During his stay in London, a year before, Mr. Saltus had made the acquaintance of a friend of mine,—a very remarkable woman, Mrs. M——, a lady of foreign birth and high social position, married to a Britisher. Unique as a mother, untiring in the service of humanity, and possessing extraordinary supernormal powers, she gave him, firsthand and from personal investigation, information and understanding of so unusual a character, that Mr. Saltus regarded the privilege of knowing her as an unmerited blessing. She gave him also a curious old talisman—a tiny Rosicrucian cross that had once belonged to a world-renowned occultist. So frail and worn had it become by centuries of use, that twice it had been backed with gold to hold it together. It was the last earthly possession his hand relinquished in death.

Figuratively and literally, Mr. Saltus sat at Mrs. M——'s feet and absorbed what she gave him. Her influence on his life was more vital and far-reaching than that of any other human he ever met.

"Triple ass that I was," he said over and over again after he met her. "I sent out 'Lords of the Ghostland' when I knew nothing. Had I but waited till now I could have written a masterpiece. Instead of that I turned out a skeleton,—no meat, no truth, no insides."

This fretted him constantly.

"If I live long enough," he said, "I will undo 'The Philosophy of Disenchantment' and 'The Anatomy of Negation,' as well as 'Lords of the Ghostland,' and epitomize all I have digested into a single volume and call it 'The History of God.' Then I will sing my Nunc dimittis, go to Adyar and put my pen at the service of Mrs. Besant."

It was a far step for the man who had once written, "There is no help here or anywhere." Years of study, reinforced by the chastening effect of thinking for another less practical and more highly strung than himself, had done much for him, but the increasing application of Theosophy to his daily life had done more. As far as he could, he made himself over—recognizing and combatting his weaknesses with heroic courage. Though the remnants of his fundamental fears remained and cropped up at unexpected times and places, they were modified to a remarkable degree. One could not anticipate them however, and occasionally they led to rather amusing results.

It was after a prolonged period of insomnia and a nervous breakdown, super-induced by circumstances entirely unconnected with Mr. Saltus, and after I had been in bed for weeks, that one of these lapses occurred. He was an angel during this trying time, rushing up to Covent Garden daily to get me peaches (a luxury in England) and taking his meals on a tray at my bedside, after which he read aloud to me as long as I cared to have him do so. It was after a peaceful evening passed in this way, that one of his fears reappeared for a moment, and in such a way that one with less understanding of his psychology would have been very angry.

Mr. Saltus' bed-room opened off my own, and it was our custom to leave the door ajar in case I should need something during the night. He was asleep and I was resting when a low "woof" came from the foot of my bed. Another "woof!" and then a growl followed. Toto was trained to be quiet and did not "woof" without cause. I sat up and listened. Light footsteps were audible from the drawing-room down stairs. I waited a moment or two to make sure, and then, speaking quite naturally but loudly enough to waken him, I said:—

"Get up, Snippsy. I think there are burglars down-stairs."

What followed was enough to frighten even the most hardened criminal. With a blood-curdling shriek, Mr. Saltus sprang from his bed, and slamming the door between our rooms locked it,—locking as well the other door giving on to the hallway. So unexpected was it, and so sudden, that it took me a moment to realize that instead of going to the rescue, he was, as he afterward admitted, curled up in bed, with the covering pulled over his head.

Somebody had to do something. Getting out of the bed I had not left for weeks, with Toto leading the way, I turned on the drawing-room lights from a switch, and tottered down stairs. The intruder was quite harmless,—a man who occupied a tiny pied-À-terre on the ground floor. He had mislaid his matches, and being on a friendly footing with us had, as he thought, come up noiselessly to help himself from our smoking-stand.

When with shaking legs I managed to get up the stairs again, Mr. Saltus met me on the landing. He had gained control of his nerves and was coming down to look after me. It was my hand which locked the door between our rooms that time, after calling him a "spineless jellyfish," an epithet which he had heard many times before and which always called forth the same reply:—

"Were our spines of the same rigidity we would have killed one another years ago."

