the fact that the window was 
 at right angles, do more than just get occasional 
 glimpses as she moved her head, and at moments 
 she couldn't get any sight of it at all. 
 
 " So that," she said, " you consider it's a really 
 efficient arrangement." 
 
 Mr Greville looked at her: 
 
 " If you're thinking of influencing your fianc^ 
 . . ."he began. 
 
 She said: 
 
 " Oh, goodness, I'm only too anxious to be able 
 to leave him alone." But she added immediately 
 afterwards: " I mean that I want to be able to help 
 him as much as I can, and yet to be certain that he's 
 not making mistakes." 
 
 Her father opened his mouth, closed it, opened 
 it again and finally brought out: 
 
 " To my mind he's making a mistake all 
 through ..." 
 
 She interjected quickly: 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know all that, dear. But supposing 
 he wanted the moon I'd try to help him to get it if 
 
224 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 I were certain that he was going the right way to 
 work. Don't you see, dear, that my trouble is 
 he doesn't ever seem able to want anything, much? " 
 
 Mr GreviUe raised his head at that and allowed 
 himself to speak as loudly as usual, as if he didn't 
 care who heard him : 
 
 " Don doesn't want his father's business associates 
 to know that he's here at all. He's taken it for 
 granted that he must regard them as hostile. I don't 
 want to comment on that — ^but — ^he regards them 
 as hostile! — Then: if he wants to discover how the 
 ground lies without either communicating with 
 them or letting them know of his presence, he must, 
 obviously, employ an agent to make for him as clear 
 a statement of his case as he can." 
 
 " And you think he couldn't do better than 
 Augustus? " she asked. 
 
 Mr GreviUe hesitated before committing himself. 
 
 " I think," he said, " that Augustus wiU be at least 
 ten times as efficient as Don could possibly be him- 
 self, if only because Don is the soul of honour and 
 Augustus . . ." 
 
 " Isn't? " Eleanor queried. 
 
 " Augustus " — ^her father made her an inclination 
 that half suggested a bow — " Augustus, in the course 
 of his profession, has come in contact with a great 
 many commercial people," 
 
 Eleanor said: "Oh, dear!" But since, at this 
 point, she had satisfied herself that her father was 
 satisfied she did what she had been wanting to do for 
 some minutes — she looked at Don, who was waiting 
 for that signal from her to let himself approach them. 
 
THE SOLID LAND 225 
 
 Canzano had laid down the httle baton of the 
 telephone. He had " got on to " his mother's house 
 and had now only to wait until his mother should 
 return from her drive in Boston and should come 
 and speak with him. And Don, as Eleanor very well 
 knew, deemed the moment opportune to take them 
 all into his confidence. 
 
 " Now," he said gaily, " we can go into a com- 
 mittee of the whole house." He liked, indeed, very 
 much to talk if he couldn't bear to have to come to 
 a decision, and whilst Canzano, fidgetingly, kept 
 putting the ear-piece of the telephone to his ear and 
 idly and tremulously getting up and sitting down 
 again at the inlaid cabinet, Don set before them his 
 facts, walking up and down and rubbing his hands. 
 
 The plot of his father's associates — as he gathered 
 from about twenty newspapers that had been 
 brought on to the ship at Sandy Hook — had reached 
 a point so far successful that at least three of the 
 New York journals were clamouring for his — Don's — 
 impeachment. 
 
 All the papers would aU have wanted it, Don said, 
 if the rest of them hadn't been so lost in admiration 
 for the cleverness of an office-boy called Sherman, 
 who, by inspiration, " operating " exactly along the 
 lines of the Kelleg group, had turned his weekly 
 salary of eleven into a fortune of 72,000 dollars. 
 This, Don said, had so impressed with a sense of 
 admiration a great portion of the Press of New York 
 that they hadn't much space left for reprehending 
 the Kelleg associates. 
 
 " And of course," he said, " they couldn't, very 
 p 
 
2 26 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 logically . . ." And then, glancing at Canzano's 
 smiling, sardonic face, a sudden inspiration seemed to 
 strike him, so that he hit his forehead with his right 
 palm, 
 
 "By heaven! " he ejaculated, "it hadn't struck 
 me. It hadn't ! " 
 
 And to Mr Greville's " What? " he answered: 
 
 " Don't you see? The Press is in with my associ- 
 ates. Obviously! Don't you see? If they can 
 make a gigantic figure of an office-boy making a 
 fortune of 71,888 dollars — if they can make that boy 
 loom immensely large in the public eye — of course 
 they'll make the public forget the rigging of the 
 market. Why, they'll make the very rigging of the 
 market appear a meritorious proceeding. The office- 
 boy's fortune wouldn't have been possible without it. 
 And consequently every person in the coimtry who 
 wants to make a fortune quickly will look upon them 
 — my associates — as positively pubUc benefactors." 
 
 Canzano laughed outright. 
 
 " You're what," he exclaimed, " they call a chip 
 of the old block after aU. That's exactly your 
 father's invention. Every time he operated some- 
 thing very atrocious he always had someone — 
 generally a widow or an orphan — whom he guided 
 into making a little pile out of his operation." 
 
 Don said : " It's appalling! " and Canzano laughed. 
 Mr Greville asked the young Itahan, with his ex- 
 pressionless voice: 
 
 " But the Press? Why does it support the 
 manoeuvre? " 
 
 It was Augustus's turn to contribute his quota. 
 
THE SOLID LAND 227 
 
 " Oh," he said harshly, " even in London Mr 
 Kelleg had what he called his Information Depart- 
 ment. I know a chap who keeps a motor out of 
 what he gets for inserting Kelleg paragraphs in guite 
 good papers. It's done more artistically in London, 
 but, bless you, the effect's the same." 
 
 And Canzano added : 
 
 " Mr Kelleg would have — papers . . .' 
 
 Don groaned: 
 
 " Oh, yes: pile it up! " But Eleanor stepped in 
 to his support. 
 
 " After all," she said, " there are papers that 
 clamour for your blood. They aren't all bribed." 
 
 Don, however, was not to be comforted. 
 
 " How do I know," he asked, " that that, too, is not 
 part of the put-up job? Why, they may be set to do 
 it in order that when the papers like to prove that 
 I'm thoroughly virtuous there may be a revulsion in 
 my favour. Don't you see what a coup that- would 
 be?" 
 
 It was, however, Mr Greville who said at this : 
 
 " Don't exaggerate too much. Your father must 
 have had some enemies — and there must be about as 
 many honest men here as on the London Press." 
 
 Don fronted him with a sort of brilliant dejection. 
 
 " Oh," he brought out, " I only want to say that 
 over here you simply don't know who's who, or what's 
 what, or who means anything." 
 
 " That," Mr Greville said, " is not a characteristic 
 of America alone. It's part of the Spirit of the Age. 
 It's everywhere. Even in our town in England we've 
 got a brewer who secretly advocates temperance in 
 
228 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 the local paper, to sell his mineral waters. If you ever 
 want to get at anything you must not exaggerate — 
 and you must distinguish. I agree that nowadays 
 anything may belong to anybody. But that's not 
 peculiar to this country. ' ' And having delivered him- 
 self of that speech, he looked round upon the delicate- 
 frarned tapestries of shepherds on the walls, as if in 
 them at least he was assured of seeing something 
 that was characteristic of an age, a time and a place. 
 
 Don passed his hands across his eyes. 
 
 " There's such a frightful lot to say and to do," 
 he said, " that it's utterly impossible to know where 
 to begin." He looked at Eleanor as if for inspiration, 
 uttering: " Where was I? " And then he digressed 
 again so as to attack Mr Greville with a final thrust. 
 
 " If never knowing who's in the pay of whom is a 
 characteristic of the whole age, you've got to admit 
 that they've brought that to a pitch of perfection 
 here. Why " — and he pointed to the grey-and- 
 golden chandelier — "if you protest against the gas 
 here and have it cut off, the electric light is supplied 
 by the gas trust, and if you don't like that the candles 
 and the paraffin for the lamps is supplied by the same 
 people. There's no end to it. . . . Why, I can't be 
 certain that I don't own them too, myself." 
 
 " The point is, dear " — Eleanor's calm voice came 
 forth as he paused for breath — " what's Carlo to 
 telephone his mother? and is Augustus to go to 
 Boston . . .?" 
 
 Don was repeating : " There's so much — so 
 much ..." when from the cabinet there came a 
 long, impatient, and as if clamorous, crepitation of 
 
THE SOLID LAND 229 
 
 the little bell, and Canzano, with a sort of hungry 
 and radiant impatience, seemed almost to stab his 
 ear with the little black and nickel baton. 
 
 "Mother," he said, and then eagerly: "Yes, 
 yes. . . . And your dear health. . . . Oh, alas! . . . 
 You should take your drops more regularly. . . . 
 Dear, dear, dear me. ..." And suddenly he dropped 
 into an Itahan of little endearments and quivers that 
 they tried hard not to listen: to. Even he kissed the 
 mouthpiece. And as if the voice of Canzano, the 
 long dialogue of which they heard only the one half, 
 steadied his nerves, Don managed to give to Eleanor 
 the information that she wanted. So that when at 
 last Canzano, after saying to them : " What a thrice- 
 blessed invention the telephone is for those who 
 live! " added the information: " Mr Mackinnon is in 
 Boston! " Eleanor was fairly certain of who Mr 
 Mackinnon was. 
 
 He was, in fact, the gentleman who had sent the 
 cable that she had read in the dining-room at Canter- 
 bury — he was the manager of all Mr Collar Kelleg's 
 enterprises; he had called, as far as Don knew at 
 that moment — and Canzano immediately confirmed 
 it from the telephone — a meeting of all the principal 
 associates of the Kelleg combines at Boston on the 
 following day. At this meeting the will, which was 
 in possession of the Countess Kelleg, was to be read. 
 There couldn't, in consequence, be anything more 
 appropriate than that Don, through his attorney, 
 should be represented at Boston on the morrow. 
 And Eleanor couldn't more heartfeltly acquiesce in 
 anything than in the arrangements that she presently 
 
230 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 heard Canzano making with his mother for the 
 hospitable reception of the man whom — ^however 
 much she could take care of herself — she would be 
 heartily glad to be rid of so advantageously. 
 Augustus could get to work: Augustus could really 
 earn the money that he was going to receive from 
 Don : Augustus would go, she hoped, gradually out 
 of her life. And, poor fellow, he would be freed 
 from his mother. 
 
Ill 
 
 " I ^HIS singularly happy consummation, if it 
 •* brought a considerable peace of mind to 
 Eleanor, caused at least a fit of sufficiently trouble- 
 some jibbing from one other member of the team 
 that she had somehow got the impression she was 
 driving. For Mrs Greville, by one of her tremendous 
 reactions, having decided that she would let her own 
 boxes be unpacked by the maid, had decided that she 
 herself would unpack Eleanor's! 
 
 So that, into the end of the discussion in the large 
 room with the delicate, dusty furniture, she came 
 herself to ask Eleanor whether she wanted her cabin 
 trunk unpacked first. It affected her herself with a 
 sense of a finely dramatic irony. Here was the old 
 generation accepting with a splendid humility the 
 changed times! Nieces no longer waited on their 
 aunts; then the aunts must wait on the nieces. 
 And with her long and bony fingers, on which hung 
 Eleanor's key-chain, with her high nose, hollowed 
 temples and handsome eyes, she thought that, in 
 the high doorway, she must seem like a presentment 
 of Conscience to the erring girl. 
 
 She was received with the news that Augustus was 
 
 going to Boston. It did not entirely root her to the 
 
 spot, but it was quite a time before she was back 
 
 through the folding-doors, and quite another Uttle 
 
 331 
 
232 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 time before her head again came back between the 
 panels to say : 
 
 "Charles! Eleanor! — I wish to speak with 
 you." 
 
 The point in the ensuing scene that most touched 
 Eleanor was the extraordinary vulgarity of appear- 
 ance that her own clothes, her own trunks and her 
 own cosmetics had amongst the trappings of the 
 former Queen of France's bedroom. For her aunt 
 had actually commenced to unpack three of Eleanor's 
 trunks before she had decided that the effect of 
 humility of asking the girl which trunk she would 
 have unpacked first would be strikingly greater 
 than merely having all the " things " already 
 stowed away for her when she had finished flirting 
 with Augustus. So that on the high State bed, on 
 the blue-and-silver toilet-table, over the mirror and 
 on the negro's statuette in the comer Eleanor's 
 skirts, her underskirts, her blouses were already 
 hanging. There was even a pair of shoes upon the 
 green marble mantelpiece. 
 
 Mrs GreviUe began her campaign with saying to 
 her brother-in-law: 
 
 " I suppose then that Kirsen goes with me. And 
 Eleanor too, I presume. She can hardly remain here 
 with you two men alone." 
 
 And upon Mr Greville's politely but quite vacantly 
 asking her what she meant — he was engaged in his 
 own mind with the statistics of native-born Americans 
 in the population of the city in which they were — she 
 uttered equally unemotionally: 
 
 " Of course I go to Boston with my son! " 
 
THE SOLID LAND 233 
 
 " Then, of course," Mr Greville answered her, 
 " the party breaks up. Eleanor, I think, will need 
 her maid herself. Eleanor will certainly remain 
 in New York with me." 
 
 " I can't," Mrs Greville said, " allow my son to go 
 about a strange continent alone." 
 
 " And I," Mr Greville answered, " can't allow my 
 daughter to travel about a strange continent with a 
 young man who pays her unwelcome attentions." 
 
 Mr GreviUe kept his eyes upon the window: his 
 right ear was towards his sister-in-law. 
 
 " Then . . ." Mrs Greville began. But she 
 dropped into the ferocious but irrelevant remark 
 that she had been a good mother if Augustus had 
 never been a good son. She had never allowed him 
 to be away from her since he had been a baby. 
 
 " And surely," she said, " you can't approve of my 
 letting him go to such a household — for the first 
 time! " 
 
 Mr Greville had a positive gleam of humour. 
 
 " It's about time," he said, " that he began to sow 
 his wild oats — ^if he can manage to sow them in a 
 household to which I intend eventually to let my 
 daughter belong." 
 
 " I understand," Mrs Greville began, " from what 
 several ladies told me on board the boat, that this 
 Countess KeUeg . . .' She paused, however, and 
 looked first at Mr Greville and then at Eleanor. 
 Eventually she concluded her sentence: " Whatever 
 may be sanctioned here I shall certainly take Augustus 
 to an hotel . . ." 
 Mr Greville avoided the subject with: 
 
234 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " If you intend to go perhaps you'd like to have the 
 Kelleg Pullman. I understand that the Countess 
 sent it down from Boston to meet her son. But 
 Canzano has decided to leave it here at Don's 
 disposal." 
 
 There seemed to be so absolutely no loophole for 
 a further incision of Mrs Greville's tongue that she 
 hadn't anything left to say but that she would go to 
 attend to her re-packing. 
 
 " I presume," she said, " that Kirsen may help 
 me." 
 
 Mr Greville answered: 
 
 " If Eleanor does not need her! " 
 
 Mrs Greville made a silent exit, whilst Mr Greville 
 was saying expressionlessly to his daughter that he 
 was so extremely angry that he was afraid in his haste 
 he might have done something she disapproved 
 of. 
 
 She reflected for a minute. 
 
 " No," she said, " you're a perfect parent." 
 
 She sank down on a chair rather helplessly and 
 gazed at her various garments hanging in unlikely 
 places. 
 
