Let us avoid repetition, and return to Eliphalet Cardomay where we left him at the dining-table, to march backwards to a past episode.
Lack of concentration and cohesion are among the chief snares lying in wait for him who chronicles character rather than plot. One might, of course, hazard, by way of excuse, that the recently recounted reminiscence was of greater interest than a detailed account of a roast leg of lamb followed by black-currant tart would prove. But justifications are always dull. To Eliphalet Cardomay the London episode was a grief unspeakable, whereas the homely repast, consumed in such familiar and well-loved surroundings, was the very reverse.
He finished that black-currant tart unto the final morsel, till naught but the permanganate-coloured stains upon the plate remained in token of its recent being. There was something almost boyish in the liberality of his appetite. In using the term boyish the period of his own youth is not implied, for Eliphalet displayed no youthful traits until his hair was silvered, his brow furrowed, and his eyes deep-set.
There are certain men whose mental condition bears little or no relation to their years, and he was one of them. They are born with grown-up minds, sage and mature convictions, unsuited to youth and only really serviceable when they have reached that time of life with which such gravity accords.
Eliphalet Cardomay, even when a boy, was oppressed with a middle-aged manner and a professional mien. It might truthfully be said that his brain and body did not synchronise until he had passed the forty-year high-water mark. His body, or, to put it more gracefully, his externals, were prepossessing. His broad forehead, swept-back hair, bold eyebrows and dilated nostrils, gave suggestion of virility and power. To a maiden they were productive of second glances, an added colour and a quickening of heart-beats against the ramparts of her corsets. In this well-knit yet æsthetic youth she might be pardoned for presuming there lurked wells of high romance, tempered with humour and a knavish disposition. It was said of him in the company, where he played juvenile leads at two pounds two shillings a week, that he was “deep.” Furthermore, since it was never his custom to boast about deeds of love, the young men with whom his lot was cast credited him with the proclivities of a Lothario and laid to his account many charming indiscretions in the glades of Eros. The older members of the company were wiser, or deemed themselves to be, and decided, not without a certain rough justice, that he was a bit of a prig. For this reason, Harrington May, who specialised in villains of the heavier kind, gave him the title of “Mother’s Boy” and named him as such to his face.
Eliphalet was very grave (he had accomplished the forty-five manner twenty years before he was entitled to it), and replied:
“In so far as I was born of woman your accusation is correct. My mother died, however, when I was a year old. I presume, from your smile, you believe you have said something offensive, but since it is nothing but the truth I cannot allow myself to take umbrage, even though the truth is usually a stranger to your lips.”
For one so young the speech was painfully pedantic, but it succeeded in putting Mr. Harrington May temporarily out of action, and established for Eliphalet a reputation for caustic repartee. He was frequently asked to repeat his words, but this he politely declined to do, thus giving further proof of age before accession to age.
Miss Blanche Cannon, a depictor of adventuresses on the stage and a great Bohemian off, had been present at the contretemps, and was greatly delighted by the young man’s urbanity and calm. It is no infrequent occurrence for opposites to be attracted by each other, and she, with her scatter-brained, love-a-lark disposition, scented in Eliphalet a suitor of possible quality.
He, poor fellow, was quite unaware of this, for his thoughts were centred in Art and a desire to make a mark in dramatic history. Hitherto he had had no dealings with love, and many a maid had languished in vain on that account.
But Blanche was not of the languishing brand. Having decided to ensnare his affections, she set about making inquiries, and was greatly intrigued to learn, from several misinformed, but talkative, young actors, that he was “no end of a dog on the Q.T.” One of them, with an imagination that would have thriven in Fleet Street, went to the length of describing a liaison with a certain titled lady, who had become enamoured of Eliphalet from the stalls and had lured him away to a castle, beside which Haddon Hall paled into insignificance. Charmed by these accounts, Blanche Cannon’s desire developed exceedingly, and forthwith she began a tentative archery upon the heart of Eliphalet. It is always your student who proves the easiest prey to the wiles of love, and one day, when she had successfully manœuvred a tête-à-tête tea-party in her own rooms, Eliphalet succumbed, and Blanche, picking up her cue with professional skill, dropped into his arms under a smother of kisses.