None the less Mr. Saltus was none too keen for me to ask those of our friends who dropped in for tea, if they wanted to hear how he routed the burglar. How ever the telling of this affair sounds, it was not the result of fear in the accepted sense of the word. It was a condition of Mr. Saltus' nerves only.

A day or so later, a specialist having been called in to see me, he suggested that pernicious anÆmia might be aggravating my illness, and that transfusion of blood might be necessary. Mr. Saltus bared his arm in an instant, insisting that no time be lost and that his blood and no other be taken. It was however found to be a wrong diagnosis. Brave he always was, when there was no sudden impact on his nervous system.

Mr. Saltus loved London, the city, the life and the people. He loved even the greyness of it,—loved the British Museum and the parks, but most of his old friends had passed on. One interesting figure silhouetted against the background of England,—one whom Mr. Saltus had known until then only through correspondence,—was T. P. O'Connor, M.P. Having seen quite a bit of him, and most pleasurably, the previous winter in Algeria, our first outing after I was able to be about, was to have tea on the Terrace at the House of Commons with him.

"I've read everything you have written," he told Mr. Saltus with a handshake.

"That you have survived it is the more amazing," Mr. Saltus answered.

Tea and time were consumed and forgotten. They were at home with each other in a moment, and Mr. Saltus was enchanted by "Tay Pay's" wit and charm. They laughed and chatted like two boys in a tuck-shop.

It was upon returning from the House that afternoon that Mr. Saltus complained again of the pain in his legs.

"I walk less and less easily each day," he said. "What can be coming over me? Am I going to be paralyzed?"

A physician was consulted the following day, and a liniment prescribed, but the pain went on increasing. A few days after, and while Mr. Saltus was much depressed over his condition, we were invited to a dinner, which he accepted. Barring myself, the guests were all celebrities of various kinds,—playwrights, authors, actors, musicians and lecturers, with Mr. Saltus the visiting comet. It was not until the taxi was at the door to take us that he announced:—

"Mr. Me, won't go."

There were no extenuating circumstances to excuse him, nor did he attempt to find or fake them. Past experience had shown him how transparent they were to me.

"I'm not up to the mark. I'm incapable of being a rapid-firing battery of wit, wisdom and epigrams," he announced.

"You should have realized your limitations sooner," I said, "for you cannot evade a dinner at the twelfth hour, when you are the guest of dishonour as well. We are already late. It's outrageous."

"Outrageous or not, I'm not going. You never do anything that is expected of you. Why should I? The less people see of me the better they will think of me. You must go and get me out of it as well as you can. Take a leaf out of my book and invent something."

That was too much.

"I won't have to invent, to tell them you are a lunatic resting from a lucid interval. No wonder there is no stampede for your work. You wrap yourself in impenetrability and expect the world to be clairvoyant. It won't do. I will be Balaam's ass no longer. You must bray for yourself."

His braying was the usual "Wow! Wow! Please extract poor Snippsy. He'll take Totesy Babe for a walk in Kensington Gardens every day and be such a good boy ever after. Why do you care how I treat others? I'm always old dog Tray to you."

What could one do with such a man? He had to be taken "as is," the way they label goods on bargain counters, or not at all. I could have insisted, and taken him willing or not, for more than he disliked being dragged out against his will did he hate to have me seriously provoked with him. But what would have been the use? He would have gone had I insisted, but acquitted himself in such a way that his absence would have been preferable.

This was not the first time that such a thing had occurred.

When I was living in California he had refused to come to the dining-table in my own house, and gone to bed while the guests were arriving. Fate was against him, however, in that instance. I invented a fairy tale to cover his absence and all would have been well, but while the maid was passing coffee in the drawing-room Mr. Saltus remembered a bottle of gin in the pantry. No one answering his ring, he slipped down the back stairway to secure it, and tripping, fell down the entire length, with such a thud that guests as well as servants were in doubt if a burglar or an earthquake was responsible. With one accord they rushed in the direction of the sound and discovered him in extreme negligÉe, to his even more extreme embarrassment. This was an episode he did not like referred to, but upon this second offense it was dragged out again in all its details!