 " Why! " she said, " she's torn my evening skirt! " 
 It hung, black and lustrous, from the candelabra 
 that the little black marble negro in the corner held 
 wearily towards the ceiling. " I wished at first that 
 you'd let her take Kirsen. I don't now! " 
 
 Mr Greville said : 
 
 " It was precisely because I observed the dis- 
 position she'd made of your belongings that I so 
 decided." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 235 
 
 Eleanor let her arms drop at her sides. 
 
 " Upon my word," she said, " you are a most 
 extraordinary old party! You frighten me out of 
 my life." 
 
 " Well, my dear," he said mildly, " do you think 
 I should have come upon this voyage if I hadn't 
 thought I was able to see things? " 
 
 She was silent for a minute, then she uttered: 
 
 "And, dear, you do approve of what I've 
 done? " 
 
 He answered her with: 
 
 " I think it's an excellent attempt if . . ." and he 
 added after a pause: "if you're strong enough to 
 carry it out. I shouldn't be." 
 
 " But I'm so awfully fond of him," she pleaded with 
 him. 
 
 Mr GrevDle made towards the door, but with the 
 long gilt and chased handle in his hand he paused 
 and looked back over his shoulder. 
 
 " I don't know if you understand," he said, " what 
 your actual problem is." 
 
 Eleanor simply waited for him to speak and he 
 turned round. 
 
 " You've got," he continued, " to reconcile Don to 
 his own country. That's what it amounts to." 
 And after another moment he added: " The man's a 
 poet : that's what the trouble is." 
 
 Eleanor said: 
 
 " Oh, dear, it seems rather desperate if you put it 
 like that." And answering in turn the black glare 
 of his dark eyes : " Is there anything here that you 
 could reconcile a poet to? " 
 
236 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 He came right back to her and took one of her 
 hands between his. 
 
 " My dear," he brought out with a great deal of 
 tenderness, "it all depends if he's a great enough 
 poet! " 
 
 He searched her face with his black eyes: they 
 gave to her the idea of something pathetic in his hard 
 glance, for she knew that when he looked at her like 
 that he was really trying to see her. At other times 
 he was too blind really to know her expression. 
 
 " You understand, Ellie," he said, " that to see the 
 trend of a time and a nation like this you have to be a 
 great enough man to appreciate what you can't like. 
 I don't think Don's up to that." 
 
 " But I am! " Eleanor pleaded with him. 
 
 Mr Greville reflected for a moment, then he 
 said: 
 
 " Women are quite different in these things. They 
 form theories of repulsion: but when they come 
 up against hard facts they've the power to accept 
 them. Most men haven't that faculty — and that's 
 why men bear things so much worse than women." 
 He went on to say — and it was a long and sustained 
 speech for him — that why he himself was practically 
 a recluse, why he hadn't ever taken to even a life so 
 active as that of a civil servant at home, was only 
 partly selfishness. He was selfish enough to be most 
 interested in his own ease. But also he knew that 
 he wasn't strong enough to keep his head in the 
 face of a modem Ufe that he detested. " I should," 
 he said, " have committed myself to some fooUsh, 
 because they'd be impractically retrograde, speeches 
 
THE SOLID LAND 237 
 
 or polities." There wasn't, in fact, in active England 
 or elsewhere any room for what he called a decent man ; 
 the place of such men was gone from the world. 
 What decent men there were in public life to-day did 
 more harm than good, and they soiled themselves 
 by nuxing in pettinesses. 
 
 " And," he added, " that's what will be the trouble 
 with Don. He's too decent — in an idealist, im- 
 practicable way — to handle the problems here. He 
 won't even begin to understand them." And Mr 
 Greville said that, for the convenience of speaking, 
 he'd say that Don was a nineteenth-century Euro- 
 pean Altruist: whereas the United States, what- 
 ever else it might be, was not, and was not ever 
 going to be, nineteenth-century, or European, or 
 Altruist. 
 
 He silenced the objection that she hadn't had time 
 to bring to her lips with : 
 
 " Oh, I don't say it's altogether beastly, or even 
 beastly at all. If it were, I don't think you^d be able 
 to appreciate it, however determined you might be to 
 make allowance." 
 
 "Oh, thank you!" she interjected gratefully. 
 " Because I do like it here! " 
 
 " But," he said, " you must remember that your 
 problem is to make Don like it." 
 
 " I think I can," she brought out, though he shook 
 his head. 
 
 " The point is," he said, " whether it's really any 
 use. I would not mind wagering that within ten 
 days he'll be so dispirited that he'U want to be going 
 back to England." 
 
238 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " If he does . . ." Eleanor began impulsively. 
 But, although he left her plenty of time, she never 
 finished her sentence. 
 
 "Ah!" he uttered, and his voice had even 
 a certain sadness, "that's just what you've 
 got to reflect upon. How will you feel if he 
 does? " 
 
 She answered after quite a long time : 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " My dear " — ^he suddenly broke new ground — 
 " I'd advise you to stay in your room until after your 
 aunt and Augustus have started. They will have to 
 in an hour." 
 
 She looked at him eagerly enough and uttered : 
 
 "Oh, do you think I can? I was just going to 
 ask you." 
 
 He went to the door and once more returned. 
 
 " You won't feel lonely," he asked solicitously, 
 " if I go out with Don till dinner? It appears that 
 he's discovered his barber! " 
 
 She thought that she would feel so Uttle lonely 
 with all her things to arrange that she kept her 
 thoughts on the other problem. 
 
 " I don't want to hurt their feelings. But they're 
 both of them so terrible." 
 
 " My dear," Mr Greville said, " I don't think "— 
 and there was a quite extraordinarily vindictive note 
 in his voice — " I don't think that any punishment is 
 sufficiently great for your aunt's proposing to take 
 you to Boston with Augustus." 
 
 " Oh," Eleanor said, " that was only an insult, you 
 know. She'd have gone mad if I'd come: but she 
 
THE SOLID LAND 239 
 
 wanted to emphasise the fact that if I stayed it would 
 be improper to be with two men alone ..." 
 
 Mr Greville found Don telling Mrs GreviUe — who 
 had her bonnet on already — that one of the chief 
 defects of the United States, and one of the first 
 things that would have to be remedied, was the 
 gradual disappearance of family life. Even among 
 the working dasses, Don said, the chief problem of the 
 head of the house was to conceal his income from 
 his wife. If he got a rise in his wage he tried to 
 conceal it. And the chief endeavours of the woman 
 were directed to getting cents and dollars out of her 
 husband. It was a sort of death-grapple between 
 the sexes all up the social scale. There didn't, he 
 assured her, even begin to exist in America the fine 
 soUdarity of feeUng that there was in every English 
 famUy. A country whose family ties were founded 
 upon money could not expect to be far upon the road 
 to civilisation . . . 
 
 Mrs Greville was so worried to take Don into a 
 corner and ask him for a further draft to cable to her 
 brokers — Kelleg shares were still rising, and it was 
 astonishing how Mrs Greville had mastered the details 
 of conducting her gamble across the Atlantic wastes 
 — that she couldn't do more than utter : 
 
 " Oh, it is terrible. But I can't believe it." 
 
 "It's true," Don said; "you won't find here 
 what you find all over England*— the fine, unruffled, 
 calm, family spirit. And that . . ." 
 
 The entrance simultaneously from three separate 
 doors of Mr Greville, of Canzano and of Augustus — 
 staggering a little under an enormous rug that his 
 
240 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 mother had told him to carry for her, because 
 although the heat was actually tropical, in October, 
 sometimes the nights, she understood, had touches of 
 frost — these three entrances moved her to drag Don 
 into a corner and proffer her request for a loan suffici- 
 ent to help her to make a really large fortune. 
 
IV 
 
 THE parting, without doubt, was hardest upon 
 Augustus. He had to carry along with him 
 not only a heavy assortment of his mother's " things," 
 but a heart that was fuU of an extraordinary bitter- 
 ness. He hadn't, in fact, the least doubt that his 
 cousin, by not treating him worse had treated him 
 extraordinarily badly. He couldn't make up his 
 mind to acknowledge that she hadn't some feeling 
 for him: he wasn't going to acknowledge that she 
 hadn't flirted with him. She had, he maintained. 
 She had, simply because she hadn't turned him out, 
 neck and crop, from her lover's employment. 
 
 And then. . . . She didn't even come to say 
 good-bye to him. He lingered in the large, bluish, 
 dirty, empty drawing-room for so long after the others 
 had gone down in the elevator that at last a bell-boy 
 came to summon him — a bell-boy in a bluish uniform, 
 who told him that it was a hot day and didn't offer 
 to carry the rug, the jewel-case, the dressing-bag or 
 the half-dozen newspapers that his mother had 
 decided to take with them because they were so 
 characteristic. He staggered under the weight of 
 these things — and under the weight of his passion. 
 He couldn't even clench his fist at Eleanor's door 
 with its panelling of shepherds, and he couldn't believe, 
 all the way down in the elevator, in the crowds in the 
 Q 341 
 
242 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 immense, quadrangular, marble and mahogany hall 
 that they called an office — he couldn't believe that she 
 wouldn't come to say good-bye; he couldn't believe 
 it in the New York streets, he couldn't believe it in the 
 ferry that took them, fixed in between its repulsive 
 boards, in their carriage, across the water. It all 
 appeared unrealisably unreal — so unreal that he half 
 believed that Mr GreviUe, who sat silently beside him 
 in the roomy carriage, might have some word of com- 
 fort and encouragement from Eleanorto deliver to him. 
 There wasn't, in the enormous, vaulted, grim 
 dep6t, a porter to carry the dressing-case, the jewel- 
 case, the rug or the half-dozen papers that, in his 
 misery, he was continually dropping from under his 
 arm. But even that seemed hardly real — even the 
 extraordinary appointments of the KeUeg private 
 car — the English footman, the ItaUan maid, the tape 
 machine or the black porter; the velvet and silver, 
 the lace curtains over the leaded windows; the 
 Chippendale chairs and the saddlebag lounges, the 
 French paintings on the ceiling, or the way in which 
 everybody talked in the dim light — ^it all seemed un- 
 real to him. There were undoubtedly voices: he 
 was in a long railway car. But a place where she 
 wasn't, wasn't thinkable — and she wasn't there! 
 He had thrown down the things that troubled him, 
 and he stood on the step of the car scanning the 
 faces that passed. He couldn't believe that she 
 wouldn't be somewhere, looking over some shoulder, 
 to get a last gUmpse of him. She must be some- 
 where; near a French-looking woman with a high 
 figure; near an obviously German man with a blue 
 
THE SOLID LAND 243 
 
 hat, or amongst the long drove of ItaUan immigrants 
 that, impeded with bags and broken parcels, with 
 necks craning, and anxious or confident eyes,streamed 
 slowly down the platform. 
 
 The train moved imperceptibly whilst he still 
 stood upon the step; Don waved his hand; Mr 
 Greville, in his long frock coat and with his high- 
 crowned, soft felt hat, glared after them ; the Italian 
 immigrants stared dully at the roof and glided back- 
 wards. His mother was asking for her lavender 
 salts ; the English footman bent over her, silent and 
 attentive; the bell on the locomotive tolled out. 
 They were moving along with a wonderful smooth- 
 ness: they were out of the station shed and its 
 dim light. It all seemed extraordinarily unfin- 
 ished . . . 
 
 "And now!" Don said. ... He grasped Mr 
 Greville's black elbow upon the platform and turned 
 from watching the departing train. " Now for 
 Twenty-Ninth Street." 
 
 He had at once an odd feeling of going on a holiday 
 with his friend and father-in-law — and an odd fear 
 of his environment, a hostility, a homesickness. Mr 
 GreviUe, however, had obviously only the holiday 
 feeling. He moved with assurance along that cross- 
 the-water platform, along the staircases and tunnels, 
 and on to the deck of the huge ferry as if he had been 
 in Canterbury South Eastern itself. He kept Don 
 perfectly straight, holding him by the elbow when 
 he wished to ask of a man in blue trousers when the 
 doors would open He told a lady who sat by the 
 
244 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 doors on a seat that she was quite right for Twenty- 
 Third Street, and she told him in return that she had 
 come that day from Gloucester and was going on 
 that night to Philadelphia. Having so memorised 
 his plans, his maps and his time-tables that he 
 couldn't go wrong, he made to Don — as they hung to 
 the outside of a trolley whirling up between the piers 
 of Sixth Avenue — he made to Don the assertion 
 that New York was exceedingly practically laid out. 
 And all that poor Don — in the dusk, with the lights 
 glaring out in the squaUd shops, with the " L " 
 trains thundering overhead, with the supports of the 
 Elevated brushing his elbow as they rushed past, 
 with the paper, the straw and the dust whiriing out at 
 the wind of their moving — aU that Don could find to 
 answer was that if New York were practically 
 laid out it hardly seemed worth doing if the best 
 material they could find to work in were Sixth 
 Avenues. 
 
 They crossed, slightly perilously, the greasy 
 granite side of the roadway, and passed into the blue 
 and purple tranquillity of the evening air in the cross 
 street. It was naturally Don who stumbled rather 
 heavily over a hoUow where a square of paving stone 
 was missing from the sidewalk, and it was Don 
 who groaned. It was Mr Greville who said seriously 
 that if they allowed their city to be governed by 
 Irishmen that was what they must expect. And all 
 his Saxon prejudice against the troublesome Islanders 
 spoke in his voice. 
 
 He stopped Don at the mouth of what appeared 
 to be a cave, and said : 
 
THE SOLID LAND 245 
 
 " This is No. 19! " And looking down, Don 
 uttered an exclamation. 
 
 "It's he!" he cried: "it's certainly Kratzen- 
 stein! " 
 
 The sheeted figure of a man lay back in a red velvet 
 chair ; there were cloths about his face, but over him, 
 negligently and assuredly, stood a fat, hook-nosed, 
 grey-whiskered man in gold spectacles. 
 
 " It's certainly Kratzenstein," Don repeated, and 
 as a hot blast came from the cave and swept across 
 their faces he uttered: " That's the very smell! " 
 
 They took an instinctive turn further up the 
 street. 
 
 " It's obviously appropriate," Mr Greville said, 
 " that the first person you should be in a position 
 to make reparation to should be your father's first 
 victim. You'd better," he added, " let me do the 
 initial talking to him." 
 
 They were standing beneath the glass portico 
 of an hotel, and through the open door, up the steps, 
 they had a view of three negroes in blue, high- 
 coloured uniforms. 
 
 " The point is," Don said, " what am I to offer 
 him? " 
 
 Mr Greville considered the point, and gazing at the 
 hft that inside the hotel came down and disgorged 
 a girl in white feathers and a chocolate-coloured 
 attendant, he uttered: 
 
 " The point is, what he'll be contented with." 
 
 " You've a more mathematical mind than I," 
 Don said. " How does it work out? Say we put 
 it that my father made him a loan of $700,000 
 
246 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 when he stole the mine thirty years ago and we 
 allow interest at five per cent." 
 
 Mr GreviUe, with his eyes upon the girl in white, 
 who was leaning across the office counter, made an 
 absent calculation. But before he could utter any- 
 thing Don had said : 
 
 " But I want to be fair. I've got to consider my 
 father's other victims. And the people Kratzen- 
 stein stole the mine from. And I've got to consider 
 that but for my father's genius the mine might never 
 have been proved to be workable, or it might have 
 been discovered by a third party. I want to get at 
 not only the mathematical chances but the moral 
 chances. For supposing Kratzenstein had had his 
 rights thirty years ago, mightn't he have made in- 
 finitely more than the compound interest on $700,000 
 at five per cent? Mightn't he be now the richest 
 citizen in the world? " 
 
 He surveyed his father-in-law elect with a mildly 
 humorous glance whilst one of the negroes came down 
 the steps and asked them if they wanted any gentle- 
 men in that hotel. Don said sharply that he didn't : 
 that it was a free country and that wasn't the hotel's 
 sidewalk. The negro said that if they were calculat- 
 ing on seeing any of the actress troupe that were 
 there they wouldn't, for they'd gone round the town 
 on a Seeing-New-York trip. The hft disappeared 
 and came down again with a fat man with a red tie 
 and a sombrero. 
 
