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  • The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Upstairs, by P. G. Wodehouse
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  • Title: The Man Upstairs
  • Author: P. G. Wodehouse
  • Posting Date: August 3, 2012 [EBook #6768]
  • Release Date: October, 2004
  • [This file was first posted on January 26, 2003]
  • Language: English
  • *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN UPSTAIRS ***
  • Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
  • Proofreading Team
  • THE MAN UPSTAIRS
  • AND OTHER STORIES
  • by P. G. Wodehouse
  • CONTENTS
  • THE MAN UPSTAIRS
  • SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT
  • DEEP WATERS
  • WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE
  • BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL
  • ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL
  • THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS
  • RUTH IN EXILE
  • ARCHIBALD'S BENEFIT
  • THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA
  • THE GOOD ANGEL
  • POTS O' MONEY
  • OUT OF SCHOOL
  • THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE
  • THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE
  • AHEAD OF SCHEDULE
  • SIR AGRAVAINE
  • THE GOAL-KEEPER AND THE PLUTOCRAT
  • IN ALCALA
  • THE MAN UPSTAIRS
  • There were three distinct stages in the evolution of Annette Brougham's
  • attitude towards the knocking in the room above. In the beginning it
  • had been merely a vague discomfort. Absorbed in the composition of her
  • waltz, she had heard it almost subconsciously. The second stage set in
  • when it became a physical pain like red-hot pincers wrenching her mind
  • from her music. Finally, with a thrill in indignation, she knew it for
  • what it was--an insult. The unseen brute disliked her playing, and was
  • intimating his views with a boot-heel.
  • Defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal, she struck--almost
  • slapped--the keys once more.
  • 'Bang!' from the room above. 'Bang! Bang!'
  • Annette rose. Her face was pink, her chin tilted. Her eyes sparkled
  • with the light of battle. She left the room and started to mount the
  • stairs. No spectator, however just, could have helped feeling a pang of
  • pity for the wretched man who stood unconscious of imminent doom,
  • possibly even triumphant, behind the door at which she was on the point
  • of tapping.
  • 'Come in!' cried the voice, rather a pleasant voice; but what is a
  • pleasant voice if the soul be vile?
  • Annette went in. The room was a typical Chelsea studio, scantily
  • furnished and lacking a carpet. In the centre was an easel, behind
  • which were visible a pair of trousered legs. A cloud of grey smoke was
  • curling up over the top of the easel.
  • 'I beg your pardon,' began Annette.
  • 'I don't want any models at present,' said the Brute. 'Leave your card
  • on the table.'
  • 'I am not a model,' said Annette, coldly. 'I merely came--'
  • At this the Brute emerged from his fortifications and, removing his
  • pipe from his mouth, jerked his chair out into the open.
  • 'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'Won't you sit down?'
  • How reckless is Nature in the distribution of her gifts! Not only had
  • this black-hearted knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, in
  • addition, a pleasing exterior. He was slightly dishevelled at the
  • moment, and his hair stood up in a disordered mop; but in spite of
  • these drawbacks, he was quite passably good-looking. Annette admitted
  • this. Though wrathful, she was fair.
  • 'I thought it was another model,' he explained. 'They've been coming in
  • at the rate of ten an hour ever since I settled here. I didn't object
  • at first, but after about the eightieth child of sunny Italy had shown
  • up it began to get on my nerves.'
  • Annette waited coldly till he had finished.
  • 'I am sorry,' she said, in a this-is-where-you-get-yours voice, 'if my
  • playing disturbed you.'
  • One would have thought nobody but an Eskimo wearing his furs and winter
  • under-clothing could have withstood the iciness of her manner; but the
  • Brute did not freeze.
  • 'I am sorry,' repeated Annette, well below zero, 'if my playing
  • disturbed you. I live in the room below, and I heard you knocking.'
  • 'No, no,' protested the young man, affably; 'I like it. Really I do.'
  • 'Then why knock on the floor?' said Annette, turning to go. 'It is so
  • bad for my ceiling,' she said over shoulder. 'I thought you would not
  • mind my mentioning it. Good afternoon.'
  • 'No; but one moment. Don't go.'
  • She stopped. He was surveying her with a friendly smile. She noticed
  • most reluctantly that he had a nice smile. His composure began to
  • enrage her more and more. Long ere this he should have been writhing at
  • her feet in the dust, crushed and abject.
  • 'You see,' he said, 'I'm awfully sorry, but it's like this. I love
  • music, but what I mean is, you weren't playing a _tune_. It was
  • just the same bit over and over again.'
  • 'I was trying to get a phrase,' said Annette, with dignity, but less
  • coldly. In spite of herself she was beginning to thaw. There was
  • something singularly attractive about this shock-headed youth.
  • 'A phrase?'
  • 'Of music. For my waltz. I am composing a waltz.'
  • A look of such unqualified admiration overspread the young man's face
  • that the last remnants of the ice-pack melted. For the first time since
  • they had met Annette found herself positively liking this blackguardly
  • floor-smiter.
  • 'Can you compose music?' he said, impressed.
  • 'I have written one or two songs.'
  • 'It must be great to be able to do things--artistic things, I mean,
  • like composing.'
  • 'Well, you do, don't you? You paint.'
  • The young man shook his head with a cheerful grin.
  • 'I fancy,' he said, 'I should make a pretty good house-painter. I want
  • scope. Canvas seems to cramp me.'
  • It seemed to cause him no discomfort. He appeared rather amused than
  • otherwise.
  • 'Let me look.'
  • She crossed over to the easel.
  • 'I shouldn't,' he warned her. 'You really want to? Is this not mere
  • recklessness? Very well, then.'
  • To the eye of an experienced critic the picture would certainly have
  • seemed crude. It was a study of a dark-eyed child holding a large black
  • cat. Statisticians estimate that there is no moment during the day when
  • one or more young artists somewhere on the face of the globe are not
  • painting pictures of children holding cats.
  • 'I call it "Child and Cat",' said the young man. 'Rather a neat title,
  • don't you think? Gives you the main idea of the thing right away.
  • That,' he explained, pointing obligingly with the stem of his pipe, 'is
  • the cat.'
  • Annette belonged to that large section of the public which likes or
  • dislikes a picture according to whether its subject happens to please
  • or displease them. Probably there was not one of the million or so
  • child-and-cat eyesores at present in existence which she would not have
  • liked. Besides, he had been very nice about her music.
  • 'I think it's splendid,' she announced.
  • The young man's face displayed almost more surprise than joy.
  • 'Do you really?' he said. 'Then I can die happy--that is, if you'll let
  • me come down and listen to those songs of yours first.'
  • 'You would only knock on the floor,' objected Annette.
  • 'I'll never knock on another floor as long as I live,' said the
  • ex-brute, reassuringly. 'I hate knocking on floors. I don't see
  • what people want to knock on floors _for_, anyway.'
  • Friendships ripen quickly in Chelsea. Within the space of an hour and a
  • quarter Annette had learned that the young man's name was Alan Beverley
  • (for which Family Heraldic affliction she pitied rather than despised
  • him), that he did not depend entirely on his work for a living, having
  • a little money of his own, and that he considered this a fortunate
  • thing. From the very beginning of their talk he pleased her. She found
  • him an absolutely new and original variety of the unsuccessful painter.
  • Unlike Reginald Sellers, who had a studio in the same building, and
  • sometimes dropped in to drink her coffee and pour out his troubles, he
  • did not attribute his non-success to any malice or stupidity on the
  • part of the public. She was so used to hearing Sellers lash the
  • Philistine and hold forth on unappreciated merit that she could hardly
  • believe the miracle when, in answer to a sympathetic bromide on the
  • popular lack of taste in Art, Beverley replied that, as far as he was
  • concerned, the public showed strong good sense. If he had been striving
  • with every nerve to win her esteem, he could not have done it more
  • surely than with that one remark. Though she invariably listened with a
  • sweet patience which encouraged them to continue long after the point
  • at which she had begun in spirit to throw things at them, Annette had
  • no sympathy with men who whined. She herself was a fighter. She hated
  • as much as anyone the sickening blows which Fate hands out to the
  • struggling and ambitious; but she never made them the basis of a
  • monologue act. Often, after a dreary trip round the offices of the
  • music-publishers, she would howl bitterly in secret, and even gnaw her
  • pillow in the watches of the night; but in public her pride kept her
  • unvaryingly bright and cheerful.
  • Today, for the first time, she revealed something of her woes. There
  • was that about the mop-headed young man which invited confidences. She
  • told him of the stony-heartedness of music-publishers, of the
  • difficulty of getting songs printed unless you paid for them, of their
  • wretched sales.
  • 'But those songs you've been playing,' said Beverley, 'they've been
  • published?'
  • 'Yes, those three. But they are the only ones.'
  • 'And didn't they sell?'
  • 'Hardly at all. You see, a song doesn't sell unless somebody well known
  • sings it. And people promise to sing them, and then don't keep their
  • word. You can't depend on what they say.'
  • 'Give me their names,' said Beverley, 'and I'll go round tomorrow and
  • shoot the whole lot. But can't you do anything?'
  • 'Only keep on keeping on.'
  • 'I wish,' he said, 'that any time you're feeling blue about things you
  • would come up and pour out the poison on me. It's no good bottling it
  • up. Come up and tell me about it, and you'll feel ever so much better.
  • Or let me come down. Any time things aren't going right just knock on
  • the ceiling.'
  • She laughed.
  • 'Don't rub it in,' pleaded Beverley. 'It isn't fair. There's nobody so
  • sensitive as a reformed floor-knocker. You will come up or let me come
  • down, won't you? Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out
  • and kill a policeman. But you wouldn't care for that. So the only thing
  • for you to do is to knock on the ceiling. Then I'll come charging down
  • and see if there's anything I can do to help.'
  • 'You'll be sorry you ever said this.'
  • 'I won't,' he said stoutly.
  • 'If you really mean it, it _would_ be a relief,' she admitted.
  • 'Sometimes I'd give all the money I'm ever likely to make for someone
  • to shriek my grievances at. I always think it must have been so nice
  • for the people in the old novels, when they used to say: "Sit down and
  • I will tell you the story of my life." Mustn't it have been heavenly?'
  • 'Well,' said Beverley, rising, 'you know where I am if I'm wanted.
  • Right up there where the knocking came from.'
  • 'Knocking?' said Annette. 'I remember no knocking.'
  • 'Would you mind shaking hands?' said Beverley.
  • * * * * *
  • A particularly maddening hour with one of her pupils drove her up the
  • very next day. Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair.
  • They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly
  • worth supporting. Some of them were learning the piano. Others thought
  • they sang. All had solid ivory skulls. There was about a teaspoonful of
  • grey matter distributed among the entire squad, and the pupil Annette
  • had been teaching that afternoon had come in at the tail-end of the
  • division.
  • In the studio with Beverley she found Reginald Sellers, standing in a
  • critical attitude before the easel. She was not very fond of him. He
  • was a long, offensive, patronizing person, with a moustache that looked
  • like a smear of charcoal, and a habit of addressing her as 'Ah, little
  • one!'
  • Beverley looked up.
  • 'Have you brought your hatchet, Miss Brougham? If you have, you're just
  • in time to join in the massacre of the innocents. Sellers has been
  • smiting my child and cat hip and thigh. Look at his eye. There! Did you
  • see it flash then? He's on the warpath again.'
  • 'My dear Beverley,' said Sellers, rather stiffly, 'I am merely
  • endeavouring to give you my idea of the picture's defects. I am sorry
  • if my criticism has to be a little harsh.'
  • 'Go right on,' said Beverley, cordially. 'Don't mind me; it's all for
  • my good.'
  • 'Well, in a word, then, it is lifeless. Neither the child nor the cat
  • lives.'
  • He stepped back a pace and made a frame of his hands.
  • 'The cat now,' he said. 'It is--how shall I put it? It has
  • no--no--er--'
  • 'That kind of cat wouldn't,' said Beverley. 'It isn't that breed.'
  • 'I think it's a dear cat,' said Annette. She felt her temper, always
  • quick, getting the better of her. She knew just how incompetent
  • Sellers was, and it irritated her beyond endurance to see Beverley's
  • good-humoured acceptance of his patronage.
  • 'At any rate,' said Beverley, with a grin, 'you both seem to recognize
  • that it is a cat. You're solid on that point, and that's something,
  • seeing I'm only a beginner.'
  • 'I know, my dear fellow; I know,' said Sellers, graciously. 'You
  • mustn't let my criticism discourage you. Don't think that your work
  • lacks promise. Far from it. I am sure that in time you will do very
  • well indeed. Quite well.'
  • A cold glitter might have been observed in Annette's eyes.
  • 'Mr Sellers,' she said, smoothly, 'had to work very hard himself before
  • he reached his present position. You know his work, of course?'
  • For the first time Beverley seemed somewhat confused.
  • 'I--er--why--' he began.
  • 'Oh, but of course you do,' she went on, sweetly. 'It's in all the
  • magazines.'
  • Beverley looked at the great man with admiration, and saw that he had
  • flushed uncomfortably. He put this down to the modesty of genius.
  • 'In the advertisement pages,' said Annette. 'Mr Sellers drew that
  • picture of the Waukeesy Shoe and the Restawhile Settee and the tin of
  • sardines in the Little Gem Sardine advertisement. He is very good at
  • still life.'
  • There was a tense silence. Beverley could almost hear the voice of the
  • referee uttering the count.
  • 'Miss Brougham,' said Sellers at last, spitting out the words, 'has
  • confined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. There is
  • another.'
  • 'Why, of course there is. You sold a landscape for five pounds only
  • eight months ago, didn't you? And another three months before that.'
  • It was enough. Sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room.
  • Beverley picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor with
  • it.
  • 'What are you doing?' demanded Annette, in a choking voice.
  • 'The fragments of the wretched man,' whispered Beverley. 'They must be
  • swept up and decently interred. You certainly have got the punch, Miss
  • Brougham.'
  • He dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for Annette had
  • suddenly burst into a flood of tears. With her face buried in her hands
  • she sat in her chair and sobbed desperately.
  • 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly.
  • 'I'm a cat! I'm a beast! I hate myself!'
  • 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly.
  • 'I'm a pig! I'm a fiend!'
  • 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly.
  • 'We're all struggling and trying to get on and having hard luck, and
  • instead of doing what I can to help, I go and t-t-taunt him with not
  • being able to sell his pictures! I'm not fit to live! _Oh!_'
  • 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly.
  • A series of gulping sobs followed, diminishing by degrees into silence.
  • Presently she looked up and smiled, a moist and pathetic smile.
  • 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'for being so stupid. But he was so horrid and
  • patronizing to you, I couldn't help scratching. I believe I'm the worst
  • cat in London.'
  • 'No, this is,' said Beverley, pointing to the canvas. 'At least,
  • according to the late Sellers. But, I say, tell me, isn't the deceased
  • a great artist, then? He came curveting in here with his chest out and
  • started to slate my masterpiece, so I naturally said, "What-ho! 'Tis a
  • genius!" Isn't he?'
  • 'He can't sell his pictures anywhere. He lives on the little he can get
  • from illustrating advertisements. And I t-taunt--'
  • '_Please!_' said Beverley, apprehensively.
  • She recovered herself with a gulp.
  • 'I can't help it,' she said, miserably. 'I rubbed it in. Oh, it was
  • hateful of me! But I was all on edge from teaching one of my awful
  • pupils, and when he started to patronize you--'
  • She blinked.
  • 'Poor devil!' said Beverley. 'I never guessed. Good Lord!'
  • Annette rose.
  • 'I must go and tell him I'm sorry,' she said. 'He'll snub me horribly,
  • but I must.'
  • She went out. Beverley lit a pipe and stood at the window looking
  • thoughtfully down into the street.
  • * * * * *
  • It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people
  • do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of
  • them. Sellers belonged to the latter class. When Annette, meek,
  • penitent, with all her claws sheathed, came to him and grovelled, he
  • forgave her with a repulsive magnanimity which in a less subdued mood
  • would have stung her to renewed pugnacity. As it was, she allowed
  • herself to be forgiven, and retired with a dismal conviction that from
  • now on he would be more insufferable than ever.
  • Her surmise proved absolutely correct. His visits to the newcomer's
  • studio began again, and Beverley's picture, now nearing completion,
  • came in for criticism enough to have filled a volume. The good humour
  • with which he received it amazed Annette. She had no proprietary
  • interest in the painting beyond what she acquired from a growing regard
  • for its parent (which disturbed her a good deal when she had time to
  • think of it); but there were moments when only the recollection of her
  • remorse for her previous outbreak kept her from rending the critic.
  • Beverley, however, appeared to have no artistic sensitiveness
  • whatsoever. When Sellers savaged the cat in a manner which should have
  • brought the S.P.C.A. down upon him, Beverley merely beamed. His
  • long-sufferingness was beyond Annette's comprehension.
  • She began to admire him for it.
  • To make his position as critic still more impregnable, Sellers was now
  • able to speak as one having authority. After years of floundering, his
  • luck seemed at last to have turned. His pictures, which for months had
  • lain at an agent's, careened like crippled battleships, had at length
  • begun to find a market. Within the past two weeks three landscapes and
  • an allegorical painting had sold for good prices; and under the
  • influence of success he expanded like an opening floweret. When
  • Epstein, the agent, wrote to say that the allegory had been purchased
  • by a Glasgow plutocrat of the name of Bates for one hundred and sixty
  • guineas, Sellers' views on Philistines and their crass materialism and
  • lack of taste underwent a marked modification. He spoke with some
  • friendliness of the man Bates.
  • 'To me,' said Beverley, when informed of the event by Annette, 'the
  • matter has a deeper significance. It proves that Glasgow has at last
  • produced a sober man. No drinker would have dared face that allegory.
  • The whole business is very gratifying.'
  • Beverley himself was progressing slowly in the field of Art. He had
  • finished the 'Child and Cat', and had taken it to Epstein together with
  • a letter of introduction from Sellers. Sellers' habitual attitude now
  • was that of the kindly celebrity who has arrived and wishes to give the
  • youngsters a chance.
  • Since its departure Beverley had not done much in the way of actual
  • execution. Whenever Annette came to his studio he was either sitting in
  • a chair with his feet on the window-sill, smoking, or in the same
  • attitude listening to Sellers' views on art. Sellers being on the
  • upgrade, a man with many pounds to his credit in the bank, had more
  • leisure now. He had given up his advertisement work, and was planning a
  • great canvas--another allegorical work. This left him free to devote a
  • good deal of time to Beverley, and he did so. Beverley sat and smoked
  • through his harangues. He may have been listening, or he may not.
  • Annette listened once or twice, and the experience had the effect of
  • sending her to Beverley, quivering with indignation.
  • 'Why do you _let_ him patronize you like that?' she demanded. 'If
  • anybody came and talked to me like that about my music, I'd--I'd--I
  • don't know what I'd do. Yes, even if he were really a great musician.'
  • 'Don't you consider Sellers a great artist, then, even now?'
  • 'He seems to be able to sell his pictures, so I suppose they must be
  • good; but nothing could give him the right to patronize you as he
  • does.'
  • '"My learned friend's manner would be intolerable in an emperor to a
  • black-beetle,"' quoted Beverley. 'Well, what are we going to do about
  • it?'
  • 'If only you could sell a picture, too!'
  • 'Ah! Well, I've done my part of the contract. I've delivered the goods.
  • There the thing is at Epstein's. The public can't blame me if it
  • doesn't sell. All they've got to do is to waltz in in their thousands
  • and fight for it. And, by the way, talking of waltzes--'
  • 'Oh, it's finished,' said Annette, dispiritedly. 'Published too, for
  • that matter.'
  • 'Published! What's the matter, then? Why this drooping sadness? Why
  • aren't you running around the square, singing like a bird?'
  • 'Because,' said Annette, 'unfortunately, I had to pay the expenses of
  • publication. It was only five pounds, but the sales haven't caught up
  • with that yet. If they ever do, perhaps there'll be a new edition.'
  • 'And will you have to pay for that?'
  • 'No. The publishers would.'
  • 'Who are they?'
