Dara

PART FOUR. WEDDED BUT NOT BEDDED

Shortly after my arrival in New York I was sitting in Pfaff's Beer-Cellar pondering idly whether to have another beer or move on to a theatre when a young girl approached my table and flopped into a chair opposite me. She was obviously ill and in a state of extreme distress. Although all types of people frequented Pfaff's, they were mostly representatives of the arts and the theatre. In other words, a motley crew of cultured and well-educated idiots, living under the illusion that they had within them that spark of genius which would make them famous some day.

The girl intrigued me. She was respectably dressed, pretty, obviously without a male escort and afraid. But of what, I asked myself, as she sipped the brandy I had given her. I introduced myself and she in turn informed me that her name was Dara Tully. Although she spoke with a slight American accent, she proclaimed that England was her native land. The brandy loosened her tongue and upon discovering that I was a fellow countryman she unburdened the cause of her distress. Troubled by some experience which had shaken her somewhat, she was almost incoherent on occasions as she gave an account of her journey from Chicago accompanied by a doctor dying from consumption. From what I could gather she had sat in a darkened room listening to this man talking to his dead relatives until something had snapped inside her and she had fled from his bedchamber.

It sounded a very eerie affair to me-not the sort of thing to be inflicted on a delicate, sensitive young lady. I offered to accompany her back to the hotel when she became agitated at the thought that she had deserted this doctor when he most needed her.

When we arrived at the hotel, Dara was very reluctant to enter the building but I insisted on her showing me which room the doctor was occupying. It was in total darkness. Pioneering my way with outstretched hands and following Dara's directions, I managed to locate the gas jet to bring some light to the bedchamber. I must confess it was a bit of a shock for me, seeing the head of the recumbent man slouched down on the pillow, jaws agape, and staring straight at me with unseeing eyes. I am always nervous in the presence of the sick or the dead. Trying to move him onto his back brought forth from him a loud, stinking belch of wind which sent me scuttling back in haste to the, door and Dara.

She asked in a hoarse whisper, 'Is he dead?'

'I don't know,' I said doubtfully.

Ashamed of my sudden loss of nerve I straightened my shoulders and walked back to the bed, determined to find out whether the man was dead or alive. The body was still warm but, after putting my hand on his chest and feeling no movement or heartbeat, I decided the good doctor was indeed dead.

I had heard somewhere that in a situation like this one must straighten the limbs while the body is still warm for, once it gets cold, they remain fixed as at the point of death, creating problems for those responsible for getting the corpse into the narrow confines of a coffin. Removing the pillow so that his head was in line with the rest of his body, I then brought his legs together and placed his arms by his sides. Taking the cravat from my neck, I placed its middle under his jaw and closed the gaping mouth by tying the ends at the top of his head. His eyes were still wide open.

I remembered, as a boy, being taken to the home of one of our grooms to pay my respects to his three-month-old daughter who had died the previous day. When the baby had expired they had placed, as was the custom, a penny coin on each of the eyelids but, unfortunately, one of the coins had fallen during the night. The body had got cold and nothing they could do the next morning would close that child's eyelid. It gave me belly wobbles seeing that baby with one eye closed and the other with a fixed stare heavenwards. What made it worse was that I was asked to kiss the little monster on the lips and to say a prayer for its soul.

The picture of that baby's wide-open eye staring eternally upwards remains vivid in my memory to this day and makes me shudder whenever it comes to mind. I, therefore, took care to see that the coins that I placed on the doctor's eyelids were firm and secure. Having performed these necessary tasks for the corpse, I was extremely nervous and trembling when I returned to Dara and desperate for a reviving glass of brandy. We made short time in getting back to Pfaff's where I quickly downed two glasses of the restoring liquor while Dara was still sipping at her first brandy.

A few more drinks brought the colour back into her cheeks and her hazel eyes lit up with interest when I told her of my wish to join a theatrical company that was about to be formed at the National Theatre under the direction of a well-known New York actor-manager, Jonathan Ede. Dara, I discovered, had a warm, expansive sense of humour and was soon giggling as I described the antics of some of the players that I had met on my first interview with Jonathan Ede.

We were both in a merry mood by this time and, to my astonishment, when I informed her that rehearsals had commenced for Shakespeare'sHamlet, she cried, 'Ah! Ophelia. Do you think as I do that she was “as chaste as ice, as pure as snow", a character of simple unselfish affection, or are you of the opinion that she is not all she seems on the surface, secretly harbouring lewd thoughts and desires behind her madness?'

In truth, I didn't know how to answer the girl and was given no opportunity to do so as she commenced to quote various passages from the play. Although her speech was slurred by the brandy that she had drunk and interrupted occasionally by giggles, I knew she was word perfect as recently my time had been taken up studying the play and learning the lines of the part I hoped would be given to me when next I met Jonathan Ede. As I listened and laughed at her I couldn't help thinking there was a lot more to this girl than what first appeared.

It was midnight when, with arms linked in support of each other for we were not too steady on our feet, we made our way back to her hotel. She balked at the hotel entrance again, refusing to go in, declaring that she would rather walk the streets than sleep next to a room with a corpse in it. My modest two-roomed apartment above a leather shop was but a block further on so without any further discussion I took her along with me. The thought of sleeping on a hard floor while she occupied my bed wasn't a pleasant prospect, but I resigned myself to the inevitable outcome of an evening I was now viewing with mixed feelings.

As it happened the floor was not to be my bed for the night. Dara, on hearing my intentions, would have none of it saying, on seeing the bed, 'Why, it is big enough for three people never mind two,' at the same time looking at me quizzically. Getting no response from me she said, 'I can't let you sleep on the floor. Not after all you have done for me.' Then she got all maudlin, going on and on about how kind I had been to her. Flinging her arms around my neck, she burst into tears and then slumped to the floor saying, 'No, I won't deprive you of your bed, James, I'll sleep out here in the lounge.' Rolling herself into a ball and, with eyes closed, she murmured drowsily, 'Good night, James, and thank you.'

Confused, I asked myself what could one do with such a contradictory girl? With brain somewhat hazed by the brandy fumes, I stumbled around the bedroom, dropping my clothes in a higgledy-piggledy mess all over the floor. Getting into bed, I was about to put out the light when Dara walked into my room stark naked. 'I've changed my mind,' she announced. 'It's cold out there; please let me share your bed.'

She giggled nervously as I stared wide-eyed at her nude body. There was good reason for my gaping at her as this was the first time I had seen the female body completely naked. Suddenly, going all modest, she bent over and covered her genital organ with her hands. 'Well?' she questioned impatiently. 'Do I stand here all night shivering or can I get into your bed?'