 " It's impossible to know what to do," Don said, 
 " there are millions of considerations." 
 
 Mr Greville seriously considered the man in the 
 
THE SOLID LAND 247 
 
 sombrero, who was leaning over the office counter 
 beside the girl in white. She was laughing with the 
 clerk : the clerk had grey hair, an English manner, 
 and a pleasant, tired smile. 
 
 " I should say," he said, " that you'd better make 
 the acquaintance of Mr Kratzenstein and then act 
 upon impulse as he affects you." 
 
 " But," Don said, " I don't want to act upon 
 impulse. I want to discover what are the moral 
 responsibilities. It sounds ridiculous: but I'm 
 quite in earnest." 
 
 The lift went up again and came down once more 
 with four young men in bowlers and n/gUg^ shirts. 
 They aU went to lean over the of&ce counter and 
 waited patiently whilst the young lady in white 
 chatted with the pleasant clerk. 
 
 " That lift's very worr5n[ng to me," Mr Greville 
 said, and they moved stiU further up the street till 
 they came to where the sidewalk was entirely torn 
 up before a vacant plot. And here the roar of the 
 trolleys on Broadway made it necessary for Mr 
 Greville to raise his voice. 
 
 " If you want my recommendations," he shouted, 
 " I should suggest that you find out from him what 
 he would consider to be a really comfortable affluence 
 for himself and his children — and give him just 
 that . . ." 
 
 It happened that along the blaze of Broadway 
 there shot an immense ladder, with a wildly clamor- 
 ous bell, and immediately afterwards the young 
 lady in white, two negroes, a man in shirt sleeves 
 and a very agUe, fat Irishman, jostled hastily past 
 
248 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 them. Mr Greville's voice came eventually out of the 
 dwindling tumult: 
 
 " The first thing to do is to see the man; without 
 that you can't form any judgment as to whether he'd 
 have made a fortune or whether he'd have used it 
 well or iU." 
 
 " I guess," Don said discouragingly, " they'll 
 find it easier to settle that fire they're off to than I'll 
 find it to settle what I'm to do." 
 
 " Oh, see your man first," Mr GrevUle said. 
 
 As they passed the hotel door Mr Greville noted 
 that the fat man in the cowboy hat, and the four young 
 men in bowlers, reinforced now by two more without 
 any hats at all, were still leaning over the office 
 counter asking for their mails. The pleasant- 
 looking clerk was not visible. 
 
 " I should suppose," he said, " that you use a 
 good deal of time over obtaining your correspond- 
 ence in this country." 
 
 But even Mr Greville was not able to extract very 
 much from Mr Kratzenstein. He desired his evening 
 shave. But the old gentleman, with his profuse 
 white waistcoat, his alpaca coat and his gold pince- 
 nez, was of opinion that Mr GreviUe's hair would be 
 much better for a cut. With a slow, benevolent 
 and authoritative manner: "It looks," he said, 
 " dam foolish like that." 
 
 Mr GreviUe said that he was in the habit of having 
 his hair cut only by one barber — ^in the Ha3Tnarket. 
 
 " Better have your hair cut," Mr Kratzenstein 
 answered, and having put on another pair of pince- 
 nez with steel rims he added once more, as if he were 
 
THE SOLID LAND 249 
 
 satisfied with his new inspection, that it looked dam 
 foolish like that. 
 
 And whilst, with a fat and benevolent deliberation, 
 he waddled round his subterranean store, fetching 
 bits of cotton wool, face cloths, sponges and essences, 
 he amiably countered Mr Greville's attempt to speak 
 about Montana with: 
 
 " Ah ! I guess'd you'd come to talk to Kratzenstein 
 about that. But it's dam foolishness. What you 
 know about Montana if I talk ? — English pipple 
 doand know about Montana. I serve my apprentice- 
 ship in the shop you talk about in the Haymarket. 
 I kep' a shop of my own in Ladbroke Grove, 
 London, before I sell it to go West. / ken talk about 
 London, Eng., and about Hamburg, where I come 
 from. But what you know about Montana? Noth- 
 ing. Better haf your hair cut." 
 
 He continued to mutter that he'd guessed they'd 
 come to Kratzenstein to talk about Montana; whilst 
 tilting Mr Greville and the velvet chair bodily back- 
 wards he suddenly became both speechless and 
 motionless. 
 
 " Your hair does look foolish like that," he said; 
 and receiving no answer he continued suddenly: 
 " AU these journalist fellows is foolish . . ." 
 
 Mr Greville's head against the velvet rest 
 let his face look up at the fly papers dangUng from 
 the low celling: it wore an air of unruffled calm as 
 if he were in bed. 
 
 " You've had the journalists at you? " he asked, 
 " about the late Mr Kelleg? " 
 
 Mr Kratzenstein stood with the lather brush 
 
250 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 elevated in his hand; he peered at Mr GrevUle's 
 face above his glasses, put on another pair and looked 
 at him again. 
 
 " Stasdng in the hotel? " he asked; and to Mr 
 Greville's question of what hotel, he answered shortly, 
 " Dis is a hoteL" And he added: "So you ain't 
 stayin' in the hotel." He put the lather brush upon 
 Mr Greville's chin, stayed to reflect a moment, and 
 above his glasses, without moving his head, looked 
 at Don, who, in an agony of sohcitude as to Mr 
 Greville's temper, was sitting against a fly-blown 
 mirror with a red velvet frame, upon a very hard 
 red velvet bench. 
 
 " If you ain'd stayin' in the hotel," he said, 
 "and if you ain'd read the New York papers, 
 how'd you come to know of me and old man 
 Kelleg? " 
 
 " Suppose," said Mr Greville, with the utmost 
 equanimity, " I'd read the article about you in the 
 magazine a year ago." 
 
 Mr Kratzenstein continued to lather his customer 
 for a full three minutes without speaking. Then he 
 put on his glasses with the gold rims and took up 
 his razor. 
 
 " Suppose you had! " he said, and commenced 
 his stropping with an air of a doctor leisurely en- 
 gaged in operation. 
 
 Mr Greville winced his eyes a httle under the tickle 
 of the drsdng lather. 
 
 " Suppose then, in addition, that Mr Kelleg's 
 son, considering the story of the mine, were anxious 
 to make you reparation." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 251 
 
 Mr Kratzenstein waddled slowly from the marble 
 slab to Mr Greville's head. 
 
 " Suppose that too! " he said. Mr Greville took 
 refuge in silence and Mr Kratzenstein shaved. At 
 last he brought out : " What does Don KeUeg know 
 about the mine? " Mr Greville answered that he 
 knew what had appeared in the magazine, and Mr 
 Kratzenstein, who had removed one half the lather, 
 baring Mr Greville's face to the centre of the chin, 
 came again to a halt, the razor raised in his fat, 
 grejdsh hand. 
 
 " Let's put it in words," he said. He removed the 
 rest of the beard and then spoke: "Don Kelleg 
 knows that I was bankrupt for 600 dollars. Don 
 Kelleg knows that I made over the mine in secret 
 to his father to cheat my creditors. Don Kelleg 
 knows that when my bankruptcy was over and I 
 wanted the mine back his father didn't give it . . ." 
 
 He waddled to the basin in the recess of the store, 
 turned on a tap and dipped a towel in water. And 
 suddenly he turned, shaking apparently with fury. 
 
 " If Don Collar Kelleg," he said, " was to come 
 here offering me his charity I'd bat him on the pants 
 as I've done fifty times already." 
 
 He waddled swiftly to Mr Greville and upon his 
 motionless, brown face dropped suddenly the towel, 
 that was so hot that Mr Greville's legs drew them- 
 selves up in the chair. He kept the towel pressed 
 down with his hands, and above Mr Greville's in- 
 visible eyes and forehead brought out : 
 
 " I'm a free citizen of a free country. I haven't 
 no use for charity." 
 
252 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 Don dropped his eyes upon the floor. 
 
 " Reporters and chumalists and drummers and 
 touts haf bin coming all the week," he said. " I'm 
 sick of talkin'. I've got a house of my own above 
 the Palisades : I've got a wife of my own : I've got 
 two boys of mine own at College. I don't want 
 charity." 
 
 He removed the towel from Mr GreviUe's face, 
 and waddling back and forward between the basin 
 and the head of his patient with new towels of 
 different temperatures kept up a long monologue 
 in a language that, as he approached agitation, 
 grew more incomprehensible. But it bore itself 
 gradually to Don's senses that Mr Kratzenstein 
 accepted the fact that his father's robbing him of 
 the mine was a perfectly legitimate stroke of busi- 
 ness : that Mr Kratzenstein had been an adventurer 
 aU over the world: that, as he phrased it, he 
 hadn't gathered no moss to speak of, but that 
 he'd kick in an unpoetical region any man who 
 offered him a penny he hadn't a right to or couldn't 
 steal. 
 
 " So that that," Don said, breaking the silence 
 for the first .time, " is your last word? " 
 
 Kratzenstein was rubbing cold cream, with 
 weighty fingers, into the skin of Mr Greville's cheeks. 
 He looked at Don askew with a sedate, jocular, heavy 
 manner. 
 
 " You ain'd changed much," he said, and rubbed 
 a httle more, with his finger tips. He chuckled 
 in a very oily manner without moving a feature of his 
 heavy, tired face. " D'you suppose I didn't know 
 
THE SOLID LAND 253 
 
 you the first moment you came down my steps, 
 Don CoUar KeUeg? " 
 
 He pulled the towel deliberately from above Mr 
 Greville's form and wheezily set the chair to its 
 vertical position. 
 
 " As you ain'd made me no offer of charity I 
 ain'd got no call to be grouchy. But doan'd you 
 do it! Doan'd you do it! " 
 
 He proceeded to enlarge upon what it was to be 
 a citizen of a free country and told Don not to come 
 the Englishman over him. He said he'd never 
 made much dollars and never supposed he would: 
 he'd been a roUing stone. He'd been all over the 
 world from Hamburg to 'Frisco and back again to 
 N' York. And there he was. He squared at 
 Don his massive chest and great white waistcoat. 
 His hooked nose, his gold glasses, his black coat 
 and his air of being a specialist whom you might 
 consult as to your ailments, and the slightly truculent 
 gleam in his eyes — all these things carried very 
 weightily the idea that he was not a man you could 
 do anything for. And faced with that " proposition " 
 Don hadn't a word to say. Mr Greville too was 
 quite silent — there wasn't any room for action 
 from him. But suddenly an arch look came into 
 Kratzenstein's grey, flabby features. 
 
 "I ain'd hog-proud!" he said. "I've just a 
 thousand shares in the Carey Gold Co. They ain'd 
 worth a penny : there's no gold there and no engines. 
 But if you're the man your father was you can 
 make those shares go up to four hundred dollars 
 apiece! " 
 
254 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " But," Don said. . . 
 
 Kratzenstein surveyed him above his glasses, 
 and Don continued: 
 
 " If there's no gold it would be robbing the 
 public! " 
 
 Kratzenstein chuckled: he put his hands upon 
 his sides, he put his hands to his face, he puUed 
 off his glasses, and he burst into a volcanic peal of 
 laughter. 
 
 " De best . . . choke . . . I've effer . . . 
 heard!" he panted. "And from your father's 
 son! " 
 
 He resumed a sudden immobility. 
 
 " That's the only thing I'll take from you, Mr Don 
 Collar Kelleg," he said. "You kin do it. Make 
 them shares worth four hundred apiece. It's 
 what one friend can do for another . . ." 
 
 He wouldn't, in his view, lose caste in accepting 
 that service. 
 
 The episode gave, as it were, the note to all Don's 
 experience of New York — amongst, at least, that part 
 of the population that was in any way Americanised. 
 As he said to Eleanor and her father at the end of 
 the fortnight they spent in the city : What the popu- 
 lation wanted of you was not the abolition of Trusts, 
 it was just the chance to turn worthless stocks into 
 half a million dollars. He wouldn't have minded 
 if Kratzenstein had asked him to advertise a 
 pomade of his own invention: he would have 
 minded still less if Kratzenstein had asked him to 
 advertise his saloon in each one of the 21,000 papers 
 
THE SOLID LAND 255 
 
 of the United States. But Kratzenstein had been, 
 as it were, given a wish — as in the old days men 
 were given wishes by favouring gods — and the 
 only wish that his independence had allowed him 
 to accept carried with it the swindling of the whole 
 community. 
 
 "Rigging the market! Rigging the market! 
 That's the note of New York! " he said in his bitter- 
 ness. 
 
 He didn't, indeed, utter it in haste, though he may 
 have formed the opinion before ever he began his 
 investigations. But he had, at least, the caution to 
 make investigations that took up the greater part of 
 fourteen days, and he had experiences that tended 
 to harden his ideas. His step-mother sent him 
 down from Boston, with the Pullman car that she 
 returned to be at his disposal, a mild, smooth-haired, 
 smooth-faced and very quiet young man who had 
 been his father's secretary when he travelled. His 
 father's other secretaries were all working as hard 
 as could be at producing some sort of statement of 
 accounts. The young man was actually a Scotch- 
 man, but you couldn't have told him from a Harvard 
 graduate; his name was Saunders, and Don's first 
 impulse was to pack him about his business. He 
 was going to destroy all his father's work: he was 
 going to dismiss all his father's agents. But the 
 thought came to him that he hadn't the right to do 
 this. This young man — whose home appeared to be 
 the Pullman, so solely had his duties consisted of 
 attending to Mr Kelleg when he travelled, — this 
 young man, in addition to his payment for service 
 
256 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 that had undoubtedly been faithful, had established 
 a claim to some sort of a career. It was Don's duty 
 to satisfy this claim: he couldn't turn Saunders 
 adrift! 
 
 Very happily it turned out that Saunders hadn't 
 ever had very much to do with the details of Don's 
 father's business: his principal function seemed 
 to have been to aid Mr Kelleg in getting about. He 
 had at his fingers' ends not so much the prices of rail- 
 way stocks as the contents of all the railway time- 
 tables, the disposition of all the lines of rails, the 
 knowledge of what train could be stopped to make 
 way for Mr KeUeg's " Special " and of what — they 
 were very few — couldn't. If Mr KeUeg had wanted 
 to rush — as he very frequently did — from Hut, Ma., 
 to New York, N.Y., it had been Saunders's business 
 to clear all the lines, right across the continent: 
 he had to puU aU the wires, have all the trains out 
 of the way, and impress all the railway officials with 
 the sense that to keep Mr KeUeg's train waiting two 
 minutes was to cause the ruin of that system for 
 ever. 
 
