Chapter 1

"Acts of Heroism Are All Around Us"

9 min

Mr. Hungerton, her father, really was the most tactless person upon earth,—a fluffy, feathery, untidy cockatoo of a man, perfectly good-natured, but absolutely centered upon his own silly self. If anything could have driven me from Gladys, it would have been the thought of such a father-in-law. I am convinced that he really believed in his heart that I came round to the Chestnuts three days a week for the pleasure of his company, and very especially to hear his views upon bimetallism, a subject upon which he was by way of being an authority.

Mr. Hungerton, her father, really was the most tactless person on earth. He was a fluffy, feathery, untidy cockatoo of a man, perfectly good-natured but completely wrapped up in his own silly self. If anything could have driven me away from Gladys, it would have been the thought of having him as a father-in-law. I am convinced that he truly believed I visited the Chestnuts three days a week for the pleasure of his company. He especially believed I came to hear his views on bimetallism, a subject on which he was something of an authority.

For an hour or more that evening I listened to his monotonous chirrup about bad money driving out good, the token value of silver, the depreciation of the rupee, and the true standards of exchange.

For an hour or more that evening, I listened to his monotonous chatter. He talked about bad money driving out good, the token value of silver, the falling value of the rupee, and the true standards of exchange.

"Suppose," he cried with feeble violence, "that all the debts in the world were called up simultaneously, and immediate payment insisted upon,—what under our present conditions would happen then?"

"Suppose," he cried with weak force, "that all the debts in the world were called in at once, and immediate payment was demanded. What would happen under our present conditions?"

I gave the self-evident answer that I should be a ruined man, upon which he jumped from his chair, reproved me for my habitual levity, which made it impossible for him to discuss any reasonable subject in my presence, and bounced off out of the room to dress for a Masonic meeting.

I gave the obvious answer that I would be ruined. He jumped out of his chair and scolded me for always being flippant. He said it made it impossible to discuss any serious subject in my presence. Then he bounced out of the room to dress for a Masonic meeting.

At last I was alone with Gladys, and the moment of Fate had come! All that evening I had felt like the soldier who awaits the signal which will send him on a forlorn hope; hope of victory and fear of repulse alternating in his mind.

At last I was alone with Gladys, and the decisive moment had come! All evening I had felt like a soldier waiting for the signal to begin a desperate mission. Like him, I alternated between hope of victory and fear of defeat.

She sat with that proud, delicate profile of hers outlined against the red curtain. How beautiful she was! And yet how aloof! We had been friends, quite good friends; but never could I get beyond the same comradeship which I might have established with one of my fellow-reporters upon the Gazette,—perfectly frank, perfectly kindly, and perfectly unsexual. My instincts are all against a woman being too frank and at her ease with me. It is no compliment to a man. Where the real sex feeling begins, timidity and distrust are its companions, heritage from old wicked days when love and violence went often hand in hand. The bent head, the averted eye, the faltering voice, the wincing figure—these, and not the unshrinking gaze and frank reply, are the true signals of passion. Even in my short life I had learned as much as that—or had inherited it in that race memory which we call instinct.

She sat with her proud, delicate profile outlined against the red curtain. How beautiful she was! And yet how distant! We had been friends, quite good friends. But I could never get beyond the same friendship I might have had with a fellow reporter at the Gazette. It was completely open, completely kind, and completely without sexual feeling. My instincts tell me that a woman should not be too open and comfortable with me. It is no compliment to a man. Where real sexual feeling begins, shyness and distrust come with it. These are a legacy of the wicked old days when love and violence often went hand in hand. A lowered head, an averted gaze, a hesitant voice, a body that flinches: these are the true signs of passion. An unwavering gaze and an open reply are not. Even in my short life, I had learned that much. Or perhaps I had inherited it through the memory of the race, which we call instinct.

Gladys was full of every womanly quality. Some judged her to be cold and hard; but such a thought was treason. That delicately bronzed skin, almost oriental in its coloring, that raven hair, the large liquid eyes, the full but exquisite lips,—all the stigmata of passion were there. But I was sadly conscious that up to now I had never found the secret of drawing it forth. However, come what might, I should have done with suspense and bring matters to a head to-night. She could but refuse me, and better be a repulsed lover than an accepted brother.