Moving over I raised the bed clothes on her side and she slid in beside me. She patted the pillow two or three times before snuggling down to sleep with her back to me. It took me sometime to regain my composure and settle down for the night.

I awoke late in the morning to find Dara languidly resting her head on her arm, looking at me with a mischievous smile on her lips. 'You are like a beautiful, innocent cherub when you are asleep, James.'

Her perfectly shaped breasts were but only inches from my face. They were two pearly globes, tipped by nipples that invited loving kisses. Reaching out, I hesitantly covered one of the breasts with a hand. It felt as cool and as smooth as the surface of a piece of alabaster. The firm nipple tickled my palm as I caressed the proud breast with the tips of my fingers. Some biblical words from the Song of Songs came to my mind:

'Your breasts are as two fawns,

Twins of a female gazelle,

That graze among the anemones.'

There was a softness in Dara's eyes and a warm smile around her mouth as she looked down at my upturned face. She slowly ran her fingers through my hair as I gently sucked the nipple of her breast. It seemed to grow and harden in my mouth as I pressed my lips deeper into the soft flesh and when I withdrew to pay my attentions to the other breast it was glowing cherry red. After a little while I raised myself to kiss her on the lips. The warm, moist breath from her mouth was an open invitation to taste further delights as her tender ruby lips parted to welcome my kiss. The silky tip of her tongue snaked sensuously into me arousing my desires with affectionate caresses. Surrendering lips to me, her slender body gradually followed suit, moulding the feminine curves into an intimate embrace of my flesh to become a perfect union that made us as one.

I had always thought that a girl's body would never have any appeal to me but I was now feeling a bliss and a joy that I had never experienced with a man. There was a warm affection in the yielding breasts and soft thighs as they pressed against my body and sent the blood rushing through my veins in a lust of feelings that was new to me.

Dara eased herself from me and, with her lips on mine, brought her hands to my dicky and smoothed the wrinkles out of it until he proudly stood up thick and hard. Her fingertips played sweet melodies on his taut skin until I was ready to cry out in an agony of pleasure.

Sliding under me she brought up her knees and opened her legs wide. Still caressing my stiffened dicky she guided him into her moist vent. Consumed in a fever of passion I thrust him up her as far as he could go. Dara, warm and submitting, clasped me to her uttering little cries as she gasped for breath. Hugging me with her soft, rounded thighs, she wriggled and rubbed hard up against me until her swizzling, rising hips brought forth a delirious sigh of deep satisfaction from her.

To see her overcome by fervent, storming emotions was flattering and gratifying but I had urgent desires of my own that also needed to be satisfied and I set to with a will, humping into the soft feminine flesh beneath me with forceful thrusts. As the tension of my pleasure increased I instinctively held my breath when my passions came to a head and the sap of my loins pulsated through my throbbing dicky into her womb. In excited exultation there came from my lips a sound of triumph, a long drawn out 'Ye-O-O-e'. The exquisite sensation that released me from my passion held me in a trance as I lay heavy on Dara's soft curves.

Within minutes of finishing off a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs at an eating house opposite my apartment, we were on our way to Pfaff's for I was in a mood to celebrate.

'Be a man, my son,' my father had shouted at me before I left our ancestral home for America and then working himself up into a rage that bordered on a fit of apoplexy, 'and don't come back here until you have proved your manhood, you filthy, bare-arsed, pederast, milk-sop!' The old man could be quite vile when aroused.

On this occasion he had some justification for his choice of words, as the day before he had caught me bare-arsed in the stables with a young lusty groom bending over me.

Well! I had now proved my manhood. For the first time in my life I had been a rampant lover between a beautiful girl's legs and I got the impression from the fond looks Dara was giving me that I had done all that was required of me.

There is a saying: 'Claret for boys, port for men, brandy for heroes'. I felt like a hero and lifted my glass of brandy in Pfaff's to salute Dara, the girl who had opened up a new life for me, something I thought would be impossible in my case-marriage with children. But would she have me? That was the question that bothered me as I plied her with drinks in the hope that I could get her in the right mood to accept a proposal of marriage.

She was excited and happy. The merriment in her eyes sparkled as she looked with great interest at the variety of people thronging into Pfaff's for their first drink of the day. Henry Clapp, journalist, and leader of a group of outrageous bohemian admirers, was there that morning with his actress friend, Ada Clare, who also had her coterie of followers. Dara obviously liked the atmosphere and the buzz of conversation around her, giving the impression that it was something new in her experience.

When I brought up the question of what we were going to do about the doctor's corpse at the hotel she brushed the query aside saying, 'Please, James, don't talk about the dead-not yet. This has been the most wonderful morning I've had for months and months. I feel so alive and happy I don't want anything to spoil it. We will talk about Lionel later. You are right, of course; we will have to do something about it, but not now.'

Intoxicated by her cheerfulness and the brandy I had drunk, the words came out of my mouth before I had time to consider them. 'Dara, I feel that I've known you for years. Will you marry me?'

She looked startled and, with a frown, asked, 'What did you say, James?'

'Will you marry me?' I repeated. 'We have known each other for only a short time, but I've become very fond of you and am convinced beyond any doubt that you are the only one for me.'

She was all eyes as she searched the expression on my face hoping to find the answer there. Leaning forward and holding my hand between hers, she whispered, 'You don't have to marry me just because… well! You know… what happened this morning.' it's not just that,' I replied hotly, 'I need you and want you to share my life and I think we would be very happy together.'

She was still looking at me very doubtfully.

'And I would like to wake up every morning from now on and find you lying beside me.'

Her face took on a very tender expression, 'I would like that, too, James,' she said with a sigh.

'Well then,' I got in quickly before she got doubtful again. 'Say you will marry me and I will be the happiest man in New York. Please.'

'But, James, you don't know anything about me.'

'I know as much as I want to know. Please say yes.'

'I suppose it's time I settled down,' she said pensively. Always on the move and often lonely. I would never be lonely if I was with you, would I?'

'No,' I answered softly, quietly happy that her thoughts were going in the right direction.

'It's true I like you, James. Like you a lot and, although I don't love you, I think it's possible I will in time.'

She sat meditating on the problem. I didn't dare speak and breathlessly waited for the outcome of her thoughts. Drawing herself up straight, she gave a long searching look into my eyes, then laughed nervously, 'Alright, James. I will be your wife and hope neither of us will ever regret it.'

I let out a long sigh and just sat looking at her with a fixed grin on my face, like some witless oaf.