"No white woman should have married you," I exploded, "and I have only myself to blame with two sad examples to warn me. Good-night."

It was no rare treat to appear at a dinner of celebrities after the guests were seated, minus the star who was my sole reason for being included, and take it as if I were lapping up cream. To be casual was no joke. I entered with the remark, that, being an assemblage of egos answering to the classification genius, they alone could appreciate the temperamental spells of unknown origin afflicting the species—and be tolerant to a fellow in crime. To sit down and pretend to enjoy it topped the treat.

A fortnight later saw us at the Granville Hotel, Ramsgate, for the week end. As he had been there less frequently than myself, and knew fewer people, some one referred to Mr. Saltus as "Mrs. Saltus' husband." That amused him enormously.

"They have me in my proper place here," he exclaimed. "They know I am a subordinate entity."

A greater surprise was, however, awaiting him when a child on the sand called out:—

"Look,—there is Toto's Papa!"

That sent Mr. Saltus into a fit of laughter. He always enjoyed a joke on himself so much. The sea air which is supposed to induce sleep was our reason for going to Ramsgate, but even sea air handicapped by the noise of slamming doors and loud talking in the halls, seemed useless. I complained of this before going to my room, and Mr. Saltus said that he would speak to the manager of the hotel and see what could be done about it.

The following morning, upon going out with the dog, I almost fell over Mr. Saltus. He had sat on a chair with his back against my door all night in order to urge those who passed to be quiet. That offset the incident of the burglar and the dinner with interest, yet he did not feel that he had done anything exceptional. He was himself,—that was all. The latent sweetness and unselfishness in his character developed along lines uniquely his own. He was an entity who could not be taken apart and analyzed. He had to be accepted as a whole or not at all. He had his weaknesses,—they were near the surface and but imperfectly concealed. He had also a nobility, a fineness and a greatness of soul I have never seen equalled by any human, at any time, anywhere.

A day or two later the world was shaken by the word WAR. Rumours of it had been in the air for some time,—not a world war to be sure, but a civil one in Ireland. Leading Home Rule members of Parliament had been in nightly conference with the Prime Minister, and from what our friend "Tay Pay" had let drop, we anticipated anything but what eventuated. No one in unprepared England dreamed of war. The idea was too bizarre, too theatrical to be true. Everyone was talking about it, but no one really believed it possible, except perhaps those few who, having an extension of consciousness, could penetrate the veil of the seeming of things.

Mr. Saltus with myself was in a cinema, when, during an interval between pictures, there was flashed upon the screen the message, "Great Britain sends ultimatum to Germany." The audience, spell-bound at first and silent, let out an enthusiastic "Hurrah!" Mr. Saltus gripped me by the arm and whispered:—

"If this is true it means not only a world war but the breaking up of our home here, and my return to the States, for it may last for years, and no one knows how the stock market may jump and whether ruin camps on the door-step." (What little Mr. Saltus had was in stocks and bonds.)

British as he was in sympathy and inclination—wishing, as he had said many times, that karma would bring him back next life as an English country gentleman,—Mr. Saltus threw himself into the spirit of what followed, in a way that no one could have foreseen. Countermanding the orders given the maid never go to his room unless the house was on fire, he told her to bring the morning papers at whatever hour they were delivered, which was usually before seven, and thereafter during the day to take up all the extras she could secure. "Floraline Schopenhauer" was put aside, and a sonnet, "Caligula Germanicus," was the immediate result.