 He was, in fact, the king of couriers, and since it 
 was Don's business to see New York in fourteen days, 
 he was, very exactly, the man to lead Don and his 
 father-in-law about the poorer streets. He did it with 
 absolute efficiency: they visited the negro quarters, 
 they visited the lowest American white quarters; 
 they spent two whole days among the Jews and 
 half a day in the underground passages of the 
 Chinese; they ate incredible dishes in Hungarian 
 restaurants; they saw wild dances in Bosnian 
 
THE SOLID LAND 257 
 
 cafh ; they saw the trolley cars in one of the cross- 
 town streets down by Eleventh Avenue bombarded 
 by brickbats from the house tops; they even heard 
 revolver shots fired from side to side of the street 
 that was half negro and half white. The foul 
 atmospheres gave them bad headaches ; the language 
 of the Ward poUticians that they interviewed across 
 the zinc counters of their saloons — the language of 
 these huge, obese, hard-voiced men addled their 
 very senses of hearing: the world seemed to Don 
 so horribly brown, so crowded, so foul, so arrogant, 
 so vile, that he hadn't any eyes at all for the blue, 
 tranquil and hght-begemmed nights of the tiny and 
 soaring city. 
 
 They were — ^he and Mr Greville — very efficiently 
 guided, and if Mr Greville saw reason to imagine 
 that a riot between a colony of toughs in a turning 
 off Pearl Street — a riot from which they escaped 
 with a decided sense of danger — if Mr Greville saw 
 reason to believe that this riot had been actually 
 engineered by the efficient Saunders, with the aid 
 of several obese and benevolent policemen and three 
 or four prize-fighters, there wasn't the least doubt 
 that one man — Don visited him in hospital — was 
 actually killed with a pickaxe. And Don had the 
 comment to make that it showed a horrible social 
 order when you could have men fight and bribe 
 policemen to manage the tumult. If it wasn't an 
 exhibition of a real tumult he was just as much 
 obliged to Saunders for showing him how it was 
 possible to " arrange " something that, morally 
 considered, was infinitely worse. 
 
258 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 The Press, too, filled him with an equal horror. If 
 the papers hadn't got word of the fact that he was 
 in New York they had got hold of several of his early 
 friends with whom he had studied Art in Paris. And 
 it grieved him more than anything that a man he'd 
 really loved — a man he'd regarded as a genius — 
 should have sold to the New York H a photo- 
 graph that Don had given him, together with a 
 string of confidences — ^including the anecdote of the 
 Master who had told Don that he was a muff — and in- 
 cluding the fact that Don was engaged to Eleanor. 
 
 The New York H pubUshed indeed a photograph 
 
 of a well-known London music-hall star artiste 
 labelled: ''Photo of Eleanor" and with a headline 
 all across the page : " Eleanor collars Collar I Richest 
 American potted by British Pauper Portraitist ! " 
 And the intimate friend had added three columns 
 of Eleanor's own conversation. 
 
 As Don put it in apologising to her, they would 
 have to expect that sort of thing of the papers. 
 
 They couldn't object to the Sunday N , which 
 
 repMed to the details of the New York H with 
 
 ten columns of simple inventions about the pair of 
 them. They hadn't any right to worry about the 
 inventions of New York. What was lamentable 
 was that all the use the United States could make 
 of a man — their former feUow-student — ^whom they 
 both remembered as a genius, was to set him to 
 betray confidences. They couldn't use him as an 
 artist: he was starving: they could make use of 
 his dishonourable gossip. But by an odd coinci- 
 dence a little adventure of Mr GreviUe fotmd its 
 
THE SOLID LAND 259 
 
 way into all the New York papers. Mr Greville, 
 in returning from the post-of&ce upon a Broadway 
 trolley, had, by a sort of miracle, found a seat. 
 Next him there had sat a Califomian fruit-grower 
 who had insisted on forcing on Mr GreviUe a 
 huge and red-cheeked apple, adding over and over 
 again : 
 
 " Eat it: eat it right now. It's a peach! " 
 And Mr Greville, reclining in the palm-filled 
 marble office of the hotel, had taken the apple from 
 the tail-pocket of his frock-coat and had remarked 
 to an interested stranger on the oddness of that 
 locution. And next day all the New York papers 
 were filled with headlines: " British Peer and Peach. 
 Earl of Greville goes one on Adam." Because Mr 
 Greville had refused to eat an apple. 
 
 But if, on the other hand, Don had set out to see 
 the blacknesses, Eleanor had found the good time 
 that Don was so anxious for her to have — the good 
 time that, for his sake, she was quite determined to 
 secure. The train that brought the travelling 
 secretary of Mr Kelleg had brought also his travelling 
 stenographer — a lady called Dubosc, half Irish and 
 half Manhattan Dutch. Tall, with a tight, sweet 
 figure, reddish hair, and brownish, golden, short- 
 sighted eyes, Miss Dubosc was, Eleanor found, 
 exactly the person to help her in seeing New York. 
 They went to all sorts of places that Eleanor found 
 gay and excellently arranged; they walked with a 
 sense of freedom and delight right from Washington 
 Square to the Art Gallery; they shopped at the 
 hugest shops; they went even with a gay male 
 
26o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 friend of Miss Dubosc to the last big baseball match 
 of the season: they lunched, with the same young 
 friend, in the last-discovered Italian restaurant, 
 where, on broken - backed chairs, in a back- 
 yard, beneath strings of washing, they ate little 
 messes of rice and tomatoes and laughed extra- 
 vagantly. 
 
 They spent the evenings — Don and Eleanor alone 
 — ^in going to innumerable theatres that Don found 
 uniformly vulgar and abject. And Eleanor re- 
 minded him that there weren't two decent pieces 
 ever to be seen in London at once. And when 
 they went with her father to Coney Island by 
 boat — she insisted on it because she was certain 
 that Don was growing ill — ^she became almost 
 angry because he refused to see how fairy-like was 
 the aspect of New York Bay at night. He couldn't 
 see it simply because he was so filled with the idea 
 that the illuminated dime-shows to be found in 
 Coney Island itself were imbecile and degrading 
 that he couldn't see anything at all. The good 
 behaviour, the good order, the cheerfulness, the 
 decorum of the crowd — ^the things that to her were 
 noticeable — counted to him for nothing: the lights 
 counted for nothing: the pleasure counted for 
 nothing. He couldn't let himself go: he wandered 
 in the blaze, in the crowd, by her side or by her 
 father's with a dizzy gloom. This, he said, was the 
 best they could do then ! And there wasn't a trace 
 of refinement, of intellect — even of thought. 
 
 And if Eleanor could not, truthfully, contend that 
 there was any trace of thought in watching dazed- 
 
THE SOLID LAND 261 
 
 \ 
 
 looking Indians playing with rattlesnakes, in having 
 a megaphone beUow in your ear that for ten cents 
 you could have your future husband's name told, in 
 watching innumerable dancers in a diffused blaze 
 of light whirl with set faces to the sound of the 
 most brazen band on earth on a floor that was so 
 much the largest and slipperiest on earth that you 
 couldn't distinguish objects at its further end — 
 if she couldn't, in Coney Island, find anything 
 uplifting, she could, when they were in the blue 
 night of the steamer, going back, confess that it 
 had made her contagiously happy to be with so 
 many nice people who themselves were all so happy. 
 It was true that at the Bowery Restaurant, where 
 they had eaten a dinner that was quite better than 
 anything they got at their hotel, served by waiters 
 at least more cheerfully polite than any they had 
 at their hotel, in a crowd that numbered three 
 thousand, the night before a gentleman had gone 
 mad and emptied his revolver, killing three people 
 and escaping entirely. But she remembered that 
 two years before the same thing had happened in the 
 best caf^ in Rome five minutes after she had left 
 it — and poor, bright, luminous, happy Coney Island 
 had been built in a day. And, as she put it, she 
 had been going about with forty thousand people for 
 four hours yet not a single unpleasant word had been 
 uttered to her; it couldn't, she triumphantly said, 
 have happened anywhere in Europe. She couldn't 
 even imagine herself doing such a thing. 
 
 And where, she asked, when the steamer had put 
 off, could they find anything more really beautiful 
 
262 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 than that scene !^ They were, in deep blackness, on a 
 crowded deck, in air so fresh that it was more than 
 comfortable for her father when she insisted on 
 turning up his coUar. They were upon smooth, 
 dimpled water, and in the blue-black nothingness of 
 the night, with the heads of the passengers, the 
 funnels and rails silhouetted in a singular effect of 
 silence, they saw the domes, the minarets, the towers, 
 the fountains, existing in lines, in masses, in globes, in 
 flames of fire, with below them a blaze of reflection 
 streaking down the black waters. The stiUness, 
 the absolute beauty and the distance made her say : 
 " It's taken New York to make that! " 
 Don groaned, and the voice of a young girl, with 
 a burred, hard accent that she could already dis- 
 tinguish as of New England, uttered a long string of 
 incomprehensible words. " One — two — nine — 
 paper — seven — four — sumach — eighteen — eleven 
 — ninety-one — orange ..." And the voice, low- 
 ered and confidential, that Eleanor knew to be the 
 girl's lover's, corrected her gently from time to time. 
 They sat there in the beneficent coolness surrounded 
 by lovers, and the sound of this little, idiotic ritual 
 — for it was evidently some ritual — filled her with 
 such satisfaction — ^it was aU so appropriate a set- 
 ting for love and satisfaction — ^that she half had 
 it in her to add to her: " It's taken New York to 
 make that!" a rather heated: "And if it were 
 aU New York had done, it's so ideal, for simple 
 people, that New York would be justified of its 
 existence." 
 She did not say so, because at the same moment 
 
THE SOLID LAND 263 
 
 it struck her that it was like Canzano— that it would 
 seem tantamount to saying that because New York 
 had given her a new sensation New York was 
 justified of its existence. But she was aware, too, 
 that what in justice to herself she reaUy meant 
 was that New York was justified because it could 
 give to so many of its very poorest a sight that was 
 so supremely touching. It had taken New York 
 to make a Coney Island — to set so many ingenious 
 brains working to turn out Uttle, meretricious, 
 thoughtless " attractions " that in the sum made up 
 a mass of Ught and gaiety, in the dark night, so 
 supremely attractive. She had had at least enough 
 of an art student's education to be able to believe 
 that the emotion one feels before something of a 
 unique beauty was as valuable as an ethical or in- 
 tellectual discovery. . . . And here she had felt an 
 emotion — and she beheved that it was open to every 
 New York pauper to have identically such an emo- 
 tion. But she hated even to feel angry with Don, 
 and she uttered a quite pleasantly bantering : 
 
 " Dear boy! If you want Wilham Morris effects 
 and floppy gowns this isn't surely the place to come 
 to for them! " 
 
 She had, the afternoon before, visited with his 
 father's stenographer, the attractive Miss Dubosc, 
 a Settlement way back in the State of New Jersey, 
 a settlement that had seemed to her the most un- 
 attractive, because it was the most self-conscious 
 thing she had yet seen. Here there were disagreeable- 
 looking women talking of book-bindings, unhealthy- 
 looking men talking about printing, egregiously 
 
264 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 precocious children talking about living a higher 
 life — people in ugly woollen garments and people 
 with practically no garments at all — aU talking about 
 turning out rough, ugly china, books, or axe handles 
 with rough, ugly ornamentations. She had seen, 
 of course, the same sort of thing at home, but in 
 Jersey State it appeared to her to be vicious instead 
 of merely silly . . . 
 
 Seated beside her, his collar, too, turned up to his 
 ears, Don groaned again. 
 
 " Listen to those idiots ! " he said. 
 
 He was referring to the lovers who were drawUng 
 out — together now — " Ninety-three — ^ninety-seven — 
 pumpkin — ninety — a hundred — Halleluja — " 
 
 And at his contemptuous reference to what to 
 her seemed so sacred just because it was so senseless, 
 so healthy just because it was so unself-conscious, 
 she could not help sajdng hotly: 
 
 " Don't you think we should be better em- 
 ployed . . ." 
 
 But she didn't finish her sentence because the 
 steamer happened to hoot, and when it had finished 
 a couple of dimly-visible ItaUans, with hardly 
 visible, odd, musical instruments, appeared in the 
 gloom and began to bring out strangely and glamor- 
 ously the sounds of a lilting song that she recog- 
 nised as having set to it the words: " On the shady 
 side of Broadway . . ." 
 
 Don said : " Oh, hell! " and plunged from her side. 
 Immediately afterwards she heard his voice sa5dng: 
 " I'll give you a hundred-dollar bill to throw those 
 fiddles over the side . . ." 
 
THE SOLID LAND 265 
 
 She was on her feet: she had already said 
 hotly: 
 
 " Oh, it's too bad! All these people want the 
 music! " 
 
 But he did not hear her because one of the Italians 
 was trying to explain to him in incomprehensible 
 language that the violin and the odd wind-organ 
 were the property of the shipping company . . . 
 
 Don slunk back bitterly to his seat. 
 
 " For all I know," he said to Eleanor, " the 
 shipping company's my property too. But I teU 
 you I'U buy it up if it isn't. I'll buy up Coney 
 Island. I'll suppress the whole thing! " 
 
 Eleanor was dejectedly silent. It occurred to her 
 that she had been frightfully angry, with Don too: 
 and she hated to have been angry: she couldn't 
 remember to have been angry for years and years. 
 And then she began to argue with him, gently and 
 calmly. In the darkness she took hold of his hand. 
 She was determined to make him see that the scene 
 was beautiful, and the lovers aroimd them in the right 
 to love rhythmical, inane tunes and rituals. She 
 pointed out to him, in the darkness, how orderly 
 and how gentle aU these people were. . . . And at 
 last, quite suddenly, the inevitable happened. He 
 brought out: 
 
 " Then I'd better go back to England! " 
 
 She said: 
 
 " Oh, dear! Why in the world? " 
 
 " Because," he said, with an agitating energy of 
 self-depreciation, " you're right and I'm wrong. Of 
 course you're right. There isn't anything more poetic 
 
266 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 than poor, gentle, little people seeking for pleasure. 
 What can / do here? I can't see an5^hing." 
 
 But the suddenness with which he had reacted from 
 his quite passionate point of view towards hers that 
 was so entirely opposite was to her as disturbing as 
 his former fury. 
 
 " Dear," she said, " the trouble is that you see too 
 much." 
 
 He let his head hang dejectedly for a long while. 
 The water rustled loudly around the steamer: the 
 sound of the fiddle and the orgaji came from within 
 the boat: a tired father for the fourth time picked 
 up a httle boy that would faU from a too crazy stool, 
 and Uke a portent, far away to the left, another of 
 those centres of pleasures, with domes and pyramids 
 of fire, hung in the blue, dark sky and sent trails of 
 fire towards them down the waters. He said at 
 last: 
 
 " I'm no use. I think and think. And then at 
 the last moment I do the very wrongest thing. I 
 see now that it was positively cruel to interfere with 
 that Uttle tinkling noise. But at the time I thought 
 it was degrading. The fact is that there's a poetry 
 in these things that I don't see and that you do. . . ." 
 He reflected again and then added : 
 
 "No: I teU you quite plainly that if it weren't 
 that I can break up my father's Trusts I'd go back 
 to England to-morrow." 
 
 " If you did . . ." Eleanor was beginning. But 
 from the dark, silent, but always attentive, form of 
 Mr Greville there came decisive tones : 
 
 " Before you speak, my dear," he said — " I may 
 
THE SOLID LAND 267 
 
 say before you even form an opinion, just reflect 
 upon what Don's position actually is." 
 
 Mr Greville stood up before them and his hat 
 became bluishly silhouetted against the clear sky. 
 
 " You were meaning to say that Don would make 
 you angry if he committed himself to any course of 
 action and then drew back. That's what you mean, 
 isn't it? " 
 
 " Isn't that what he would be doing? " Eleanor 
 asked. 
 
 A very decided "No! " came from Mr Greville. 
 