'What do we do now?' she asked. 'Make burial arrangements for Lionel or arrange a wedding?'

'Both,' I answered quickly, 'and as soon as possible.'

The clergyman we met at the Grace Church on the corner of Broadway and Eleventh Street soon recovered his composure when I announced we had come to arrange a wedding and a funeral. An appointment for the wedding was made for three days hence and the doctor's burial organized for the day before that.

On emerging from the church, Dara was nearly knocked to the ground by two mangy pigs struggling over some titbit they had pulled out of one of the many piles of garbage that were stacked in the gutters lining the sidewalks. The City Council had no means of collecting the garbage that was thrown out every day and left the job to an incredible number of scavenging pigs that moved freely about the streets. I was hoping to travel downtown in one of the variety of omnibuses which were the pride of the New Yorkers. They carried between twelve and twenty passengers seated facing each other on two parallel benches and were drawn by either two or four horses. Although a half-a-dozen or so passed us in as many minutes, they were all full to capacity and it was impossible to find a footing on any of them.

The noise was deafening as drivers of wagons, heavily loaded with a variety of goods, hurled abuse at the hackney cabs that pressed their way past them. Every type of vehicle was to be seen: Broughams, the speedy Phaetons, the Clarence and the Rockway for large families, and numerous handcarts, all desperate to arrive at their destinations as soon as possible. There was no time to waste for the average New Yorker who was hellbent to go ahead, outsmart everyone else and make a profit on whatever he undertook to do that day.

Passage along the sidewalks was difficult, what with the pigs, men with bulging arm muscles carrying great blocks of ice into shops and bars, and other obstructions; it's a wonder we made any progress whatsoever. To escape for a little while from the bustling activity and noise of the streets, we entered Contoits to partake of one of their delicious ice creams for which they had a reputation second to none. Feeling rested and refreshed we made our way to Tiffany's main shop on Union Square to Purchase a ring for our wedding. The large stocks of precious stones and exquisite jewellery held Dara in a trance and I had some trouble getting her to concentrate on a great variety of wedding rings that an assistant had laid out for our selection. Dara said they all looked much about the same to her so I chose a plain gold ring and tucked it safely into one of my pockets for the day when we would be wed.

Dara was alternately fascinated and repelled by the rowdiness and hectic activity of the street traders as we walked towards the Tombs, a prison that the Americans called a House of Correction. Its peculiar Egyptian architecture dominated the Bowery, an area of the city which was almost as dreary as the filthy, wretched district of the Five Points, notorious for its drunkenness, poverty, brutality and vice.

At midday we went to Mill-Colonnes cafe and drank gin slings while we waited for our oysters au gratin. The place was crowded with men in a hassle to waste as little time as possible in the cafe in their anxiety to get back to their business. Busy as bees, they had no time for small courtesies and tackled their food with great gusto. A midday meal to them was just gobble, gulp and go!

Ah! The curse and blessing of memories. I can pick out picture slides of that day in New York with Dara that bring it all back as if it was only yesterday. Some memories that are good, some bad, but all of them exciting and exhilarating like the bustling city itself.

In the afternoon we admired the handsome residences of the rich in Hudson Square which put to shame the rows of indistinguishable and uninspiring brown stone houses of Fifth Avenue where one could see a number of fenced-in yards with a cow at pasture. Most of the streets of the city were bordered either by wooden houses of the cottage-type or by brick or stone houses, three, four or even five storeys high. But it wasn't the architecture of New York that excited my imagination, but the haste and hustle between the buildings and the tremendous energy of people as they set about the business of getting ahead to make a success in some aspect of life.

As we prepared for bed that night I was looking forward to repeating my lusty performance of the morning, but my hopes were dashed to the ground when Dara informed me that, much as she would like to oblige me, it was out of the question as she had started a period of menstruation. The thought of the blood oozing from her vent turned my stomach and I found the prospect of sharing my bed with her extremely distasteful, to say the least, of such a messy business. In my jubilation after penetrating her in the morning I had forgotten about this disability that females suffered monthly. It was one of a number of reasons why intimacy with women had no attraction for me.

Lying on the edge of the bed, making as much distance as possible between Dara and me, I tried unsuccessfully to still my agitation and get to sleep. I have never been one who could drop off into slumberland shortly after getting into bed. Most nights, before sleep can overcome me, an hour or two or more is spent gazing blankly into the darkness, feeling dreadfully lonely, with my mind musing on events of the past or fantasies of the future. If God was to grant me one favour I would ask that every night, on going to bed, blessed sleep should close my eyes as soon as my head touched the pillow.

On this, my second night with Dara by my side, my thoughts went back over the years to my school days at Heaton, a boarding school for the sons of the wealthy and privileged, considered to be the best in England. I arrived at Heaton in my twelfth year weary with grief and saddened beyond measure. My mother whom I revered and adored had died of a painful disease some days previously. A new boy, stuttering with nervous apprehension, is given very rough treatment in his first year at school.

I was miserable and unhappy most of the time. That is, until a sixteen-year-old prefect, Nicholas Dawney, took me under his care and protection. To a boy of my age he had the power and status of a god. A god who could give you six vicious cuts across your bared buttocks with his cane for infringements of the rules of the house, or magnanimously grant you small favours if he was in a good mood. In lower school life, floggings and bullying were accepted by everyone as normal and I went in daily fear of both. Running blindly along a corridor one afternoon, pursued by a group of boys who had been tormenting me, I collided with Nicholas Dawney and knocked him off balance. His fury was frightening to behold. Grabbing me by the ear, he pulled me into his study declaring in a voice icy cold with suppressed anger that he was going to give me six cuts with his cane. Crazed with terror, I fumbled with my buttons when he ordered me to remove my trousers. I turned almost faint and nearly fell on my face as I bent over to expose my bare bum.

'Prepare to take your punishment like a man,' he barked as he raised his cane in readiness for the first cut. I gritted my teeth, hoping I would not cry out in agony when the cane cut into my tender flesh. Nothing happened; the suspense was unbearable and I looked up trembling with abject fear to see Dawney, trouserless, with a lump of butter in his hand, gazing at my buttocks as if transfixed. Pushing the greasy butter into the hole between my cheeks, he fondled the soft flesh of my bum with his other hand.

I had heard vague hints of immoralities going on in the school, but had seen nothing of what the boys might be referring to and, in my innocence, submitted to the butter treatment and the loving caresses only too thankful that my person wasn't being inflicted with the cutting cane. When he pushed his rod into my bum I gasped and fell to my knees. It wasn't too painful and much more preferable as a punishment than the cane. Getting his fingers around my dicky he jockeyed me with forceful thrusts of his rod. To begin with he rode me at a rather gentle canter, but in a short while the pace increased to a furious gallop that finished with him flopping over me panting for breath.