The summer advanced, and so did the march toward Paris. Then, in common with all Americans in England, he began to rage against the United States and its apparent apathy. His inability to do anything was irksome. To stand on the balcony giving off of our drawing-room and watch the first raw recruits march past, made it difficult for him to restrain himself. With a Union Jack fastened to Toto's collar he would go out for his usual walk in Kensington Gardens, and come back raging at his uselessness. Backed by a wife proud of her British ancestry and growing more and more indignant each day at the United States Government, Mr. Saltus finally decided to become a naturalized British subject. Incidentally, this was what Henry James did a little later on. That he did not take out these papers (which, had it been done, would have saved me a series of unpleasant incidents) was owing to the fact that such small possessions as he had were in the United States, and that, writing for the magazines and newspapers published in New York, he was dependent on the good-will of the American public. It was taking a chance to swap countries during a war. A blacklisting of his work was within the possibilities.

At the beginning of the war people were seen in restaurants and theatres a great deal. The slogan "Business as usual" meant the keeping alive of their morale. That phase of it passed Mr. Saltus unnoticed. Not half a dozen times during his life in London did he go out of an evening. They were all alike, prefaced by a short walk to give our dog some exercise, followed by an hour or two of studying the Quabala. Such a life would have been not only deadly to the normal woman, but would have sent her rushing to Reno. So seldom was Mr. Saltus asked by me to go anywhere, and so certain was he that if asked it would be worth while, that he never questioned where I was taking him. Like the little boy who when he was good was very good indeed and when he was bad was horrid, Mr. Saltus took the hurdle from one to the other at intervals. It was about seven to five, the balance, however, being in his favour.

Among his mental twists was a very pronounced one. Willing enough to entertain now and again provided the people were interesting, he was unalterably opposed to having anyone, no matter who, sleep under our roof for even a single night. Strangers irritated him, and friends if they remained too long did so as well. One incident shows how embarrassing it could become at times.

Among my friends was a beautiful and talented girl, Miss H——, who lived in the country, and for whom Mr. Saltus had expressed much admiration. She came up to London one afternoon. It was in the early days of the war, when hotels and boarding-houses were packed with Americans waiting to sail for home. In these circumstances she could find no place to stop; and, knowing we had a maisonette of some size, she called me on the telephone and asked if I could put her up for the night, suggesting very considerately that she would occupy the chesterfield in the drawing-room on the floor below our sleeping rooms. Well acquainted with Mr. Saltus' peculiarities, I would have invented an excuse, but his admiration for her had been so often expressed that I believed she would prove the exception, so, deciding to chance it, I told her to come. Upon his return from a walk I told him what had occurred. The clouds gathered. Didn't I know that no one, princess or queen, would be welcome to stay over a night? His house was his castle. To everyone else he had to be Edgar Saltus, the author. With me only could he be Snippsy and take his comfort. Argument sent him into a rage. Told at last that she positively must come, he ran upstairs and packed his suitcases.

"If she comes I go to a hotel."

"That is impossible," I told him. "She would have gone to one herself if she could have secured a room anywhere. The poor girl only asks to sleep down stairs in the drawing-room."

"If I can't get a room I'll sleep on a park bench or the ground. It's summer and it won't kill me. The men at the front have much worse."

There was no bluff about it.

"Call her up," he urged, "and tell her I am a lunatic whose worst mania is killing people in their sleep."

"It's likely that she would believe a tale that wagged like that, and she would hate you forever afterward."

"What the devil do I care?" he screamed. "Let her hate all she likes provided she stays away."

"Call her yourself," I said, "and tell her so. It's your funeral, not mine."

Straight to the telephone he went and did so, not in the language he had used to me. It was apologetic and diplomatic in the extreme, but it let her know very definitely that she could not come. She did not come, and she never darkened our door again; and there is very little doubt in my mind but that she regarded me as the culprit and Mr. Saltus as the scapegoat forced to do an unpardonable act. She probably concluded upon thinking it over that I looked upon her as more dangerous than the woman with the sack she had heard us joke about, and that I was afraid she might carry him off more effectually.

I had let Mr. Saltus turn himself out of the house when we were in Los Angeles because a principle was involved and the life of a defenceless animal jeopardized. There was no question of that in this case, for humans speak or shriek their need; besides, Miss H—— was a very charming girl and had other acquaintances in London.

So Mr. Saltus slept in peace under his own roof and the chapter was closed.