Eliphalet was entirely proficient in the art of love-making. It was part of his equipment as an actor. He knew the moment to fold to his bosom the form of an adored one, and how to brush the hair back from her forehead with just sufficient pressure to elevate the chin to the ideal angle for imprinting a kiss. He knew how to drop his voice to a quality of whispering and passionate vibration. All of these services he most faithfully rendered, with one or two minor improvements suggested by a productive mind. Repetition, however, if pursued beyond a given margin, is apt to weary the soul, and after a while Blanche began to yearn for variety, and to doubt if he were indeed the ideal lover. Certain misgivings also arose in his own mind. At first he was enveloped in the wonder of love new-born, but as time went on he was able to detect certain faults in the poetic composition of his destined bride. For instance, she did not respond very rapidly to the Shakespearian atmosphere he diligently sought to produce by passionately-delivered quotations from Romeo and Juliet. She showed a marked lack of interest in the story of Abélard and Héloise, and a greater enthusiasm at the prospect of a donkey-ride on the New Brighton sands than a lovers’ wander in leafy solitudes. She became sick of holding hands, and more than once told him stories the humour of which would have been better suited to the court of Bluff King Hal.
To a sensitive mind these passages of wit were distasteful, but nevertheless Eliphalet Cardomay remained in love with praiseworthy constancy. He built palaces, masoned and mortared of their united talents, and spoke of the future that should be theirs—a future which would be spoken of in retrospect by posterity. With love and guidance he convinced himself that Blanche would in time come to a fuller understanding of the vast responsibility they jointly held for the furtherance of art. He pictured her as blossoming into a great emotional actress, and to that end tried to dissuade her from over-hilarity in public places, and to attach less importance to such trivial pleasures as ice-creams consumed in small Italian cafés. He spoke of the glory of mutual understanding, reciprocity, and many other long-worded matters, tedious to a person of light-hearted habit.
For her part, Blanche was heartily disappointed that none of the alleged characteristics displayed in the affair of the titled lady had been revealed to her. His behaviour had been of a scrupulous purity, and high-standing little short of ridiculous. It has been said that Blanche was a Bohemian, which implies a taste for the savoury diet. She enjoyed risky friendships—she liked to see the eyes of her lover catch fire and to quell the fire by some cold drench of inconsequent nonsense. That was caviare! There was a relish in such intimacy—but with Eliphalet, and his erotic quotations, there was none. Wherefore, partly to stimulate more vivid emotions, and partly for her own entertainment, she adopted other methods, and in Mr. Harrington May and his natural villainies she found the desired means.
May was a heavily-built man with a hearty laugh and a bullying manner. He bullied his juniors and his lovers alike, and by so doing achieved something of a reputation for manhood. His principle in life was to take his fun where he found it, so, accordingly, when Blanche yearned towards him, he threw an arm around her with a strong man’s zeal.
“Can’t see what you found to amuse you in that young spring poet,” he observed, after the first elaborately-resisted embrace had been achieved.
“Anyway,” returned Blanche, who was a firm believer in tantalising methods, “he scored off you all right.”
Harrington May did not deny the charge, but “I’m scoring off him pretty heavily at the moment,” he said.
When, that night, Eliphalet suggested to Blanche they should take sandwiches and aerated waters and have a picnic in the pleasaunces of Jesmond Dene the following day, she shook her head and declined.
“But my dearest, there will be no rehearsal, and you and I could——”
“I’ve something else to do, I tell you.”
She was very mysterious and roguishly declined to tell him what. Eliphalet, unlike most youths, was not in the least suspicious, but he thought it a strange violation of true love’s laws to harbour secrets. When he observed as much, she put him off with a coquettish toss of the head.
For the next couple of days each proposed meeting met with the same answer, and at last he began to feel angry and injured.
Being of a philosophical mind, this sense of injury found expression in more practical ways than upbraiding his fiancée. He reflected that, if after so short a time she was able willingly to forego the charms of his company, it was reasonable to expect that serious breaches would arise should they engage upon more enduring relations. This reasoning led to the natural conclusion that Blanche Cannon was not the right woman to fill the post of his wife and helpmeet. It would be better, perhaps, to tell her so at once, rather than increase the embarrassment by untimely delay.
These thoughts were occupying his mind when Blanche herself pushed open his dressing-room door, and, violently rubbing her cheek, stepped inside.
“You are a nice lover, aren’t you?” she began.
“I have tried to be,” he replied evenly.