 Eleanor reflected for a long time: at last her 
 father continued : 
 
 " Get the facts quite clear in your mind. The facts 
 are the only things that matter. Don't let yourself 
 be carried away by your own personal emotions. 
 Don hasn't committed himself to anything but break- 
 ing up his father's Trusts. He still, you may say, 
 means to do that. But to do that doesn't postulate 
 remaining in this country. It doesn't mean that 
 he must remain in a coimtry that he obviously can't 
 understand or sympathise with. It doesn't necessi- 
 tate that: he may or he may not ..." 
 
 " But how," Eleanor asked, " can he be certain 
 that it would be for the good of the country if he did 
 break up the Trusts ? Mayn't they be good too ? Can 
 he decide before he's seen more? " 
 
 Mr Greville pondered for a very little while. 
 
 " Oh, that," he said, " is so much in his character 
 that I don't think even he could see the other side of 
 it! " And he added, after a pause: "The whole 
 thing amounts to this; Don is, as you've said often 
 
268 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 enough, a poet. But he's like me in being hopelessly 
 out of date with his time. You're exactly right 
 when you say that he's more in touch with ^Esthetic 
 Settlements than he could ever be with Coney 
 Island. ..." Eleanor reaUsed that her father was 
 really going to make a very long speech : she realised 
 that he was defending Don with a sort of whole- 
 heartedness that she had never heard him use before, 
 and that he was actually pleading with her in the 
 darkness. He was pleading with her to ducify her 
 sense of right and wrong : he was trying to make her 
 see that she mustn't mix up the wrongness of an in- 
 dividual with wrong views of the necessities of a 
 nation. She felt intuitively that he was really say- 
 ing: " Don's in this matter perfectly right to abdi- 
 cate. He's right to see that his brain isn't fit to face 
 these problems that he couldn't get hold of. It 
 isn't, in this case, a weakness. It's a strength." 
 Actually he was saying : " Don is acting precisely 
 as I've acted aU my life. He hates modem cir- 
 cumstances. I don't say that he wants what / 
 want. He doesn't. He isn't for the Tory Party 
 right or wrong. But he is for ^stheticism right or 
 wrong. He does, really, want the American people to 
 go in for certain European virtues — for Poetry and 
 the Higher Thought and Rational Dress. Well, they 
 can't! How can they? America is made up of 
 men who've fled from him just as much as they've 
 fled from me. It's made up of people who left Europe 
 because they could not stand Tory restraints or 
 Poetic restraints. How in the world could he impose 
 himself on this steamboat? These people wouldn't 
 
THE SOLID LAND 269 
 
 like a fourteenth-century air played on a virginal. 
 They want a tune called ' On the Shady Side of Broad- 
 way' played on something that makes a brajTing 
 noise. I'll admit that it's poetic from one point of 
 view. rU admit that you've given an admirable 
 exposition of the point of view. But to Don and me 
 it will always remain beastly! " 
 
 " But," Eleanor said, " New York isn't America. 
 The West's America. Miss Dubosc has told me! 
 Don hasn't seen the West." 
 
 " My dear child," Mr GreviUe said, " how can you 
 be so disingenuous? You don't pretend to imagine 
 that you think cowboys and miners aren't even 
 newer than New York. Do you think that Don is 
 going to be able to convert them to mediaeval gowns 
 or a love for Fra Angelico? " 
 
 He didn't wait for any answer to that knock- 
 down blow and Eleanor, whilst Don was explaining 
 to her how exactly her father had really " sized him 
 up," brought out towards his retreating figure: 
 
 " Aren't you really merely trying to set Don 
 against this country because you hate this country? " 
 
 Mr GreviUe came slowly back to say: 
 
 " Aren't you trying to make Don love this country 
 because, out of affection for him, you've hypnotised 
 yourself into loving things that normally you 
 couldn't stand? " 
 
 He stood right before her again, back upon his 
 heels. 
 
 " This steamer isn't reaUy more orderly than a 
 Greenwich steamer. Coney Island is not, reaUy, 
 more delightful than Earl's Court. New York isn't 
 
270 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 really more beautiful than London. You like it 
 because you've got yourself in the mood to like it. 
 But that's not the point. The point is that Don 
 isn't, really, any more the proper person to re- 
 generate New York than I'm the person to regenerate 
 London. I've got the sense not to try it for 
 London : you ought to have the sense to be glad that 
 he isn't going to try it for New York." 
 
 He was silent for a minute and then he said : 
 
 " My dear, you haven't begun to think because 
 you're so anxious to see Don act. How could he 
 ever rmderstand America? How could any one 
 ever understand America or the future of America? 
 You can't teU anything about it. You can't tell 
 that in a hundred years it won't be populated en- 
 tirely by Latins and Sclavs. Do you understand that 
 at present that seems to be its probable fate? Well, 
 then, what would be the good of Don's trying to 
 form the future of a mixed race of Latins and Sclavs 
 — and negroes? How could he? He doesn't 
 understand them: he never could. And the best 
 thing he could do — the most heroic action — is to 
 have the self-restraint to abstain from muddling." 
 
 He turned upon his heel and in the light from the 
 hatchway they saw him pick up the tired man's child 
 that had once more fallen from the rickety stool. 
 
 Eleanor remained for a long time silent: it was 
 Don who did the talking. 
 
 " At bottom he's exactly right," he said, " though 
 he doesn't explain my actual feelings. My actual 
 feelings are simply bewilderment — and horror." 
 And he went on to describe his bewilderment and his 
 
THE SOLID LAND 271 
 
 horror. He had been simply appalled at New York — 
 at its squalid back streets, at its hard voices, at its 
 hideous language, at its physical recklessness, and at 
 the fact that he hadn't discovered, anjrwhere, a trace 
 of desire for anything morally better. They only 
 wanted, aU these people, plush instead of cotton, 
 six-course dinners instead of one meal of canned 
 meat, a chance of a million doUars instead of a 
 daily wage of one doUar twenty-five cents. " Of 
 course," he said, " I don't say they won't develop 
 ideals. But they can't ever be my ideals. I can't 
 understand things. I'm bewildered : I'm frightened, 
 and oh — I'm dreadfully tired." 
 
 She put, in the darkness, her arm round his neck 
 and pulled his head down to her shoulder. 
 
 " Dear," she whispered, " I'm a brute, and you're 
 right. You aren't the man to do these things, and 
 oh, my own thing, if you're just going to be my man 
 and nothing else, oughtn't I to welcome it ! " 
 
 But he couldn't rest there: he raised his head 
 and then stood on his feet before her. 
 
 " I know," he said, " that you'll despise me. I'm 
 not the sort of brave knight that a woman wants." 
 
 " Oh, dear," she said tenderly, " a woman wants a 
 lover. I don't believe that, even when there were 
 knights, women didn't love the men that stayed at 
 home — ^if they were fated to love them — ^more than 
 they loved the Lancelots." 
 
 " But you," he said, " you would have loved a 
 Lancelot." 
 
 " Oh, dear," she answered again, " I only want a 
 lover who'll know what he wants." 
 
272 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 But even at that he couldn't say more than : 
 
 "Let's walk up and down!" And if she re- 
 membered another blackness upon another steamer, 
 and another lover, she made for him the quick excuse 
 that he was, poor dear, after aU his runnings about in 
 foul air and squaUd surroimdings, in a state of 
 nervous, quivering exhaustion. 
 
 And all the same, when they stood in the bows 
 and saw, majestic and overwhelming, the great 
 man-made cliffs, the twinkling lights that seemed 
 like those of cottages on a mountain — when she 
 saw that unforgetable sight that Don still pished 
 at, she couldn't help thinking that her father had 
 been unjust to her. It was, in the blackness, above 
 the waters, with its mysteries of a harbour and the 
 feeling that it gave her of men striving to climb to 
 heaven, this great conglomeration of human efforts 
 was, to her, supremely beautiful and unforgetable. 
 She couldn't help feeling regret at the thought that 
 this was probably the last time in her life that she 
 should ever see this hUl that seemed with all its 
 lit windows to be a mass of gnomes' fires ; she couldn't 
 help believing that she'd have been moved by it in 
 any case. And she couldn't help thinking that it 
 was ironical that if she had — and with her woman's 
 desire for submission she tried to believe it — if she 
 had forced herself to admire these things for Don's 
 sake, that very admiration, arising out of her love, 
 should have brought her so near to her first sense of 
 disunion with him. 
 
 " I shaU have," Don said, " to give a certain amotmt 
 of time to studying factory conditions now," and he 
 
THE SOLID LAND 273 
 
 added : " but if it weren't the fact that I'm the master 
 of my father's enterprises I'd leave this beastly 
 country to-morrow." 
 
 And something panic-stricken and almost cruel 
 in his tone made her say : 
 
 " I wish, dear, that we could! " 
 
 She was really afraid that he was going to be ill. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE power to put their wish into effect came 
 that evening. 
 They were going to sup, for the fresh air of the 
 boat had given them all appetites that there was no 
 dissembling, when there came to Don a message that 
 he was wanted at the special telephone Une he had 
 had held for him between their rooms and Mrs 
 Kelleg's house in Boston. And whilst Don went 
 Eleanor sat herself down in her hat and coat — she 
 was too tired to do any dressing — in the dim, dusty 
 lounge at the side of the entrance door. It seemed 
 to her that, upon the whole, this was the quietest 
 place in New York, and though it wasn't rational 
 to want quiet in New York she did certainly need 
 it. The ottomans had a soiled splendour, the 
 light feU bluely from Oriental mosque-lamps that, 
 oddly enough, were of red glass ; there were settees 
 draped with Persian carpets, little black stools 
 that might have been of walnut wood, a slightly 
 misty, slightly smoky tinge in the air, and a general 
 feeling of desertion. She lay back in a stuffy arm- 
 chair and made ready to rest for ten minutes. 
 There didn't seem anything left for her to do; there 
 didn't seem anything left for her to say. If she 
 
 wasn't any longer to try to make Don like his own 
 
 274 
 
THE SOLID LAND 275 
 
 country there was no need for her to try to do any- 
 thing. 
 
 From the far comer of the room came the monoton- 
 ous, restless, querulous, high sound of an American 
 woman's voice: it was the sort of sound that you 
 couldn't possibly much want to listen to — ^but it 
 wasn't at all troublesome. If it wasn't quite as 
 soft as the cooing of doves it wasn't as nervously 
 exasperating as the cackle of poultry. She made 
 out in the dim light, and gradually, a dark, feeble- 
 looking, French-looking, endlessly-talking girl, who 
 showed in her profile dark eyelashes that softened 
 her eyes and a large, weak nose. And, as gradually 
 as she made her out, Eleanor made out from her 
 monotonous words that she had just got back from 
 Europe and was talking, languidly but determinedly, 
 about the Carlyle House. " Of course we visited 
 those sacred precincts every day we were in the 
 British metropolis! No, he wasn't — What a hero! 
 — My! How can you say so? " (Her companion's 
 voice was inaudible just as her companion was hidden.) 
 "He isn't their property. He's ours! We've a 
 thousand times more men of his kind than ever 
 they had. He was an American at heart if ever 
 there were one. Hadn't he got just aU our virtues ? " 
 
 Eleanor let her ears cease to attune themselves 
 to the girl's voice : she began to count the beads on 
 the transparent fringe that fell from the mosque- 
 lamp. But suddenly the girl's voice rose to a 
 shriek: 
 
 "His wife! That silly, vain, little thing! Did 
 you ever hear what he wrote on her tombstone? 
 
276 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 ' The glory of my life has departed! ' Wasn't that 
 enough for her? Wasn't that enough for any old 
 Englishwoman? He was enough to give you the 
 jimjams! How can you dare to sit there, Mrs 
 Vandoff , and say so ! I teU you he was a great and 
 glorious genius. Oughtn't any siUy, vain Enghsh- 
 woman to be proud of being the slave of such a hero! 
 Why, I tell you, Mrs Vandoff, he's had more effect 
 on us and our thought than any man this side of 
 George Washington. Isn't that glorious enough 
 for any Englishwoman if it was a martyrdom to live 
 with- him? " And the languid girl in the white 
 blouse positively moved her hands in her excite- 
 ment. 
 
 And Eleanor, with a little sigh, wondered how 
 near it had come to her to be a siUy, vain, EngHsh- 
 woman, martyred to provide an influence for 
 American thought. For decidedly that was what 
 Don, at the outset, had prophesied would be her 
 fate. And, in a sense, there couldn't be the least 
 doubt that Don was a sort of a genius . . . 
 
 "Nerves!" the dark girl shrieked out. "Of 
 course he had nerves. Of course she had a bad time. 
 But how dare you say it wasn't her duty to bear it? " 
 
 A bell-boy was suddenly asking Eleanor to come 
 to the young chap at the 'phone. He wanted her 
 pretty bad . . . 
 
 Don had found the little bell of the telephone in 
 the Marie Antoinette cabinet impatiently and in- 
 cessantly on the buzz. He had had — ^it had been the 
 sole employment he'd made of wealth that was more 
 like the lamp of Aladdin than anything he could 
 
THE SOLID LAND 277 
 
 imagine — taken up a special line from his step- 
 mother's house, where daily Augustus had been 
 conferring with the trustees of the will, with attorneys, 
 with the heads of departments, with the heads of 
 other trusts in association with the Kelleg Com- 
 bines. The gradual, small details of the huge busi- 
 ness had come to him, bit by bit, over the wires in 
 Augustus's voice. There wasn't any doubt that the 
 wealth at his disposal would be so unthinkable as to 
 be almost negUgible. It figured up gradually, as 
 interest after interest came to be investigated, at 
 four million dollars the year, at seven, at twelve, 
 at eighteen. . . . And at about that point Don 
 had begged him to stop sending figures. It seemed 
 likely that when they'd taken into account all the 
 rail-hnes, aU the bakeries, aU the factories, all 
 the copper mines, all the everything that his 
 father had dabbled with, it might go to fifty, 
 it might go to a hundred million dollars a year. 
 It had been for Don a sort of worrying, of disturb- 
 ing, immensity. It had made him feel almost poor 
 simply because he couldn't map out any sort of scale 
 at which it would be thinkable that he and Eleanor 
 could live. His mind could have gone to about ten 
 thousand a year (English), but he would have been 
 much more able to think of two — and he'd been 
 accustomed to live simply upon four hundred. 
 
 He got at it too that although his stepmother 
 had received from his father exactly all she'd asked 
 for — aU she'd asked for hadn't exceeded a few 
 months' income of what had come to Don. And 
 Canzano, too, who'd got a great deal more than he'd 
 
278 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 expected, hadn't come in for more than a week's 
 or so. . . . 
 
 Augustus's voice came sharp, small and clear to 
 Don's ear: 
 
 "We've got it pretty well worked out after a 
 fortnight's ciphering. The total amounts to . . ." 
 
 Don's head was aching: his hand that held the 
 black and silver receiver quivered at his ear, he leant 
 forward from Marie Antoinette's own favourite 
 chair with his elbows on the pohshed wood of the 
 Uttle yellow cabinet. His mind was filled with rage 
 and impatience: his brown eyebrows came down 
 into a heavy scowl. 
 
 " Would you mind remembering," he called into 
 the mouthpiece, " that I don't want to hear what 
 it amounts to! " Sometimes he had a curiosity to 
 know: at that moment he had an absolute hatred 
 of the thought of this invisible, this maddening, 
 this mere sound of huge figures. He was about to 
 say: "Write it down: send it in a letter. I'U 
 read it when I feel inclined," when he heard, faintly 
 at his ear: 
 
 " I can't go now, mother. I can't. This is 
 business! " And the words puzzled him a Uttle. 
 Then the voice took up loudly and with con- 
 fidence : 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry it annoys you. But it wasn't 
 that I had to say, I have put that into a letter." 
 