Being Nicholas Dawney's fag brought about a change in my daily routine. I had to rise at six every morning and, by the light of a tallow candle, prepare him a breakfast consisting of tea or coffee, boiled eggs, buttered toast and grilled chicken, leaving me with little time for my own breakfast of bread and butter. Apart from a small piece of beef or mutton with potatoes at midday, bread and butter for us younger boys was our main source of sustenance. If it had not been for the food parcels sent by my father who had been through the same experience in his youth, I would undoubtedly have starved to death. It was costing my father two-hundred-and-fifty pounds a year in school fees for this deprivation and the privilege of wearing a uniform of a black jacket, waistcoat and a white shirt with a black tie, whilst being bullied by masters and prefects alike.

This miserable existence was only relieved when my fagmaster, Nicholas Dawney, took me on his knee and showered me with loving kisses. He had a predilection for kissing me on the neck near my ladybird birthmark. Sitting on his lap always made him horny and it wasn't long before he was loosening my lower garments to indulge his taste for buggery. I became very fond of Nicholas and in time came to look forward, each day, with joyful anticipation to our sessions of passionate intimacy. Within months I became his adoring slave, living only for his kisses and prepared to do anything to please him.

I cried myself to sleep every night for over a week when he left school to become a freshman at Oxford University. When, in turn, I became an undergraduate at the same university I discovered that he had finished his studies the year previously and had gone on to become a commissioned officer with the Grenadier Guards.

At Oxford I became an enthusiastic member of the University Theatre Club, helping out as a stage hand to begin with and taking small parts in performances staged by the club. Neglecting my studies I became more and more enmeshed in Oxford's theatrical activities and spent a lot of my time at the theatre in London. Obsessed with the stage, I was determined to make the theatre my career. Reading plays and writing reviews of performances I had seen in London occupied my time most evenings. Very little of my work was published but I got an enormous thrill whenever an article of mine appeared in print.

Life went along reasonably smoothly in this fashion until my last year at the university. It was the summer vacation and I was mooching around at home in a very apathetic way when I came across a groom in the stables who had the facial features and build of a Grecian god. Neither of us spoke, but looks sometimes express what volumes of words cannot. I hadn't felt such excitement in my being since last I saw Nicholas Dawney. After Nicholas and I had parted I had kept myself to myself, veering away from close friendship with anyone however tempted I might be to further an acquaintanceship. Trembling before the lust in this young man's eyes, I turned and strode quickly back to the house determined to avoid the vicinity of the stables in the future.

Possibly because of the agitation I felt that day, I brought the discussion at dinner around to my wish for a career in the theatre. It took a great deal of courage to raise this matter because my father considered: 'The theatre is an ancillary to the brothels, and those who tread its boards are on a par with gipsies and fornicating trollops pandering to the worst tastes in society.'

On hearing my theatrical ambitions, his face went purple and swelled with shocked anger. Some food caught in his throat and he coughed and spluttered as he repeatedly smote the table with his clenched fist. Fearing the wrath that was about to fall about my ears I beat a hasty retreat to my bedroom and locked the door.

The next morning I waited until he had left the house before coming down for breakfast. After my meal I strolled outdoors to enjoy the bright sunshine. It was a heavenly morning when nature's creations show themselves in all their glory. There was poetry in the sun's warm rays as I wandered about hither and thither as if in a dream. I swear that I was not conscious of where my steps were leading me until I found myself in the stables alone with the handsome groom.

He held me spellbound with a long steady stare, his eyes never leaving my face. Moving very slowly he came up alongside me; his hands stroked me everywhere as he gently manoeuvred me into one of the stalls. Buttons were undone and, when my trousers slid around my ankles, he pushed me on to a bale of straw and removed his trousers. As he came down on me an almighty roar thundered through my head and I heard the man above me cry out in pain as my father's riding crop whiplashed his rear.

It is too painful to relate the uproar of my father's anger at finding me in such a shameful position with one of his grooms. Suffice to say that I ill never be able to erase from my memory the humiliation and mortification I felt pulling up my trousers with my father viewing me with the most loathing.

The next morning, after a sleepless night, I stood before my father's desk in the library, dejected and weary, without hope and not caring whether I lived or died. Such was his disgust that he was unable to look at me when speaking.

'You are beyond redemption and have brought shame to a family name that has always been held in high esteem in society,' he said coldly. 'Nevertheless it is my duty, however hopeless the task may be, to do all in my power to make a man of you. I have been living for the time when you would marry and produce an heir to carry on the family name. You are my only child, the last of the line of the Kennets. Much depends on you.'

He raised his voice a little. 'Have you any appreciation of how much I'm depending on you to produce another heir for the Kennets?'

'Yes, Father,' I muttered.

Taking two envelopes from one of the drawers of his desk, he addressed me again. 'Tomorrow you sail from Liverpool for America where a cousin of your mother's farms land near New York. You will reside with him and work on the farm and there you will stay until you have proved your manhood. Get yourself a good wench soon after your arrival and bed down with her. I don't care how many women you have or how many bastards you produce, so long as you keep your proper distance from men.'

He paused to glance briefly at me. 'Do you take my meaning?'

I could only nod, miserable at the prospect of farming in America.

'In this envelope,' he said, handing it to me, 'is a letter for your mother's cousin giving him strict instructions to work you hard from dawn to dusk. The discipline will be good for you and keep you out of mischief. You will have no difficulty finding the farm, the address is on the envelope. And here is the other envelope, addressed to a New York bank, with a bill of credit and instructions to pay you monthly a sum of money that should be more than sufficient for your needs.'

The anger he felt was beginning to show on his face. 'Now get out of this house,' he shouted, 'you filthy, bare-arsed, pederast, milksop. And don't come back until you have proved your manhood!'

Needless to say, I never reported my presence to mother's cousin when I arrived in New York.

It was late in the morning before I awakened, but not too late for my appointment at the National Theatre at midday. Dara had arisen before me and had a cup of tea ready as soon as I opened my eyes. She had already extracted a promise from me that she could accompany me as she was just as keen as I to become a play-actor with some American theatrical company.

Jonathan Ede met us in the foyer and took us through the theatre to the stage. Introducing him to Dara, I haltingly explained her presence by saying, 'A good friend of mine from England whose dearest wish is to appear in an American play.'