  • 'Grusczinsky and Buchterkirch.'
  • 'Heavens, then what are you worrying about? The thing's a cert. A man
  • with a name like Grusczinsky could sell a dozen editions by himself.
  • Helped and inspired by Buchterkirch, he will make the waltz the talk of
  • the country. Infants will croon it in their cots.'
  • 'He didn't seem to think so when I saw him last.'
  • 'Of course not. He doesn't know his own power. Grusczinsky's shrinking
  • diffidence is a by-word in musical circles. He is the genuine Human
  • Violet. You must give him time.'
  • 'I'll give him anything if he'll only sell an edition or two,' said
  • Annette.
  • The outstanding thing was that he did. There seemed no particular
  • reason why the sale of that waltz should not have been as small and as
  • slow as that of any other waltz by an unknown composer. But almost
  • without warning it expanded from a trickle into a flood. Grusczinsky,
  • beaming paternally whenever Annette entered the shop--which was
  • often--announced two new editions in a week. Beverley, his artistic
  • growth still under a watchful eye of Sellers, said he had never had
  • any doubts as to the success of the thing from the moment when a single
  • phrase in it had so carried him away that he had been compelled to stamp
  • his applause enthusiastically on the floor. Even Sellers forgot his own
  • triumphs long enough to allow him to offer affable congratulations. And
  • money came rolling in, smoothing the path of life.
  • Those were great days. There was a hat ...
  • Life, in short, was very full and splendid. There was, indeed, but one
  • thing which kept it from being perfect. The usual drawback to success is
  • that it annoys one's friends so; but in Annette's case this drawback was
  • absent. Sellers' demeanour towards her was that of an old-established
  • inmate welcoming a novice into the Hall of Fame. Her pupils--worthy
  • souls, though bone-headed--fawned upon her. Beverley seemed more pleased
  • than anyone. Yet it was Beverley who prevented her paradise from being
  • complete. Successful herself, she wanted all her friends to be successful;
  • but Beverley, to her discomfort, remained a cheery failure, and worse,
  • absolutely refused to snub Sellers. It was not as if Sellers' advice and
  • comments were disinterested. Beverley was simply the instrument on which
  • he played his songs of triumph. It distressed Annette to such an extent
  • that now, if she went upstairs and heard Sellers' voice in the studio,
  • she came down again without knocking.
  • * * * * *
  • One afternoon, sitting in her room, she heard the telephone-bell ring.
  • The telephone was on the stairs, just outside her door. She went out
  • and took up the receiver.
  • 'Halloa!' said a querulous voice. 'Is Mr Beverley there?'
  • Annette remembered having heard him go out. She could always tell his
  • footstep.
  • 'He is out,' she said. 'Is there any message?'
  • 'Yes,' said the voice, emphatically. 'Tell him that Rupert Morrison
  • rang up to ask what he was to do with all this great stack of music
  • that's arrived. Does he want it forwarded on to him, or what?' The
  • voice was growing high and excited. Evidently Mr Morrison was in a
  • state of nervous tension when a man does not care particularly who
  • hears his troubles so long as he unburdens himself of them to someone.
  • 'Music?' said Annette.
  • 'Music!' shrilled Mr Morrison. 'Stacks and stacks and stacks of it. Is
  • he playing a practical joke on me, or what?' he demanded, hysterically.
  • Plainly he had now come to regard Annette as a legitimate confidante.
  • She was listening. That was the main point. He wanted someone--he did
  • not care whom--who would listen. 'He lends me his rooms,' wailed Mr
  • Morrison, 'so that I can be perfectly quiet and undisturbed while I
  • write my novel, and, first thing I know, this music starts to arrive.
  • How can I be quiet and undisturbed when the floor's littered two yards
  • high with great parcels of music, and more coming every day?'
  • Annette clung weakly to the telephone box. Her mind was in a whirl, but
  • she was beginning to see many things.
  • 'Are you there?' called Mr Morrison.
  • 'Yes. What--what firm does the music come from?'
  • 'What's that?'
  • 'Who are the publishers who send the music?'
  • 'I can't remember. Some long name. Yes, I've got it. Grusczinsky and
  • someone.'
  • 'I'll tell Mr Beverley,' said Annette, quietly. A great weight seemed
  • to have settled on her head.
  • 'Halloa! Halloa! Are you there?' came Mr Morrison's voice.
  • 'Yes?'
  • 'And tell him there are some pictures, too.'
  • 'Pictures?'
  • 'Four great beastly pictures. The size of elephants. I tell you, there
  • isn't room to move. And--'
  • Annette hung up the receiver.
  • * * * * *
  • Mr Beverley, returned from his walk, was racing up the stairs three at
  • a time in his energetic way, when, as he arrived at Annette's door, it
  • opened.
  • 'Have you a minute to spare?' said Annette.
  • 'Of course. What's the trouble? Have they sold another edition of the
  • waltz?'
  • 'I have not heard, Mr--Bates.'
  • For once she looked to see the cheerful composure of the man upstairs
  • become ruffled; but he received the blow without agitation.
  • 'You know my name?' he said.
  • 'I know a good deal more than your name. You are a Glasgow
  • millionaire.'
  • 'It's true,' he admitted, 'but it's hereditary. My father was one
  • before me.'
  • 'And you use your money,' said Annette, bitterly, 'creating fools'
  • paradises for your friends, which last, I suppose, until you grow tired
  • of the amusement and destroy them. Doesn't it ever strike you, Mr
  • Bates, that it's a little cruel? Do you think Mr Sellers will settle
  • down again cheerfully to hack-work when you stop buying his pictures,
  • and he finds out that--that--'
  • 'I shan't stop,' said the young man. 'If a Glasgow millionaire mayn't
  • buy Sellers' allegorical pictures, whose allegorical pictures may he
  • buy? Sellers will never find out. He'll go on painting and I'll go on
  • buying, and all will be joy and peace.'
  • 'Indeed! And what future have you arranged for me?'
  • 'You?' he said, reflectively. 'I want to marry you.'
  • Annette stiffened from head to foot. He met her blazing eyes with a
  • look of quiet devotion.
  • 'Marry me?'
  • 'I know what you are thinking,' he said. 'Your mind is dwelling on the
  • prospect of living in a house decorated throughout with Sellers'
  • allegorical pictures. But it won't be. We'll store them in the attic.'
  • She began to speak, but he interrupted her.
  • 'Listen!' he said. 'Sit down and I will tell you the story of my life.
  • We'll skip the first twenty-eight years and three months, merely
  • mentioning that for the greater part of that time I was looking for
  • somebody just like you. A month and nine days ago I found you. You were
  • crossing the Embankment. I was also on the Embankment. In a taxi. I
  • stopped the taxi, got out, and observed you just stepping into the
  • Charing Cross Underground. I sprang--'
  • 'This does not interest me,' said Annette.
  • 'The plot thickens,' he assured her. 'We left our hero springing, I
  • think. Just so. Well, you took the West End train and got off at Sloane
  • Square. So did I. You crossed Sloane Square, turned up King's Road, and
  • finally arrived here. I followed. I saw a notice up, "Studio to Let". I
  • reflected that, having done a little painting in an amateur way, I
  • could pose as an artist all right; so I took the studio. Also the name
  • of Alan Beverley. My own is Bill Bates. I had often wondered what it
  • would feel like to be called by some name like Alan Beverley or Cyril
  • Trevelyan. It was simply the spin of the coin which decided me in
  • favour of the former. Once in, the problem was how to get to know you.
  • When I heard you playing I knew it was all right. I had only to keep
  • knocking on the floor long enough--'
  • 'Do--you--mean--to--tell--me'--Annette's voice trembled 'do you mean to
  • tell me that you knocked that time simply to make me come up?'
  • 'That was it. Rather a scheme, don't you think? And now, would you mind
  • telling me how you found out that I had been buying your waltz? Those
  • remarks of yours about fools' paradises were not inspired solely by
  • the affairs of Sellers. But it beats me how you did it. I swore
  • Rozinsky, or whatever his name is, to secrecy.'
  • 'A Mr Morrison,' sad Annette, indifferently, 'rang up on the telephone
  • and asked me to tell you that he was greatly worried by the piles of
  • music which were littering the rooms you lent him.'
  • The young man burst into a roar of laughter.
  • 'Poor old Morrison! I forgot all about him. I lent him my rooms at the
  • Albany. He's writing a novel, and he can't work if the slightest thing
  • goes wrong. It just shows--'
  • 'Mr Bates!'
  • 'Yes?'
  • 'Perhaps you didn't intend to hurt me. I dare say you meant only to be
  • kind. But--but--oh, can't you see how you have humiliated me? You have
  • treated me like a child, giving me a make-believe success just to--just
  • to keep me quiet, I suppose. You--'
  • He was fumbling in his pocket.
  • 'May I read you a letter?' he said.
  • 'A letter?'
  • 'Quite a short one. It is from Epstein, the picture-dealer. This is
  • what he says. "Sir," meaning me, not "Dear Bill," mind you--just "Sir."
  • "I am glad to be able to inform you that I have this morning received
  • an offer of ten guineas for your picture, 'Child and Cat'. Kindly let
  • me know if I am to dispose of it at this price."'
  • 'Well?' said Annette, in a small voice.
  • 'I have just been to Epstein's. It seems that the purchaser is a Miss
  • Brown. She gave an address in Bayswater. I called at the address. No
  • Miss Brown lives there, but one of your pupils does. I asked her if she
  • was expecting a parcel for Miss Brown, and she said that she had had
  • your letter and quite understood and would take it in when it arrived.'
  • Annette was hiding her face in her hands.
  • 'Go away!' she said, faintly.
  • Mr Bates moved a step nearer.
  • 'Do you remember that story of the people on the island who eked out a
  • precarious livelihood by taking in one another's washing?' he asked,
  • casually.
  • 'Go away!' cried Annette.
  • 'I've always thought,' he said, 'that it must have drawn them very
  • close together--made them feel rather attached to each other. Don't
  • you?'
  • 'Go away!'
  • 'I don't want to go away. I want to stay and hear you say you'll marry
  • me.'
  • '_Please_ go away! I want to think.'
  • She heard him moving towards the door. He stopped, then went on again.
  • The door closed quietly. Presently from the room above came the sound
  • of footsteps--footsteps pacing monotonously to and fro like those of an
  • animal in a cage.
  • Annette sat listening. There was no break in the footsteps.
  • Suddenly she got up. In one corner of the room was a long pole used for
  • raising and lowering the window-sash. She took it, and for a moment
  • stood irresolute. Then with a quick movement, she lifted it and
  • stabbed three times at the ceiling.
  • SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT
  • A girl stood on the shingle that fringes Millbourne Bay, gazing at the
  • red roofs of the little village across the water. She was a pretty
  • girl, small and trim. Just now some secret sorrow seemed to be
  • troubling her, for on her forehead were wrinkles and in her eyes a look
  • of wistfulness. She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks of one
  • who is thinking of her sailor lover.
  • But she was not. She had no sailor lover. What she was thinking of was
  • that at about this time they would be lighting up the shop-windows in
  • London, and that of all the deadly, depressing spots she had ever
  • visited this village of Millbourne was the deadliest.
  • The evening shadows deepened. The incoming tide glistened oilily as it
  • rolled over the mud flats. She rose and shivered.
  • 'Goo! What a hole!' she said, eyeing the unconscious village morosely.
  • '_What_ a hole!'
  • * * * * *
  • This was Sally Preston's first evening in Millbourne. She had arrived
  • by the afternoon train from London--not of her own free will. Left to
  • herself, she would not have come within sixty miles of the place.
  • London supplied all that she demanded from life. She had been born in
  • London; she had lived there ever since--she hoped to die there. She
  • liked fogs, motor-buses, noise, policemen, paper-boys, shops, taxi-cabs,
  • artificial light, stone pavements, houses in long, grey rows, mud,
  • banana-skins, and moving-picture exhibitions. Especially moving-picture
  • exhibitions. It was, indeed, her taste for these that had caused her
  • banishment to Millbourne.
  • The great public is not yet unanimous on the subject of moving-picture
  • exhibitions. Sally, as I have said, approved of them. Her father, on
  • the other hand, did not. An austere ex-butler, who let lodgings in
  • Ebury Street and preached on Sundays in Hyde Park, he looked askance
  • at the 'movies'. It was his boast that he had never been inside a
  • theatre in his life, and he classed cinema palaces with theatres as
  • wiles of the devil. Sally, suddenly unmasked as an habitual frequenter
  • of these abandoned places, sprang with one bound into prominence as
  • the Bad Girl of the Family. Instant removal from the range of
  • temptation being the only possible plan, it seemed to Mr Preston that
  • a trip to the country was indicated.
  • He selected Millbourne because he had been butler at the Hall there,
  • and because his sister Jane, who had been a parlour-maid at the
  • Rectory, was now married and living in the village.
  • Certainly he could not have chosen a more promising reformatory for
  • Sally. Here, if anywhere, might she forget the heady joys of the
  • cinema. Tucked away in the corner of its little bay, which an
  • accommodating island converts into a still lagoon, Millbourne lies
  • dozing. In all sleepy Hampshire there is no sleepier spot. It is a
  • place of calm-eyed men and drowsy dogs. Things crumble away and are not
  • replaced. Tradesmen book orders, and then lose interest and forget to
  • deliver the goods. Only centenarians die, and nobody worries about
  • anything--or did not until Sally came and gave them something to worry
  • about.
  • * * * * *
  • Next door to Sally's Aunt Jane, in a cosy little cottage with a
  • wonderful little garden, lived Thomas Kitchener, a large, grave,
  • self-sufficing young man, who, by sheer application to work, had
  • become already, though only twenty-five, second gardener at the Hall.
  • Gardening absorbed him. When he was not working at the Hall he was
  • working at home. On the morning following Sally's arrival, it being a
  • Thursday and his day off, he was crouching in a constrained attitude in
  • his garden, every fibre of his being concentrated on the interment of a
  • plump young bulb. Consequently, when a chunk of mud came sailing over
  • the fence, he did not notice it.
  • A second, however, compelled attention by bursting like a shell on the
  • back of his neck. He looked up, startled. Nobody was in sight. He was
  • puzzled. It could hardly be raining mud. Yet the alternative theory,
  • that someone in the next garden was throwing it, was hardly less
  • bizarre. The nature of his friendship with Sally's Aunt Jane and old
  • Mr Williams, her husband, was comfortable rather than rollicking. It
  • was inconceivable that they should be flinging clods at him.
  • As he stood wondering whether he should go to the fence and look over,
  • or simply accept the phenomenon as one of those things which no fellow
  • can understand, there popped up before him the head and shoulders of a
  • girl. Poised in her right hand was a third clod, which, seeing that
  • there was now no need for its services, she allowed to fall to the
  • ground.
  • 'Halloa!' she said. 'Good morning.'
  • She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Tom was by way of being the
  • strong, silent man with a career to think of and no time for bothering
  • about girls, but he saw that. There was, moreover, a certain alertness
  • in her expression rarely found in the feminine population of
  • Millbourne, who were apt to be slightly bovine.
  • 'What do you think _you're_ messing about at?' she said, affably.
  • Tom was a slow-minded young man, who liked to have his thoughts well
  • under control before he spoke. He was not one of your gay rattlers.
  • Besides, there was something about this girl which confused him to an
  • extraordinary extent. He was conscious of new and strange emotions. He
  • stood staring silently.
  • 'What's your name, anyway?'
  • He could answer that. He did so.
  • 'Oh! Mine's Sally Preston. Mrs Williams is my aunt. I've come from
  • London.'
  • Tom had no remarks to make about London.
  • 'Have you lived here all your life?'
  • 'Yes,' said Tom.
  • 'My goodness! Don't you ever feel fed up? Don't you want a change?'
  • Tom considered the point.
  • 'No,' he said.
  • 'Well, _I_ do. I want one now.'
  • 'It's a nice place,' hazarded Tom.
  • 'It's nothing of the sort. It's the beastliest hole in existence. It's
  • absolutely chronic. Perhaps you wonder why I'm here. Don't think I
  • _wanted_ to come here. Not me! I was sent. It was like this.' She
  • gave him a rapid summary of her troubles. 'There! Don't you call it a
  • bit thick?' she concluded.
  • Tom considered this point, too.
  • 'You must make the best of it,' he said, at length.
  • 'I won't! I'll make father take me back.'
  • Tom considered this point also. Rarely, if ever, had he been given so
  • many things to think about in one morning.
  • 'How?' he inquired, at length.
  • 'I don't know. I'll find some way. You see if I don't. I'll get away
  • from here jolly quick, I give you _my_ word.'
  • Tom bent low over a rose-bush. His face was hidden, but the brown of
  • his neck seemed to take on a richer hue, and his ears were undeniably
  • crimson. His feet moved restlessly, and from his unseen mouth there
  • proceeded the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. Merely
  • considered as a speech, it was, perhaps, nothing wonderful; but from
  • Tom it was a miracle of chivalry and polish.
  • What he said was: 'I hope not.'
  • And instinct telling him that he had made his supreme effort, and that
  • anything further must be bathos, he turned abruptly and stalked into
  • his cottage, where he drank tea and ate bacon and thought chaotic
  • thoughts. And when his appetite declined to carry him more than half-way
  • through the third rasher, he understood. He was in love.
  • These strong, silent men who mean to be head-gardeners before they are
  • thirty, and eliminate woman from their lives as a dangerous obstacle to
  • the successful career, pay a heavy penalty when they do fall in love.
  • The average irresponsible young man who has hung about North Street on
  • Saturday nights, walked through the meadows and round by the mill and
  • back home past the creek on Sunday afternoons, taken his seat in the
  • brake for the annual outing, shuffled his way through the polka at the
  • tradesmen's ball, and generally seized all legitimate opportunities
  • for sporting with Amaryllis in the shade, has a hundred advantages
  • which your successful careerer lacks. There was hardly a moment during
  • the days which followed when Tom did not regret his neglected
  • education.
  • For he was not Sally's only victim in Millbourne. That was the trouble.
  • Her beauty was not of that elusive type which steals imperceptibly into
  • the vision of the rare connoisseur. It was sudden and compelling. It
  • hit you. Bright brown eyes beneath a mass of fair hair, a determined
  • little chin, a slim figure--these are disturbing things; and the
  • youths of peaceful Millbourne sat up and took notice as one youth.
  • Throw your mind back to the last musical comedy you saw. Recall the
  • leading lady's song with chorus of young men, all proffering devotion
  • simultaneously in a neat row. Well, that was how the lads of the
  • village comported themselves towards Sally.
  • Mr and Mrs Williams, till then a highly-esteemed but little-frequented
  • couple, were astonished at the sudden influx of visitors. The cottage
  • became practically a _salon_. There was not an evening when the
  • little sitting-room looking out on the garden was not packed. It is
  • true that the conversation lacked some of the sparkle generally found
  • in the better class of _salon_. To be absolutely accurate, there
  • was hardly any conversation. The youths of Melbourne were sturdy and
  • honest. They were the backbone of England. England, in her hour of
  • need, could have called upon them with the comfortable certainty that,
  • unless they happened to be otherwise engaged, they would leap to her
  • aid.
  • But they did not shine at small-talk. Conversationally they were a
  • spent force after they had asked Mr Williams how his rheumatism was.
  • Thereafter they contented themselves with sitting massively about in
  • corners, glowering at each other. Still, it was all very jolly and
  • sociable, and helped to pass the long evenings. And, as Mrs Williams
  • pointed out, in reply to some rather strong remarks from Mr Williams on
  • the subject of packs of young fools who made it impossible for a man to
  • get a quiet smoke in his own home, it kept them out of the public-houses.
  • Tom Kitchener, meanwhile, observed the invasion with growing dismay.
  • Shyness barred him from the evening gatherings, and what was going on
  • in that house, with young bloods like Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons,
  • Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom (to name four of the most assiduous)
  • exercising their fascinations at close range, he did not like to
  • think. Again and again he strove to brace himself up to join the feasts
  • of reason and flows of soul which he knew were taking place nightly
  • around the object of his devotions, but every time he failed. Habit is
  • a terrible thing; it shackles the strongest, and Tom had fallen into
  • the habit of inquiring after Mr Williams' rheumatism over the garden
  • fence first thing in the morning.