Gladys had every womanly quality. Some thought her cold and hard, but such a thought was betrayal. Her delicate bronze skin was almost Asian in coloring. Her raven-black hair, large, expressive eyes, and full but exquisite lips all showed signs of passion. But I was painfully aware that I had never found the secret to bringing that passion out. Still, whatever happened, I would end the suspense and settle things tonight. She could only refuse me, and it was better to be a rejected lover than an accepted brother.

So far my thoughts had carried me, and I was about to break the long and uneasy silence, when two critical, dark eyes looked round at me, and the proud head was shaken in smiling reproof. "I have a presentiment that you are going to propose, Ned. I do wish you wouldn't; for things are so much nicer as they are."

My thoughts had reached this point, and I was about to break the long, uneasy silence. But then two dark, critical eyes turned toward me, and she shook her proud head with a reproachful smile. "I have a feeling you're going to propose, Ned. I really wish you wouldn't, because things are so much nicer as they are."

I drew my chair a little nearer. "Now, how did you know that I was going to propose?" I asked in genuine wonder.

I pulled my chair a little closer. "Now, how did you know I was going to propose?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"Don't women always know? Do you suppose any woman in the world was ever taken unawares? But—oh, Ned, our friendship has been so good and so pleasant! What a pity to spoil it! Don't you feel how splendid it is that a young man and a young woman should be able to talk face to face as we have talked?"

"Don't women always know? Do you think any woman in the world has ever been caught by surprise? But, oh, Ned, our friendship has been so good and so pleasant! What a shame to spoil it! Don't you think it's wonderful that a young man and a young woman can talk face to face as we have?"

"I don't know, Gladys. You see, I can talk face to face with—with the station-master." I can't imagine how that official came into the matter; but in he trotted, and set us both laughing. "That does not satisfy me in the least. I want my arms round you, and your head on my breast, and—oh, Gladys, I want——"

"I don't know, Gladys. You see, I can talk face to face with, with the stationmaster." I can't imagine how the stationmaster came into it, but in he trotted and made us both laugh. "That doesn't satisfy me at all. I want my arms around you and your head on my chest, and, oh, Gladys, I want..."

She had sprung from her chair, as she saw signs that I proposed to demonstrate some of my wants. "You've spoiled everything, Ned," she said. "It's all so beautiful and natural until this kind of thing comes in! It is such a pity! Why can't you control yourself?"

She jumped up from her chair when she saw that I was about to show her some of what I wanted. "You've spoiled everything, Ned," she said. "It's all so beautiful and natural until this kind of thing comes in! It's such a shame! Why can't you control yourself?"

"I didn't invent it," I pleaded. "It's nature. It's love."

"Well, perhaps if both love, it may be different. I have never felt it."

"Well, perhaps it may be different if both people love each other. I have never felt it."

"But you must—you, with your beauty, with your soul! Oh, Gladys, you were made for love! You must love!"

"But you must. You, with your beauty and your soul! Oh, Gladys, you were made for love! You must love!"

"One must wait till it comes."

"You have to wait until it comes."

"But why can't you love me, Gladys? Is it my appearance, or what?"

"But why can't you love me, Gladys? Is it how I look, or what?"

She did unbend a little. She put forward a hand—such a gracious, stooping attitude it was—and she pressed back my head. Then she looked into my upturned face with a very wistful smile.

She did relax a little. She reached out her hand, bending over me so gracefully, and gently pushed my head back. Then she looked down at my upturned face with a deeply wistful smile.

"No it isn't that," she said at last. "You're not a conceited boy by nature, and so I can safely tell you it is not that. It's deeper."

"No, it isn't that," she said at last. "You're not naturally conceited, so I can safely tell you it isn't that. It's deeper than that."

"My character?"

She nodded severely.

She nodded sternly.

"What can I do to mend it? Do sit down and talk it over. No, really, I won't if you'll only sit down!"

"What can I do to make it right? Please sit down and talk it over. No, really, I won't if you'll just sit down!"

She looked at me with a wondering distrust which was much more to my mind than her whole-hearted confidence. How primitive and bestial it looks when you put it down in black and white!—and perhaps after all it is only a feeling peculiar to myself. Anyhow, she sat down.

She looked at me with puzzled distrust, which I liked much better than her complete trust. How primitive and animalistic that sounds when you put it in writing! And perhaps, after all, I’m the only one who feels that way. Anyway, she sat down.

"Now tell me what's amiss with me?"

"Now tell me what's wrong with me?"

"I'm in love with somebody else," said she.

"I'm in love with somebody else," she said.

It was my turn to jump out of my chair.