Dara had the power to dazzle and stimulate any masculine acquaintance whenever she chose to do so and he visibly began to soften as she set out to charm him. He was of medium build, about forty, with a freckled face and reddish hair, confident and positive in action and speech and mildly bellicose if anyone dared to contradict him. Wearing an alpaca frock coat, silk cravat and a beige waistcoat, he could easily be taken as a man of business rather than as a man of the theatre.

'James,' he said, clapping me on the back. 'You will be pleased to hear that I have decided to find you a place in our company. We need a man with a strong English accent in two of the plays we are performing. I will have copies of the plays for you to read sometime next week.'

I was about to thank him but he turned to Dara. 'Well, young lady, what can you do? James says you are from England yet, if my ears don't deceive me, you sound more American than English.'

Dara smiled as if he had paid her a great compliment. 'I've been over here sometime now. As for what I can do, well, I can recite Shakespeare 'til the cows come home.'

He answered somewhat sharply, 'No doubt, but can you act and can you memorize your lines quickly? If you're going to be a member of my touring company you must be able to learn lines within twenty-four hours, as we will be putting on three or four different plays every week and often at short notice. Do you think you can do that?'

Dara looked doubtful. 'Yes, er, I think so,' she answered hesitantly.

'Do you know Gay's ballad “The Black-Ey'd Susan”?'

'No, but I'm sure I could soon learn the words,' she replied, confident and eager.

'Good! Here's a copy,' he said, handing a hand-written sheet to her. 'I am in need of a meal, but will be back here in less than half an hour. See that you are word perfect when I get back.'

With a gesture of farewell he disappeared through a side door, leaving Dara and me somewhat bewildered as to what to do next.

There was a very determined look on Dara's face as she made for a seat in the auditorium and began to read the sheet Jonathan Ede had given her. She looked up for a moment. 'Go away, James. I'll need to concentrate if I'm to learn these words in time for his return to the theatre.'

Jonathan was back in about twenty minutes and strode straight on to the stage. 'Come up here,' he shouted to Dara, 'and leave that copy of “The Black-Ey'd Susan” on the seat down there.'

When Dara joined him, he stood her in the centre of the stage and came down the steps to seat himself beside me.

Alright, off you go, young lady. And speak up so they can hear you at the back of the theatre.'

Dara gave a little nervous cough, announced the title of the ballad and commenced the first stanza:

'All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,

The streamers waving in the wind.

When black-ey'd Susan came aboard.

Oh! Where shall I my true love find?

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,

Does my sweet William sail among your crew?'

Jonathan stood up and shouted, 'Very good so far, but raise your voice a little; I'm sure they wouldn't be able to hear you in the back rows.'

'William, who high upon the yard,

Rock'd with the billows to and fro;

Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sigh'd and cast his eyes below.

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,

And quick as lightning on the deck be stands.'

Jonathan Ede was leaning forward eagerly to listen intently with admiration on his face. Here, I thought, was a girl whose intelligence and fine judgement told her when to pause for dramatic effect and when to raise the emotions by pitching her voice higher. Her delivery and sense of pathos matched her beauty so stunningly that even an old cynic like Jonathan was visibly impressed.

'The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread,

No longer must she stay on board;

They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head;

Her less'ning boat, unwilling rows to land;

Adieu! she cries, and wav'd her lily hand.'

Carried away by her emotions, there were tears welling up in Dara's eyes as Jonathan stood up and shouted, 'You're hired.' Making his way towards the door, he said, 'See you both Thursday week, here, at midday,' and then waved his goodbye.

Doctor Shepherd's burial took place the next day. What few possessions he had-gold watch, ring and clothing-had all been sold. The amount we got from these personal effects and the money I found in one of his jacket pockets was just enough to pay for the coffin, funeral expenses and a small headstone for his grave. It was a simple inscription engraved on the headstone as Dara knew so little about his family connections. The words on the stone, Dr Lionel Shepherd, died 2 April 1860. RIP., occupied my attention as the men lowered the coffin into the grave.

A blazing hot sun shining in a wide blue sky on this cemetery near Brooklyn had no effect on Dara's grief and sadness. I think right up to the moment that the grave diggers started shovelling earth onto the coffin to fill in the grave, Dara had held back from facing the realization of the doctor's death. There was something final about the soil covering the coffin that released the tears which began to stream down her face. Peerless Green Cemetery had leafy avenues of trees and green paths, but the warm sunshine and beautiful surroundings couldn't penetrate her grief. Racked with deep shuddering sobs, she clung to me as I led her away from the grave to a seat overlooking the bay to give her time to regain her composure.

Away from the cemetery, we were able to board a passing omnibus so crowded that it was standing room only. It swayed so violently that, although we were hanging on to anything we could clutch with our hands, there was a danger of being flung into the street as the vehicle lurched around bends. The driver, whipping up the horses to increase the speed as we rounded the bends, made matters worse and, when we reached our destination at Mill-Colonnes cafe, I alighted like a drunk who had lost the use of his legs.

After the quiet atmosphere of Peerless Green Cemetery, the noise in the street was deafening. What with the seething traffic, newspaper vendors and street traders vying in shouting each other down, the cafe was, in comparison, a place of peace and calm. The midday rush hadn't commenced and, as we practically had the place to ourselves, we were able to eat and talk in a leisurely fashion. Dara was still in a sombre mood so I suggested a quiet afternoon at the apartment and then, to cheer her up, a trip to a burlesque show in the evening.

Niblo's Theatre whereThe Black Crookhad been on for years, was almost full but I managed to obtain two seats near the stage. The front of the stage was lined with chamber vases, in the vernacular of the hoi polloi, better known as 'piss pots'. Each of these was a base for a beautiful display of flowers. Clipper built girls, wearing barely enough to be decent, performed something that was a crude mixture of ballet and burlesque. The tantalizing glimpses of tits and bums did nothing for me but it got a rousing response from most of the audience. A disappointing evening for me and I think it did little to raise Dara's spirits.

The wedding, like the doctor's burial, was a quiet affair. Some cleaners and two or three ladies decorating the church with displays of flowers were the only people in attendance. Dara, wearing a modest white frock with a simple design of embroidered pink roses on the bodice, created a good impression with the ladies witnessing the ceremony. Her pale, beautiful face framed by the rich chestnut hair bore a subdued expression as we stood, side by side, listening to the Reverend Holloway solemnizing the marriage vows. When she raised her head up for the customary kiss from the bridegroom I considered myself indeed fortunate and a lucky dog to have captured such a pretty young girl for a bride.