  • It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the only
  • excuse he could think of for looking in at night. He could not help
  • himself. It was like some frightful scourge--the morphine habit, or
  • something of that sort. Every morning he swore to himself that nothing
  • would induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no sooner
  • had the stricken old gentleman's head appeared above the fence than
  • out it came.
  • 'Morning, Mr Williams.'
  • 'Morning, Tom.'
  • Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:
  • 'How's the rheumatism, Mr Williams?'
  • 'Better, thank'ee, Tom.'
  • And there he was, with his guns spiked.
  • However, he did not give up. He brought to his wooing the same
  • determination which had made him second gardener at the Hall at
  • twenty-five. He was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that a
  • good line of action was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had to shower
  • was vegetables, and he showered them in a way that would have caused the
  • goddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden became a perfect crater,
  • erupting vegetables. Why vegetables? I think I hear some heckler cry.
  • Why not flowers--fresh, fair, fragrant flowers? You can do a lot with
  • flowers. Girls love them. There is poetry in them. And, what is more,
  • there is a recognized language of flowers. Shoot in a rose, or a
  • calceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, I gather, and you
  • have made a formal proposal of marriage without any of the trouble of
  • rehearsing a long speech and practising appropriate gestures in front
  • of your bedroom looking-glass. Why, then, did not Thomas Kitchener give
  • Sally Preston flowers? Well, you see, unfortunately, it was now late
  • autumn, and there were no flowers. Nature had temporarily exhausted her
  • floral blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes and artichokes
  • and things. Love is like that. It invariably comes just at the wrong
  • time. A few months before there had been enough roses in Tom
  • Kitchener's garden to win the hearts of a dozen girls. Now there were
  • only vegetables, 'Twas ever thus.
  • It was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayed
  • should escape comment. This was supplied by that shrewd observer, old
  • Mr Williams. He spoke seriously to Tom across the fence on the subject
  • of his passion.
  • 'Young Tom,' he said, 'drop it.'
  • Tom muttered unintelligibly. Mr Williams adjusted the top-hat without
  • which he never stirred abroad, even into his garden. He blinked
  • benevolently at Tom.
  • 'You're making up to that young gal of Jane's,' he proceeded. 'You
  • can't deceive _me_. All these p'taties, and what not. _I_ seen
  • your game fast enough. Just you drop it, young Tom.'
  • 'Why?' muttered Tom, rebelliously. A sudden distaste for old Mr
  • Williams blazed within him.
  • 'Why? 'Cos you'll only burn your fingers if you don't, that's why. I
  • been watching this young gal of Jane's, and I seen what sort of a young
  • gal she be. She's a flipperty piece, that's what she be. You marry that
  • young gal, Tom, and you'll never have no more quiet and happiness.
  • She'd just take and turn the place upsy-down on you. The man as marries
  • that young gal has got to be master in his own home. He's got to show
  • her what's what. Now, you ain't got the devil in you to do that, Tom.
  • You're what I might call a sort of a sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. I
  • like to see a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. So
  • that's how it is, you see. Just you drop this foolishness, young Tom,
  • and leave that young gal be, else you'll burn your fingers, same as
  • what I say.'
  • And, giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, the old gentleman ambled
  • indoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant and
  • tactful manner.
  • It is to be supposed that this interview stung Tom to swift action.
  • Otherwise, one cannot explain why he should not have been just as
  • reticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on Sally the
  • twenty-seventh cabbage as he had been when administering the hundred
  • and sixtieth potato. At any rate, the fact remains that, as that
  • fateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, something resembling
  • a proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. As a sustained
  • piece of emotional prose it fell short of the highest standard. Most of
  • it was lost at the back of his throat, and what did emerge was mainly
  • inaudible. However, as she distinctly caught the word 'love' twice, and
  • as Tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration, and
  • looking everywhere at once except at her, Sally grasped the situation.
  • Whereupon, without any visible emotion, she accepted him.
  • Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. He could not believe his
  • luck. It is singular how diffident a normally self-confident man can
  • become, once he is in love. When Colonel Milvery, of the Hall, had
  • informed him of his promotion to the post of second gardener, Tom had
  • demanded no _encore_. He knew his worth. He was perfectly aware
  • that he was a good gardener, and official recognition of the fact left
  • him gratified, but unperturbed. But this affair of Sally was quite
  • another matter. It had revolutionized his standards of value--forced
  • him to consider himself as a man, entirely apart from his skill as a
  • gardener. And until this moment he had had grave doubt as to whether,
  • apart from his skill as a gardener, he amounted to much.
  • He was overwhelmed. He kissed Sally across the fence humbly. Sally, for
  • her part, seemed very unconcerned about it all. A more critical man
  • than Thomas Kitchener might have said that, to all appearances, the
  • thing rather bored Sally.
  • 'Don't tell anybody just yet,' she stipulated.
  • Tom would have given much to be allowed to announce his triumph
  • defiantly to old Mr Williams, to say nothing of making a considerable
  • noise about it in the village; but her wish was law, and he reluctantly
  • agreed.
  • * * * * *
  • There are moments in a man's life when, however enthusiastic a
  • gardener he may be, his soul soars above vegetables. Tom's shot with a
  • jerk into the animal kingdom. The first present he gave Sally in his
  • capacity of fiance was a dog.
  • It was a half-grown puppy with long legs and a long tail, belonging
  • to no one species, but generously distributing itself among about six.
  • Sally loved it, and took it with her wherever she went. And on one of
  • these rambles down swooped Constable Cobb, the village policeman,
  • pointing out that, contrary to regulations, the puppy had no collar.
  • It is possible that a judicious meekness on Sally's part might have
  • averted disaster. Mr Cobb was human, and Sally was looking
  • particularly attractive that morning. Meekness, however, did not come
  • easily to Sally. In a speech which began as argument and ended (Mr
  • Cobb proving solid and unyielding) as pure cheek, she utterly routed
  • the constable. But her victory was only a moral one, for as she turned
  • to go Mr Cobb, dull red and puffing slightly, was already entering
  • particulars of the affair in his note-book, and Sally knew that the
  • last word was with him.
  • On her way back she met Tom Kitchener. He was looking very tough and
  • strong, and at the sight of him a half-formed idea, which she had
  • regretfully dismissed as impracticable, of assaulting Constable Cobb,
  • returned to her in an amended form. Tom did not know it, but the
  • reason why she smiled so radiantly upon him at that moment was that she
  • had just elected him to the post of hired assassin. While she did not
  • want Constable Cobb actually assassinated, she earnestly desired him
  • to have his helmet smashed down over his eyes; and it seemed to her
  • that Tom was the man to do it.
  • She poured out her grievance to him and suggested her scheme. She even
  • elaborated it.
  • 'Why shouldn't you wait for him one night and throw him into the creek?
  • It isn't deep, and it's jolly muddy.'
  • 'Um!' said Tom, doubtfully.
  • 'It would just teach him,' she pointed out.
  • But the prospect of undertaking the higher education of the police did
  • not seem to appeal to Tom. In his heart he rather sympathized with
  • Constable Cobb. He saw the policeman's point of view. It is all very
  • well to talk, but when you are stationed in a sleepy village where no
  • one ever murders, or robs, or commits arson, or even gets drunk and
  • disorderly in the street, a puppy without a collar is simply a godsend.
  • A man must look out for himself.
  • He tried to make this side of the question clear to Sally, but failed
  • signally. She took a deplorable view of his attitude.
  • 'I might have known you'd have been afraid,' she said, with a
  • contemptuous jerk of her chin. 'Good morning.'
  • Tom flushed. He knew he had never been afraid of anything in his life,
  • except her; but nevertheless the accusation stung. And as he was still
  • afraid of her he stammered as he began to deny the charge.
  • 'Oh, leave off!' said Sally, irritably. 'Suck a lozenge.'
  • 'I'm not afraid,' said Tom, condensing his remarks to their minimum as
  • his only chance of being intelligible.
  • 'You are.'
  • 'I'm not. It's just that I--'
  • A nasty gleam came into Sally's eyes. Her manner was haughty.
  • 'It doesn't matter.' She paused. 'I've no doubt Ted Pringle will do
  • what I want.'
  • For all her contempt, she could not keep a touch of uneasiness from her
  • eyes as she prepared to make her next remark. There was a look about
  • Tom's set jaw which made her hesitate. But her temper had run away with
  • her, and she went on.
  • 'I am sure he will,' she said. 'When we became engaged he said that he
  • would do anything for me.'
  • There are some speeches that are such conversational knockout blows
  • that one can hardly believe that life will ever pick itself up and go
  • on again after them. Yet it does. The dramatist brings down the
  • curtain on such speeches. The novelist blocks his reader's path with a
  • zareba of stars. But in life there are no curtains, no stars, nothing
  • final and definite--only ragged pauses and discomfort. There was such
  • a pause now.
  • 'What do you mean?' said Tom at last. 'You promised to marry me.'
  • 'I know I did--and I promised to marry Ted Pringle!'
  • That touch of panic which she could not wholly repress, the panic that
  • comes to everyone when a situation has run away with them like a
  • strange, unmanageable machine, infused a shade too much of the defiant
  • into Sally's manner. She had wished to be cool, even casual, but she
  • was beginning to be afraid. Why, she could not have said. Certainly she
  • did not anticipate violence on Tom's part. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps
  • it was just because he was so quiet that she was afraid. She had always
  • looked on him contemptuously as an amiable, transparent lout, and now
  • he was puzzling her. She got an impression of something formidable
  • behind his stolidity, something that made her feel mean and
  • insignificant.
  • She fought against the feeling, but it gripped her; and, in spite of
  • herself, she found her voice growing shrill and out of control.
  • 'I promised to marry Ted Pringle, and I promised to marry Joe Blossom,
  • and I promised to marry Albert Parsons. And I was going to promise to
  • marry Arthur Brown and anybody else who asked me. So now you know! I
  • told you I'd make father take me back to London. Well, when he hears
  • that I've promised to marry four different men, I bet he'll have me
  • home by the first train.'
  • She stopped. She had more to say, but she could not say it. She stood
  • looking at him. And he looked at her. His face was grey and his mouth
  • oddly twisted. Silence seemed to fall on the whole universe.
  • Sally was really afraid now, and she knew it. She was feeling very
  • small and defenceless in an extremely alarming world. She could not
  • have said what it was that had happened to her. She only knew that life
  • had become of a sudden very vivid, and that her ideas as to what was
  • amusing had undergone a striking change. A man's development is a slow
  • and steady process of the years--a woman's a thing of an instant. In
  • the silence which followed her words Sally had grown up.
  • Tom broke the silence.
  • 'Is that true?' he said.
  • His voice made her start. He had spoken quietly, but there was a new
  • note in it, strange to her. Just as she could not have said what it was
  • that had happened to her, so now she could not have said what had
  • happened to Tom. He, too, had changed, but how she did not know. Yet
  • the explanation was simple. He also had, in a sense, grown up. He was
  • no longer afraid of her.
  • He stood thinking. Hours seemed to pass.
  • 'Come along!' he said, at last, and he began to move off down the road.
  • Sally followed. The possibility of refusing did not enter her mind.
  • 'Where are you going?' she asked. It was unbearable, this silence.
  • He did not answer.
  • In this fashion, he leading, she following, they went down the road
  • into a lane, and through a gate into a field. They passed into a second
  • field, and as they did so Sally's heart gave a leap. Ted Pringle was
  • there.
  • Ted Pringle was a big young man, bigger even than Tom Kitchener, and,
  • like Tom, he was of silent habit. He eyed the little procession
  • inquiringly, but spoke no word. There was a pause.
  • 'Ted,' said Tom, 'there's been a mistake.'
  • He stepped quickly to Sally's side, and the next moment he had swung
  • her off her feet and kissed her.
  • To the type of mind that Millbourne breeds, actions speak louder than
  • words, and Ted Pringle, who had gaped, gaped no more. He sprang
  • forward, and Tom, pushing Sally aside, turned to meet him.
  • I cannot help feeling a little sorry for Ted Pringle. In the light of
  • what happened, I could wish that it were possible to portray him as a
  • hulking brute of evil appearance and worse morals--the sort of person
  • concerning whom one could reflect comfortably that he deserved all he
  • got. I should like to make him an unsympathetic character, over whose
  • downfall the reader would gloat. But honesty compels me to own that Ted
  • was a thoroughly decent young man in every way. He was a good citizen,
  • a dutiful son, and would certainly have made an excellent husband.
  • Furthermore, in the dispute on hand he had right on his side fully as
  • much as Tom. The whole affair was one of those elemental clashings of
  • man and man where the historian cannot sympathize with either side at
  • the expense of the other, but must confine himself to a mere statement
  • of what occurred. And, briefly, what occurred was that Tom, bringing to
  • the fray a pent-up fury which his adversary had had no time to
  • generate, fought Ted to a complete standstill in the space of two
  • minutes and a half.
  • Sally had watched the proceedings, sick and horrified. She had never
  • seen men fight before, and the terror of it overwhelmed her. Her
  • vanity received no pleasant stimulation from the thought that it was
  • for her sake that this storm had been let loose. For the moment her
  • vanity was dead, stunned by collision with the realities. She found
  • herself watching in a dream. She saw Ted fall, rise, fall again, and
  • lie where he had fallen; and then she was aware that Tom was speaking.
  • 'Come along!'
  • She hung back. Ted was lying very still. Gruesome ideas presented
  • themselves. She had just accepted them as truth when Ted wriggled. He
  • wriggled again. Then he sat up suddenly, looked at her with unseeing
  • eyes, and said something in a thick voice. She gave a little sob of
  • relief. It was ghastly, but not so ghastly as what she had been
  • imagining.
  • Somebody touched her arm. Tom was by her side, grim and formidable. He
  • was wiping blood from his face.
  • 'Come along!'
  • She followed him without a word. And presently, behold, in another
  • field, whistling meditatively and regardless of impending ill, Albert
  • Parsons.
  • In everything that he did Tom was a man of method. He did not depart
  • from his chosen formula.
  • 'Albert,' he said, 'there's been a mistake.'
  • And Albert gaped, as Ted had gaped.
  • Tom kissed Sally with the gravity of one performing a ritual.
  • The uglinesses of life, as we grow accustomed to them, lose their power
  • to shock, and there is no doubt that Sally looked with a different eye
  • upon this second struggle. She was conscious of a thrill of
  • excitement, very different from the shrinking horror which had seized
  • her before. Her stunned vanity began to tingle into life again. The
  • fight was raging furiously over the trampled turf, and quite suddenly,
  • as she watched, she was aware that her heart was with Tom.
  • It was no longer two strange brutes fighting in a field. It was her man
  • battling for her sake.
  • She desired overwhelmingly that he should win, that he should not be
  • hurt, that he should sweep triumphantly over Albert Parsons as he had
  • swept over Ted Pringle.
  • Unfortunately, it was evident, even to her, that he was being hurt, and
  • that he was very far from sweeping triumphantly over Albert Parsons. He
  • had not allowed himself time to recover from his first battle, and his
  • blows were slow and weary. Albert, moreover, was made of sterner stuff
  • than Ted. Though now a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a time
  • in his hot youth when, travelling with a circus, he had fought, week
  • in, week out, relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. He knew their
  • methods--their headlong rushes, their swinging blows. They were the
  • merest commonplaces of life to him. He slipped Tom, he side-stepped
  • Tom, he jabbed Tom; he did everything to Tom that a trained boxer can
  • do to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, until
  • presently, through the sheer labour of hitting, he, too, grew weary.
  • Now, in the days when Albert Parsons had fought whole families of Toms
  • in an evening, he had fought in rounds, with the boss holding the
  • watch, and half-minute rests, and water to refresh him, and all orderly
  • and proper. Today there were no rounds, no rests, no water, and the
  • peaceful tending of cows had caused flesh to grow where there had been
  • only muscle. Tom's headlong rushes became less easy to side-step, his
  • swinging blows more difficult than the scientific counter that shot out
  • to check them. As he tired Tom seemed to regain strength. The tide of
  • the battle began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw him off. He
  • feinted, and while he was feinting Tom was on him. It was the climax of
  • the battle--the last rally. Down went Albert, and stayed down.
  • Physically, he was not finished; but in his mind a question had framed
  • itself--the question. 'Was it worth it?'--and he was answering, 'No.'
  • There were other girls in the world. No girl was worth all this
  • trouble.
  • He did not rise.
  • 'Come along!' said Tom.
  • He spoke thickly. His breath was coming in gasps. He was a terrible
  • spectacle, but Sally was past the weaker emotions. She was back in the
  • Stone Age, and her only feeling was one of passionate pride. She tried
  • to speak. She struggled to put all she felt into words, but something
  • kept her dumb, and she followed him in silence.
  • In the lane outside his cottage, down by the creek, Joe Blossom was
  • clipping a hedge. The sound of footsteps made him turn.
  • He did not recognize Tom till he spoke.
  • 'Joe, there's been a mistake,' said Tom.
  • 'Been a gunpowder explosion, more like,' said Joe, a simple, practical
  • man. 'What you been doin' to your face?'
  • 'She's going to marry me, Joe.'
  • Joe eyed Sally inquiringly.
  • 'Eh? You promised to marry _me_.'
  • 'She promised to marry all of us. You, me, Ted Pringle, and Albert
  • Parsons.'
  • 'Promised--to--marry--all--of--us!'
  • 'That's where the mistake was. She's only going to marry me. I--I've
  • arranged it with Ted and Albert, and now I've come to explain to you,
  • Joe.'
  • 'You promised to marry--!'
  • The colossal nature of Sally's deceit was plainly troubling Joe
  • Blossom. He expelled his breath in a long note of amazement. Then he
  • summed up.
  • 'Why you're nothing more nor less than a Joshua!'
  • The years that had passed since Joe had attended the village
  • Sunday-school had weakened his once easy familiarity with the
  • characters of the Old Testament. It is possible that he had somebody
  • else in his mind.
  • Tom stuck doggedly to his point.
  • 'You can't marry her, Joe.'
  • Joe Blossom raised his shears and clipped a protruding branch. The
  • point under discussion seemed to have ceased to interest him.
  • 'Who wants to?' he said. 'Good riddance!'
  • They went down the lane. Silence still brooded over them. The words
  • she wanted continued to evade her.
  • They came to a grassy bank. Tom sat down. He was feeling unutterably
  • tired.
  • 'Tom!'
  • He looked up. His mind was working dizzily.
  • 'You're going to marry me,' he muttered.
  • She sat down beside him.
  • 'I know,' she said. 'Tom, dear, lay your head on my lap and go to
  • sleep.'
  • If this story proves anything (beyond the advantage of being in good
  • training when you fight), it proves that you cannot get away from the
  • moving pictures even in a place like Millbourne; for as Sally sat
  • there, nursing Tom, it suddenly struck her that this was the very
  • situation with which that 'Romance of the Middle Ages' film ended. You
  • know the one I mean. Sir Percival Ye Something (which has slipped my
  • memory for the moment) goes out after the Holy Grail; meets damsel in
  • distress; overcomes her persecutors; rescues her; gets wounded, and is
  • nursed back to life in her arms. Sally had seen it a dozen times. And
  • every time she had reflected that the days of romance are dead, and
  • that that sort of thing can't happen nowadays.
  • DEEP WATERS
  • Historians of the social life of the later Roman Empire speak of a
  • certain young man of Ariminum, who would jump into rivers and swim in
  • 'em. When his friends said, 'You fish!' he would answer, 'Oh, pish!
  • Fish can't swim like _me_, they've no vim in 'em.'
  • Just such another was George Barnert Callender.
  • On land, in his land clothes, George was a young man who excited little
  • remark. He looked very much like other young men. He was much about the
  • ordinary height. His carriage suggested the possession of an ordinary
  • amount of physical strength. Such was George--on shore. But remove his
  • clothes, drape him in a bathing-suit, and insert him in the water, and
  • instantly, like the gentleman in _The Tempest_, he 'suffered a
  • sea-change into something rich and strange.' Other men puffed, snorted,
  • and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of
  • a torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint,
  • anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like foundering
  • derelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionable
  • club. His breast-stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he did
  • the crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt that
  • that was the only possible method of progression.