"It's nobody in particular," she explained, laughing at the expression of my face: "only an ideal. I've never met the kind of man I mean."

"It's nobody in particular," she explained, laughing at the look on my face. "Just an ideal. I've never met the kind of man I mean."

"Tell me about him. What does he look like?"

"Oh, he might look very much like you."

"Oh, he might look a lot like you."

"How dear of you to say that! Well, what is it that he does that I don't do? Just say the word,—teetotal, vegetarian, aeronaut, theosophist, superman. I'll have a try at it, Gladys, if you will only give me an idea what would please you."

"How sweet of you to say that! Well, what does he do that I don't? Just name it: give up drinking, become a vegetarian, an aviator, a theosophist, or a superman. I'll try it, Gladys, if you'll just give me an idea of what would please you."

She laughed at the elasticity of my character. "Well, in the first place, I don't think my ideal would speak like that," said she. "He would be a harder, sterner man, not so ready to adapt himself to a silly girl's whim. But, above all, he must be a man who could do, who could act, who could look Death in the face and have no fear of him, a man of great deeds and strange experiences. It is never a man that I should love, but always the glories he had won; for they would be reflected upon me. Think of Richard Burton! When I read his wife's life of him I could so understand her love! And Lady Stanley! Did you ever read the wonderful last chapter of that book about her husband? These are the sort of men that a woman could worship with all her soul, and yet be the greater, not the less, on account of her love, honored by all the world as the inspirer of noble deeds."

She laughed at how readily I changed my mind. "Well, first of all, I don't think my ideal man would talk like that," she said. "He would be tougher and more serious, not so ready to give in to a silly girl's whim. But above all, he must be a man who can get things done, who can act. He must be able to face Death without fear. He must be a man of great deeds and unusual experiences. It is never the man I would love, but always the glory he had won, because it would reflect on me. Think of Richard Burton! When I read his wife's biography of him, I could understand her love so well! And Lady Stanley! Have you ever read the wonderful final chapter of that book about her husband? These are the kinds of men a woman could worship with all her soul. Her love would make her greater, not less. And the whole world would honor her for inspiring noble deeds."

She looked so beautiful in her enthusiasm that I nearly brought down the whole level of the interview. I gripped myself hard, and went on with the argument.

She looked so beautiful in her enthusiasm that I nearly lowered the tone of the whole interview. I pulled myself together and continued my argument.

"We can't all be Stanleys and Burtons," said I; "besides, we don't get the chance,—at least, I never had the chance. If I did, I should try to take it."

"We can't all be Stanleys and Burtons," I said. "Besides, we don't all get the chance. At least, I never have. If I did, I'd try to take it."

"But chances are all around you. It is the mark of the kind of man I mean that he makes his own chances. You can't hold him back. I've never met him, and yet I seem to know him so well. There are heroisms all round us waiting to be done. It's for men to do them, and for women to reserve their love as a reward for such men. Look at that young Frenchman who went up last week in a balloon. It was blowing a gale of wind; but because he was announced to go he insisted on starting. The wind blew him fifteen hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and he fell in the middle of Russia. That was the kind of man I mean. Think of the woman he loved, and how other women must have envied her! That's what I should like to be,—envied for my man."

"But opportunities are all around you. The kind of man I mean makes his own opportunities. You can't hold him back. I've never met him, and yet I feel as if I know him so well. Opportunities for heroic acts are all around us. It's up to men to perform them, and for women to save their love as a reward for such men. Look at that young Frenchman who went up in a balloon last week. A gale was blowing, but he insisted on taking off because his flight had been announced. The wind blew him fifteen hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and he came down in the middle of Russia. That's the kind of man I mean. Think of the woman he loved and how other women must have envied her! That's what I'd like to be, envied for my man."

"I'd have done it to please you."

"I would have done it to make you happy."

"But you shouldn't do it merely to please me. You should do it because you can't help yourself, because it's natural to you, because the man in you is crying out for heroic expression. Now, when you described the Wigan coal explosion last month, could you not have gone down and helped those people, in spite of the choke-damp?"

"But you shouldn't do it just to please me. You should do it because you can't help yourself, because it comes naturally to you. You should do it because the man in you is crying out to be heroic. When you reported on the Wigan coal explosion last month, couldn't you have gone down and helped those people, despite the choke-damp?"

"I did."

"You never said so."

"There was nothing worth bucking about."

“There was nothing worth boasting about.”