In the evening, to celebrate our wedding, we had a dinner of Virginia ham, devilled turkey legs and creamed chicken hash, followed by endless heaps of waffles served with silver jugs full of hot maple syrup and side dishes of strawberry shortcake. After dinner we went on to a ball at the Park Theatre where we danced quadrilles and waltzes until nearly midnight, arriving back at my apartment pleasantly tired and ready for bed.

On Saturday afternoon we visited the harbour, walking along South Street looking with interest at dozens of ships moored there. Their towering masts and rigging rose majestically from the decks whilst their great bowsprits loomed threateningly over our heads. It was not a particularly salubrious neighbourhood, with its tenement workshops occupied by pinched-up women with shrunken cheeks and heavily bearded Jews sewing dresses or mending shoes. Life for some immigrants wasn't all it should be. On our way back we enjoyed the colourful Italian life of Mulberry Street with its variety of street stalls.

I pointed out to Dara some places of interest and remarked that there was some justification for New Yorkers constantly repeating what a great city it was to live in.

Although not as big as London, I imagine,' Dara replied.

'True,' I answered, 'but did you know that it's really a royal city?'

'Royal?' queried Dara. 'How do you make that out?'

'Simple,' I said. 'It is named after the Duke of York who later became James II, the last of the Stuart kings. If one can believe all that is written about him in the history books, he was a most unpleasant personage. Like many other kings before him he was an insatiable lecher exercising his royal prerogative to bed any of the ladies-in-waiting at court who took his fancy. When his wife died he sought details of all the unmarried royal ladies that might be available to him and chose a fourteen-year-old, Mary Beatrice, an Italian princess who was about to become a nun.'

'Did she want to marry him?' Dara asked me.

'Certainly not. She had no say in the matter. Princesses marry the man their parents choose for them. She burst into tears on hearing of the proposal and begged her parents to allow her to become a nun as she abhorred the thought of marriage. The Princess of Modena was still weeping and protesting a week later when she was dragged from the convent and carried off to England.'

'How awful,' Dara exclaimed. 'Poor girl. How she must have suffered, journeying all that way to a man she had never seen. How old was he?'

'He was forty, old enough to be her father. He was so eager to get his hands on her that he got his feet wet on Dover Sands when he ran into the sea to meet her. Within an hour of landing she was brought before a bishop and married to the King who, with a lascivious smile on his lips, wasted no time in getting his innocent bride into the royal bedchamber.'

Dara had obviously given some thought to my account of the Princess of Modena's marriage to James II for, when we were getting into bed that night, she said, 'That fourteen-year-old princess. Was it all true-just as you said?'

'Every word,' I said sharply. 'Have no doubts about it. I spent most of my time at Oxford reading history and became most interested in the lives of the Stuart kings.'

'But it is so different from these days,' she protested. 'Our royal family are so respectable. There is never a word of scandal about them.'

'Oh, yes; very moral and upright. But did you know that Queen Victoria's father, the Duke of Kent, lived on this side of the Atlantic for many years? He had a house near Halifax Harbour in Nova Scotia where he kept a mistress, a Madame de St Laurent, who bore him five illegitimate children. On receiving a royal command he reluctantly returned to England to marry a German princess who bore him only one child before he died. That child is now Queen Victoria.

'Mind you,' I added as an afterthought, 'I have nothing but admiration for our Queen. I'm sure that if her husband, Albert, were to start behaving like James II he would get the royal boot right up his backside.'

Dara, looking at me with her hand to her mouth, began to giggle. The giggling gave way to peals of laughter as she rolled around the bed. She laughed so much that she had to get out of bed to squat on the china vase. I understood her need as I get the same trouble with my bladder when I shake with laughter.

Getting into bed, she sidled up close, gave me a kiss and murmured in my ear, 'You can love me if you want to. My period is over.'

The truth of the matter was that, although I had been looking forward to getting between Dara's legs, now that the moment had presented itself a dark cloud of doubt passed over my mind. I was far from confident that I could repeat the success of the coupling we had had before we were wed. It had been like a dream on that occasion, when one mindlessly drifts along in a gentle breeze of warm affection.

In an effort to recapture that feeling again I kissed her warmly on the lips and felt the tip of her tongue caress mine. Putting my arms around her, I drew her slender warm body close to me and felt the soft curves pressing into my flesh. It was a tender, loving embrace but there was no lust in my loins and no desire to thrust my flesh into hers.

Pulling away from me, she threw the bedclothes back and kneeling between my legs teased my dicky with playful fingers until he began to swell a little. I felt him throb and harden as she gently caressed with the tips of her fingers.

Abandoning my stiffened dicky, she lay back and looked at me expectantly with an inviting smile on her lips. Getting between her legs I had the feeling of being trapped in a pouch of clinging, suffocating, feminine flesh and drew back. My limbs lost their strength and my dicky became a floppy, useless piece of meat. Sitting back on my heels, feeling dejected and confused, I bit into my lower lip until it bled, like someone whose guilty secret had been exposed.

Dara sat up, full of tenderness and concern. Seeing the feeble thing that hung between my legs, she delicately caressed it with soft fingers. But it was all to no avail; it remained puny and weak, so she tugged at it and then rolled it between her hands.

Seeing that nothing she could do would alter the situation, she put her arms around my neck, kissed me and said, 'Never mind, darling. You have probably overtired yourself today with all that walking.'

She put her arms around me for heart's comfort, like a mother trying to reassure a frightened child. 'Don't let it bother you, James. Everything will be alright after you have had a good night's sleep.'

But to me, in a pit of abject despondency, the future looked bleak and sterile.

My futile attempts at sexual intercourse in the morning were but a repeat performance of the night before. Dara, cheerful and patient, tried to arouse my passions with loving kisses and clasping embraces. It was tantalizing but I couldn't rise to the occasion.

During the weeks that followed we endeavoured often to achieve the conjugal intimacy that is one of the blessings of married life. It always ended in embarrassed frustration with Dara worried and perplexed because I was a miserable failure as a husband.

There came a night when Dara, who had been a sympathetic angel of patience throughout my impotence, threw herself back and cried in a low, dispirited voice, 'If a woman can't be a woman to her husband, what can she be?'

We had little to do until Thursday when we were to meet with Jonathan Ede again. This idleness didn't suit me and I became listless and prone to frivolous disputes with Dara over matters of no importance. Her forbearance and concern for my temper only made me more irritable.

After what seemed an age of waiting, Thursday morning came at last and my spirits lifted when we set off in good humour for the National Theatre. We got a hearty and cordial welcome from Jonathan and the other members of the company assembled on the stage.