 DoncaUed: "Well!" 
 
 The wire that he had had installed was so perfect 
 that he heard a faint, gleeful chuckle, 
 
 " What it's really necessary that you should know 
 
THE SOLID LAND 279 
 
 is that I've seen to-day a secret agreement between 
 your father and all his other associates." 
 
 Don said: "Well! well!" — and again he was 
 conscious of a low, sibilant chuckle. 
 
 " It cuts both ways obviously enough," the voice 
 said, " though no doubt your father meant it to bind 
 only his associates to him. I've got the main pro- 
 visions of it jotted down — it's all on one sheet of 
 paper. But you'll remember that your father's will 
 states that you inherit the income subject to all 
 agreements entered into by him . . ." 
 
 It was at this point that Don — as if he were 
 conscious of a malevolent influence in this colloquy 
 with the invisible — begged him to wait a minute 
 whilst he asked Eleanor to come up to him. He 
 didn't, positively, like to be alone. The high panels 
 with their tapestried shepherds, the chairs with their 
 lyre-shaped backs against the walls, the lights in 
 clusters upon the imitation wax of the candlesticks 
 — aU these things affected him deeply with a sense 
 of solitude, a sense of smaUness, a sense of impotence 
 that he hadn't felt since he had been a small child. 
 And the repeated mention of his father's name had 
 brought a tense sense of his father again before him. 
 His father had sat on those very chairs, had looked 
 at those very pictures with his twinkling badger 
 grey eyes of a man used to baffle and outwit. He 
 suddenly felt as if his father were once more saying : 
 
 " Not this time, sonny! " as occasionally Mr 
 KeUeg had said to him behind his mother's back 
 when, in one of the endless " ructions " that these 
 panels had witnessed — after, poor things, they had 
 
28o THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 witnessed ructions how different in a France how 
 distant — his father had winked at him and uttered 
 those words that meant that his mother was worsted 
 even in a battle of words. . . . He was aware that 
 his legs trembled a httle as he walked to the hotel 
 telephone to send for Eleanor, but he sat down once 
 more at the little cabinet and, resting his head upon 
 his left hand, appHed once more the receiver to his ear. 
 
 " It affects your schemes for breaking up the 
 Trusts very materially," Augustus's voice came to 
 him: "it amounts to this . . ." and the words 
 paused: "that you're absolutely impotent. . . . 
 Absolutely impotent . . . absolutely . . . absolutely 
 . . . impotent! " 
 
 Eleanor didn't at first want to disturb him: she 
 didn't, really, notice that his immobihtywas more 
 than that of engrossed attention, and she stood 
 quite stiU in the doorway watching him tenderly. 
 But she thought: " How ill he looks, poor dear! " 
 And, " How I wish we could go back to England." 
 
 And, for the first time, a sudden longing, a sudden 
 homesickness overcame her. She remembered that 
 the streets of Canterbury would be redolent with 
 the smell of hops . . . 
 
 And suddenly she noticed that, beneath the 
 streaming lights, Don's face was chalk white, with 
 parted, quite silent lips. And then he groaned — 
 and then his lips moved: 
 
 "Of course," his voice was just distinguishable: 
 "of course it would be 'Not this time, sonny!' 
 again." 
 
 She went quickly to the second earpiece that, for 
 
THE SOLID LAND 281 
 
 her especial use, so that she too might always hear, 
 he had had attached to the machine, and Augustus's 
 voice struck her like a blow, clear, hard, hateful. 
 
 " The general effect of it is that if you tried to 
 pull out of any engagement without the general 
 consent, the penalties . . ." — she heard the rustle of 
 paper as Augustus turned over the sheets that he was 
 reading from — " the penalties you would have to 
 pay would be so enormous that in a very few weeks — 
 the penalties being by miUions of dollars daUy — all 
 your interests would have passed into the hands 
 of your associates. And that, I take it, would 
 leave the things very much worse than if you con- 
 tinued to own them, for your associates are a fine 
 set of sharks. Your father, in short, has simply fooled 
 you. Mrs Kelleg has told me that from conver- 
 sations he had with you in Boston formerly he thought 
 he'd perfectly sized you up — that you wouldn't 
 want money, you'd want power — so he's left you 
 with aU the money in the world, and you're simply 
 absolutely powerless to change a thing. That was 
 his intention and he's carried it out. You've got to 
 have ninety-seven odd millions a year, but you can't 
 interfere with the works one cent's worth. It's 
 there in black and white. It's absolutely ..." 
 
 It was at this point that Eleanor noticed Don. 
 His head had fallen forward upon the hard surface 
 of the cabinet, the little black and silver earpiece 
 hung from its cord near the floor. 
 
 She called into the mouthpiece: 
 
 " You beast! Oh, you beast! He's fainted." 
 
 And she heard: 
 
282 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 " I've got in on his self-sufficiency then. I've 
 got in — I worked the melodrama . . ." 
 
 " D'you mean it's not true? " she cried. 
 
 " Oh, it's true," he said. " He's a mere gilded 
 coupon. He's tied hand and foot. But I've rubbed 
 it in. He won't chuckle again for a bit . . ." 
 
 Eleanor hung the receiver up. 
 
PART IV 
 THICKER THAN WATER 
 
 HE hadn't, however, fainted. It was only that 
 his head throbbed, and he didn't want to 
 hear any more details. He was quite certain that if 
 his father had desired to tie up his businesses his 
 father was a man perfectly able to do so irrefutably. 
 And he had a great desire for something cool upon his 
 forehead. So that, quite composedly, his voice 
 came to Eleanor's ears : " Oh, don't make me out a 
 physically weaker man than I am. I've not fainted. 
 I'm only putting my head on this cool wood . . ." 
 
 And he stood up a little imsteadily, resting the 
 knuckles of his right hand upon the cabinet. His 
 face was a little flushed and his voice a little thick, 
 but he had it in him still to say: 
 
 " Aren't you rather hard on Augustus? It isn't 
 his fault." 
 
 She considered him stiU so iU that she simply 
 couldn't bring herself to say that the wretched 
 Uttle man, whom, by setting down the receiver, she 
 had "cut off " for the last time, had done his 
 Satanic best to rub the announcement in. And 
 she considered him still so iU that she didn't go 
 towards him to take him into her arms. 
 
 He marched instead across the room, and finally 
 283 
 
284 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 she knew, by the sudden clatter of hoofs and 
 the sudden rustle of indistinguishable, pervading 
 sounds, that he had thrown open a window for 
 coolness. 
 
 It came into her head by a little association of 
 ideas, for wasn't she now bound to send her 
 thoughts homewards? 
 
 "Why, it sounds like London!" And she 
 thought swiftly that Fifth Avenue is the only long 
 road in New York that doesn't clang and rattle 
 with trolley cars — the only place where you get 
 away from the gong-Uke noise of bells and the 
 metallic jingle of iron and granite — the only 
 place where you hear the subdued, pensive, quick 
 " clock-clock " that is the " note " of London's 
 quietude. 
 
 He knelt upon the window-seat, his head far out, 
 his brows seeking for coolness, his eyes watching 
 with black distaste the wonderful, begemmed night. 
 The house fronts before him were masses of purple, 
 towering dimly on high, chequered with warm 
 squares of light. Below him lights whirled and 
 glided in the roadway, passing each other, turning 
 slowly, or with dizzy and swift rushes interlacing. 
 There was coolness, the rustle of footsteps, the 
 tones of innumerable voices, and from round 
 the corner came faintly and in gusts all the 
 jingle and cries of blazing, contagious, jostling 
 Broadway ... 
 
 " It's aU hopelessly material," he muttered aloud. 
 "There's nothing that isn't blatant, vulgar, 
 hideous! " 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 285 
 
 She had approached him swiftly and soUcitously 
 at his first sound . . . 
 
 When he turned his face to the left. Fifth Avenue, 
 with its tall, electric light standards, with its im- 
 mensely tall buildings, stretched out in the clearness 
 for what seemed an incredible distance up-hill into 
 the pale night of stars. When he looked to the 
 right there rose before his eyes a pale, thin, trans- 
 lucent, immensely high and distant column of twink- 
 ling, squared windows. It soared right up, with 
 something classical in its pure lines, with something 
 fairy-like and insubstantial in the way its window 
 spaces seemed to take away from it all its substance, 
 with something gay, childlike and tender in its 
 upward soar towards the shafts of light that whirled 
 across the city. It seemed to stand, a tiny slice of 
 cliff, with its feet in little ripples of humanity 
 and of carriage lights, and towards the stars, from 
 its apex, it threw up a plume of white steam . . . 
 
 " Oh, yes, it's beautifiil," he muttered, " but it's 
 the beauty of a sheer accident. It doesn't count. 
 The man who built it never thought it would look 
 like that . . ." 
 
 " Dear," she said, " isn't that the . . . the . . ." 
 she faltered for a word, " isn't it just a Uttle sym- 
 boUcal of humanity? It does beautiful things un- 
 consciously." 
 
 He stood up, and at the closing of the window the 
 lights and the sounds were dead at once. 
 
 " That's an end of it! " he said, and he held out 
 his arms to her. " Now it's only you and me." And 
 he gave a sudden and radiant smile. 
 
286 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 She put both her hands upon his shoulders before 
 she surrendered herself: she couldn't believe that 
 he could have grown so soon " bitter." 
 
 " Are you certain? " she asked wistfully. " Isn't 
 it just a phase of nervous excitement? " 
 
 " No," he answered her, " the other was the 
 phase. The other was just the incident. We're 
 going back. We're going to be real. We're going 
 back to Cuddiford. We're going back ..." 
 
 He spoke with a rhapsodising voice and she 
 scrutinised his features a little anxiously . . 
 
 " Don't you remember ? " he said, " I said — on the 
 day this nonsense first began — that this excursion 
 would be just like going down to the basement to get 
 a hammer. Well, we've gone : we're going upstairs 
 again. We haven't so much as got the hammer." 
 
 She couldn't even at that quite beheve her joy. 
 
 " But don't you regret? " she asked. 
 
 " Regret? " he asked. " Regret that we're going 
 back? Oh, not the least in the world. I regretted 
 bringing you — you ! — ^here. Don't you remember 
 that — on the day this nonsense first began — 
 I said that it wasn't power that was given to me — 
 it was a burden. It was a duty. It wasn't even 
 the sort of duty that I was fitted for . . ." 
 
 She stiU wouldn't take him : she kept him from 
 her with her hands upon his shoulders. " You're 
 excited," she said, " won't you think differently 
 to-morrow? " 
 
 " Oh," he answered, and he smiled with a sort of 
 radiance, " it was yesterday — it was during all this 
 nightmare — that I've been excited. I never really 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 287 
 
 believed in my power. I had all along the feeling 
 that my father was fooling me. It wasn't the sort 
 of thing to be real. I moved myself to do it. But 
 . . ." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Why!" 
 he said, " on the morning we started I bought 
 Cuddiford Manor. I knew we should go back." 
 
 But even though at that she took him to her, 
 she couldn't help saying bodingly: 
 
 " Oh, I want you, dear, and I want you dread- 
 fully, but I couldn't bear you to change again! " 
 
 And sitting beside him on the window-seat, with 
 her hand upon his hot forehead, she told him how, 
 at the urging of Canzano, she had set herself, for his 
 sake, to learn to tolerate these foreign masses — to 
 learn, as it were, so much that she could even teach 
 him to love them. 
 
 " Love them! " he said bitterly. " I've learned 
 this much: that I shall leave this money to ac- 
 cumulate and accumulate. It'll end by being aU 
 the money in their horrible world. And then ..." 
 
 " And then? " she asked. 
 
 " They'll have," he said, with a harsh bitterness, 
 " just to see their insensate folly." He paused 
 and added: "That's the best thing I can do for 
 them. That's the only lesson I'm fit to teach." 
 " Why," he began again suddenly, tenderly and 
 humorously : " what a foUy to think that you 
 could teach me to love New York! Wasn't it you 
 who taught me to love just all that's made this seem 
 unbearable? Wasn't it you who've made me yearn 
 for spirit and fineness? Wasn't it you? " 
 
 " Dear! " she answered. " Dear! " 
 
288 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 But a little later she put it : 
 
 " You've got it wrong," she said, " and I was 
 wrong." It wasn't, she uttered, her business — a 
 woman's part — to teach him to like things. It was 
 her part to sustain him in what he wished, to bear 
 with him his hardships. She asked him, in her turn, 
 if he didn't remember what he'd said on the day 
 the news had reached them, over there in the quiet, 
 shadowed dining-room that hourly seemed to be 
 growing more real a part of their lives. He didn't 
 remember and she put it to him. He had said that 
 what was most astonishing in the lives of American 
 paupers was the way tenderly-nurtured English- 
 women bore hardships by their men's sides. 
 
 " That's what it's our business to do," she said — 
 and she was speaking of her sex, her country- 
 women, and above all of her class. " We've got to 
 be ready to make the best of things — of easy things 
 and of difficult things. And we're ready to do it 
 without fuss. Only, it's your business to decide: 
 we'll back up, always, anything that you do." 
 
 She couldn't, nevertheless, leave New York with- 
 out a certain measure of regret. It was to be said 
 for Don that he didn't now show any indecent 
 haste. He seemed to be calm — and they even 
 debated as to what ship they were to sail in. He 
 didn't, too, now that there was no longer any question 
 of his having other decisions to make, shrink from 
 going into the details of his fortune. He passed four 
 days in Boston alone, four days that — since she 
 wouldn't for worlds have gone with him — Eleanor 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 289 
 
 spent in packing and in getting, with Miss Dubosc, 
 her final " impressions." 
 
 And it was whilst she was looking, for the last 
 time, at a spot that — because it pushed the eccen- 
 tricities of the city to the wildest — she liked best, 
 an incident forced her to see that an avalanche 
 was coming that would have forced her to fly 
 if nothing else had. It was precisely the very heart 
 of New York that she liked quite the best ; Broadway 
 as far as the City Hall, except for the trolley lines, 
 was, with its trunk-makers, its tobacco-dealers, its 
 stores and its tourist agencies, so like the Strand 
 that it didn't much thrill her. But at the Post- 
 Office there began what she called the canons — ^the 
 tremendous beetiing, dark rifts between the sky- 
 scrapers, the gloomy gulches with the slow, hindered, 
 jostling crowd. She loved it, as she said to Miss 
 Dubosc, simply because the tremendous, towering 
 masses carried her eyes up to the skies. And she 
 was standing looking up Wall Street. The houses 
 there give the effect of an infinite height — and, tiny 
 between them, at the top of the steep hill that Wall 
 Street is, there was the little spire of Trinity Church 
 that anywhere else would have been a landmark. 
 And men pushed and jostled all round her; a long, 
 disorderly line of children with flags on their 
 shoulders marched down to visit the Washington 
 Memorial Hall; orange peels and banana skins 
 covered the roadway, and the granite stones were 
 torn and furrowed as if a mountain torrent had run 
 down that hiU . . . 
 
 " I don't care what father may say," she was 
 
290 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 sashing. " but I'm sure it's worth living here to have 
 that to come to look at." Miss Dubosc, with her 
 gay, short-sighted, slim grace suddenly put her 
 umbrella before her face and said: 
 
 "There are a dozen fellows sketching us. I 
 suspicioned they were following us all the afternoon." 
 