  • George came to Marvis Bay at about five o'clock one evening in July.
  • Marvis Bay has a well-established reputation as a summer resort, and,
  • while not perhaps in every respect the paradise which the excitable
  • writer of the local guide-book asserts it to be, on the whole it earns
  • its reputation. Its sands are smooth and firm, sloping almost
  • imperceptibly into the ocean. There is surf for those who like it, and
  • smoother water beyond for those whose ideals in bathing are not
  • confined to jumping up and down on a given jelly-fish. At the northern
  • end of the beach there is a long pier. It was to this that George made
  • his way on his arrival.
  • It was pleasant on the pier. Once you had passed the initial zareba of
  • fruit stands, souvenir stands, ice-cream stands, and the lair of the
  • enthusiast whose aim in life it was to sell you picture post-cards, and
  • had won through to the long walk where the seats were, you were
  • practically alone with Nature. At this hour of the day the place was
  • deserted; George had it to himself. He strolled slowly along. The water
  • glittered under the sun-rays, breaking into a flurry of white foam as
  • it reached the beach. A cool breeze blew. The whole scenic arrangements
  • were a great improvement on the stuffy city he had left. Not that
  • George had come to Marvis Bay with the single aim of finding an
  • antidote to metropolitan stuffiness. There was a more important reason.
  • In three days Marvis Bay was to be the scene of the production of
  • _Fate's Footballs_, a comedy in four acts by G. Barnert Callender.
  • For George, though you would not have suspected it from his exterior,
  • was one of those in whose cerebra the grey matter splashes restlessly
  • about, producing strong curtains and crisp dialogue. The company was
  • due at Marvis Bay on the following evening for the last spasm of
  • rehearsals.
  • George's mind, as he paced the pier, was divided between the beauties
  • of Nature and the forthcoming crisis in his affairs in the ratio of
  • one-eighth to the former and seven-eighths to the latter. At the moment
  • when he had left London, thoroughly disgusted with the entire
  • theatrical world in general and the company which was rehearsing
  • _Fate's Footballs_ in particular, rehearsals had just reached that
  • stage of brisk delirium when the author toys with his bottle of poison
  • and the stage-manager becomes icily polite. _The Footpills_--as
  • Arthur Mifflin, the leading juvenile in the great play, insisted upon
  • calling it, much to George's disapproval--was his first piece. Never
  • before had he been in one of those kitchens where many cooks prepare,
  • and sometimes spoil, the theatrical broth. Consequently the chaos
  • seemed to him unique. Had he been a more experienced dramatist, he would
  • have said to himself, 'Twas ever thus.' As it was, what he said to
  • himself--and others--was more forcible.
  • He was trying to dismiss the whole thing from his mind--a feat which
  • had hitherto proved beyond his powers--when Fate, in an unusually
  • kindly mood, enabled him to do so in a flash by presenting to his
  • jaundiced gaze what, on consideration, he decided was the most
  • beautiful girl he had ever seen. 'When a man's afraid,' shrewdly sings
  • the bard, 'a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see'. In the present
  • instance the sight acted on George like a tonic. He forgot that the lady
  • to whom an injudicious management had assigned the role of heroine in
  • _Fate's Footballs_ invariably--no doubt from the best motives--omitted
  • to give the cynical _roue_ his cue for the big speech in Act III.
  • His mind no longer dwelt on the fact that Arthur Mifflin, an estimable
  • person in private life, and one who had been a friend of his at
  • Cambridge, preferred to deliver the impassioned lines of the great
  • renunciation scene in a manner suggesting a small boy (and a sufferer
  • from nasal catarrh at that) speaking a piece at a Sunday-school treat.
  • The recollection of the hideous depression and gloom which the leading
  • comedian had radiated in great clouds fled from him like some grisly
  • nightmare before the goddess of day. Every cell in his brain was
  • occupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the girl swimming
  • in the water below.
  • She swam well. His practised eye saw that. Her strong, easy strokes
  • carried her swiftly over the swell of the waves. He stared, transfixed.
  • He was a well-brought-up young man, and he knew how ill-bred it was to
  • stare; but this was a special occasion. Ordinary rules of conventional
  • etiquette could not apply to a case like this. He stared. More, he
  • gaped. As the girl passed on into the shadow of the pier he leaned
  • farther over the rail, and his neck extended in joints like a
  • telescope.
  • At this point the girl turned to swim on her back. Her eyes met his.
  • Hers were deep and clear; his, bulging. For what seemed an eternity to
  • George, she continued to look at him. Then, turning over again, she
  • shot past under the pier.
  • George's neck was now at its full stretch. No power of will or muscle
  • could add another yard to it. Realizing this, he leaned farther over
  • the rail, and farther still. His hat slid from his hand. He grabbed at
  • it, and, over-balancing, fell with a splash into the water.
  • Now, in ordinary circumstances, to fall twelve feet into the ocean with
  • all his clothes on would have incommoded George little. He would hardly
  • have noticed it. He would have swum to shore with merely a feeling of
  • amused self-reproach akin to that of the man who absent-mindedly walks
  • into a lamp-post in the street. When, therefore, he came to the
  • surface he prepared without agitation to strike out in his usual bold
  • fashion. At this moment, however, two hands, grasping him beneath the
  • arms, lifted his head still farther from the waves, and a voice in his
  • ear said, 'Keep still; don't struggle. There's no danger.'
  • George did not struggle. His brain, working with the cool rapidity of a
  • buzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. Few things are
  • more difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of an
  • introduction to the right girl under just the right conditions. When he
  • is looking his best he is presented to her in the midst of a crowd, and
  • is swept away after a rapid hand-shake. When there is no crowd he has
  • toothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peel. Thousands
  • of young lives have been saddened in this manner.
  • How different was George's case! By this simple accident, he reflected,
  • as, helping the good work along with an occasional surreptitious
  • leg-stroke, he was towed shorewards, there had been formed an
  • acquaintanceship, if nothing more, which could not lightly be broken. A
  • girl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day with
  • a formal bow. And what a girl, too! There had been a time, in extreme
  • youth, when his feminine ideal was the sort of girl who has fuzzy,
  • golden hair, and drops things. Indeed in his first year at the
  • University he had said--and written--as much to one of the type, the
  • episode concluding with a strong little drama, in which a wrathful,
  • cheque-signing father had starred, supported by a subdued, misogynistic
  • son. Which things, aided by the march of time, had turned George's
  • tastes towards the healthy, open-air girl, who did things instead of
  • dropping them.
  • The pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later; and in
  • due season George felt his heels grate on the sand. His preserver
  • loosed her hold. They stood up and faced each other. George began to
  • express his gratitude as best he could--it was not easy to find neat,
  • convincing sentences on the spur of the moment--but she cut him short.
  • 'Of course, it was nothing. Nothing at all,' she said, brushing the
  • sea-water from her eyes. 'It was just lucky I happened to be there.'
  • 'It was splendid,' said the infatuated dramatist. 'It was magnificent.
  • It--'
  • He saw that she was smiling.
  • 'You're very wet,' she said.
  • George glanced down at his soaked clothes. It had been a nice suit
  • once.
  • 'Hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry?'
  • Looking round about him, George perceived that sundry of the
  • inquisitive were swooping down, with speculation in their eyes. It was
  • time to depart.
  • 'Have you far to go?'
  • 'Not far. I'm staying at the Beach View Hotel.'
  • 'Why, so am I. I hope we shall meet again.'
  • 'We shall,' said George confidently.
  • 'How did you happen to fall in?'
  • 'I was--er--I was looking at something in the water.'
  • 'I thought you were,' said the girl, quietly.
  • George blushed.
  • 'I know,' he said, 'it was abominably rude of me to stare like that;
  • but--'
  • 'You should learn to swim,' interrupted the girl. 'I can't understand
  • why every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim before he's
  • ten years old. And it isn't a bit difficult, really. I could teach you
  • in a week.'
  • The struggle between George and George's conscience was brief. The
  • conscience, weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, had
  • no sort of chance from the start.
  • 'I wish you would,' said George. And with those words he realized that
  • he had definitely committed himself to his hypocritical role. Till
  • that moment explanation would have been difficult, but possible. Now it
  • was impossible.
  • 'I will,' said the girl. 'I'll start tomorrow if you like.' She waded
  • into the water.
  • 'We'll talk it over at the hotel,' she said, hastily. 'Here comes a
  • crowd of horrid people. I'm going to swim out again.'
  • She hurried into deeper water, while George, turning, made his way
  • through a growing throng of goggling spectators. Of the fifteen who got
  • within speaking distance of him, six told him that he was wet. The
  • other nine asked him if he had fallen.
  • * * * * *
  • Her name was Vaughan, and she was visiting Marvis Bay in company with
  • an aunt. So much George ascertained from the management of the hotel.
  • Later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleaned
  • further information--to wit, that her first name was Mary, that her
  • aunt was glad to make his acquaintance, liked Marvis Bay but preferred
  • Trouville, and thought it was getting a little chilly and would go
  • indoors.
  • The elimination of the third factor had a restorative effect upon
  • George's conversation, which had begun to languish. In feminine society
  • as a rule he was apt to be constrained, but with Mary Vaughan it was
  • different. Within a couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles.
  • The cue-withholding leading lady, the stick-like Mifflin, the funereal
  • comedian--up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic, was
  • endeavouring, not without success, to prove to him that things were not
  • so bad as they seemed.
  • 'It's sure to be all right on the night,' she said.
  • How rare is the combination of beauty and intelligence! George thought
  • he had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressed remark.
  • 'I suppose it will,' he said, 'but they were very bad when I left.
  • Mifflin, for instance. He seems to think Nature intended him for a
  • Napoleon of Advertising. He has a bee in his bonnet about booming the
  • piece. Sits up at nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying his
  • part, thinking out new schemes for advertising the show. And the
  • comedian. His speciality is drawing me aside and asking me to write in
  • new scenes for him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I just came away
  • and left them to fight it out among themselves.'
  • 'I'm sure you have no need to worry. A play with such a good story is
  • certain to succeed.'
  • George had previously obliged with a brief description of the plot of
  • _The Footpills_.
  • 'Did you like the story?' he said, tenderly.
  • 'I thought it was fine.'
  • 'How sympathetic you are!' cooed George, glutinously, edging a little
  • closer. 'Do you know--'
  • 'Shall we be going back to the hotel?' said the girl.
  • * * * * *
  • Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of _Fate's Footpills_,
  • descended upon Marvis Bay early next afternoon, and George, meeting
  • them at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given to
  • Arthur Mifflin, felt moodily that, if only they could make their
  • acting one-half as full of colour as their clothes, the play would be
  • one of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefront
  • gleamed, like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit of
  • Arthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity.
  • His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may be
  • mentioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficiently
  • volatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so--a fact
  • which had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities of
  • his University, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away from
  • Alma Mater by request with some suddenness. He was a long, slender
  • youth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness for
  • the sound of his own voice.
  • 'Well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with his
  • cane.
  • 'I saw you,' said George, coldly, side-stepping.
  • 'The whole team,' continued Mr Mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trained
  • to the minute.'
  • 'What happened after I left?' George asked. 'Has anybody begun to act
  • yet? Or are they waiting till the dress-rehearsal?'
  • 'The rehearsals,' admitted Mr Mifflin, handsomely, 'weren't perfect;
  • but you wait. It'll be all right on the night.'
  • George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark.
  • 'Besides,' said Mr Mifflin, 'I have an idea which will make the show.
  • Lend me your ear--both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: what
  • pulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that,
  • as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? We
  • have that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is the
  • thing. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in of
  • their own free wills to see a play like _The Footpills_? Not on
  • your life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will be
  • sitting in his own private corner of the beach--'
  • 'How many corners do you think the beach has?'
  • 'Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "Shine on, thou harvest moon", and
  • telling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. You
  • know.'
  • 'I don't,' said George, coldly.
  • 'Unless,' proceeded Mr Mifflin, 'we advertise. And by advertise, I
  • mean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all the
  • good he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay.
  • Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I have
  • resource. What's that?'
  • 'I said nothing.'
  • 'I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these people
  • like a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train.'
  • 'What is it?'
  • 'I'll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first.
  • Meanwhile, let us trickle to the sea-front and take a sail in one of
  • those boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy Nature intended
  • me for a Viking.'
  • Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boat
  • belonged, they set forth. Mr Mifflin, having remarked, 'Yo-ho!' in a
  • meditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by his
  • failure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the _Ocean Beauty's_
  • proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and make-up,
  • where were you? George, being skilled in the ways of boats, was in
  • charge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat. The
  • sun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze had
  • sprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into a
  • reverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voice
  • whispers to him, 'This is The One!' In George's case the voice had not
  • whispered; it had shouted. From now onward there could be but one woman
  • in the world for him. From now onwards--The _Ocean Beauty_ gave a
  • sudden plunge. George woke up.
  • 'What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired.
  • 'My gentle somnambulist,' said Mr Mifflin, aggrieved, 'I was doing
  • nothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire into
  • what you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?'
  • 'My fault,' said George; 'I was thinking.'
  • 'If you must break the habit of a lifetime,' said Mr Mifflin,
  • complainingly, 'I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearly
  • upset us.'
  • 'It shan't happen again. They are tricky, these sailing boats--turn
  • over in a second. Whatever you do, don't get her broadside on. There's
  • more breeze out here than I thought there was.'
  • Mr Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation.
  • 'What's the matter?' asked George.
  • 'Just like a flash,' said Mr Mifflin, complacently. 'It's always the
  • way with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. Just
  • some little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stamps
  • the man of genius. It beats me why I didn't think of it before. Why, of
  • course, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times more
  • effective.'
  • 'What are you talking about?'
  • 'I see now,' continued Mr Mifflin, 'that there was a flaw in my
  • original plan. My idea was this. We were talking in the train about
  • the bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some,
  • and it suddenly came to me.'
  • Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.
  • 'I said to myself, "George is a sportsman. He will be delighted to do
  • a little thing like that".'
  • 'Like to do what?'
  • 'Why, rescue Jane.'
  • 'What!'
  • 'She and you,' said Mr Mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together,
  • while I waited on the sands, holding our bone-headed Press-agent on a
  • leash. About a hundred yards from the shore up go her arms. Piercing
  • scream. Agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What has
  • happened? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. Barnert
  • Callender, author of _Fate's Footballs_, which opens at the Beach
  • Theatre on Monday evening next, at eight-fifteen sharp, will save her.
  • See! He has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased her
  • mother will be! And the public, what a bit of luck for them! They will
  • be able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Back
  • you come to the shore. Cheering crowds. Weeping women. Strong
  • situation. I unleash the Press-agent, and off he shoots, in time to get
  • the story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see now
  • there were one or two flaws in it.'
  • 'You do, do you?' said George.
  • 'It occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn't have agreed
  • to it. A something, I don't know what, which is lacking in your nature,
  • would have made you reject the scheme.'
  • 'I'm glad that occurred to you.'
  • 'And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed you
  • and it boomed Jane, but I didn't get a thing out of it. My revised
  • scheme is a thousand times better in every way.'
  • 'Don't say you have another.'
  • 'I have. And,' added Mr Mifflin, with modest pride, 'it is a winner.
  • This time I unhesitatingly assert that I have the goods. In about one
  • minute from now you will hear me exclaim, in a clear musical voice, the
  • single word, "Jump!" That is your cue to leap over the side as quick as
  • you can move, for at that precise moment this spanking craft is going
  • to capsize.'
  • George spun round in his seat. Mr Mifflin's face was shining with
  • kindly enthusiasm. The shore was at least two hundred yards away, and
  • that morning he had had his first swimming-lesson.
  • 'A movement of the tiller will do it. These accidents are common
  • objects of the seashore. I may mention that I can swim just enough to
  • keep myself afloat; so it's up to you. I wouldn't do this for everyone,
  • but, seeing that we were boys together--Are you ready?'
  • 'Stop!' cried George. 'Don't do it! Listen!'
  • 'Are you ready?'
  • The _Ocean Beauty_ gave a plunge.
  • 'You lunatic! Listen to me. It--'
  • 'Jump!' said Mr Mifflin.
  • George came to the surface some yards from the overturned boat, and,
  • looking round for Mr Mifflin, discovered that great thinker treading
  • water a few feet away.
  • 'Get to work, George,' he remarked.
  • It is not easy to shake one's fist at a man when in deep water, but
  • George managed it.
  • 'For twopence,' he cried, 'I'd leave you to look after yourself.'
  • 'You can do better than that,' said Mr Mifflin. 'I'll give you
  • threepence to tow me in. Hurry up. It's cold.'
  • In gloomy silence George gripped him by the elbows. Mr Mifflin looked
  • over his shoulder.
  • 'We shall have a good house,' he said. 'The stalls are full already,
  • and the dress-circle's filling. Work away, George, you're doing fine.
  • This act is going to be a scream from start to finish.'
  • With pleasant conversation he endeavoured to while away the monotony of
  • the journey; but George made no reply. He was doing some rapid
  • thinking. With ordinary luck, he felt bitterly, all would have been
  • well. He could have gone on splashing vigorously under his teacher's
  • care for a week, gradually improving till he emerged into a reasonably
  • proficient swimmer. But now! In an age of miracles he might have
  • explained away his present performance; but how was he to--And then
  • there came to him an idea--simple, as all great ideas are, but
  • magnificent.
  • He stopped and trod water.
  • 'Tired?' said Mr Mifflin. 'Well, take a rest,' he added, kindly, 'take
  • a rest. No need to hurry.'
  • 'Look here,' said George, 'this piece is going to be recast. We're
  • going to exchange parts. You're rescuing me. See? Never mind why. I
  • haven't time to explain it to you now. Do you understand?'
  • 'No,' said Mr Mifflin.
  • 'I'll get behind you and push you; but don't forget, when we get to the
  • shore, that you've done the rescuing.'
  • Mr Mifflin pondered.
  • 'Is this wise?' he said. 'It is a strong part, the rescuer, but I'm not
  • sure the other wouldn't suit my style better. The silent hand-grip, the
  • catch in the voice. You want a practised actor for that. I don't think
  • you'd be up to it, George.'
  • 'Never mind about me. That's how it's going to be.'
  • Mr Mifflin pondered once more.
  • 'No,' he said at length, 'it wouldn't do. You mean well, George, but it
  • would kill the show. We'll go on as before.'
  • 'Will we?' said George, unpleasantly. 'Would you like to know what I'm
  • going to do to you, then? I'm going to hit you very hard under the jaw,
  • and I'm going to take hold of your neck and squeeze it till you lose
  • consciousness, and then I'm going to drag you to the beach and tell
  • people I had to hit you because you lost your head and struggled.'
  • Mr Mifflin pondered for the third time.
  • 'You are?' he said.
  • 'I am,' said George.
  • 'Then,' said Mr Mifflin, cordially, 'say no more. I take your point. My
  • objections are removed. But,' he concluded, 'this is the last time I
  • come bathing with you, George.'
  • Mr Mifflin's artistic misgivings as to his colleague's ability to
  • handle so subtle a part as that of rescuee were more than justified on
  • their arrival. A large and interested audience had collected by the
  • time they reached the shore, an audience to which any artist should
  • have been glad to play; but George, forcing his way through, hurried to
  • the hotel without attempting to satisfy them. Not a single silent
  • hand-shake did he bestow on his rescuer. There was no catch in his voice
  • as he made the one remark which he did make--to a man with whiskers who
  • asked him if the boat had upset. As an exhibition of rapid footwork
  • his performance was good. In other respects it was poor.
  • He had just changed his wet clothes--it seemed to him that he had
  • been doing nothing but change his wet clothes since he had come to
  • Marvis Bay--when Mr Mifflin entered in a bathrobe.
  • 'They lent me this downstairs,' he explained, 'while they dried my
  • clothes. They would do anything for me. I'm the popular hero. My boy,
  • you made the mistake of your life when you threw up the rescuer part.