"I didn't know." She looked at me with rather more interest. "That was brave of you."

"I didn't know." She looked at me with a little more interest. "That was brave of you."

"I had to. If you want to write good copy, you must be where the things are."

"I had to. If you want to write a good story, you have to be where things happen."

"What a prosaic motive! It seems to take all the romance out of it. But, still, whatever your motive, I am glad that you went down that mine." She gave me her hand; but with such sweetness and dignity that I could only stoop and kiss it. "I dare say I am merely a foolish woman with a young girl's fancies. And yet it is so real with me, so entirely part of my very self, that I cannot help acting upon it. If I marry, I do want to marry a famous man!"

"What an ordinary motive! It seems to take all the romance out of it. But whatever your motive, I'm glad you went down that mine." She offered me her hand with such sweetness and dignity that I could only bend down and kiss it. "I suppose I'm just a foolish woman with a young girl's fantasies. And yet it feels so real to me. It's such a part of who I am that I can't help acting on it. If I marry, I do want to marry a famous man!"

"Why should you not?" I cried. "It is women like you who brace men up. Give me a chance, and see if I will take it! Besides, as you say, men ought to MAKE their own chances, and not wait until they are given. Look at Clive—just a clerk, and he conquered India! By George! I'll do something in the world yet!"

"Why shouldn't you?" I cried. "Women like you give men courage. Give me a chance and see if I take it! Besides, as you say, men should MAKE their own chances, not wait for someone to give them one. Look at Clive. He was just a clerk, and he conquered India! By George! I'll do something in the world yet!"

She laughed at my sudden Irish effervescence. "Why not?" she said. "You have everything a man could have,—youth, health, strength, education, energy. I was sorry you spoke. And now I am glad—so glad—if it wakens these thoughts in you!"

She laughed at my sudden burst of Irish enthusiasm. "Why not?" she said. "You have everything a man could have: youth, health, strength, education, and energy. I was sorry you spoke. But now I'm glad, so glad, if it brings these thoughts to mind!"

"And if I do——"

"And if I do..."

Her dear hand rested like warm velvet upon my lips. "Not another word, Sir! You should have been at the office for evening duty half an hour ago; only I hadn't the heart to remind you. Some day, perhaps, when you have won your place in the world, we shall talk it over again."

Her dear hand rested on my lips, warm as velvet. "Not another word, sir! You should have been at the office for evening duty half an hour ago. But I couldn't bring myself to remind you. Perhaps someday, when you have made your place in the world, we can talk about it again."

And so it was that I found myself that foggy November evening pursuing the Camberwell tram with my heart glowing within me, and with the eager determination that not another day should elapse before I should find some deed which was worthy of my lady. But who—who in all this wide world could ever have imagined the incredible shape which that deed was to take, or the strange steps by which I was led to the doing of it?

And so, on that foggy November evening, I found myself chasing the Camberwell tram. My heart was glowing, and I was determined not to let another day pass without finding a deed worthy of my lady. But who in all the world could ever have imagined the incredible form that deed would take? Or the strange steps that would lead me to do it?

And, after all, this opening chapter will seem to the reader to have nothing to do with my narrative; and yet there would have been no narrative without it, for it is only when a man goes out into the world with the thought that there are heroisms all round him, and with the desire all alive in his heart to follow any which may come within sight of him, that he breaks away as I did from the life he knows, and ventures forth into the wonderful mystic twilight land where lie the great adventures and the great rewards. Behold me, then, at the office of the Daily Gazette, on the staff of which I was a most insignificant unit, with the settled determination that very night, if possible, to find the quest which should be worthy of my Gladys! Was it hardness, was it selfishness, that she should ask me to risk my life for her own glorification? Such thoughts may come to middle age; but never to ardent three-and-twenty in the fever of his first love.

After all, this opening chapter may seem to have nothing to do with my story. Yet without it, there would have been no story. A man must believe that heroic deeds are all around him. He must also be eager to pursue any heroic deed that comes into view. Only then will he break away from the life he knows, as I did. Only then will he venture into that wonderful, mysterious twilight land of great adventures and great rewards. So there I was, at the office of the Daily Gazette, where I was a very insignificant member of the staff. I was determined to find a quest worthy of my Gladys, that very night if possible! Was it cruel or selfish of her to ask me to risk my life for her own glory? Such thoughts may come to a middle-aged man, but never to a passionate twenty-three-year-old caught up in his first love.