 The avalanche, in fact, had come. It wasn't a 
 minute before, aware that by now they were detected, 
 the jouxnahsts closed upon her and asked her what 
 her impressions were. And the cab in which they 
 fled back to their hotel was followed by a procession 
 of other cabs, bearing each two men in Derby hats, 
 with notebooks and pencils. It seemed to stop 
 everything else in the world: and the few remaining 
 hours that Eleanor spent in New York were passed, 
 as it were, cloistrally, in the Marie Antoinette 
 room, with the Fragouard panels. For there were 
 joumaUsts everywhere — ^in the elevator, in the 
 office, in the Oriental lounge. And when, for the 
 last time, she went to dine with her father in the 
 octagonal dining-room that had the painted brick 
 walls, whilst she herself was sa3dng her grace, and 
 whilst her father was awaiting his soup, standing tall 
 and frock-coated with his hands folded before him, she 
 was aware that three men at the next table were 
 busy with tablets and pencils. It wasn't as blackly 
 unpleasant as she had imagined it might be, but it 
 was sufficiently disturbing to make her whisper to 
 her father, to make her keep her lips closed in the 
 elevator that took them back to their rooms — 
 because a gentleman came running after them and 
 jumped in as it rose — and to make her give up her 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 291 
 
 idea of going, for the last time, with Miss Dubosc to 
 a roof-garden theatre on Broadway. She had 
 instead to pass an evening alone with the steno- 
 grapher. 
 
 The energy of these servants of the public was, 
 finally, brought home to her by the odd detail that 
 Kirsen — a sedate, sour-faced Scotchwoman, bom in 
 Pimlico — received from the reporter of the most 
 enterprising of all New York papers an offer to 
 marry her to a German saloon-keeper if only she'd 
 stay in New York and for four weeks furnish, for 
 the Sunday editions, intricate details of Eleanor's 
 toilettes, temper and the cosmetics that she used. 
 But it was characteristic of Mr Greville's passion, 
 even in New York, for the accurate presentation of 
 facts, that he should spend his last evening in draw- 
 ing up, for the use of the reporters, an exact state- 
 ment of how New York had affected him, of how it 
 had affected Eleanor, and how Don. If, he said to 
 Don, when he arrived by the last train from Boston, 
 the public here was actually interested in contem- 
 porary history of that sort they might as weU have it 
 with a reasonable accuracy. He even persuaded 
 Don — and did so himself — ^to stand stiU for four 
 minutes on the road to the elevator in the midst of 
 a little crepitation of pencils. 
 
 So that they left the city next morning as it were 
 with the crackle of a million fireworks attached to 
 their tails, but with practically no one save Miss 
 Dubosc to wave to them, from the tiny crowd on the 
 little, rough wharf, a Stars and Stripes. " Pop 
 Greville carries Collar captive " was an excellent 
 
292 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 headline : " Kelleg sick at old Man Manhattan ! " 
 was an accurate expression of fact: but " Eleanor's 
 eyes water" with a smaller '^British Maiden sad 
 to leave Flat Iron City " beneath it, came nearer 
 to a roughly "poetic justice. It is true that when, 
 four days out from New York, she discovered that a 
 discreet, pleasant young Harvard man with whom 
 she'd conversed friendlily from her deck chair — 
 when she discovered him camera-ing her and Don 
 from a comer eis they visited the silent beasts 
 in the dim cattle-decks — and discovered too that 
 he'd positively taken the voyage in order to " re- 
 port " for the New York H , she was inclined to 
 
 say that it grew mildly troublesome. 
 
 But it is equally true that as, gravely and gradu- 
 ally, they swung out from the little black wharf 
 into the shining stream torn up with its innumerable 
 shuttles she couldn't quite realise that they were 
 leaving New York for good. She certainly couldn't 
 realise it without regret. The flag-waving group — ^it 
 was tiny indeed by comparison with the thousands 
 that had greeted their arrival — disappeared. From 
 further out she could see aUke the immense name of 
 the Pattern King and the smaller, but stiU vast, black 
 and white announcement of Kelleg's name. ' It was 
 very clear this time: they could see right up the 
 Palisades and up the Hudson. The tall chimneys 
 sent forth no black smoke, but from the cliffs that 
 grouped themselves above the little green Battery 
 there went up against the grey sky little plumes of 
 white vapour. Tail, vast, grouped together, she 
 couldn't help still regarding them — all those grey, 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 293 
 
 immense buildings — as a fine expression of a 
 humanity that reaches towards the heavens. And 
 then they " raised " Brooklyn Bridge — high, 
 thin, like a spider's web: and then the little 
 island with its grim suggestion of railway sheds: 
 and then the clumsy figure in a nightgown, with 
 its torch like a policeman's stave held in the 
 middle . . . 
 
 " But isn't it," she said to herself, " aU tranquil 
 and peaceful and blessed? ..." And then she 
 noticed that on the white staff at the stem they 
 carried the British flag. 
 
 " Oh, well," she said — and the echo of a phrase 
 came to her lips : " Little old New York is good 
 enough for me." And in a sense she really meant 
 it. 
 
 Don didn't want to see his city, he was below in 
 his berth: Mr GreviUe was forward choosing deck 
 chairs. The ship, in the clearness and silence 
 beyond the final spit of sand, stayed a little to drop 
 the pilot, curtseying in the rolling water. Then, 
 engrossed and formidable, it made its way towards 
 the nothingness of the horizon. Before them, a 
 little to the right, a large Italian liner — British 
 owned — was high out of the water, pouring away over 
 its shoulder a great fillet of grey smoke; behind 
 them another, British too, was overhauling them 
 fast, gay and red and white in the sunlight that 
 waited for them just beyond the Hook. Then the 
 long, grey, whale-like piece of land that had greeted 
 her arrival appeared in the distance and dropped 
 astern. Then she was free. 
 
294 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 And Eleanor too was free to pass through the 
 stages and frames of mind that one has to — ^when 
 one is an Englishwoman — ^in coming back to England. 
 She had to do it for Don's sake: it was, it 
 seemed to her, her woman's duty. It was a part of 
 the "backing him up" in his actions; it was a 
 part of her loyalty to him. She hadn't, after all, 
 the duty of forming conceptions : she had, as she saw 
 it, only that of making the best of what he gave her. 
 
 It is true that her task was rendered singularly 
 easy for her by Don's compatriots: for she couldn't 
 be told that New York troUeys were faster than 
 London trams (she knew they weren't) ; that 
 American women had the finest complexions in the 
 world (she thought it was a matter of taste); that 
 the American language was the language of Shake- 
 speare; she couldn't be overwhelmed — as she had 
 to be — ^by the terrific blaze and bang of assertions 
 of people who had never seen land to the eastward 
 of them; she couldn't be out-shouted, out-talked 
 and reduced to a placid silence on these matters for 
 ten days >vithout gently taking up the cudgels. And 
 she took them up, not so much for England as 
 for Europe. She seemed to feel an extraordinary 
 solidarity, a thing that she hadn't ever before known, 
 with Frenchmen, with Italians — even with the 
 Scots. 
 
 When the slow vessel was finally surging mud in 
 the Thames she didn't remember to compare the 
 gentle swiftness of the Customs men; she didn't 
 even remember to say that the silent departure in a 
 little steamer from the great boat's side was touching, 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 295 
 
 dignified and gentlemanly compared with the moan- 
 ing savage sound that had greeted their arrival in 
 New York. 
 
 Nothing, indeed, marked any definite stage of her 
 psychology until they were, all three together, 
 walking up the crowded, dirty High Street that 
 in Gravesend leads from a squalid pier to an in- 
 credibly dismal railway station. By that time, 
 in the face of the vastness of the ocean, New York 
 had assumed in her mind an air of littleness — of 
 cleanness, of whiteness, of climbing towards the 
 skies — ^but above all of tininess. And with its 
 irresponsibility, its crowding, its noises — ^which did 
 not any more seem to matter much now that she 
 was separated from them by several thousand tran- 
 quil minds — it had taken to itself too an air of some- 
 thing pathetic and touching. She wasn't any more, 
 she supposed, ever going to see it again — and it 
 became like a person that one has known well, a 
 frail, small, chattering, fluttering, bright person that 
 has died and that one regrets. 
 
 But the High Street of Gravesend, with its steep- 
 ness, its unpresentable shops, its sooty roofs and its 
 sauntering crowds — and perhaps above all the sight 
 of a yellow, varnished canvas sou'-wester that, 
 hanging outside a shop door in the foreground, 
 seemed to give the note to the whole little picture, 
 drew from her irresistibly the words: 
 
 " How picturesque! " 
 
 That was it : that was what New York hadn't got : 
 that was what she imagined there wasn't to be 
 found in all the Western continent. It was squalid, 
 
296 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 all this, it was crowded — ^it was, rationally con- 
 sidered, all as evil as you pleased. But in its hudd- 
 ling together of roofs beneath a grey, moist, fresh 
 and gleaming atmosphere — an atmosphere that 
 fused, that didn't reveal details nakedly but shrouded 
 them as beneath a gentle cloak — in aU this there was a 
 tenderness, a sort of humility. And when, in the 
 evening, above dirty coal paths, above gleaming 
 lines of rails, at Maidstone, they walked from one 
 junction to another and she saw, above the in- 
 distinct mass of blackness, against a Uquid, pale rift 
 in the clouds that were folding in for night and rest, 
 the square, black tower, the four attenuated little 
 turrets at the angles, in the intense quiet that the 
 hoot of engines didn't even disturb, she suddenly 
 felt — and it reassured all her misgivings — that this 
 really was her home! 
 
 It reassured her in all her misgivings. For she 
 couldn't disguise from herself the fact that she had 
 rather dreaded the home-coming. Suppose, she had 
 said to herself, that she had acquired a " taste " for 
 the clearness, the excitement, the contagious bustle 
 of that other land! Suppose that really that was at 
 bottom what appealed to her! Suppose that it 
 should prove that she simply wasn't able to accom- 
 pany Don back into the atmosphere of Cathedral 
 closes that, as he saw it, was the best that Europe 
 had to offer! But she could! She could! And that 
 night, as she knelt beside her bed, with all the old 
 emotions coming back to her — with an immense 
 awakening of satisfaction at the fact that she could 
 be interested in the restful gossip that their old, fat, 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 297 
 
 irritating cook had to tell her in a kitchen that 
 gleamed with tin utensils and shone with its white 
 tables and dressers — it was tears of thankfulness 
 that really filled her eyes. She was going to be able 
 to keep Don! 
 
II 
 
 THEY happened to be in the Tottenham Court 
 Road two months later, because they were 
 purchasing furniture for the servants' bedrooms at 
 Cuddiford House. They wouldn't have wanted to 
 furnish the servants' rooms from Tottenham Court 
 Road: they would have liked, both, to give the maids 
 the sort of good, old, really substantial furniture that 
 theyhadmanaged to assemble for, the rest of the house. 
 But it had taken, they had found, such an extraordin- 
 arily long time to fill their own rooms ! They had been 
 at it for days and days. They didn't want ans^hing 
 too new or too battered; they didn't want anything 
 that had been restored by furniture-dealers, or any- 
 thing, on the other hand, that was too expensive. 
 And they had been at it, day in, day out, ever since 
 they had landed. So that if they had had to con- 
 tinue the same search on behalf of the upper rooms 
 they might have had to put off their wedding till 
 Heaven knew when. 
 
 They had fixed it between them that they weren't 
 to spend in any one year more than a couple or three 
 thousand pounds. It would be making a sort df 
 game of life — ^but what more could they do? Don 
 simply hadn't got the imagination of an Aladdin. 
 He not only hadn't the least desire to buy up castles 
 
 or build marble palaces: he couldn't even begin to 
 
 298 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 299 
 
 think of how he could throw himself into the frame 
 of mind. And Eleanor, with her shrinking from 
 noticeability, accepted his lack of imagination with 
 a very thankful heart. They simply weren't going, 
 ever, to mention his money. It was left to the 
 stewardship of Augustus — and Augustus was to 
 remain in Boston. His mother, it appeared, was to 
 remain with him. 
 
 And everything ran so smoothly. Eleanor didn't 
 even, to her friends, do more than say that she'd 
 liked America pretty well; she didn't want to open 
 sores in front of Don, and Don was always with her. 
 And it is to be said that her task was a very easy one 
 — for no one in Canterbury appeared to her to take 
 the least interest in America. Their absolute, 
 tranquil, immutable want of curiosity even as- 
 tonished her — for in the United States the United 
 States had seemed to her to be of importance. But 
 there, in the Cathedral city, not a sound of it reached 
 her ears: her father never mentioned it — and Don 
 appeared at last to breathe again. It really seemed, 
 more and more, as if they had only made his ex- 
 cursion into the basement to find a hammer that 
 hadn't been there. 
 
 They had come up to town in the last quiet 
 month of the year. She was staying with an aunt 
 in one of the quietest of the London squares. They 
 had bought neat, white, light furniture and neat, 
 white, brass-bound beds, and in the bright, mist- 
 diffused light of the arc lamps they had climbed to 
 the top of a motor 'bus. 
 
 " Oh, isn't it," she had said to him as she snuggled 
 
300 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 herself against him on the seat, " isn't it heaven to 
 be in Tottenham Court Road again? " 
 
 The crowds wandered past on the narrow pave- 
 ments; the low, yellow, painted house fronts — ^her 
 eyes had been accustomed to looking so much 
 higher! — seemed wonderfully low and cottage-like. 
 The traffic seemed so quiet: there was no sound of 
 metal, no clash; but they jolted and bumped 
 serenely in the yellow keen air. 
 
 " Isn't it heaven?" she repeated. And all the 
 early days of their association came back to her. 
 
 The 'bus jolted, bumped, and came to a stop, 
 sideways across the road. The passengers behind 
 them descended; cabs drove out of the way to pass 
 them. They didn't descend : they hadn't any hurry 
 at all. It was even like the old days because, since 
 she was staying with her aunt, when she got home 
 to the square a discreet, heavy hall door would 
 dose upon her and Don would have to go away. 
 
 Suddenly he struck his fist upon the back of the 
 seat before them. 
 
 " I can't do it! '^he said. " I canH do it! " 
 
 And she, in the midst of her happiness, was so 
 ready for disaster that she hadn't any need to ask 
 him what he meant. 
 
 " I must go back to America ! " he muttered huskily. 
 " I can't funk it. I must go back. Even if I can't do 
 what I wanted there are other abuses to remedy." 
 
 At the very back of the empty 'bus top the con- 
 ductor's figure appeared in the mist. He told them 
 that if they wanted to go on another 'bus was coming. 
 But as they didn't move he once more disappeared. 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 301 
 
 And the interruption had given Eleanor time to see 
 what she had to do. She had thought it all out 
 before: she had thought it all out on the evening 
 when they had come back from Coney Island. She 
 had seen it coming: she had known it must come. 
 She stood up, moved past him, and then remained 
 looking at him in the passage way. 
 
 "Then you know it means good-bye?" she 
 said. 
 
 He didn't move: his head was sunken beneath 
 his shoulders: through the misty air from above a 
 lamp shed scintillating rays upon him. She waited 
 for a moment to see if he would speak. 
 