  • It has all the fat. I see that now. The rescuer plays the other man off
  • the stage every time. I've just been interviewed by the fellow on the
  • local newspaper. He's correspondent to a couple of London papers. The
  • country will ring with this thing. I've told them all the parts I've
  • ever played and my favourite breakfast food. There's a man coming up to
  • take my photograph tomorrow. _Footpills_ stock has gone up with a
  • run. Wait till Monday and see what sort of a house we shall draw. By
  • the way, the reporter fellow said one funny thing. He asked if you
  • weren't the same man who was rescued yesterday by a girl. I said of
  • course not--that you had only come down yesterday. But he stuck to it
  • that you were.'
  • 'He was quite right.'
  • 'What!'
  • 'I was.'
  • Mr Mifflin sat down on the bed.
  • 'This fellow fell off the pier, and a girl brought him in.'
  • George nodded.
  • 'And that was you?'
  • George nodded.
  • Mr Mifflin's eyes opened wide.
  • 'It's the heat,' he declared, finally. 'That and the worry of
  • rehearsals. I expect a doctor could give the technical name for it.
  • It's a what-do-you-call-it--an obsession. You often hear of cases.
  • Fellows who are absolutely sane really, but cracked on one particular
  • subject. Some of them think they're teapots and things. You've got a
  • craving for being rescued from drowning. What happens, old man? Do you
  • suddenly get the delusion that you can't swim? No, it can't be that,
  • because you were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. I
  • don't know, though. Maybe you didn't realize that you were swimming?'
  • George finished lacing his shoe and looked up.
  • 'Listen,' he said; 'I'll talk slow, so that you can understand. Suppose
  • you fell off a pier, and a girl took a great deal of trouble to get you
  • to the shore, would you say, "Much obliged, but you needn't have been
  • so officious. I can swim perfectly well?"'
  • Mr Mifflin considered this point. Intelligence began to dawn in his
  • face. 'There is more in this than meets the eye,' he said. 'Tell me
  • all.'
  • 'This morning'--George's voice grew dreamy--'she gave me a
  • swimming-lesson. She thought it was my first. Don't cackle like that.
  • There's nothing to laugh at.'
  • Mr Mifflin contradicted this assertion.
  • 'There is you,' he said, simply. 'This should be a lesson to you,
  • George. Avoid deceit. In future be simple and straightforward. Take me
  • as your model. You have managed to scrape through this time. Don't risk
  • it again. You are young. There is still time to make a fresh start. It
  • only needs will-power. Meanwhile, lend me something to wear. They are
  • going to take a week drying my clothes.'
  • * * * * *
  • There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. George
  • attended it in a spirit of resignation and left it in one of elation.
  • Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, and
  • in those three days, apparently, the impossible had been achieved.
  • There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had at
  • length mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness.
  • Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, was
  • infusing a welcome vigour into his part. And even the comedian, George
  • could not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becoming
  • funny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his way
  • back to the hotel.
  • In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied.
  • He recognized the occupant.
  • 'I've just come back from a rehearsal,' he said, seating himself beside
  • her.
  • 'Really?'
  • 'The whole thing is different,' he went on, buoyantly. 'They know their
  • lines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. The
  • comedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleased
  • about it.'
  • 'Really?'
  • George felt damped.
  • 'I thought you might be pleased, too,' he said, lamely.
  • 'Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident this
  • afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest people
  • in the play.'
  • 'You heard about it?'
  • 'I have been hearing about nothing else.'
  • 'Curious it happening so soon after--'
  • 'And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious.'
  • There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tell
  • with women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly as
  • if--
  • He changed the subject.
  • 'How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?'
  • 'Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly.'
  • George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not begin
  • to express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, he
  • wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again.
  • 'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said.
  • She turned on him.
  • 'Mr Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?'
  • Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child,
  • George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare
  • half-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotions
  • were still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feel
  • now.
  • 'Miss Vaughan! I don't understand.'
  • 'Really?'
  • 'What have I done?'
  • 'You have forgotten how to swim.'
  • A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region of
  • George's forehead.
  • 'Forgotten!'
  • 'Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, and
  • today I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I saw
  • you at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you are
  • taking lessons. Can you explain it?'
  • A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line.
  • She went on.
  • 'Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertised
  • somehow. But--'
  • 'You don't think--' croaked George.
  • 'I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but,
  • of course, you know your own business best. Only I object to being a
  • conspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episode
  • attracted so little attention. Today it was much more satisfactory,
  • wasn't it? I am so glad.'
  • There was a massive silence for about a hundred years.
  • 'I think I'll go for a short stroll,' said George.
  • * * * * *
  • Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr Mifflin emerged
  • from the shadow beyond the veranda.
  • 'Could you spare me a moment?'
  • The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her head
  • coldly.
  • 'My name is Mifflin,' said the other, dropping comfortably into the
  • chair which had held the remains of George.
  • The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more than
  • that to embarrass Mr Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but not
  • coldness.
  • '_The_ Mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs. 'I overheard
  • your conversation just now.'
  • 'You were listening?' said the girl, scornfully.
  • 'For all I was worth,' said Mr Mifflin. 'These things are very much a
  • matter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I have
  • had to stand concealed up stage, drinking in the private conversation
  • of other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me.
  • However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that I
  • heard you--unknowingly, of course--doing a good man a grave injustice.'
  • 'Mr Callender could have defended himself if he had wished.'
  • 'I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself.'
  • 'To you?'
  • 'I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George,
  • but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. George
  • has old-fashioned ideas. He does not keep abreast of the times. He can
  • write plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boom them for him.
  • So, far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, he
  • was actually opposed to it.'
  • 'Then why did he pretend you had saved him?' she demanded.
  • 'George's,' said Mr Mifflin, 'is essentially a chivalrous nature. At
  • any crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings he is there with
  • the goods before you can turn round. His friends frequently wrangle
  • warmly as to whether he is most like Bayard, Lancelot, or Happy
  • Hooligan. Some say one, some the other. It seems that yesterday you
  • saved him from a watery grave without giving him time to explain that
  • he could save himself. What could he do? He said to himself, "She must
  • never know!" and acted accordingly. But let us leave George, and
  • return--'
  • 'Thank you, Mr Mifflin.' There was a break in her laugh. 'I don't think
  • there is any necessity. I think I understand now. It was very clever of
  • you.'
  • 'It was more than cleverness,' said Mr Mifflin, rising. 'It was
  • genius.'
  • * * * * *
  • A white form came to meet George as he re-entered the veranda.
  • 'Mr Callender!'
  • He stopped.
  • 'I'm very sorry I said such horrid things to you just now. I have been
  • talking to Mr Mifflin, and I want to say I think it was ever so nice
  • and thoughtful of you. I understand everything.'
  • George did not, by a good deal; but he understood sufficient for his
  • needs. He shot forward as if some strong hand were behind him with a
  • needle.
  • 'Miss Vaughan--Mary--I--'
  • 'I think I hear aunt calling,' said she.
  • * * * * *
  • But a benevolent Providence has ordained that aunts cannot call for
  • ever; and it is on record that when George entered his box on the two
  • hundredth night of that great London success, _Fate's Footballs_,
  • he did not enter it alone.
  • WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE
  • It is possible that, at about the time at which this story opens, you
  • may have gone into the Hotel Belvoir for a hair-cut. Many people did;
  • for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomy
  • countenance, was undoubtedly an artist in his line. He clipped
  • judiciously. He left no ridges. He never talked about the weather. And
  • he allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle of hair-food.
  • It is possible, too, that, being there, you decided that you might as
  • well go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time.
  • It is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had got over the first
  • shock of finding your hands so unexpectedly large and red, you felt
  • disposed to chat with the young lady who looked after that branch of
  • the business. In your genial way you may have permitted a note of gay
  • (but gentlemanly) badinage to creep into your end of the dialogue.
  • In which case, if you had raised your eyes to the mirror, you would
  • certainly have observed a marked increase of gloom in the demeanour of
  • the young man attending to your apex. He took no official notice of the
  • matter. A quick frown. A tightening of the lips. Nothing more. Jealous
  • as Arthur Welsh was of all who inflicted gay badinage, however
  • gentlemanly, on Maud Peters, he never forgot that he was an artist.
  • Never, even in his blackest moments, had he yielded to the temptation
  • to dig the point of the scissors the merest fraction of an inch into a
  • client's skull.
  • But Maud, who saw, would understand. And, if the customer was an
  • observant man, he would notice that her replies at that juncture became
  • somewhat absent, her smile a little mechanical.
  • * * * * *
  • Jealousy, according to an eminent authority, is the 'hydra of
  • calamities, the sevenfold death'. Arthur Welsh's was all that and a bit
  • over. It was a constant shadow on Maud's happiness. No fair-minded girl
  • objects to a certain tinge of jealousy. Kept within proper bounds, it
  • is a compliment; it makes for piquancy; it is the gin in the
  • ginger-beer of devotion. But it should be a condiment, not a fluid.
  • It was the unfairness of the thing which hurt Maud. Her conscience was
  • clear. She knew girls--several girls--who gave the young men with whom
  • they walked out ample excuse for being perfect Othellos. If she had
  • ever flirted on the open beach with the baritone of the troupe of
  • pierrots, like Jane Oddy, she could have excused Arthur's attitude. If,
  • like Pauline Dicey, she had roller-skated for a solid hour with a
  • black-moustached stranger while her fiance floundered in Mug's Alley
  • she could have understood his frowning disapprovingly. But she was not
  • like Pauline. She scorned the coquetries of Jane. Arthur was the centre
  • of her world, and he knew it. Ever since the rainy evening when he had
  • sheltered her under his umbrella to her Tube station, he had known
  • perfectly well how things were with her. And yet just because, in a
  • strictly business-like way, she was civil to her customers, he must
  • scowl and bite his lip and behave generally as if it had been brought
  • to his notice that he had been nurturing a serpent in his bosom. It was
  • worse than wicked--it was unprofessional.
  • She remonstrated with him.
  • 'It isn't fair,' she said, one morning when the rush of customers had
  • ceased and they had the shop to themselves.
  • Matters had been worse than usual that morning. After days of rain and
  • greyness the weather had turned over a new leaf. The sun glinted among
  • the bottles of Unfailing Lotion in the window, and everything in the
  • world seemed to have relaxed and become cheerful. Unfortunately,
  • everything had included the customers. During the last few days they
  • had taken their seats in moist gloom, and, brooding over the prospect
  • of coming colds in the head, had had little that was pleasant to say to
  • the divinity who was shaping their ends. But today it had been
  • different. Warm and happy, they had bubbled over with gay small-talk.
  • 'It isn't fair,' she repeated.
  • Arthur, who was stropping a razor and whistling tunelessly, raised his
  • eyebrows. His manner was frosty.
  • 'I fail to understand your meaning,' he said.
  • 'You know what I mean. Do you think I didn't see you frowning when I
  • was doing that gentleman's nails?'
  • The allusion was to the client who had just left--a jovial individual
  • with a red face, who certainly had made Maud giggle a good deal. And
  • why not? If a gentleman tells really funny stories, what harm is there
  • in giggling? You had to be pleasant to people. If you snubbed
  • customers, what happened? Why, sooner or later, it got round to the
  • boss, and then where were you? Besides, it was not as if the red-faced
  • customer had been rude. Write down on paper what he had said to her,
  • and nobody could object to it. Write down on paper what she had said to
  • him, and you couldn't object to that either. It was just Arthur's
  • silliness.
  • She tossed her head.
  • 'I am gratified,' said Arthur, ponderously--in happier moments Maud
  • had admired his gift of language; he read a great deal: encyclopedias
  • and papers and things--'I am gratified to find that you had time to
  • bestow a glance on me. You appeared absorbed.'
  • Maud sniffed unhappily. She had meant to be cold and dignified
  • throughout the conversation, but the sense of her wrongs was beginning
  • to be too much for her. A large tear splashed on to her tray of
  • orange-sticks. She wiped it away with the chamois leather.
  • 'It isn't fair,' she sobbed. 'It isn't. You know I can't help it if
  • gentlemen talk and joke with me. You know it's all in the day's work.
  • I'm expected to be civil to gentlemen who come in to have their hands
  • done. Silly I should look sitting as if I'd swallowed a poker. I
  • _do_ think you might understand, Arthur, you being in the
  • profession yourself.'
  • He coughed.
  • 'It isn't so much that you talk to them as that you seem to like--'
  • He stopped. Maud's dignity had melted completely. Her face was buried
  • in her arms. She did not care if a million customers came in, all at
  • the same time.
  • 'Maud!'
  • She heard him moving towards her, but she did not look up. The next
  • moment his arms were round her, and he was babbling.
  • And a customer, pushing open the door unnoticed two minutes later,
  • retired hurriedly to get shaved elsewhere, doubting whether Arthur's
  • mind was on his job.
  • For a time this little thunderstorm undoubtedly cleared the air. For a
  • day or two Maud was happier than she ever remembered to have been.
  • Arthur's behaviour was unexceptionable. He bought her a wrist-watch--
  • light brown leather, very smart. He gave her some chocolates to eat in
  • the Tube. He entertained her with amazing statistics, culled from the
  • weekly paper which he bought on Tuesdays. He was, in short, the perfect
  • lover. On the second day the red-faced man came in again. Arthur joined
  • in the laughter at his stories. Everything seemed ideal.
  • It could not last. Gradually things slipped back into the old routine.
  • Maud, looking up from her work, would see the frown and the bitten lip.
  • She began again to feel uncomfortable and self-conscious as she worked.
  • Sometimes their conversation on the way to the Tube was almost formal.
  • It was useless to say anything. She had a wholesome horror of being one
  • of those women who nagged; and she felt that to complain again would
  • amount to nagging. She tried to put the thing out of her mind, but it
  • insisted on staying there. In a way she understood his feelings. He
  • loved her so much, she supposed, that he hated the idea of her
  • exchanging a single word with another man. This, in the abstract, was
  • gratifying; but in practice it distressed her. She wished she were some
  • sort of foreigner, so that nobody could talk to her. But then they
  • would look at her, and that probably would produce much the same
  • results. It was a hard world for a girl.
  • And then the strange thing happened. Arthur reformed. One might almost
  • say that he reformed with a jerk. It was a parallel case to those
  • sudden conversions at Welsh revival meetings. On Monday evening he had
  • been at his worst. On the following morning he was a changed man. Not
  • even after the original thunderstorm had he been more docile. Maud
  • could not believe that first. The lip, once bitten, was stretched in a
  • smile. She looked for the frown. It was not there.
  • Next day it was the same; and the day after that. When a week had gone
  • by, and still the improvement was maintained, Maud felt that she might
  • now look upon it as permanent. A great load seemed to have been taken
  • off her mind. She revised her views on the world. It was a very good
  • world, quite one of the best, with Arthur beaming upon it like a sun.
  • A number of eminent poets and essayists, in the course of the last few
  • centuries, have recorded, in their several ways, their opinion that one
  • can have too much of a good thing. The truth applies even to such a
  • good thing as absence of jealousy. Little by little Maud began to grow
  • uneasy. It began to come home to her that she preferred the old Arthur,
  • of the scowl and the gnawed lip. Of him she had at least been sure.
  • Whatever discomfort she may have suffered from his spirited imitations
  • of Othello, at any rate they had proved that he loved her. She would
  • have accepted gladly an equal amount of discomfort now in exchange for
  • the same certainty. She could not read this new Arthur. His thoughts
  • were a closed book. Superficially, he was all that she could have
  • wished. He still continued to escort her to the Tube, to buy her
  • occasional presents, to tap, when conversing, the pleasantly
  • sentimental vein. But now these things were not enough. Her heart was
  • troubled. Her thoughts frightened her. The little black imp at the back
  • of her mind kept whispering and whispering, till at last she was forced
  • to listen. 'He's tired of you. He doesn't love you any more. He's tired
  • of you.'
  • * * * * *
  • It is not everybody who, in times of mental stress, can find ready to
  • hand among his or her personal acquaintances an expert counsellor,
  • prepared at a moment's notice to listen with sympathy and advise with
  • tact and skill. Everyone's world is full of friends, relatives, and
  • others, who will give advice on any subject that may be presented to
  • them; but there are crises in life which cannot be left to the amateur.
  • It is the aim of a certain widely read class of paper to fill this
  • void.
  • Of this class _Fireside Chat_ was one of the best-known
  • representatives. In exchange for one penny its five hundred thousand
  • readers received every week a serial story about life in highest
  • circles, a short story packed with heart-interest, articles on the
  • removal of stains and the best method of coping with the cold mutton,
  • anecdotes of Royalty, photographs of peeresses, hints on dress, chats
  • about baby, brief but pointed dialogues between Blogson and Snogson,
  • poems, Great Thoughts from the Dead and Brainy, half-hours in the
  • editor's cosy sanctum, a slab of brown paper, and--the journal's
  • leading feature--Advice on Matters of the Heart. The weekly
  • contribution of the advice specialist of _Fireside Chat_, entitled
  • 'In the Consulting Room, by Dr Cupid', was made up mainly of Answers to
  • Correspondents. He affected the bedside manner of the kind, breezy old
  • physician; and probably gave a good deal of comfort. At any rate, he
  • always seemed to have plenty of cases on his hands.
  • It was to this expert that Maud took her trouble. She had been a
  • regular reader of the paper for several years; and had, indeed,
  • consulted the great man once before, when he had replied favourably to
  • her query as to whether it would be right for her to accept caramels
  • from Arthur, then almost a stranger. It was only natural that she
  • should go to him now, in an even greater dilemma. The letter was not
  • easy to write, but she finished it at last; and, after an anxious
  • interval, judgement was delivered as follows:
  • 'Well, well, well! Bless my soul, what is all this? M. P. writes me:
  • 'I am a young lady, and until recently was very, very happy, except
  • that my fiance, though truly loving me, was of a very jealous
  • disposition, though I am sure I gave him no cause. He would scowl when
  • I spoke to any other man, and this used to make me unhappy. But for
  • some time now he has quite changed, and does not seem to mind at all,
  • and though at first this made me feel happy, to think that he had got
  • over his jealousy, I now feel unhappy because I am beginning to be
  • afraid that he no longer cares for me. Do you think this is so, and
  • what ought I to do?'
  • 'My dear young lady, I should like to be able to reassure you; but it
  • is kindest sometimes, you know, to be candid, however it may hurt. It
  • has been my experience that, when jealousy flies out of the window,
  • indifference comes in at the door. In the old days a knight would joust
  • for the love of a ladye, risking physical injury rather than permit
  • others to rival him in her affections. I think, M. P., that you should
  • endeavour to discover the true state of your fiance's feelings. I do
  • not, of course, advocate anything in the shape of unwomanly behaviour,
  • of which I am sure, my dear young lady, you are incapable; but I think
  • that you should certainly try to pique your fiance, to test him. At
  • your next ball, for instance, refuse him a certain number of dances, on
  • the plea that your programme is full. At garden-parties, at-homes, and
  • so on, exhibit pleasure in the society and conversation of other
  • gentlemen, and mark his demeanour as you do so. These little tests
  • should serve either to relieve your apprehensions, provided they are
  • groundless, or to show you the truth. And, after all, if it is the
  • truth, it must be faced, must it not, M. P.?'
  • Before the end of the day Maud knew the whole passage by heart. The
  • more her mind dwelt on it, the more clearly did it seem to express what
  • she had felt but could not put into words. The point about jousting
  • struck her as particularly well taken. She had looked up 'joust' in the
  • dictionary, and it seemed to her that in these few words was contained
  • the kernel of her trouble. In the old days, if any man had attempted to
  • rival him in her affections (outside business hours), Arthur would
  • undoubtedly have jousted--and jousted with the vigour of one who means
  • to make his presence felt. Now, in similar circumstances, he would
  • probably step aside politely, as who should say, 'After you, my dear
  • Alphonse.'
  • There was no time to lose. An hour after her first perusal of Dr
  • Cupid's advice, Maud had begun to act upon it. By the time the first
  • lull in the morning's work had come, and there was a chance for private
  • conversation, she had invented an imaginary young man, a shadowy
  • Lothario, who, being introduced into her home on the previous Sunday by
  • her brother Horace, had carried on in a way you wouldn't believe,
  • paying all manner of compliments.
