Paul Kelver Part 41

"If you do get on to the stage," he said, "and it's anything worth seeing, and you send me an order, and I can find the time, maybe I'll come and see you."

I thanked him for his promised support and jumped upon the tram.

The O'Kelly's address was in Belsize Square. I was about to ring and knock, as requested by a highly-polished bra.s.s plate, when I became aware of pieces of small coal falling about me on the doorstep. Looking up, I perceived the O'Kelly leaning out of an attic window. From signs I gathered I was to retire from the doorstep and wait. In a few minutes the door opened and his hand beckoned me to enter.

"Walk quietly," he whispered; and on tip-toe we climbed up to the attic from where had fallen the coal. "I've been waiting for ye," explained the O'Kelly, speaking low. "Me wife--a good woman, Paul; sure, a better woman never lived; ye'll like her when ye know her, later on--she might not care about ye're calling. She'd want to know where I met ye, and--ye understand? Besides," added the O'Kelly, "we can smoke up here;" and seating himself where he could keep an eye upon the door, near to a small cupboard out of which he produced a pipe still alight, the O'Kelly prepared himself to listen.

I told him briefly the reason of my visit.

"It was my fault, Paul," he was good enough to say; "my fault entirely.

Between ourselves, it was a d.a.m.ned silly idea, that party, the whole thing altogether. Don't ye think so?"

I replied that I was naturally prejudiced against it myself.

"Most unfortunate for me," continued the O'Kelly; "I know that. Me cabman took me to Hammersmith instead of Hampstead; said I told him Hammersmith. Didn't get home here till three o'clock in the morning.

Most unfortunate--under the circ.u.mstances."

I could quite imagine it.

"But I'm glad ye've come," said the O'Kelly. "I had a notion ye did something foolish that evening, but I couldn't remember precisely what.

It's been worrying me."

"It's been worrying me also, I can a.s.sure you," I told him; and I gave him an account of my Wednesday evening's experience.

"I'll go round to-morrow morning," he said, "and see one or two people.

It's not a bad idea, that of Jarman's. I think I may be able to arrange something for ye."

He fixed a time for me to call again upon him the next day, when Mrs.

O'Kelly would be away from home. He instructed me to walk quietly up and down on the opposite side of the road with my eye on the attic window, and not to come across unless he waved a handkerchief.

Rising to go, I thanked him for his kindness. "Don't put it that way, me dear Paul," he answered. "If I don't get ye out of this sc.r.a.pe I shall never forgive meself. If we d.a.m.ned silly fools don't help one another,"

he added, with his pleasant laugh, "who is to help us?"

We crept downstairs as we had crept up. As we reached the first floor, the drawing-room door suddenly opened.

"William!" cried a sharp voice.

"Me dear," answered the O'Kelly, s.n.a.t.c.hing his pipe from his mouth and thrusting it, still alight, into his trousers pocket. I made the rest of the descent by myself, and slipping out, closed the door behind me as noiselessly as possible.

Again I did not return to Nelson Square until the early hours, and the next morning did not venture out until I had heard Miss Sellars, who appeared to be in a bad temper, leave the house. Then running to the top of the kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I was going to leave her, and, judging the truth to be the simplest explanation, I told her the reason why.

"My dear," said Mrs. Peedles, "I am only too glad to hear it. It wasn't for me to interfere, but I couldn't help seeing you were making a fool of yourself. I only hope you'll get clear off, and you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you."

"You don't think I'm acting dishonourably, do you, Mrs. Peedles?" I asked.

"My dear," replied Mrs. Peedles, "it's a difficult world to live in--leastways, that's been my experience of it."

I had just completed my packing--it had not taken me long--when I heard upon the stairs the heavy panting that always announced to me the up-coming of Mrs. Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old ma.n.u.scripts under her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various shapes and sizes.

These she plumped down upon the rickety table, and herself upon the nearest chair.

"Put them in your box, my dear," said Mrs. Peedles. "They'll come in useful to you later on."

I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of old plays in ma.n.u.script-prompt copies, scored, cut and interlined. The top one I noticed was "The Bloodspot: Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer;"

the second, "The Female Highwayman."

"Everybody's forgotten 'em," explained Mrs. Peedles, "but there's some good stuff in all of them."

"But what am I to do with them?" I enquired.

"Just whatever you like, my dear," explained Mrs. Peedles. "It's quite safe. They're all of 'em dead, the authors of 'em. I've picked 'em out most carefully. You just take a scene from one and a scene from the other. With judgment and your talent you'll make a dozen good plays out of that little lot when your time comes."

"But they wouldn't be my plays, Mrs. Peedles," I suggested.

"They will if I give them to you," answered Mrs. Peedles. "You put 'em in your box. And never mind the bit of rent," added Mrs. Peedles; "you can pay me that later on."

I kissed the kind old soul good-bye and took her gift with me to my new lodgings in Camden Town. Many a time have I been hard put to it for plot or scene, and more than once in weak mood have I turned with guilty intent the torn and crumpled pages of Mrs. Peedles's donation to my literary equipment. It is pleasant to be able to put my hand upon my heart and reflect that never yet have I yielded to the temptation.

Always have I laid them back within their drawer, saying to myself, with stern reproof:

"No, no, Paul. Stand or fall by your own merits. Never plagiarise--in any case, not from this 'little lot.'"

CHAPTER IV.

LEADS TO A MEETING.

"Don't be nervous," said the O'Kelly, "and don't try to do too much. You have a very fair voice, but it's not powerful. Keep cool and open your mouth."

It was eleven o'clock in the morning. We were standing at the entrance of the narrow court leading to the stage door. For a fortnight past the O'Kelly had been coaching me. It had been nervous work for both of us, but especially for the O'Kelly. Mrs. O'Kelly, a thin, acid-looking lady, of whom I once or twice had caught a glimpse while promenading Belsize Square awaiting the O'Kelly's signal, was a serious-minded lady, with a conscientious objection to all music not of a sacred character. With the hope of winning the O'Kelly from one at least of his sinful tendencies, the piano had been got rid of, and its place in the drawing-room filled by an American organ of exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this we had had to make shift, and though the O'Kelly--a veritable musical genius--had succeeded in evolving from it an accompaniment to "Sally in Our Alley" less misleading and confusing than might otherwise have been the case, the result had not been to lighten our labours. My rendering of the famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired a dolefulness not intended by the composer. Sung as I sang it, the theme became, to employ a definition since grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad.

Involuntarily one wondered whether the marriage would turn out as satisfactorily as the young man appeared to antic.i.p.ate. Was there not, when one came to think of it, a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained within the temperament of the complainful hero that would ill a.s.sort with those instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could not avoid discerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow character of Sally.

"Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful," would demand the O'Kelly, as the solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning instrument beneath his hands.

Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning from a district visitors' committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I was hidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing, where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling to the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly.

"William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn."

"Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example of what I mean."

"William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies.

If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have.

Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o'clock in the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your explanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word 'Sally'

as I opened the door."

"Salvation, me dear," corrected the O'Kelly.

"Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault."

"A little hoa.r.s.eness, me dear," explained the O'Kelly.