“Well, you haven’t succeeded. My idea of a lover is a knight in armour who protects his fair lady, not you. You sit down and shut your eyes to what’s going on in front of your nose.”
“I don’t understand, my dear. You had some secrets, and I did not like to intrude on them without your permission.”
“No, and I suppose you’d wait for my permission before going for a man who tried to kiss me.”
Eliphalet rose and compressed his lips.
“No one would dare with the knowledge that we are engaged.”
“Wouldn’t they, just! Well, they just have—at least one has, the vile brute!”
“A member of this company kissed you against your will?”
“Of course.”
“Who?”
“You’d do nothing if I told you.”
“Who?” repeated Eliphalet, very white and calm.
“Harrington May.”
“Thank you. I shall know what to do, my dear. Your honour is quite safe with me; and mine—mine has been outraged.”
He threw open the door and closed it crisply behind him, leaving Blanche looking a little scared. She had not counted on producing the quality of dull anger his face had worn, but thought rather he would fly into a boy’s rage—caress her with a savage intensity and curse the man who had sought to steal her favours. Then she would have told him that the whole thing was a joke, devised to buck him up and make him amusing. Afterwards, they would have gone out and had a jolly good beano. But somehow his looks did not give encouragement for such a recital, and, moreover, she felt a stirring of admiration for the manner in which he had strode to confront his rival.
Eliphalet went straight to Harrington May’s room and entered uninvited.
The leading-man was removing his make-up, and he looked up over the brim of a very dirty towel.
“What d’you want?” he demanded.
And Eliphalet answered coldly enough:
“You are a blackguard—a low, thieving blackguard. A man to whom honour is a thing unknown.”
“That’s very pretty,” said May. “Did you write it?”
“You dared to kiss my future wife.”
Harrington May rubbed his face thoughtfully.
“Oh, and who would that be?”
“I refer to Miss Cannon.”
“Oh, ah! I see. And I’m supposed to have kissed her, am I?”
“Do you deny having done so?”
“Well, I must make quite sure before answering. There’s a note-book in the pocket of that jacket, if you’d pass it over.”
But Eliphalet picked up a pair of gloves and flung them into the leading-man’s face.
“Hey! Go easy! What’s that for?”
“It is a challenge.”
“A challenge, eh? To what?”
“To a duel.”
Harrington May threw back his head and laughed aloud, but for all that he scrutinised Eliphalet shrewdly from the corner of his eye.
“As the challenged party, it is your right to choose the weapons.”
“Ah, yes, so it is. I haven’t fought a duel for a week or two, so I’d forgotten. What do you say to crossbows?—or, if they don’t suit, I’m a pretty good hand with the lasso.”
“The choice lies between pistols and swords.”
May flashed another quick glance. Certainly the young man appeared to be in earnest—but the whole thing was absurd. He was on the point of selecting swords, as the first word to come to hand, but decided hurriedly against doing so. It was conceivable Eliphalet, in the heat of his anger, might snatch up a sword and make a dig at him. In the course of one or two previous productions they had fought a few stage-fights, and Eliphalet Cardomay had rather a pretty knack with a blade. Pistols and the thought of speeding lead would very soon destroy the foolish ideas that were possessing him, thought May; so with a world of dignity he said:
“I choose the trusty old bundook.”
“We will meet at midnight by the ruined mill in Jesmond Dene,” said Eliphalet, and walked sedately from the room.
Harrington May sat motionless awhile, regarding his own image in the glass. He felt oddly cold, and his jaw showed a disposition to tremble.
“Whew!” he said, squaring his shoulders. “This is silly! That young upstart is trying to bounce me. Well, we must come back on him heavily, that’s all.”
He rose and finished dressing.
At the stage-door a few members of the company had gathered, and an inspiration seized him to narrate what had occurred. So, with plenty of noise and a liberal allowance of margin for his own repartee, he recounted the side-splitting exchanges that had led up to the challenge.
“What do you think, boys?” he shouted. “It’s pistols for two, at midnight.”
To a chorus of “No,” “Chuck it,” and “You’re having us on, old man,” he responded:
“Solemn fact, I give you my word. We meet in Jesmond Dene at the witching hour of twelve. Coffee for one at five past.”
Never before had the company enjoyed so rich a jest, and they fell about in ecstasies of rib-punching laughter.