  • 'He said I had such white hands,' said Maud.
  • Arthur nodded, stropping a razor the while. He appeared to be bearing
  • the revelations with complete fortitude. Yet, only a few weeks before,
  • a customer's comment on this same whiteness had stirred him to his
  • depths.
  • 'And this morning--what do you think? Why, he meets me as bold as you
  • please, and gives me a cake of toilet soap. Like his impudence!'
  • She paused, hopefully.
  • 'Always useful, soap,' said Arthur, politely sententious.
  • 'Lovely it was,' went on Maud, dully conscious of failure, but
  • stippling in like an artist the little touches which give atmosphere
  • and verisimilitude to a story. 'All scented. Horace will tease me about
  • it, I can tell you.'
  • She paused. Surely he must--Why, a sea-anemone would be torn with
  • jealousy at such a tale.
  • Arthur did not even wince. He was charming about it. Thought it very
  • kind of the young fellow. Didn't blame him for being struck by the
  • whiteness of her hands. Touched on the history of soap, which he
  • happened to have been reading up in the encyclopedia at the free
  • library. And behaved altogether in such a thoroughly gentlemanly
  • fashion that Maud stayed awake half the night, crying.
  • * * * * *
  • If Maud had waited another twenty-four hours there would have been no
  • need for her to have taxed her powers of invention, for on the
  • following day there entered the shop and her life a young man who was
  • not imaginary--a Lothario of flesh and blood. He made his entry with
  • that air of having bought most of the neighbouring property which
  • belongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the Stock
  • Exchange, and American professional pugilists.
  • Mr 'Skipper' Shute belonged to the last-named of the three classes. He
  • had arrived in England two months previously for the purpose of holding
  • a conference at eight-stone four with one Joseph Edwardes, to settle a
  • question of superiority at that weight which had been vexing the
  • sporting public of two countries for over a year. Having successfully
  • out-argued Mr Edwardes, mainly by means of strenuous work in the
  • clinches, he was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-hall
  • tour with his celebrated inaudible monologue. As a result of these
  • things he was feeling very, very pleased with the world in general, and
  • with Mr Skipper Shute in particular. And when Mr Shute was pleased with
  • himself his manner was apt to be of the breeziest.
  • He breezed into the shop, took a seat, and, having cast an experienced
  • eye at Maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, and observed,
  • 'Go the limit, kid.'
  • At any other time Maud might have resented being addressed as 'kid' by
  • a customer, but now she welcomed it. With the exception of a slight
  • thickening of the lobe of one ear, Mr Shute bore no outward signs of
  • his profession. And being, to use his own phrase, a 'swell dresser', he
  • was really a most presentable young man. Just, in fact, what Maud
  • needed. She saw in him her last hope. If any faint spark of his ancient
  • fire still lingered in Arthur, it was through Mr Shute that it must be
  • fanned.
  • She smiled upon Mr Shute. She worked on his robust fingers as if it
  • were an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. So carefully did
  • she toil that she was still busy when Arthur, taking off his apron and
  • putting on his hat, went out for his twenty-minutes' lunch, leaving
  • them alone together.
  • The door had scarcely shut when Mr Shute bent forward.
  • 'Say!'
  • He sank his voice to a winning whisper.
  • 'You look good to muh,' he said, gallantly.
  • 'The idea!' said Maud, tossing her head.
  • 'On the level,' Mr Shute assured her.
  • Maud laid down her orange-sticks.
  • 'Don't be silly,' she said. 'There--I've finished.'
  • 'I've not,' said Mr Shute. 'Not by a mile. Say!'
  • 'Well?'
  • 'What do you do with your evenings?'
  • 'I go home.'
  • 'Sure. But when you don't? It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Don't
  • you ever whoop it up?'
  • 'Whoop it up?'
  • 'The mad whirl,' explained Mr Shute. 'Ice-cream soda and buck-wheat
  • cakes, and a happy evening at lovely Luna Park.'
  • 'I don't know where Luna Park is.'
  • 'What did they teach you at school? It's out in that direction,' said
  • Mr Shute, pointing over his shoulder. 'You go straight on about three
  • thousand miles till you hit little old New York; then you turn to the
  • right. Say, don't you ever get a little treat? Why not come along to
  • the White City some old evening? This evening?'
  • 'Mr Welsh is taking me to the White City tonight.'
  • 'And who is Mr Welsh?'
  • 'The gentleman who has just gone out.'
  • 'Is that so? Well, he doesn't look a live one, but maybe it's just
  • because he's had bad news today. You never can tell.' He rose.
  • 'Farewell, Evelina, fairest of your sex. We shall meet again; so keep a
  • stout heart.'
  • And, taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellow gloves, Mr Shute
  • departed, leaving Maud to her thoughts.
  • She was disappointed. She had expected better results. Mr Shute had
  • lowered with ease the record for gay badinage, hitherto held by the
  • red-faced customer; yet to all appearances there had been no change in
  • Arthur's manner. But perhaps he had scowled (or bitten his lip), and
  • she had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr Shute, an unbiased
  • spectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been on
  • her work--She hoped for the best.
  • Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur was
  • undeniably cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. His
  • light-hearted abandon on the Wiggle-Woggle had been noted and commented
  • upon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the Hairy Ainus, he had
  • touched a high level of facetiousness. And now, as he sat with her
  • listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself in
  • accompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in the
  • world.
  • Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude
  • would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening.
  • But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something
  • else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been--yes,
  • flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to be
  • cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an
  • explanation--a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good
  • temper and then forgiven--all this at great length--for having been in
  • a bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or
  • the other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her.
  • She trembled.
  • 'Cold?' said Arthur. 'Let's walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now.
  • Lum-da-diddley-ah. That's what I call a good tune. Give me something
  • lively and bright. Dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. Dum tum--'
  • 'Funny thing--' said Maud, deliberately.
  • 'What's a funny thing?'
  • 'The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon--'
  • 'He was,' agreed Arthur, brightly. 'A very funny thing.'
  • Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of Hairy Ainus was one thing--at her
  • own another.
  • 'I was about to say,' she went on precisely, 'that it was a funny
  • thing, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that the
  • gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon should
  • have asked me to come here, to the White City, with him tonight.'
  • For a moment they walked on in silence. To Maud it seemed a hopeful
  • silence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst.
  • 'Oh!' he said, and stopped.
  • Maud's heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone?
  • A couple of paces, and he spoke again.
  • 'I didn't hear him ask you.'
  • His voice was disappointingly level.
  • 'He asked me after you had gone out to lunch.'
  • 'It's a nuisance,' said Arthur, cheerily, 'when things clash like that.
  • But perhaps he'll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming here
  • twice. Well repays a second visit, I always say. I think--'
  • 'You shouldn't,' said a voice behind him. 'It hurts the head. Well,
  • kid, being shown a good time?'
  • The possibility of meeting Mr Shute had not occurred to Maud. She had
  • assumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, he
  • would have stayed away. It may, however, be remarked that she did not
  • know Mr Shute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiled
  • pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress and a silk
  • hat that, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror.
  • Maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did not
  • seem to matter much now either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, in
  • fact. Arthur's cheery acceptance of the news that she received
  • invitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb and
  • listless.
  • She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other.
  • 'Pleased to meet you,' said Mr Shute.
  • 'Weather keeps up,' said Arthur.
  • And from that point onward Mr Shute took command.
  • It is to be assumed that this was not the first time that Mr Shute had
  • made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity with
  • which he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothly
  • was it done that it was not until she emerged from the Witching Waves,
  • guided by the pugilist's slim but formidable right arm, that Maud
  • realized that Arthur had gone.
  • She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to be
  • somewhat afraid of Mr Shute. He was showing signs of being about to
  • step out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on a
  • larger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes all
  • the difference.
  • 'Oh! He's gone!' she cried.
  • 'Sure,' said Mr Shute. 'He's got a hurry-call from the Uji Village.
  • The chief's cousin wants a hair-cut.'
  • 'We must find him. We must.'
  • 'Surest thing you know,' said Mr Shute. 'Plenty of time.'
  • 'We must find him.'
  • Mr Shute regarded her with some displeasure.
  • 'Seems to be ace-high with you, that dub,' he said.
  • 'I don't understand you.'
  • 'My observation was,' explained Mr Shute, coldly, 'that, judging from
  • appearances, that dough-faced lemon was Willie-boy, the first and only
  • love.'
  • Maud turned on him with flaming cheeks.
  • 'Mr Welsh is nothing to me! Nothing! Nothing!' she cried.
  • She walked quickly on.
  • 'Then, if there's a vacancy, star-eyes,' said the pugilist at her side,
  • holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, 'count me in.
  • Directly I saw you--see here, what's the idea of this road-work? We
  • aren't racing--'
  • Maud slowed down.
  • 'That's better. As I was saying, directly I saw you, I said to myself,
  • "That's the one you need. The original candy kid. The--"'
  • His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed.
  • He cursed it in a brief aside.
  • 'That's what I said. "The original candy kid." So--'
  • He shot out a restraining hand. 'Arthur!' cried Maud. 'Arthur!'
  • 'It's not my name' breathed Mr Shute, tenderly. 'Call me Clarence.'
  • Considered as an embrace, it was imperfect. At these moments a silk
  • hat a size too small handicaps a man. The necessity of having to be
  • careful about the nap prevented Mr Shute from doing himself complete
  • justice. But he did enough to induce Arthur Welsh, who, having sighted
  • the missing ones from afar, had been approaching them at a walking
  • pace, to substitute a run for the walk, and arrive just as Maud
  • wrenched herself free.
  • Mr Shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replaced it with extreme care,
  • and turned his attention to the new-comer.
  • 'Arthur!' said Maud.
  • Her heart gave a great leap. There was no mistaking the meaning in the
  • eye that met hers. He cared! He cared!
  • 'Arthur!'
  • He took no notice. His face was pale and working. He strode up to Mr
  • Shute.
  • 'Well?' he said between his teeth.
  • An eight-stone-four champion of the world has many unusual experiences
  • in his life, but he rarely encounters men who say 'Well?' to him
  • between their teeth. Mr Shute eyed this freak with profound wonder.
  • 'I'll teach you to--to kiss young ladies!'
  • Mr Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave him
  • the necessary time for reflection.
  • 'I don't need it,' he said. 'I've graduated.'
  • 'Put them up!' hissed Arthur.
  • Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist's face. So might
  • Raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture.
  • 'You aren't speaking to ME?' he said, incredulously.
  • 'Put them up!'
  • Maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming
  • emotion. She was terrified--yes. But stronger than the terror was the
  • great wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts had
  • vanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was about
  • to give the supreme proof. He was going to joust for her.
  • A couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments.
  • You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never
  • got any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur's face, they
  • certainly felt justified in pausing. Mr Shute spoke.
  • 'If it wasn't,' he said, carefully, 'that I don't want trouble with the
  • Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I'd--'
  • He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the
  • two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him
  • smartly on the side of the head.
  • Compared with the blows Mr Shute was wont to receive in the exercise of
  • his profession, Arthur's was a gentle tap. But there was one
  • circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had his
  • heel. Mr Shute's vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead
  • of countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with both
  • hands at his hat.
  • He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with its
  • proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his
  • knuckles.
  • There was a calm about Mr Shute's demeanour as, having given his
  • treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance
  • on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin
  • line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jaw-bones. Crouching in
  • his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.
  • And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators,
  • reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, were
  • congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch,
  • that Police-Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone
  • and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr Shute these
  • memorable words: ''Ullo, 'ullo! 'Ullo, 'ullo, 'ul-_lo_!'
  • Mr Shute appealed to his sense of justice.
  • 'The mutt knocked me hat off.'
  • 'And I'd do it again,' said Arthur, truculently.
  • 'Not while I'm here you wouldn't, young fellow,' said Mr Bryce, with
  • decision. 'I'm surprised at you,' he went on, pained. 'And you look a
  • respectable young chap, too. You pop off.'
  • A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all
  • cinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed.
  • 'And you pop off, too, all of you,' continued Mr Bryce. 'Blest if I
  • know what kids are coming to nowadays. And as for you,' he said,
  • addressing Mr Shute, 'all you've got to do is to keep that face of
  • yours closed. That's what you've got to do. I've got my eye on you,
  • mind, and if I catch you a-follerin' of him'--he jerked his thumb over
  • his shoulder at Arthur's departing figure--'I'll pinch you. Sure as
  • you're alive.' He paused. 'I'd have done it already,' he added,
  • pensively, 'if it wasn't me birthday.'
  • * * * * *
  • Arthur Welsh turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware that
  • somebody was calling his name.
  • 'Oh, Arthur!'
  • She was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes.
  • 'I've been running. You walked so fast.'
  • He stared down at her gloomily.
  • 'Go away,' he said. 'I've done with you.'
  • She clutched at his coat.
  • 'Arthur, listen--listen! It's all a mistake. I thought you--you didn't
  • care for me any more, and I was miserable, and I wrote to the paper and
  • asked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try and
  • make you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. And I
  • hated it, but I did it, and you didn't seem to care till now. And you
  • know that there's nobody but you.'
  • 'You--The paper? What?' he stammered.
  • 'Yes, yes, yes. I wrote to _Fireside Chat_, and Dr Cupid said that
  • when jealousy flew out of the window indifference came in at the door,
  • and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen and
  • mark your demeanour. So I--Oh!'
  • Arthur, luckier than Mr Shute, was not hampered by a too small silk
  • hat.
  • It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards the
  • Flip-Flap--which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for
  • the evening's emotions--that Arthur, fumbling in his waist-coat pocket,
  • produced a small slip of paper.
  • 'What's that?' Maud asked.
  • 'Read it,' said Arthur. 'It's from _Home Moments_, in answer to a
  • letter I sent them. And,' he added with heat, 'I'd like to have five
  • minutes alone with the chap who wrote it.'
  • And under the electric light Maud read
  • ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS
  • _By the Heart Specialist_
  • Arthur W.--Jealousy, Arthur W., is not only the most wicked, but the
  • most foolish of passions. Shakespeare says:
  • _It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
  • The meat it feeds on._
  • You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the young
  • lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly.
  • There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be a
  • man, Arthur W. Fight against it. You may find it hard at first, but
  • persevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to other
  • men, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is the
  • only way.
  • BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL
  • The traveller champed meditatively at his steak. He paid no attention
  • to the altercation which was in progress between the waiter and the man
  • at the other end of the dingy room. The sounds of strife ceased. The
  • waiter came over to the traveller's table and stood behind his chair.
  • He was ruffled.
  • 'If he meant lamb,' he said, querulously, 'why didn't he say "lamb",
  • so's a feller could hear him? I thought he said "ham", so I brought
  • ham. Now Lord Percy gets all peevish.'
  • He laughed bitterly. The traveller made no reply.
  • 'If people spoke distinct,' said the waiter, 'there wouldn't be half
  • the trouble there is in the world. Not half the trouble there wouldn't
  • be. I shouldn't be here, for one thing. In this restawrong, I mean.' A
  • sigh escaped him.
  • 'I shouldn't,' he said, 'and that's the truth. I should be getting up
  • when I pleased, eating and drinking all I wanted, and carrying on same
  • as in the good old days. You wouldn't think, to look at me, would you
  • now, that I was once like the lily of the field?'
  • The waiter was a tall, stringy man, who gave the impression of having
  • no spine. In that he drooped, he might have been said to resemble a
  • flower, but in no other respect. He had sandy hair, weak eyes set close
  • together, and a day's growth of red stubble on his chin. One could not
  • see him in the lily class.
  • 'What I mean to say is, I didn't toil, neither did I spin. Ah, them was
  • happy days! Lying on me back, plenty of tobacco, something cool in a
  • jug--'
  • He sighed once more.
  • 'Did you ever know a man of the name of Moore? Jerry Moore?'
  • The traveller applied himself to his steak in silence.
  • 'Nice feller. Simple sort of feller. Big. Quiet. Bit deaf in one ear.
  • Straw-coloured hair. Blue eyes. 'Andsome, rather. Had a 'ouse just
  • outside of Reigate. Has it still. Money of his own. Left him by his pa.
  • Simple sort of feller. Not much to say for himself. I used to know him
  • well in them days. Used to live with him. Nice feller he was. Big. Bit
  • hard of hearing. Got a sleepy kind of grin, like this--something.'
  • The traveller sipped his beer in thoughtful silence.
  • 'I reckon you never met him,' said the waiter. 'Maybe you never knew
  • Gentleman Bailey, either? We always called him that. He was one of
  • these broken-down Eton or 'Arrer fellers, folks said. We struck up a
  • partnership kind of casual, both being on the tramp together, and after
  • a while we 'appened to be round about Reigate. And the first house we
  • come to was this Jerry Moore's. He come up just as we was sliding to
  • the back door, and grins that sleepy grin. Like this--something.
  • "'Ullo!" he says. Gentleman kind of gives a whoop, and hollers, "If it
  • ain't my old pal, Jerry Moore! Jack," he says to me, "this is my old
  • pal, Mr Jerry Moore, wot I met in 'appier days down at Ramsgate one
  • summer."
  • 'They shakes hands, and Jerry Moore says, "Is this a friend of yours,
  • Bailey?" looking at me. Gentleman introduces me. "We are partners," he
  • says, "partners in misfortune. This is my friend, Mr Roach."
  • '"Come along in," says Jerry.
  • 'So we went in, and he makes us at home. He's a bachelor, and lives all
  • by himself in this desirable 'ouse.
  • 'Well, I seen pretty quick that Jerry thinks the world of Gentleman.
  • All that evening he's acting as if he's as pleased as Punch to have
  • him there. Couldn't do enough for him. _It_ was a bit of _all_
  • right, I said to meself. It was, too.
  • 'Next day we gets up late and has a good breakfast, and sits on the
  • lawn and smokes. The sun was shining, the little birds was singing, and
  • there wasn't a thing, east, west, north, or south, that looked like
  • work. If I had been asked my address at that moment, on oath, I
  • wouldn't have hesitated a second. I should have answered, "No. 1, Easy
  • Street." You see, Jerry Moore was one of these slow, simple fellers,
  • and you could tell in a moment what a lot he thought of Gentleman.
  • Gentleman, you see, had a way with him. Not haughty, he wasn't. More
  • affable, I should call it. He sort of made you feel that all men are
  • born equal, but that it was awful good of him to be talking to you, and
  • that he wouldn't do it for everybody. It went down proper with Jerry
  • Moore. Jerry would sit and listen to him giving his views on things by
  • the hour. By the end of the first day I was having visions of sitting
  • in that garden a white-baked old man, and being laid out, when my time
  • should come, in Jerry's front room.'
  • He paused, his mind evidently in the past, among the cigars and big
  • breakfasts. Presently he took up his tale.
  • 'This here Jerry Moore was a simple sort of feller. Deafies are like
  • that. Ever noticed? Not that Jerry was a real deafy. His hearing was a
  • bit off, but he could foller you if you spoke to him nice and clear.
  • Well, I was saying, he was kind of simple. Liked to put in his days
  • pottering about the little garden he'd made for himself, looking after
  • his flowers and his fowls, and sit of an evening listening to Gentleman
  • 'olding forth on Life. He was a philosopher, Gentleman was. And Jerry
  • took everything he said as gospel. He didn't want no proofs. 'E and
  • the King of Denmark would have been great pals. He just sat by with his
  • big blue eyes getting rounder every minute and lapped it up.
  • 'Now you'd think a man like that could be counted on, wouldn't you?
  • Would he want anything more? Not he, you'd say. You'd be wrong. Believe
  • me, there isn't a man on earth that's fixed and contented but what a
  • woman can't knock his old Paradise into 'ash with one punch.
  • 'It wasn't long before I begin to notice a change in Jerry. He never
  • had been what you'd call a champion catch-as-catch-can talker, but now
  • he was silenter than ever. And he got a habit of switching Gentleman
  • off from his theories on Life in general to Woman in particular. This
  • suited Gentleman just right. What he didn't know about Woman wasn't
  • knowledge.
