Faintly, dimly, this aspect of the case, for the very first time, began to present itself to me; but I should have preferred Norah to have been impressed by its tragedy.
"That is not all," I said. "I nearly ran away with another man's wife."
I was glad to notice that sobered her somewhat. "Nearly? Why not quite?" she asked more seriously.
"She thought I was some young idiot with money," I replied bitterly, pleased with the effect I had produced. "Vane had told her a pack of lies. When she found out I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced, without a sixpence--? I made a gesture expressive of eloquent contempt for female nature generally.
"I am sorry," said Norah; "I told you you would fall in love with something real."
Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. "In love!" I replied; "good God, I was never in love with her!"
"Then why did you nearly run away with her?"
I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter; it promised to be difficult of explanation. "I don't know," I replied irritably. "I thought she was in love with me. She was very beautiful--at least, other people seemed to think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. You must live--understand life, before you can teach it to others. When a beautiful woman is in love with you--or pretends to be, you--you must say something. You can't stand like a fool and--"
Again her laughter interrupted me; this time she made no attempt to hide it. The sparrows chirped angrily, and flew off to continue their conversation somewhere where there would be less noise.
"You are the biggest baby, Paul," she said, so soon as she could speak, "I ever heard of." She seized me by the shoulders, and turned me round. "If you weren't looking so ill and miserable, I would shake you, Paul, till there wasn't a bit of breath left in your body."
"How much money do you owe?" she asked--"to the people in the company and anybody else, I mean--roughly?"
"About a hundred and fifty pounds," I answered.
"Then if you rest day or night, Paul, till you have paid that hundred and fifty--every penny of it--I'll think you the meanest cad in London!"
Her grey eyes were flashing quite alarmingly. I felt almost afraid of her. She could be so vehement at times.
"But how can I?" I asked.
"Go straight home," she commanded, "and write something funny: an article, story--anything you like; only mind that it is funny. Post it to me to-morrow, at the latest. Dan is in London, editing a new weekly. I'll have it copied out and sent to him. I shan't say who it is from. I shall merely ask him to read it and reply, at once. If you've a grain of grit left in you, you'll write something that he will be glad to have and to pay for. Pawn that ring on your finger and get yourself a good breakfast"--it was my mother's wedding-ring, the only piece of dispensable property I had not parted with--"_she_ won't mind helping you. But nobody else is going to--except yourself."
She looked at her watch. "I must be off." She turned again. "There is something I was forgetting. B--"--she mentioned the name of the dramatist whose play Vane had stolen--"has been looking for you for the last three months. If you hadn't been an idiot you might have saved yourself a good deal of trouble. He is quite certain it was Vane stole the manuscript. He asked the nurse to bring it to him an hour after Vane had left the house, and it couldn't be found.
Besides, the man's character is well known. And so is yours. I won't tell it you," she laughed; "anyhow, it isn't that of a knave."
She made a step towards me, then changed her mind. "No," she said, "I shan't shake hands with you till you have paid the last penny that you owe. Then I shall know that you are a man."
She did not look back. I watched her, till the sunlight, streaming in my eyes, raised a golden mist between us.
Then I went to my work.