 And then the next image that she had of him she 
 had from the pavement. Above the high rail of the 
 'bus that slewed across the road, with the silhouetted 
 figures of two mefi in uniform crouched solitarily in 
 the mist above the bonnet, his hat and shoulders, 
 silhouetted too, were black and perfectly motionless. 
 She turned down the side street; she found herself 
 in a square with a circular patch of trees that dis- 
 appeared, black and silent, into the invisible sky. 
 She walked once round the railings, sobbing aloud, 
 but at the sight of a gentleman who crossed the 
 road, evidently attracted by her soUtude, she stayed 
 her tears and walked away southwards. 
 
 And positively the only comment she had to 
 suffer from came from Canzano in a letter of as- 
 tonishing eloquence that she never brought herself to 
 answer. As for her father, he never spoke ; he didn't 
 even look at her when she made the announcement to 
 
302 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 him. She had somehow a sense that he was saddened ; 
 but she couldn't be certain whether he approved of 
 her decision for its promptness or whether he con- 
 demned her. He might condemn her for having 
 taken up an enterprise and for having dropped it. 
 But she simply couldn't tell. Augustus remained in 
 Boston, his mother remained with him. They 
 never, either of them, wrote, and she attributed to the 
 silence of one of them a black and mahcious glee, 
 and to the other a black and mahcious hatred. But 
 there wasn't any doubt about Canzano's dis- 
 approval. 
 
 " Why, did you do it? " he wrote. " Why did you 
 do it? I can imagine two reasons: the one that 
 your ideal is merely to enjoy life: the other that 
 Don — oh, poor Don! — isn't the sort of man to fit in 
 with yotir scheme of life as it should be lived. You 
 will wish me to dismiss the first reason at once, 
 without a word of comment. You will say that your 
 ideal is not merely to enjoy hfe. But think about it 
 for a moment. Question your conscience. I admit 
 at once that my poor half-brother is not the sort of 
 man with whom at one's side it would be possible to 
 enjoy life. I will admit that he would have worn 
 you out. . . . But there! Think about this 
 reason for a Uttle while. Perhaps I will return 
 to it. 
 
 " Let us then consider the other reason. You 
 think that Don — ^poor Don! — ^is not the sort of man 
 to fit in with your scheme of life as it should be 
 lived! You think it was your duty — ^to your sex, 
 to your class, to yom: country, to your tradition — 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 303 
 
 that it was your duty to cast him out. I know you 
 very well: how typically English, how typically 
 cold, how typically good, you are. You consider, 
 you women of your class and race and type, that the 
 first thing in life is to form a standard, a rule of con- 
 duct, and then to live up to it. Anything else is a 
 weakness, and you could not face the responsibility 
 of introducing into your family — into your gens — a 
 weak man. 
 
 " You have thought — I know that you have thought 
 — ^that Don would wear you out — that he would 
 ' get on your nerves.' But no! The phrase is not 
 ' get on your nerves ' — for he has gotten on them 
 several times and you have pardoned it. But what 
 you feared was that, all your life, as you would have 
 lived with him, he would have been constantly 
 changing, he would have been constantly making 
 up his mind and then reacting to the very opposite 
 conclusion. And you feared that that would have 
 been too much for you — ^that you would have ' de- 
 veloped nerves.' (That is the right phrase.) You 
 feared that then you might have indulged in re- 
 criminations, that then yours wouldn't have been 
 one of those English families that live always in a 
 sabbatical calm, that run by clockwork everywhere 
 among your fat, green, tranquil hills and valleys. 
 Isn't that it? You were afraid that you wouldn't, 
 with Don, be able to keep up to your high standard 
 of life. 
 
 " Well, that is an ideal. I know the English very 
 well because I have spent a yeai; at Oxford and 
 because I have had long talks with you who are the 
 
304 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 most English woman in the world. And your ideal 
 — the ideal of aU of your good, Tory, EngUsh type — 
 is simply that of a life that runs smoothly, decently, 
 quietly — a life in which every man and woman 
 knows exactly his part and has exactly his ideas. 
 
 " Do you know what has always struck me as 
 the difference between your countr3Tnen and women 
 and those of any other nation? What particularly 
 is the difference between the Englishman and the 
 American? It doesn't lie in the clothes, in the hair, 
 in the features, or even so much in the voices. It 
 lies in the eyes. Look at a gallery of portraits of your 
 countrymen and at another of Don's. Or, better 
 still, look at a few hundred individuals. What will 
 you see? That the Englishman's eyes are always 
 tranquil : he has formed bis ideas : he has had them 
 formed for him: he knows : he is never going to 
 learn any more. Look in at the glass at your own fine, 
 brown and beautiful eyes. You will see that look — 
 and the same thing is expressed in every one of your 
 slow, powerful features. It is the strong, placid, 
 powerful gaze of the bull that looks away over the 
 pastures and reflects. 
 
 " But with the people here it is so different : they 
 don't know : they haven't any standards : they 
 don't know even why they live or what they live 
 for : but they are always alert to meet circumstances, 
 to form new judgments. They would be ashamed if 
 they weren't. And that gives to their glance its 
 eagerness, its swift shiftings, its want of gentlemanly 
 repose. You wiU say that Don isn't an American, 
 that his father was English, and his mother. But 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 305 
 
 he is an American — for Americanism isn't the pro- 
 duct of a race: it's a product of a frame of mind. 
 The EngUsh who succeed in America are the very 
 English who are stifled at home — ^who can't stand 
 your atmosphere of accepted ideas. They may have 
 been bom in Hampshire but they are born Americans 
 — as American as if the Minute Man's Stone at Lex- 
 ington had heard their first wail in the night. And 
 Don is the child of such Americans . . . 
 
 " You will say that it isn't part of your business in 
 life to marry an American. You will say that that look 
 in the eyes is so much the most precious of the things 
 that Great Britain has evolved that in its interests 
 you have sacrificed even Don. You loved him so 
 much — I know you loved him so much for I have 
 seen how your eyes rested upon him — and you regret : 
 and you are filled with a great sense of loneliness. 
 But you thought it was your duty. . . . Oh, my 
 dear, it wasn't your duty! It wasn't your duty in 
 the great sense. Your duty was to be good, to be 
 kind, to be dear to the noblest and best man you've 
 ever seen. For Don is that ! 
 
 "Can't you see it! Can't you see it! The 
 children of great men — and his father was a great 
 man — are frequently weak : but generally they have 
 qualities that only need a wise nursing to render 
 them very sweet and very fine Don was weak, if 
 you will. He mightn't have fitted very well into 
 your English life. But hadn't he a strength? 
 Wasn't his craving to get at the best in life an 
 action — wasn't it heroic? Wasn't it now? 
 
 " When, by his final reaction, he decided that he 
 u 
 
3o6 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 must come back here (he is now devoting all his 
 attention to the study of American politics! He 
 thinks that the secret of American regeneration lies 
 in the getting rid of bribery and is going to devote 
 his millions of income to getting rid of the other 
 millions that are spent in graft) — when he decided 
 that he couldn't ' funk,' that he must do his duty to 
 the millions of people that his father had wronged — 
 he knew, I say, he knew that you would say to him : 
 ' It means good-bye.' He knew it, and it has 
 broken his heart, and yet he said his words and 
 took the blow in silence. Wasn't that really heroic? 
 
 " Couldn't you have made something of such a 
 man? Couldn't you, if you had been older, if you 
 hadn't been so — so English? It wasn't necessary 
 for you to come to a determination and to act upon 
 it. It was not : it was not — and again it was not ! 
 You, because you are English, you think it is 
 necessary to be cold, to come to some decision in 
 accordance with your character and to act upon it. 
 But again, I say it wasn't! 
 
 " And you have come to — I won't say a wrong 
 decision, but to one that wasn't the only one. 
 You've got another plane of thought upon which 
 you could have decided. If Don had been blind, 
 if he'd been crippled, if he'd been merely diseased, 
 wouldn't you have considered it your duty, your 
 privilege, your tender and splendid pleasure to give 
 all your life to nursing him, to waiting upon him? 
 Well then, my dear, Don is a genius. He is a 
 genius, and you who know him better than I do 
 know better than I that that is true. And if you 
 
THICKER THAN WATER 307 
 
 had looked upon his indecision not as part of his 
 character but as a disease, wouldn't you have con- 
 sidered it your duty — wouldn't you have steeled 
 yourself, and don't you know that you would have 
 been strong enough to nurse him? 
 
 " You thought that, living with him, you would 
 have developed nerves! But if you had looked at 
 it in that other way you wouldn't have been afraid. 
 You wouldn't have been afraid for your own 
 strength, for it wasn't his weakness that you feared, 
 it was your own. You are cowardly — all you 
 English are cowardly : you are afraid of your own 
 emotions: you are afraid that if you become 
 passionate you wiU lose dignity. That's why you 
 insist on maintaining your frigid exteriors. 
 
 " But you — you, Eleanor Greville — aren't frigid. 
 Only by trying to believe that it is your duty to be 
 frigid you have been horribly cruel. For, because you 
 wished to be true to your race, you couldn't see that 
 you would have been truer still if you had stayed 
 to use your imagination. That! That! That! is 
 your great defect. You are good, you are kind, 
 you are beautiful. You are even splendid, but 
 you chose the easiest course because it was most 
 obvious. But you would, I persist, have been truer 
 to your fine and generous traditions, to your fine and 
 generous self, if you had stayed to see that my dear 
 brother is a noble and a unique invalid whom you 
 might have nursed to health, or to whom you might 
 have splendidly and patiently sacrificed your- 
 self . . . 
 
 " Well, I think that if I write any more I shall 
 
3o8 THE ENGLISH GIRL 
 
 cry. It is all finished now. I don't plead with you 
 to change your view. It would be too dangerous 
 for my poor Don. Heaven knows how soon again 
 you might not come to another of those lamentable 
 wrong decisions. Or how late! For you might 
 come to one after you had united yourself to him. 
 I don't plead with you. I am trying to wound you 
 — for, after aU, I am an Italian, and deep-seated in me 
 there is the passion for revenge — the lust for the 
 vendetta. And you have stabbed my brother. 
 May God forgive you. And if I have succeeded in 
 making you suffer here on earth may it be a means of 
 leading you to repentance and to a shortening of your 
 hours in Purgatory. For you EngUsh, even as we 
 Italians, united as we are in our deep hatred for 
 these people, we are the elder brothers. If they 
 hate us it is because we are intellectually oppressive 
 as elder brothers always are: if we hate them we 
 are committing the sin of hating little children. 
 Don was a child and you have injured him ! " 
 
 Eleanor read this letter three times over: she 
 gave it to her father to read and he returned it to 
 her, neatly folded, and with the remark that it was 
 possible to plead even too ingeniously for inaccuracy 
 of mind, which was the only thing he had ever, much, 
 reprehended the Americans for. And eventually 
 Eleanor decided not to answer the letter. She 
 could not see that it would do any good. 
 
 COLSTON AND CO. LIjMITBD, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH 
 
A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY METHUEN 
 
 AND COMPANY: LONDON 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET 
 
 W.C. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 General Literature, . 
 
 PAGE 
 . 11-20 
 
 Little Galleries, 
 
 PAGE 
 27 
 
 Ancient Cities, 
 
 20 
 
 Little Guides, . 
 
 27 
 
 Antiquary's Books, 
 
 20 
 
 Little Library, 
 
 27 
 
 Arden Shakespeare, 
 
 20 
 
 Little Quarto Shakespeare, 
 
 29 
 
 Beginner's Books, . 
 
 21 
 
 Miniature Library, 
 
 29 
 
 Business Books, 
 
 21 
 
 Oxford Biographies, 
 
 29 
 
 Byzantine Texts, . 
 
 21 
 
 School Examination Series 
 
 29 
 
 Churchman's Bible, 
 
 22 
 
 School Histories, . 
 
 30 
 
 Churchman's Library, . 
 
 22 
 
 Textbooks of Science, 
 
 30 
 
 Classical Translations, 
 
 22 
 
 Simplified French Texts, 
 
 30 
 
 Classics of Art, 
 
 =3 
 
 Standard Library, . 
 
 30 
 
 Commercial Series, 
 
 23 
 
 Textbooks of Technology, 
 
 31 
 
 Connoisseur's Library, 
 
 =3 
 
 Handbooks of Theology, 
 
 31 
 
 Library of Devotion, 
 
 23 
 
 Westminster Commentaries 
 
 33 
 
 Illustrated Pocket Library o 
 
 
 
 
 Plain and Coloured Books 
 
 =4 
 
 Fiction, .... 
 
 32-37 
 
 Junior Examination Series, 
 
 25 
 
 The Shilling Novels, . 
 
 37 
 
 junior Sohool-Books, . 
 
 26 
 
 Books for Boys and Girls, 
 
 39 
 
 Leaders of Religion, 
 
 26 
 
 Novels of Alexandre Dumas 
 
 39 
 
 Little Books on Art, 
 
 26 
 
 Methuen's Sixpenny Books 
 
 39 
 
 SEPTEMBER 1907 
 
A CATALOGUE OF 
 
 Messrs. Methuen's 
 
 PU BLIC ATIONS 
 
 Colonial Editions are published of all Messrs. Methuen's Novels issued 
 at a price above zs. 6d., and similar editions are published .of some works of 
 General Literature. These are marked in the Catalogue. Colonial editions 
 are only for circulation in the British Colonies and India. 
 
 I.P.L. represents Illustrated Pocket Library, 
 
 Part I. — General Literature 
 
 Abbott (J. H. M.). Author of 'Tommy 
 Cornstalk.' AN OUTLANDER IN 
 ENGLAND: Being some Impressions of 
 AN Australian Abroad. Second Edition, 
 Cr. Svo. 6s. 
 
 A Colonial Edition is also published. 
 
 Acatos (M. J.)« See Junior School Books. 
 
 Adams(Frank). JACKSPRATT. With24 
 Coloured Pictures. Super Royaliittno. is. 
 
 Adeney (W. F.). M.A. See Bennett and 
 Adeney. 
 
 d^scbylus. See Classical Translations. 
 
 -Bsop. See I.P.L. 
 
 Ainsworth ( W. Harrison). See I . P. L. 
 
 Alderson (J. P.). MR. ASQUITH. With 
 Portraits and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 
 7S. 6d. net. 
 
 Aldis (Janet). MADAME GEOFFRIN, 
 
 HER SALON, AND HER TIMES. 
 
 With many Portraits and Illustrations. 
 
 Second Edition. Demy ^o. los. 6d. net. 
 
 A Colonial Edition is also published. 
 
 Alexander (William), D.D., Archbishop 
 of Armagh. THOUGHTS AND 
 COUNSELS OF MANY YEARS. 
 Defny j6»io. as. 6d. 
 
 Aiken (Henry)i THE NATIONAL 
 SPORTS OF GREAT BRITAIN. With 
 descriptions in English and French. With 
 51 Coloured Plates. Royal Folio. Five 
 Guineas net. The Plates can be had 
 separately in a Portfolio. £,%, y. net. 
 See also I.P.L. 
 
 Allen (C. C.) See Textbooks of Technology. 
 
 Allen (Jessie). See l,ittle Books on Art. 
 
 Allen (J. Romilly), F.S. A. See Antiquary's 
 Books. 
 
 Almack (E.). See Little Books on Art. 
 
 Amherst (Lady). A SKETCH OF 
 EGYPTIAN IIISTORY FROM THE 
 EARLIEST TIMES TO THE PRE- 
 SENT DAY. With many Illustrations. 
 Demy ^0. is. 6d. net. 
 
 Anderson (F.M.). THE STORY OF THE 
 BRITISH EMPIRE FOR CHILDREN. 
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Fiction 
 
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34 
 
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Fiction 
 
 35 
 
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36 
 
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Fiction 
 
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