  • 'Gentleman was too busy talking to have time to get suspicious, but I
  • wasn't; and one day I draws Gentleman aside and puts it to him
  • straight. "Gentleman," I says, "Jerry Moore is in love!"
  • 'Well, this was a nasty knock, of course, for Gentleman. He knew as
  • well as I did what it would mean if Jerry was to lead home a blushing
  • bride through that front door. It would be outside into the cold, hard
  • world for the bachelor friends. Gentleman sees that quick, and his jaw
  • drops. I goes on. "All the time," I says, "that you're talking away of
  • an evening, Jerry's seeing visions of a little woman sitting in your
  • chair. And you can bet we don't enter into them visions. He may dream
  • of little feet pattering about the house," I says, "but they aren't
  • ours; and you can 'ave something on that both ways. Look alive,
  • Gentleman," I says, "and think out some plan, or we might as well be
  • padding the hoof now."
  • 'Well, Gentleman did what he could. In his evening discourses he
  • started to give it to Woman all he knew. Began to talk about Delilahs
  • and Jezebels and Fools-there-was and the rest of it, and what a mug a
  • feller was to let a female into 'is cosy home, who'd only make him
  • spend his days hooking her up, and his nights wondering how to get back
  • the blankets without waking her. My, he was crisp! Enough to have given
  • Romeo the jumps, you'd have thought. But, lor! It's no good talking to
  • them when they've got it bad.
  • 'A few days later we caught him with the goods, talking in the road to
  • a girl in a pink dress.
  • 'I couldn't but admit that Jerry had picked one right from the top of
  • the basket. This wasn't one of them languishing sort wot sits about in
  • cosy corners and reads story-books, and don't care what's happening in
  • the home so long as they find out what became of the hero in his duel
  • with the Grand Duke. She was a brown, slim, wiry-looking little thing.
  • _You_ know. Held her chin up and looked you up and down with eyes
  • the colour of Scotch whisky, as much as to say, "Well, what
  • _about_ it?" You could tell without looking at her, just by the
  • feel of the atmosphere when she was near, that she had as much snap and
  • go in her as Jerry Moore hadn't, which was a good bit. I knew, just as
  • sure as I was standing there on one leg, that this was the sort of girl
  • who would have me and Gentleman out of that house about three seconds
  • after the clergyman had tied the knot.
  • 'Jerry says, "These are my friends, Miss Tuxton--Mr Bailey and Mr
  • Roach. They are staying with me for a visit. This is Miss Jane Tuxton,"
  • he says to us. "I was just going to see Miss Tuxton home," he says,
  • sort of wistful. "Excellent," says Gentleman. "We'll come too." And we
  • all goes along. There wasn't much done in the way of conversation.
  • Jerry never was one for pushing out the words; nor was I, when in the
  • presence of the sect; and Miss Jane had her chin in the air, as if she
  • thought me and Gentleman was not needed in any way whatsoever. The
  • only talk before we turned her in at the garden gate was done by
  • Gentleman, who told a pretty long story about a friend of his in Upper
  • Sydenham who had been silly enough to marry, and had had trouble ever
  • since.
  • 'That night, after we had went to bed, I said to Gentleman,
  • "Gentleman," I says, "what's going to be done about this? We've got
  • about as much chance, if Jerry marries that girl," I says, "as a couple
  • of helpless chocolate creams at a school-girls' picnic." "If," says
  • Gentleman. "He ain't married her yet. That is a girl of character,
  • Jack. Trust me. Didn't she strike you as a girl who would like a man
  • with a bit of devil in him, a man with some go in him, a you-be-darned
  • kind of man? Does Jerry fill the bill? He's more like a doormat with
  • 'Welcome' written on it, than anything else."
  • 'Well, we seen a good deal of Miss Jane in the next week or so. We
  • keeps Jerry under--what's it the heroine says in the melodrama? "Oh,
  • cruel, cruel, S.P. something." Espionage, that's it. We keeps Jerry
  • under espionage, and whenever he goes trickling round after the girl,
  • we goes trickling round after him.
  • '"Things is running our way," says Gentleman to me, after one of these
  • meetings. "That girl is getting cross with Jerry. She wants Reckless
  • Rudolf, not a man who stands and grins when other men butt in on him
  • and his girl. Mark my words, Jack. She'll get tired of Jerry, and go
  • off and marry a soldier, and we'll live happy ever after." "Think so?"
  • I says. "Sure of it," said Gentleman.
  • 'It was the Sunday after this that Jerry Moore announces to us,
  • wriggling, that he had an engagement to take supper with Jane and her
  • folks. He'd have liked to have slipped away secret, but we was keeping
  • him under espionage too crisp for that, so he has to tell us.
  • "Excellent," said Gentleman. "It will be a great treat to Jack and
  • myself to meet the family. We will go along with you." So off we all
  • goes, and pushes our boots in sociable fashion under the Tuxton table.
  • I looked at Miss Jane out of the corner of my eye; and, honest, that
  • chin of hers was sticking out a foot, and Jerry didn't dare look at
  • her. Love's young dream, I muses to myself, how swift it fades when a
  • man has the nature and disposition of a lop-eared rabbit!
  • 'The Tuxtons was four in number, not counting the parrot, and all male.
  • There was Pa Tuxton, an old feller with a beard and glasses; a fat
  • uncle; a big brother, who worked in a bank and was dressed like Moses
  • in all his glory; and a little brother with a snub nose, that cheeky
  • you'd have been surprised. And the parrot in its cage and a fat yellow
  • dog. And they're all making themselves pleasant to Jerry, the wealthy
  • future son-in-law, something awful. It's "How are the fowls, Mr
  • Moore?" and "A little bit of this pie, Mr Moore; Jane made it," and
  • Jerry sitting there with a feeble grin, saying "Yes" and "No" and
  • nothing much more, while Miss Jane's eyes are snapping like Fifth of
  • November fireworks. I could feel Jerry's chances going back a mile a
  • minute. I felt as happy as a little child that evening. I sang going
  • back home.
  • 'Gentleman's pleased, too. "Jack," he says to me when we're in bed,
  • "this is too easy. In my most sanguinary dreams I hardly hoped for
  • this. No girl of spirit's going to love a man who behaves that way to
  • her parents. The way to win the heart of a certain type of girl," he
  • says, beginning on his theories, "the type to which Jane Tuxton
  • belongs, is to be rude to her family. I've got Jane Tuxton sized up and
  • labelled. Her kind wants her folks to dislike her young man. She wants
  • to feel that she's the only one in the family that's got the sense to
  • see the hidden good in Willie. She doesn't want to be one of a crowd
  • hollering out what a nice young man he is. It takes some pluck in a man
  • to stand up to a girl's family, and that's what Jane Tuxton is looking
  • for in Jerry. Take it from one who has studied the sect," says
  • Gentleman, "from John o' Groat's to Land's End, and back again."
  • 'Next day Jerry Moore's looking as if he'd only sixpence in the world
  • and had swallowed it. "What's the matter, Jerry?" says Gentleman. Jerry
  • heaves a sigh. "Bailey," he says, "and you, Mr Roach, I expect you both
  • seen how it is with me. I love Miss Jane Tuxton, and you seen for
  • yourselves what transpires. She don't value me, not tuppence." "Say not
  • so," says Gentleman, sympathetic. "You're doing fine. If you knew the
  • sect as I do you wouldn't go by mere superficial silences and
  • chin-tiltings. I can read a girl's heart, Jerry," he says, patting him
  • on the shoulder, "and I tell you you're doing fine. All you want now
  • is a little rapid work, and you win easy. To make the thing a cert,"
  • he says, getting up, "all you have to do is to make a dead set at her
  • folks." He winks at me. "Don't just sit there like you did last night.
  • Show 'em you've got something in you. You know what folks are: they
  • think themselves the most important things on the map. Well, go to
  • work. Consult them all you know. Every opportunity you get. There's
  • nothing like consulting a girl's folks to put you in good with her."
  • And he pats Jerry on the shoulder again and goes indoors to find his
  • pipe.
  • 'Jerry turns to me. "Do you think that's really so?" he says. I says,
  • "I do." "He knows all about girls, I reckon," says Jerry. "You can go
  • by him every time," I says. "Well, well," says Jerry, sort of
  • thoughtful.'
  • The waiter paused. His eye was sad and dreamy. Then he took up the
  • burden of his tale.
  • 'First thing that happens is that Gentleman has a sore tooth on the
  • next Sunday, so don't feel like coming along with us. He sits at home,
  • dosing it with whisky, and Jerry and me goes off alone.
  • 'So Jerry and me pikes off, and once more we prepares to settle down
  • around the board. I hadn't noticed Jerry particular, but just now I
  • catches sight of his face in the light of the lamp. Ever see one of
  • those fighters when he's sitting in his corner before a fight, waiting
  • for the gong to go? Well, Jerry looks like that; and it surprises me.
  • 'I told you about the fat yellow dog that permeated the Tuxton's
  • house, didn't I? The family thought a lot of that dog, though of all
  • the ugly brutes I ever met he was the worst. Sniffing round and
  • growling all the time. Well, this evening he comes up to Jerry just as
  • he's going to sit down, and starts to growl. Old Pa Tuxton looks over
  • his glasses and licks his tongue. "Rover! Rover!" he says, kind of
  • mild. "Naughty Rover; he don't like strangers, I'm afraid." Jerry looks
  • at Pa Tuxton, and he looks at the dog, and I'm just expecting him to
  • say "No" or "Yes", same as the other night, when he lets out a nasty
  • laugh--one of them bitter laughs. "Ho!" he says. "Ho! don't he? Then
  • perhaps he'd better get further away from them." And he ups with his
  • boot and--well, the dog hit the far wall.
  • 'Jerry sits down and pulls up his chair. "I don't approve," he says,
  • fierce, "of folks keeping great, fat, ugly, bad-tempered yellow dogs
  • that are a nuisance to all. I don't like it."
  • 'There was a silence you could have scooped out with a spoon. Have you
  • ever had a rabbit turn round on you and growl? That's how we all felt
  • when Jerry outs with them crisp words. They took our breath away.
  • 'While we were getting it back again the parrot, which was in its cage,
  • let out a squawk. Honest, I jumped a foot in my chair.
  • 'Jerry gets up very deliberate, and walks over to the parrot. "Is
  • this a menagerie?" he says. "Can't a man have supper in peace without
  • an image like you starting to holler? Go to sleep."
  • 'We was all staring at him surprised, especially Uncle Dick Tuxton,
  • whose particular pet the parrot was. He'd brought him home all the way
  • from some foreign parts.
  • '"Hello, Billy!" says the bird, shrugging his shoulders and puffing
  • himself up. "R-r-r-r! R-r-r-r! 'lo, Billy! 'lo, 'lo, 'lo! R-r WAH!"
  • 'Jerry gives its cage a bang.
  • '"Don't talk back at me," he says, "or I'll knock your head off. You
  • think because you've got a green tail you're someone." And he stalks
  • back to his chair and sits glaring at Uncle Dick.
  • 'Well, all this wasn't what you might call promoting an easy flow of
  • conversation. Everyone's looking at Jerry, 'specially me, wondering
  • what next, and trying to get their breath, and Jerry's frowning at the
  • cold beef, and there's a sort of awkward pause. Miss Jane is the first
  • to get busy. She bustles about and gets the food served out, and we
  • begins to eat. But still there's not so much conversation that you'd
  • notice it. This goes on till we reaches the concluding stages, and then
  • Uncle Dick comes up to the scratch.
  • '"How is the fowls, Mr Moore?" he says.
  • '"Gimme some more pie," says Jerry. "What?"
  • 'Uncle Dick repeats his remark.
  • '"Fowls?" says Jerry. "What do you know about fowls? Your notion of a
  • fowl is an ugly bird with a green tail, a Wellington nose, and--gimme a
  • bit of cheese."
  • 'Uncle Dick's fond of the parrot, so he speaks up for him. "Polly's
  • always been reckoned a handsome bird," he says.
  • '"He wants stuffing," says Jerry.
  • 'And Uncle Dick drops out of the talk.
  • 'Up comes big brother, Ralph his name was. He's the bank-clerk and a
  • dude. He gives his cuffs a flick, and starts in to make things jolly
  • all round by telling a story about a man he knows named Wotherspoon.
  • Jerry fixes him with his eye, and, half-way through, interrupts.
  • '"That waistcoat of yours is fierce," he says.
  • '"Pardon?" says Ralph.
  • '"That waistcoat of yours," says Jerry. "It hurts me eyes. It's like an
  • electric sign."
  • '"Why, Jerry," I says, but he just scowls at me and I stops.
  • 'Ralph is proud of his clothes, and he isn't going to stand this. He
  • glares at Jerry and Jerry glares at him.
  • '"Who do you think you are?" says Ralph, breathing hard.
  • '"Button up your coat," says Jerry.
  • '"Look 'ere!" says Ralph.
  • '"Cover it up, I tell you," says Jerry. "Do you want to blind me?" Pa
  • Tuxton interrupts.
  • '"Why, Mr Moore," he begins, sort of soothing; when the small brother,
  • who's been staring at Jerry, chips in. I told you he was cheeky.
  • 'He says, "Pa, what a funny nose Mr Moore's got!"
  • 'And that did it. Jerry rises, very slow, and leans across the table
  • and clips the kid brother one side of the ear-'ole. And then there's a
  • general imbroglio, everyone standing up and the kid hollering and the
  • dog barking.
  • '"If you'd brought him up better," says Jerry, severe, to Pa Tuxton,
  • "this wouldn't ever have happened."
  • Pa Tuxton gives a sort of howl.
  • '"Mr Moore," he yells, "what is the meaning of this extraordinary
  • behaviour? You come here and strike me child--"
  • 'Jerry bangs on the table.
  • '"Yes," he says, "and I'd strike him again. Listen to me," he says. "You
  • think just because I'm quiet I ain't got no spirit. You think all I can
  • do is to sit and smile. You think--Bah! You aren't on to the hidden
  • depths in me character. I'm one of them still waters that runs deep.
  • I'm--Here, you get out of it! Yes, all of you! Except Jane. Jane and me
  • wants this room to have a private talk in. I've got a lot of things to
  • say to Jane. Are you going?"
  • 'I turns to the crowd. I was awful disturbed. "You mustn't take any
  • notice," I says. "He ain't well. He ain't himself." When just then the
  • parrot cuts with another of them squawks. Jerry jumps at it.
  • '"You first," he says, and flings the cage out of the window. "Now
  • you," he says to the yellow dog, putting him out through the door. And
  • then he folds his arms and scowls at us, and we all notice suddenly
  • that he's very big. We look at one another, and we begins to edge
  • towards the door. All except Jane, who's staring at Jerry as if he's a
  • ghost.
  • '"Mr Moore," says Pa Tuxton, dignified, "we'll leave you. You're
  • drunk."
  • '"I'm not drunk," says Jerry. "I'm in love."
  • '"Jane," says Pa Tuxton, "come with me, and leave this ruffian to
  • himself."
  • '"Jane," says Jerry, "stop here, and come and lay your head on my
  • shoulder."
  • '"Jane," says Pa Tuxton, "do you hear me?"
  • '"Jane," says Jerry, "I'm waiting."
  • 'She looks from one to the other for a spell, and then she moves to
  • where Jerry's standing.
  • '"I'll stop," she says, sort of quiet.
  • 'And we drifts out.'
  • The waiter snorted.
  • 'I got back home quick as I could,' he said, 'and relates the
  • proceedings to Gentleman. Gentleman's rattled. "I don't believe it," he
  • says. "Don't stand there and tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why,
  • it ain't in the man. 'Specially after what I said to him about the way
  • he ought to behave. How could he have done so?" Just then in comes
  • Jerry, beaming all over. "Boys," he shouts, "congratulate me. It's all
  • right. We've fixed it up. She says she hadn't known me properly before.
  • She says she'd always reckoned me a sheep, while all the time I was one
  • of them strong, silent men." He turns to Gentleman--'
  • The man at the other end of the room was calling for his bill.
  • 'All right, all right,' said the waiter. 'Coming! He turns to
  • Gentleman,' he went on rapidly, 'and he says, "Bailey, I owe it all to
  • you, because if you hadn't told me to insult her folks--"'
  • He leaned on the traveller's table and fixed him with an eye that
  • pleaded for sympathy.
  • ''Ow about that?' he said. 'Isn't that crisp? "Insult her folks!" Them
  • was his very words. "Insult her folks."'
  • The traveller looked at him inquiringly.
  • 'Can you beat it?' said the waiter.
  • 'I don't know what you are saying,' said the traveller. 'If it is
  • important, write it on a slip of paper. I am stone-deaf.'
  • ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL
  • Paul Boielle was a waiter. The word 'waiter' suggests a soft-voiced,
  • deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere of
  • luxury and shaded lamps. At Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant in
  • Soho, where Paul worked, there were none of these things; and Paul
  • himself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless.
  • His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions the
  • finish of a Marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, and
  • a monologue by an Earl's Court side-showman. Constant acquaintance
  • rendered regular habitues callous to the wonder, but to a stranger the
  • sight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, his
  • hands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went the
  • mystic word, 'Comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!'
  • was impressive to a degree. For doing far less exacting feats on the
  • stage music-hall performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paul
  • got eighteen shillings.
  • What a blessing is poverty, properly considered. If Paul had received
  • more than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in an
  • attic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room on the second
  • floor; and would consequently have missed what was practically a
  • genuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was so
  • arranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as Paul was
  • engaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing could
  • have been more fortunate; for Paul, like so many of our public men,
  • lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredin's
  • Parisian Cafe became the quiet follower of Art. Ever since his
  • childhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regretted
  • that Fate had allowed him so little time for such work; but after all,
  • he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles--so why not
  • he? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end. An hour here, an hour
  • there, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture was
  • within measurable distance of completion. He had won through. Without
  • models, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed.
  • A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. And
  • after that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene so
  • exactly. The picture would be at the dealer's, possibly--one must not
  • be too sanguine--thrust away in some odd corner. The wealthy
  • connoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece;
  • other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He would
  • turn from them in weary scorn, and then!... Paul wondered how big the
  • cheque would be.
  • There were reasons why he wanted the money. Looking at him as he
  • cantered over the linoleum at Bredin's, you would have said that his
  • mind was on his work. But it was not so. He took and executed orders as
  • automatically as the penny-in-the-slot musical-box in the corner took
  • pennies and produced tunes. His thoughts were of Jeanne Le Brocq, his
  • co-worker at Bredin's, and a little cigar shop down Brixton way which
  • he knew was in the market at a reasonable rate. To marry the former and
  • own the latter was Paul's idea of the earthly paradise, and it was the
  • wealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates.
  • Jeanne was a large, slow-moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. One
  • could picture her in a de Maupassant farmyard. In the clatter and
  • bustle of Bredin's Parisian Cafe she appeared out of place, like a cow
  • in a boiler-factory. To Paul, who worshipped her with all the fervour
  • of a little man for a large woman, her deliberate methods seemed all
  • that was beautiful and dignified. To his mind she lent a tone to the
  • vulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as if she had been some goddess
  • mixing in a Homeric battle. The whirlpool had other views--and
  • expressed them. One coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as to
  • address to her the frightful words, ''Urry up, there, Tottie! Look
  • slippy.' It was wrong, of course, for Paul to slip and spill an order
  • of scrambled eggs down the brute's coat-sleeve, but who can blame him?
  • Among those who did not see eye to eye with Paul in his views on
  • deportment in waitresses was M. Bredin himself, the owner of the
  • Parisian Cafe; and it was this circumstance which first gave Paul the
  • opportunity of declaring the passion which was gnawing him with the
  • fierce fury of a Bredin customer gnawing a tough steak against time
  • during the rush hour. He had long worshipped her from afar, but nothing
  • more intimate than a 'Good morning, Miss Jeanne', had escaped him,
  • till one day during a slack spell he came upon her in the little
  • passage leading to the kitchen, her face hidden in her apron, her back
  • jerking with sobs.