With a smile ever ready and genuine, Dara introduced us to everyone with a warm handshake and a 'Pleased to meet you. My name is Dara Kennet and this is my husband, James.' Her ingenuous, vibrant femininity brought forth some warm appreciative glances from the male members of the company.

Their good humour soon put us at our ease and, after some jesting and banter, we fell into their way of addressing each other in exaggerated tones of affection with words like darling, ducky and angel. This lively theatrical life was just what I needed.

Under Jonathan's supervision, we began our first rehearsal of a comedy entitledRaising the Wind, reading our parts from copies of a script that had been hastily prepared for us. As none of us knew the stage directions we stumbled about, constantly getting in each other's way. To the amusement of everyone, the play rapidly became a comedy of errors. Our laughter quickly subsided when Jonathan sternly brought us to order and, in a fit of impatience, sent us home with strict instructions to learn our lines and be word perfect by the morning of the next day.

I made my debut as a professional play-actor at the National in the first week of May, playing the part of a typical English gentleman. Everything had been put together only hours before our first performance. As an impudent miss, Dara's costume was an extravaganza of mixed colours in the worst possible taste. Her dress was a fly-a-way, starched-out Balzorina gown of bright ultramarine, picked out with a multitude of various coloured flowers and a blond lace cap with cherry-coloured rosettes and red ribbon streamers a yard long flying out from it in all directions. In a play which did little to amuse the audience, her costume certainly got a laugh each time she made an appearance on the stage.

The comic scenes were not funny, raising only occasionally a polite chuckle rather than a good hearty laugh. It was sentimental slush that aroused no genuine sentiment and would have been booed off the stage before the second act if it had been performed in London. The drama critic of the rowdy 'New York Herald' gave it the hammering it justly deserved. Nevertheless it laboured on for two whole weeks at the National before we set off on a tour that would take us to most of the towns in the Eastern States during the next three months.

The tour brought home to me the amazing size of America. What emphasized the dramatic scale of this extraordinary country was the view from the windows of the train as it speedily carried us along the railroads. I became very conscious of a wide open sky and the awesome, endless space spreading across the grassy plains from one horizon to another. The white-painted clapboarding of the houses, stores and taverns of the small towns we passed through was a refreshing change after the dull brown architecture of New York.

I was highly delighted with the generous hospitality and warm appreciation for our performances in Pennsylvania and Ohio during the first few weeks of the tour. On our way to Boston we stopped off at New York for a day to pick up more costumes for the players. I took the opportunity to call at the Chemical Bank on Broadway to collect the monthly allotment that Father was sending me. Funds now replenished, Dara and I had a sumptuous meal before rejoining our friends for the tour of the states north of New York.

We were in Baltimore by the middle of July where we put on three different plays in as many nights at Ford's Theatre: The Fool's Revenge, Masks and Faces, and, on the third night, Mrs. Stowe'sUncle Tom's Cabin. Our audience were easily pleased. All they wanted was a play that entertained them with simple emotions, had plenty of pathos and was easily understood. They were most impressed when Little Eva ascended to heaven before their very eyes during our final performance. From there we moved on to another Ford's Theatre in Washington, D.C.

Some five years later I was to read in an English newspaper the shocking news that President Lincoln had been fatally shot in this theatre while watching a performance.

Throughout our tour Dara had tackled every part that was given her with enthusiastic exuberance and was often hugged and praised by Jonathan Ede for her performance and stage craft. I wish it were possible for me to say the same about myself. According to Jonathan, I had no insight into the characters assigned to me and seemed incapable of expressing deep emotion. He made it plain that, in his opinion, I would never make a name in the theatre as I wasn't cut out to be an actor.

I had great respect for his judgement and sagacity. In my heart of hearts I knew he was right although my intellect at the time wouldn't accept the truth of his words. His lack of faith in my acting ability gave me no encouragement to continue my pursuit of a career in the theatre and I was relieved when we arrived back in New York at the end of the tour and could part company with him.

There was a further shock coming to me when I visited the Chemical Bank to collect my money. The clerk handed over a letter addressed to me saying, 'Your allotment has been cancelled. There will be no money for you to collect in the future.' The letter was from my father, unsigned and consisting of only two sentences: Have just learnt from your mother's cousin that you have deceived me. You are a degenerate, good-for-nothing knave and I have no desire to see your face again.

We decided to stay on in New York in the hope that some work with another theatrical touring company would come our way. I still had the money we had received from Jonathan Ede and a little left over from my last monthly allotment. Avoiding luxury spending, we could, with care, finance our day-to-day expenses for at least six weeks. Working in theat-'cals is a precarious living at any time especially in the late summer period, and towards the end of September saw us still without work with only ten dollars in the domestic kitty. Dara sold a diamond-encrusted brooch which bought us more time.

In these impoverished circumstances, it became imperative that we gave some thought for the future. I felt sure that my father, despite his disappointment in me, wouldn't let me starve, but that would mean returning to London. He was my only hope as there was no one in New York I could turn to for help at this juncture in my life. After some discussion we decided to renew our efforts to get work and, if this failed, to book our passage across the Atlantic. I think both of us knew that we were only postponing, for a little while, the day when we would have to leave America.

Within two weeks our minds were made up. With no prospect of any theatrical engagements and funds getting low, we had no option but to book our passage to Liverpool as soon as possible. The whole of New York was seething with excitement at that time in anticipation of the forthcoming visit of the Prince of Wales who had been touring Canada and the United States during the summer months.

Dara and I were part of the huge crowd waiting at Emigrants' Wharf when Edward, the Prince of Wales, landed to be received by Mr. Fernando Wood, the Mayor of New York. Under the command of General Sandford, over six-thousand soldiers were lined up in his Highness's honour. He was rather like his mother, the Queen, in looks with his fresh, fair complexion and light brown hair. As he passed near us he gave Dara a wide bright smile when she screamed at the top of her voice, 'God save the Prince of Wales.'

We embarked on the thirteenth of October for our voyage to Liverpool. Just before we boarded the vessel, Dara had bought a copy of the 'New York Tribune' and entertained me reading the newspaper's account of a ball at the Academy of Music held in honour of the Prince. Although the Academy on East Fourteenth Street had been built to hold no more than three thousand people, five thousand turned up for the great ball. The Prince arrived at ten o'clock and, before the dancing had begun, a large part of the floor collapsed and everyone, including the Prince, had to stand around waiting for two hours while a small army of carpenters repaired the floor. In the hectic activity of effecting the repairs, a carpenter was nailed in underneath the floorboards, with the result that there was further delay before the dancing could begin while the frightened man was released.