“ ’Course I saw through it,” said May, “though he played his bluff well. I wish some of you had been there. I was as solemn as a judge. Lord! it was funny.”
“D’you think he was bluffing, then?” asked a very young man, whose name was Manning, and who secretly harboured admiration for Eliphalet Cardomay.
“I don’t think about it, darling,” responded May, and was greeted with a fresh burst of merriment, in which all but the aforesaid youngster joined.
“It ’ud be funnier still,” he ventured, “if it turned out that he wasn’t bluffing at all.”
But no one took any notice of that aside.
“What are you going to do, Mr. May?” asked one.
“I shall turn up, of course, dear boy, and, like as not, catch a cold waiting half the night, while our little friend is sleeping in bed. Tell you what: this joke is too big to keep to oneself. I’ll pay the hire of a wagonette, then you can all slip off after the show and see the fun.”
This spirited offer was received with enthusiasm, and the whole company was on the point of repairing to a hostelry to honour the occasion, when Eliphalet Cardomay, carrying a small polished wooden case, came quietly through the stage-door. At his approach the conversation died abruptly, and all eyes were turned upon him.
“Please,” he said, asking for a gangway.
Someone touched his shoulder, and asked:
“Are you fighting a duel to-night, old man?”
“Mr. May will answer that question,” he replied, and passed into the street.
“What did I tell you?” demanded May in his loudest tones. “Isn’t it wonderful, eh?”
“Did you notice what he was carrying?” said very young Mr. Manning.
“Can’t say I did, unless it was a soother.”
“He had that old case of pistols from the property-room.”
“Damn good!” roared May; but the laugh stuck in his throat somehow, and lacked the quality of genuine mirth.
The gifts bestowed by the gods upon Eliphalet Cardomay did not include a very generous measure of humour, or he would scarcely have set about his preparations with such precision and calm. Bearing the case of old pinfire revolvers, he entered a gunsmith’s in High Street, and asked for cartridges.
The shop assistant examined the bore of the weapon and rummaged about among his stock.
“I think these’ll do,” he said, “but it’s an old pattern pistol, and this stuff has been lying around some years. We’ve a range at the back, if you’d care to try a few shots.”
“I should, very much. Perhaps you would lend me a wire bristle—these barrels are a trifle rusty.”
Having little to occupy him, the amiable assistant spent half-an-hour in cleaning up the old weapons, and succeeded in imparting to them a greatly rejuvenated air.
“Don’t get much shooting in your line, do you?” he asked. A provincial shopman recognises, by a kind of second-sight, every touring actor and actress who visits the town.
“I have practised a little,” returned Eliphalet, “for you cannot use a weapon effectively on the stage unless you are acquainted with the right method.”
They descended to the basement, where there was a miniature range, lighted with little whistling gas-jets. The assistant hung a target to a clip and despatched it on a drawn wire to its appointed place. Eliphalet loaded the pistols, and balanced them critically in his hand. Then, laying one aside, he drew a bead and pressed the trigger. The bullet cut the inner line at twelve o’clock.
“Throws up a shade,” he remarked.
His second shot perforated the bull very neatly.
“That’s sound shooting,” exclaimed the astonished assistant. “Try the other one.”
There was little to choose between the two revolvers, and when all ten shots had been fired, the target presented a very pretty pattern.
“You’ve a steady hand. Before I saw this I thought actors lifted their elbows too much to shoot that way. I like your light hold on the butt and the thumb straight with the barrel—it’s stylish.”
Eliphalet thanked him for his praises, paid for fifty cartridges, and after carefully cleaning the two weapons, bade him good afternoon.
He took his meal at a chop-house, and ate but sparingly. When he had finished, he called for paper and an envelope, and wrote a farewell letter to Blanche, to be delivered should misadventure overtake him. It was rather a grandiose composition, in which the word “honour” recurred with some frequency. He placed it in his pocket, paid the bill, and walked to the theatre.
The news of the challenge had spread like wildfire—even the stage hands and cleaners were in possession of every detail. Wherever he went he was followed by curious glances, and often after he had passed explosive but suppressed giggles would break out. It was clear the company was treating the affair as a joke. Personally, he could see very small provocation for laughter, but reflecting that with trivial minds mirth and calamity are close companions, he made no comment. He wondered whether Harrington May would laugh next morning.
