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Updated: June 11, 2025
I tried to persuade Vane to let me make a new play altogether, which I offered to give him for nothing. He expressed himself as grateful, but his frequently declared belief in my dramatic talent failed to induce his acceptance. "Later on, my dear Kelver," was his reply. "For the present this is doing very well.
"Your language, my dear Kelver," he replied, my vocabulary exhausted, "might wound me were I able to accept you as an authority upon this vexed question of morals. With the rest of the world you preach one thing and practise another. I have noticed it so often. It is perhaps sad, but the preaching has ceased to interest me.
Its last ran "Re Kelver various sales of stock." To his credit were his payments year after year of imaginary interests on imaginary securities, the surplus accounted for with simple brevity: "Transferred to own account." No record could have been more clear, more frank.
The Signora rose and kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon my shoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them. "Mr. Kelver," said the Signora, "you are very young." I hinted it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can be combined with truth that I found myself in company. The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head.
And the children! they are the waiting earth on which we fling our store. Is it chaff and dust or living seed? Wait and watch. I shower my thoughts over our Paul, Mrs. Kelver. They seem to me brilliant, deep, original. The young beggar swallows them, forgets them. They were rubbish. Then I say something that dwells with him, that grows. Ah, that was alive, that was a seed.
From any other than Hal my mother would have taken such a remark, made even in jest, as an insult to her sex. But Hal's smile was a coating that could sugar any pill. "I am not one man, Mrs. Kelver, I am half a dozen. If I were to marry one wife she would be married to six husbands. It is too many for any woman to manage." "Have you never fallen in love?" asked my mother.
"Am I mad?" was all he could find to say. "Kelver, am I mad?" He handed me the book. It was a cynically truthful record of fraud, extending over thirty years. Every client, every friend, every relative that had fallen into his net he had robbed: the fortunate ones of a part, the majority of their all. Its very first entry debited him with the proceeds of his own partner's estate.
It was addressed, in handwriting not so bad as I had expected, to "Paul Kelver, Esquire." I opened it and read: "Dr mr. Paul I herd as how you was took hill hafter the party. I feer you are not strong. You must not work so hard or you will be hill and then I shall be very cros with you. I hop you are well now. If so I am going for a wark and you may come with me if you are good. With much love.
Maybe I would go with them, but more often, before we reached the gate, the delight of my society would be claimed by a rival troop. "He's coming with us this afternoon. He promised." "No, he didn't." "Yes, he did." "Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?" "Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?" "I do." "Punch his head, Dick!" "Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. Come, Kelver."
There is another I would cherish, a tender, yielding creature, one whose face would light at my coming, cloud at my going; one to whom I should be a god. There is a third I, a child of Pan an ugly little beast, Mrs. Kelver; horns on head and hoofs on feet, leering through the wood, seeking its fit mate.
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