The voyage was boring and tedious as it was raining most days. We were confined to our cabin for five days in mid-Atlantic while the ship strove to make headway against storming gale force winds that brought the rain down in torrents. The dreadful weather caused wearisome delay and twenty-five days passed before we came into Liverpool harbour. The next day we boarded a train for London and arrived just before dusk at St Pancras station, where we took a cab to 'The Eight Bells' hotel near Covent Garden. It was a modest hotel where I had previously lodged for the night during my forays to London theatres from Oxford and I knew its charges would be reasonable. We had just about enough money to pay for a week's board, but I had high hopes of solving our financial problems by writing theatrical reviews for some of the London magazines.

None of my reviews were published but in the course of trying to get my work accepted I became acquainted with John Sweetapple, a successful theatrical critic who had ambitions to be an actor manager. He had written a number of plays, all of which had been turned down by a number of theatre managers. Nothing daunted by the rebuffs, Sweetapple was scheming to raise money to produce his own plays. I learnt a great deal from him. We became good friends and his cheer and good humour sustained me through a difficult period. Dara and I spent several evenings at his lodgings listening to his grandiose plans to become an actor manager who would one day astound London with his genius and originality. John Sweetapple did eventually realize his dreams, but not during the short time that I knew him.

After three weeks with no income I was in such desperate financial straits I began to sell off my personal articles and continued to do so until there was nothing left but the clothes I stood up in. 'The Eight Bells' were now pressing me for money. The day when they threatened me with confinement in the debtors' prison and I was literally down to my last penny, I plucked up my courage and decided to beard the lion in his den. My father always resided at his town house in St. James's Street during the winter months.

Our butler at Astrel House was somewhat taken aback on seeing me. From his demeanour I judged that he knew something about the reception I was likely to get from Father. Embarrassed, he ushered me into the library, saying, 'I'll enquire if Lord Pulrose is at home.'

Half an hour passed before my father made an appearance. He stumped his way past me looking like thunder and sat himself down at the reading desk eyeing me nastily for a while. It was cursed unpleasant and my nervous tension brought on a persistent dry cough.

Shuffling my feet and coughing, I was getting into a proper tizzy when he suddenly shouted, 'Well? What the devil brings you here, you degenerate pup?'

My eyes were beseeching him to forgive and let bygones be bygones but all I could get out in a hoarse whisper was, 'Forgive me, Father-I'm deuced sorry for what I've done.'

'Why? Have you given up your disgusting desires and become a man? Eh?'

'Yes, Father. When I was in America I slept with an actress nearly every night.'

He looked at me in astonishment for a moment with an expression of disbelief showing plainly on his face. 'Did I hear you right? Is that the truth?'

I was about to reply but he raised his hand saying, 'No, don't answer. I can't abide a liar.'

He bowed his head for a moment muttering, 'If only I could be sure. If only I could believe you. Damme! I dearly want you to be a true son to me. To get married and give me grandchildren. You do see it my way, don't you, my boy?'

I could only nod my head in agreement. My pederasty of the past weighed heavily on me and I was ready to agree to almost anything he said.

'Suppose I get you a commission in my old regiment, the Grenadier Guards. Two years' service in the army would do you the world of good and make a real man of you, y'know.'

As he said Grenadier Guards it suddenly came to me like a flash out of the blue-Nicholas Dawney of my schooldays had become a Grenadier. My heart turned over at the thought of being once again with the one person in this world that I loved more than any other.

'Father,' I said like a dutiful son, 'I've been a fool in the past but from now on I will follow your guidance and do whatever you think is for the best. Now, if you will give me some money, I would like to look up some old friends of my days at Oxford.'

Immediately I said 'old friends' he looked at me suspiciously. 'No, you don't get round me like that. You will be confined to the house until I take you to Aldershot to take up your commission in the army. I'm not having you getting up to any mischief in London with your debauched friends of the past. You won't be here for more than two or three days. The Commanding Officer of the Grenadier Guards is an old friend. He will be only too pleased to welcome a son of mine into his regiment. Be patient, we will soon have you settled and safe from temptation.'

Although I was desperately anxious to get back to Dara and settle my account at the hotel, I was between the devil and the deep blue sea. If the old boy learnt that I had married someone of humble origin, an actress at that, and I had been married for over six months without making her pregnant, there would be the very devil to pay, and I would be kicked out into the street without a penny to my name. On the other hand, I had to devise some way of reassuring Dara that I would be keeping in touch with her and would be sending some money within the next two or three days.

Life can be sheer hell sometimes. The old man never left my side all day and when I went to bed he locked my bedroom door from the outside. I was virtually a prisoner in my own home. By the following evening I could stand the worry about Dara no longer and told my father I owed 'The Eight Bells' hotel for three weeks' board and lodging and it was urgent that I get to Covent Garden and settle the account.

'Put your mind at ease, James,' he said, 'I'll attend to your little problem,' and left the room before I could think of another excuse for getting out of the house. He was back within a few minutes to tell me he had sent a footman to pay my hotel account.

The footman returned in a little over half an hour to hand the money back to my father. 'What's all this?' my father asked, looking at the bag of sovereigns. 'Didn't I tell you to pay my son's account at “The Eight Bells”?'

'There was nothing to pay,' he answered. A young woman had already settled what was owing this afternoon, just before she left the hotel.'

'Gad! What young woman?' my father asked, turning to me for an answer.

I was just as surprised as he was and at a loss for words. The footman was smiling at me and, because I was playing for time and confused, I grinned nervously back at him.

My father gave me a quizzical glance and then, with a big smile on his face, thumped the desk top with his fist. 'You young scoundrel. Why didn't you tell me you had been staying at the hotel with a woman? By jove, you have become a proper ladies' man. You've got the taste for it, what!'

He stood up guffawing coarsely and slapped me heartily on the back. 'You young rascal,' he said, excited and full of good humour. 'Upon my soul I didn't believe a word of that story about the American actress but I do now.'

He suddenly went all solemn. Picking up the money the footman had returned, he handed it to me. 'You have made me a very happy man, James. Egad, I'm devilish sorry that I misjudged you. Now off you go and enjoy yourself, for tomorrow we journey to Aldershot.'

I couldn't get out of the house fast enough. At 'The Eight Bells' none of the staff were able to give me any information as to the whereabouts of Dara so I wandered the streets around Covent Garden until after midnight in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of her. I got very little sleep that night as I tossed and turned in a fever of anxiety as to what could have happened to her. In the weeks that followed I returned time and time again to the vicinity of Covent Garden but none of the enquiries regarding my wife ever came to anything. It seemed she had disappeared for good.