Eliphalet had quite made up his mind not to kill his antagonist, but to place a bullet in his thigh, trusting this would prove sufficient punishment to meet with the requirements. He wished almost that the cause of their quarrel had been a woman of finer fibre, but that could not be helped, and the insult to his pride was the same in any case.
The business of the play proceeded on even lines. A private affair could not be allowed to interfere with a public duty; but once or twice he stumbled with his words and missed a cue. Harrington May observed this, was delighted, and noisily declared in the greenroom, during one of his waits, that “Mother’s Boy” was in such alarm that he couldn’t “talk straight.”
The wagonette had been ordered, and towards the end of the play had drawn up in a side street to wait the coming of the revellers. Nearly everyone had brought with them a warm coat or wrap, that the elements might not interfere with their perfect enjoyment.
When the curtain fell on the last act, Eliphalet carefully dressed himself, and was on the point of leaving his room, when Blanche came in.
“You are a little fool, aren’t you?” she said.
It is discouraging for a man about to risk his life for a lady’s sake to be addressed in such terms. It was a time for guerdons and not rebukes.
“In what manner am I a fool, Blanche?”
“Challenging May to a duel, like that. Everyone knows about it, and is laughing about it, too. Now, I suppose you are going to walk home as if nothing has happened. A nice idiot it’ll make me look, and you’ll be the laughing-stock of the theatre for ever.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Why couldn’t you punch his head, like a man, and leave it at that?”
“I do not consider to do so would be punishment enough.”
“Better than all this silly talking.”
“There has been very little talking; indeed, I ought not to be talking now. There is not much time before the—the—appointment.”
Blanche’s eyes sought his face with quick interrogation.
“Cardy!” she exclaimed. “You’re not serious? You don’t really mean to——?”
“Of course I am serious.”
“But—you can’t—you mustn’t!”
“I can and will. There is no going back now. Please.”
But she barred his way.
“No—no—no! I forbid you.”
“Please.”
“Oh, but you’re joking—joking! You couldn’t shoot him—not for that. Besides, you wouldn’t know which end of the pistol to hold.”
A man who is playing a part senior to his years will generally give himself away on a detail. It was sheer youthful arrogance when he drew from his pocket the target he had decorated that afternoon, and cast it on the table before her.
“I did this at fifteen paces,” he said.
The message of the target was plain, and Blanche needed no second glance. She flung herself at her lover’s feet, and besought him to spare the life of Harrington May.
“It—it wasn’t all his fault,” she sobbed. “I did egg him on a bit, just—just to stir you up.”
For a moment he was silent, and his face was ominously stern.
“You achieved your object,” he replied at last. “We must talk more of this later, Blanche. For the rest, you need not be alarmed. I shall not kill this man, and you are free to take what is left of him, when I have finished.” Thrusting her aside, he picked up the case of pistols and hurried away.
“Oh, God!” cried Blanche, and there was admiration as well as fear in her voice.
It was rather wonderful that he would risk death for her sake—but of course it must not happen. She must go at once and warn Harrington May of the danger. Then came the thought, “Suppose he, too, insists on fighting?” Her eyes glittered. This drama that centred about her was fantastic, thrilling. If he, too, were determined to enter the lists, where would her choice lie?
The corridors were deserted, for the company had dressed hurriedly and were well away towards the sheltering bushes of Jesmond Dene. As she hastened towards May’s room she could hear Eliphalet Cardomay’s fly rattling over the cobbles of the street below.
“Hulloa!” exclaimed May. “Not gone to the party? Better come in my cab. Pity to miss the fun.”
“It isn’t fun,” she cried. “He’s in deadly, awful earnest. He’s going to shoot you.”
The leading man licked his lips and smiled queerly.
“You can’t bounce me,” he said.
“I swear it. I’ve just left him. He’s gone there with the pistols, and he can shoot straight—terribly straight.”
“Then it isn’t a joke?”
“A joke! He’ll kill you. Oh, Harrington, you must fly—get away—hide somewhere. Look: it’s Saturday night. I’ll let you know if it’s safe to come back on Monday—but you must go now.”
“By God, if it’s like that, I will,” gasped May, and reached for his coat and hat.
“You won’t face him?”
“I’m not looking for a funeral. Thanks for telling me.”
As he clattered down the corridor, Blanche called the word “coward” after his retreating form.
It was a very formidable and grim young man who, half-an-hour later, alighted on the fringes of that pleasant dell known as Jesmond Dene. Under his arm he carried the case of pistols, and the lines about his mouth were set and hard.
“You will wait,” he said, addressing the cabman.
“Perhaps I won’t,” returned that gentleman, who was unaccustomed to so direct an order.
Eliphalet did not deign to reply, but he turned aside from the road and stepped briskly down the steep and wooded path. The moon shone serenely, casting dark violet shadows of the trees upon the grey undergrowth. He knew the way, for this had been a favourite seclusion when learning new parts, and took a short cut to the appointed place.
“Here comes May,” whispered one of the concealed company from his observation-post in the bushes. “Keep your hands down, you chaps.”
Eliphalet passed within a few feet of several unseen onlookers.
“That was May, wasn’t it?”
“Couldn’t see his face.”
“Must have been.”
Young Manning spoke.
“You’re wrong. It was Cardomay.”
There was a ring of triumph in his voice.
“Don’t talk rot.”
“Look for yourselves, then.”
Eliphalet stepped out into the clearing, and the light of the moon showed his features with a ghastly precision.
One of the girls gave a nervous laugh, and several men turned to each other with apprehensive glances.
“Lord, he’s turned up!” said one.
“This is going too far,” said another. “We ought to stop it. Here!”
A hand was clapped over his mouth by Harrington May’s staunchest supporter.
“Don’t spoil the fun. He’s only bluffing.”
Then Manning spoke again.
“Wish I knew which way they are going to stand,” he said. “Likely as not one of us’ll pick up a stray bullet.”
Hearing which, Miss Mary Neville, the ingénue, did what she was accustomed to do in plays on such occasions—fainted.
Far away in the distance the Town Hall clock struck twelve. There was a general rustle, as everyone verified the time by their own watches in the little patches of moonlight.
“If May finds him here there’ll be trouble.”
“P’r’aps he won’t come,” volunteered Manning, and was advised to avoid folly and stupid speculation.
Eliphalet laid a white kerchief on the ground—stepped out fifteen paces, and dropped another. Then he took out the pistols and examined them. This he did at the precise moment Miss Neville emerged from her faint, and caused an immediate relapse. Satisfied that all was in order with the weapons, he laid them on the top of the case. His actions were very concise, and he appeared quite composed.
“Fact is, he guesses we’re here, and he’s putting up a big bluff,” whispered Harrington May’s supporter into a convenient ear.
Then there was silence, faintly disturbed by the rustle of the breeze and the clucking of water dripping from the mosses of the old mill-wheel.
Eliphalet removed his coat and looked at his watch. Ten minutes past twelve. The waiting was trying his nerves. There should be strict punctuality in an affair of honour. He began pacing up and down, slowly at first, but later with a savage intensity of movement; when the quarter past chimed, he tossed his head angrily.
“Can’t make out what’s become of May. He was almost dressed when we left the theatre.”
“Perhaps——” began Manning, then stopped as the noise of approaching wheels and hoofs cut crisply into the silence.
Eliphalet heard it—drew a sharp breath, and squared his shoulders in the direction of the sound.
The excitement among the spectators leapt to fever-pitch as they heard the vehicle come to a standstill. There immediately followed the patter of running feet and the smart crackle of breaking twigs.
“He’s coming!”
All eyes turned towards the path as Blanche Cannon burst into view. Without a second’s hesitation she flung herself into Eliphalet Cardomay’s arms, gasping and crying:
“Oh, my hero, my darling hero! He was a coward—he wouldn’t meet you—he’s run away.”
And in the exquisite relief of the moment Eliphalet folded her to his breast in a sobbing ecstasy.
Then the company, who had remained silent for longer than their natures allowed, broke cover and surrounded the happy pair with a chorus of hand-shaking, back-slapping congratulations.
When the enthusiasm subsided, which was not until three a.m. that morning, for everyone crowded to Eliphalet’s room to do him continued honour, he was rather dismayed to find that he and Blanche were destined, by pressure of opinion, to be made man and wife before the month was out.
* * * * *
Surmise, therefore, O wise and prophetic reader, the disastrous results, not alone confined to Art, that so often arise from humouring the popular prejudice in favour of a Happy Ending.