  • Business is business. Paul had a message to deliver to the cook
  • respecting 'two fried, coffee, and one stale'. He delivered it and
  • returned. Jeanne was still sobbing.
  • 'Ah, Miss Jeanne,' cried Paul, stricken, 'what is the matter? What is
  • it? Why do you weep?'
  • 'The _patron_,' sobbed Jeanne. 'He--'
  • 'My angel,' said Paul, 'he is a pig.'
  • This was perfectly true. No conscientious judge of character could have
  • denied that Paul had hit the bull's eye. Bredin was a pig. He looked
  • like a pig; he ate like a pig; he grunted like a pig. He had the lavish
  • embonpoint of a pig. Also a porcine soul. If you had tied a bit of blue
  • ribbon round his neck you could have won prizes with him at a show.
  • Paul's eyes flashed with fury. 'I will slap him in the eye,' he roared.
  • 'He called me a tortoise.'
  • 'And kick him in the stomach,' added Paul.
  • Jeanne's sobs were running on second speed now. The anguish was
  • diminishing. Paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slide an
  • arm part of the way round her waist. In two minutes he had said as much
  • as the ordinary man could have worked off in ten. All good stuff, too.
  • No padding.
  • Jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full moon. She was too
  • astounded to be angry.
  • Paul continued to babble. Jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. That
  • she, who received daily the affectionate badinage of gentlemen in
  • bowler hats and check suits, who had once been invited to the White
  • City by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way by a
  • waiter! It was too much. She threw off his hand.
  • 'Wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily.
  • 'My angel!' protested Paul.
  • Jeanne uttered a scornful laugh.
  • 'You!' she said.
  • There are few more withering remarks than 'You!' spoken in a certain
  • way. Jeanne spoke it in just that way.
  • Paul wilted.
  • 'On eighteen shillings a week,' went on Jeanne, satirically, 'you would
  • support a wife, yes? Why--'
  • Paul recovered himself. He had an opening now, and proceeded to use it.
  • 'Listen,' he said. 'At present, yes, it is true, I earn but eighteen
  • shillings a week, but it will not always be so, no. I am not only a
  • waiter. I am also an artist. I have painted a great picture. For a
  • whole year I have worked, and now it is ready. I will sell it, and
  • then, my angel--?'
  • Jeanne's face had lost some of its scorn. She was listening with some
  • respect. 'A picture?' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is money in
  • pictures.'
  • For the first time Paul was glad that his arm was no longer round her
  • waist. To do justice to the great work he needed both hands for
  • purposes of gesticulation.
  • 'There is money in this picture,' he said. 'Oh, it is beautiful. I call
  • it "The Awakening". It is a woodland scene. I come back from my work
  • here, hot and tired, and a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. It is
  • so cool, so green. The sun filters in golden splashes through the
  • foliage. On a mossy bank, between two trees, lies a beautiful girl
  • asleep. Above her, bending fondly over her, just about to kiss that
  • flower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. At the
  • last moment he has looked over his shoulder to make sure that there is
  • nobody near to see. He is wearing an expression so happy, so proud,
  • that one's heart goes out to him.'
  • 'Yes, there might be money in that,' cried Jeanne.
  • 'There is, there is!' cried Paul. 'I shall sell it for many francs to a
  • wealthy connoisseur. And then, my angel--'
  • 'You are a good little man,' said the angel, patronizingly. 'Perhaps.
  • We will see.'
  • Paul caught her hand and kissed it. She smiled indulgently. 'Yes,' she
  • said. 'There might be money. These English pay much money for pictures.'
  • * * * * *
  • It is pretty generally admitted that Geoffrey Chaucer, the eminent poet
  • of the fourteenth century, though obsessed with an almost Rooseveltian
  • passion for the new spelling, was there with the goods when it came to
  • profundity of thought. It was Chaucer who wrote the lines:
  • The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,
  • Th' assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering.
  • Which means, broadly, that it is difficult to paint a picture, but a
  • great deal more difficult to sell it.
  • Across the centuries Paul Boielle shook hands with Geoffrey Chaucer.
  • 'So sharpe the conquering' put his case in a nutshell.
  • The full story of his wanderings with the masterpiece would read like
  • an Odyssey and be about as long. It shall be condensed.
  • There was an artist who dined at intervals at Bredin's Parisian Cafe,
  • and, as the artistic temperament was too impatient to be suited by
  • Jeanne's leisurely methods, it had fallen to Paul to wait upon him. It
  • was to this expert that Paul, emboldened by the geniality of the
  • artist's manner, went for information. How did monsieur sell his
  • pictures? Monsieur said he didn't, except once in a blue moon. But when
  • he did? Oh, he took the thing to the dealers. Paul thanked him. A
  • friend of him, he explained, had painted a picture and wished to sell
  • it.
  • 'Poor devil!' was the artist's comment.
  • Next day, it happening to be a Thursday, Paul started on his travels.
  • He started buoyantly, but by evening he was as a punctured balloon.
  • Every dealer had the same remark to make--to wit, no room.
  • 'Have you yet sold the picture?' inquired Jeanne, when they met. 'Not
  • yet,' said Paul. 'But they are delicate matters, these negotiations. I
  • use finesse. I proceed with caution.'
  • He approached the artist again.
  • 'With the dealers,' he said, 'my friend has been a little unfortunate.
  • They say they have no room.'
  • '_I_ know,' said the artist, nodding.
  • 'Is there, perhaps, another way?'
  • 'What sort of a picture is it?' inquired the artist.
  • Paul became enthusiastic.
  • 'Ah! monsieur, it is beautiful. It is a woodland scene. A beautiful
  • girl--'
  • 'Oh! Then he had better try the magazines. They might use it for a
  • cover.'
  • Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday he visited
  • divers art editors. The art editors seemed to be in the same unhappy
  • condition as the dealers. 'Overstocked!' was their cry.
  • 'The picture?' said Jeanne, on the Friday morning. 'Is it sold?'
  • 'Not yet,' said Paul, 'but--'
  • 'Always but!'
  • 'My angel!'
  • 'Bah!' said Jeanne, with a toss of her large but shapely head.
  • By the end of the month Paul was fighting in the last ditch, wandering
  • disconsolately among those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimy
  • thumbs. Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday, and
  • each of the seven rubbed the surface of the painting with a grimy
  • thumb, snorted, and dismissed him. Sick and beaten, Paul took the
  • masterpiece back to his skylight room.
  • All that night he lay awake, thinking. It was a weary bundle of nerves
  • that came to the Parisian Cafe next morning. He was late in arriving,
  • which was good in that it delayed the inevitable question as to the
  • fate of the picture, but bad in every other respect. M. Bredin,
  • squatting behind the cash-desk, grunted fiercely at him; and, worse,
  • Jeanne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busier than suited her
  • disposition, was distant and haughty. A murky gloom settled upon Paul.
  • Now it so happened that M. Bredin, when things went well with him, was
  • wont to be filled with a ponderous amiability. It was not often that
  • this took a practical form, though it is on record that in an exuberant
  • moment he once gave a small boy a halfpenny. More frequently it merely
  • led him to soften the porcine austerity of his demeanour. Today,
  • business having been uncommonly good, he felt pleased with the world.
  • He had left his cash-desk and was assailing a bowl of soup at one of
  • the side-tables. Except for a belated luncher at the end of the room
  • the place was empty. It was one of the hours when there was a lull in
  • the proceedings at the Parisian Cafe. Paul was leaning, wrapped in the
  • gloom, against the wall. Jeanne was waiting on the proprietor.
  • M. Bredin finished his meal and rose. He felt content. All was well
  • with the world. As he lumbered to his desk he passed Jeanne. He
  • stopped. He wheezed a compliment. Then another. Paul, from his place by
  • the wall, watched with jealous fury.
  • M. Bredin chucked Jeanne under the chin.
  • As he did so, the belated luncher called 'Waiter!' but Paul was
  • otherwise engaged. His entire nervous system seemed to have been
  • stirred up with a pole. With a hoarse cry he dashed forward. He would
  • destroy this pig who chucked his Jeanne under the chin.
  • The first intimation M. Bredin had of the declaration of war was the
  • impact of a French roll on his ear. It was one of those nobbly, chunky
  • rolls with sharp corners, almost as deadly as a piece of shrapnel. M.
  • Bredin was incapable of jumping, but he uttered a howl and his vast
  • body quivered like a stricken jelly. A second roll, whizzing by,
  • slapped against the wall. A moment later a cream-bun burst in sticky
  • ruin on the proprietor's left eye.
  • The belated luncher had been anxious to pay his bill and go, but he
  • came swiftly to the conclusion that this was worth stopping on for. He
  • leaned back in his chair and watched. M. Bredin had entrenched himself
  • behind the cash-desk, peering nervously at Paul through the cream, and
  • Paul, pouring forth abuse in his native tongue, was brandishing a
  • chocolate eclair. The situation looked good to the spectator.
  • It was spoiled by Jeanne, who seized Paul by the arm and shook him,
  • adding her own voice to the babel. It was enough. The eclair fell to
  • the floor. Paul's voice died away. His face took on again its crushed,
  • hunted expression. The voice of M. Bredin, freed from competition, rose
  • shrill and wrathful.
  • 'The marksman is getting sacked,' mused the onlooker, diagnosing the
  • situation.
  • He was right. The next moment Paul, limp and depressed, had retired to
  • the kitchen passage, discharged. It was here, after a few minutes, that
  • Jeanne found him.
  • 'Fool! Idiot! Imbecile!' said Jeanne.
  • Paul stared at her without speaking.
  • 'To throw rolls at the _patron_. Imbecile!'
  • 'He--' began Paul.
  • 'Bah! And what if he did? Must you then attack him like a mad dog? What
  • is it to you?'
  • Paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous sense
  • of oppression. Everything was going wrong. Surely Jeanne must be
  • touched by his heroism? But no. She was scolding furiously. Suppose
  • Andromeda had turned and scolded Perseus after he had slain the
  • sea-monster! Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. The bottom had
  • dropped out of his world.
  • 'Jeanne!'
  • 'Bah! Do not talk to me, idiot of a little man. Almost you lost me my
  • place also. The _patron_ was in two minds. But I coaxed him. A
  • fine thing that would have been, to lose my good place through your
  • foolishness. To throw rolls. My goodness!'
  • She swept back into the room again, leaving Paul still standing by the
  • kitchen door. Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long he
  • stood there he did not know, but presently from the dining-room came
  • calls of 'Waiter!' and automatically he fell once more into his work,
  • as an actor takes up his part. A stranger would have noticed nothing
  • remarkable in him. He bustled to and fro with undiminished energy.
  • At the end of the day M. Bredin paid him his eighteen shillings with a
  • grunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a masterless man.
  • He went to his attic and sat down on the bed. Propped up against the
  • wall was the picture. He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stared
  • dully before him.
  • Then thoughts came to him with a rush, leaping and dancing in his mind
  • like imps in Hades. He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed to
  • be watching himself from a great distance.
  • This was the end. The little imps danced and leaped; and then one
  • separated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than, the rest, to
  • pirouette more energetically. He rose. His mind was made up. He would
  • kill himself.
  • He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as he
  • walked. He would kill himself, but how?
  • His preoccupation was so great that an automobile, rounding a corner,
  • missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shouted
  • angrily at him as he leapt back.
  • Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.
  • 'Pig!' he shouted. 'Assassin! Scoundrel! Villain! Would you kill me? I
  • will take your number, rascal. I will inform the police. Villain!'
  • A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned
  • to him, full of his wrongs.
  • 'Officer,' he cried, 'I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs!
  • They are reckless. They drive so recklessly. Hence the great number of
  • accidents.'
  • 'Awful!' said the policeman. 'Pass along, sonny.'
  • Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs--And
  • then an idea came to him. He had found a way.
  • * * * * *
  • It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was dark
  • and there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in the
  • shadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came the
  • distant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazing
  • eyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey.
  • He ran out into the road with a shout.
  • It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulate
  • farewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable to the
  • driver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cry
  • of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of locked
  • wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard
  • from where he stood.
  • 'What the deuce--' said a cool voice from behind the lights.
  • Paul struck his chest and folded his arms.
  • 'I am here,' he cried. 'Destroy me!'
  • 'Let George do it,' said the voice, in a marked American accent. 'I
  • never murder on a Friday; it's unlucky. If it's not a rude question,
  • which asylum are you from? Halloa!'
  • The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had finally
  • given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing.
  • The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young man
  • with a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul.
  • 'Quit that,' he said. 'Maybe it's not true. And if it is, there's
  • always hope. Cut it out. What's the matter? All in?'
  • Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. The
  • cold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling of
  • desolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his
  • troubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an
  • occasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listened
  • attentively.
  • 'So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and your
  • girl has shaken you?' he said. 'Pretty bad, but still you've no call to
  • go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel,
  • and tomorrow we'll see if we can't fix up something.'
  • * * * * *
  • There was breakfast at the hotel next morning, a breakfast to put heart
  • into a man. During the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul's
  • lodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed the
  • American that it had been taken with every possible care to his suite.
  • 'Good,' said the young man. 'If you're through, we'll go and have a
  • look at it.'
  • They went upstairs. There was the picture resting against a chair.
  • 'Why, I call that fine,' said the young man. 'It's a cracker jack.'
  • Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be that here was the wealthy
  • connoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived in an
  • expensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picture
  • was a crackerjack.
  • 'Monsieur is kind,' murmured Paul.
  • 'It's a bear-cat,' said the young man, admiringly.
  • 'Monsieur is flattering,' said Paul, dimly perceiving a compliment.
  • 'I've been looking for a picture like that,' said the young man, 'for
  • months.'
  • Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards.
  • 'If you'll make a few alterations, I'll buy it and ask for more.'
  • 'Alterations, monsieur?'
  • 'One or two small ones.' He pointed to the stooping figure of the
  • shepherd. 'Now, you see this prominent citizen. What's he doing!'
  • 'He is stooping,' said Paul, fervently, 'to bestow upon his loved one a
  • kiss. And she, sleeping, all unconscious, dreaming of him--'
  • 'Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the "star" in
  • this show. You have summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stooping
  • good. Now, if that fellow was wearing braces and stooped like that,
  • you'd say he'd burst those braces, wouldn't you?'
  • With a somewhat dazed air Paul said that he thought he would. Till now
  • he had not looked at the figure from just that view-point.
  • 'You'd say he'd bust them?'
  • 'Assuredly, monsieur.'
  • 'No!' said the young man, solemnly, tapping him earnestly on the chest.
  • 'That's where you're wrong. Not if they were Galloway's Tried and
  • Proven. Galloway's Tried and Proven will stand any old strain you care
  • to put on them. See small bills. Wear Galloway's Tried and Proven, and
  • fate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I'm the company's
  • general manager.'
  • 'Indeed, monsieur!'
  • 'And I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that mossy bank, and make
  • the girl lying in a hammock. Put Willie in shirt-sleeves instead of a
  • bathrobe, and fix him up with a pair of the Tried and Proven, and I'll
  • give you three thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee of
  • four thousand a year to work for us and nobody else for any number of
  • years you care to mention. You've got the goods. You've got just the
  • touch. That happy look on Willie's face, for instance. You can see in a
  • minute why he's so happy. It's because he's wearing the Tried and
  • Proven, and he knows that however far he stoops they won't break. Is
  • that a deal?'
  • Paul's reply left no room for doubt. Seizing the young man firmly round
  • the waist, he kissed him with extreme fervour on both cheeks.
  • 'Here, break away!' cried the astonished general manager. 'That's no
  • way to sign a business contract.'
  • * * * * *
  • It was at about five minutes after one that afternoon that Constable
  • Thomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning to
  • him from the doorway of Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant. The man
  • looked like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish
  • _embonpoint_ of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had a
  • porcine soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parsons'
  • mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he
  • could win prizes with him at a show.
  • 'What's all this?' he inquired, halting.
  • The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook his
  • head.
  • 'Talk sense,' he advised.
  • 'In dere,' cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the
  • restaurant, 'a man, a--how you say?--yes, sacked. An employe whom I
  • yesterday sacked, today he returns. I say to him, "Cochon, va!"'
  • 'What's that?'
  • 'I say, "Peeg, go!" How you say? Yes, "pop off!" I say, "Peeg, pop
  • off!" But he--no, no; he sits and will not go. Come in, officer, and
  • expel him.'
  • With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one of
  • the tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeanne
  • stared freezingly.
  • 'What's all this?' inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up.
  • 'I too,' he admitted, 'I cannot understand. Figure to yourself,
  • monsieur. I enter this cafe to lunch, and this man here would expel
  • me.'
  • 'He is an employe whom I--I myself--have but yesterday dismissed,'
  • vociferated M. Bredin. 'He has no money to lunch at my restaurant.'
  • The policeman eyed Paul sternly.
  • 'Eh?' he said. 'That so? You'd better come along.'
  • Paul's eyebrows rose.
  • Before the round eyes of M. Bredin he began to produce from his pockets
  • and to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth was
  • covered with them.
  • He picked up a half-sovereign.
  • 'If monsieur,' he said to the policeman, 'would accept this as a slight
  • consolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here has
  • caused him--'
  • 'Not half,' said Mr Parsons, affably. 'Look here'--he turned to the
  • gaping proprietor--'if you go on like this you'll be getting yourself
  • into trouble. See? You take care another time.'
  • Paul called for the bill of fare.
  • It was the inferior person who had succeeded to his place as waiter who
  • attended to his needs during the meal; but when he had lunched it was
  • Jeanne who brought his coffee.
  • She bent over the table.
  • 'You sold your picture, Paul--yes?' she whispered. 'For much money? How
  • glad I am, dear Paul. Now we will--'
  • Paul met her glance coolly.
  • 'Will you be so kind,' he said, 'as to bring me also a cigarette, my
  • good girl?'
  • THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS
  • It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one night
  • at the Cafe Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the Cafe
  • Britannique that you will always find flies there, even in winter. Snow
  • was falling that night as I turned in at the door, but, glancing about
  • me, I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy the
  • bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deep
  • breathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more
  • than pause for a moment to nod at me; but his cousin, Harold, always
  • active, sighted me and bustled up to do the honours.
  • He had finished his game of touch-last with my right ear, and was
  • circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of
  • entertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and
  • no more Harold.
  • I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was a
  • Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who
  • has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle; of
  • one whom the clenched fist of Fate has smitten beneath the
  • temperamental third waistcoat-button.
  • He waved my thanks aside. 'It was a bagatelle,' he said. We became
  • friendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee.
  • Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. His
  • eyes gleamed angrily.
  • 'Ps-s-st!' he hissed. 'Va-t'en!'
  • I looked round the corner of the table, and perceived the restaurant
  • cat in dignified retreat.
  • 'You do not like cats?' I said.
  • 'I 'ate all animals, monsieur. Cats especially.' He frowned. He seemed
  • to hesitate.
  • 'I will tell you my story,' he said. 'You will sympathize. You have a
  • sympathetic face. It is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story
  • of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive.
  • It is the story--'
  • 'I've got an appointment at eleven,' I said.
  • He nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began:
  • * * * * *
  • I have conceived my 'atred of animals, monsieur, many years ago in
  • Paris. Animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, for
  • ambitions foiled, for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. You are
  • astonished. You ask why I say these things. I shall tell you.
  • I am in Paris, young, ardent, artistic. I wish to paint pictures. I
  • 'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. I wish to be disciple of the great
  • Bouguereau. But no. I am dependent for support upon an uncle. He is
  • rich. He is proprietor of the great Hotel Jules Priaulx. My name is
  • also Priaulx. He is not sympathetic. I say, 'Uncle, I 'ave the genius,
  • the ent'usiasm. Permit me to paint.' He shakes his head. He say, 'I
  • will give you position in my hotel, and you shall earn your living.'
  • What choice? I weep, but I kill my dreams, and I become cashier at my
  • uncle's hotel at a salary of thirty-five francs a week. I, the artist,
  • become a machine for the changing of money at dam bad salary. What
  • would you? What choice? I am dependent. I go to the hotel, and there I
  • learn to 'ate all animals. Cats especially.
  • I will tell you the reason. My uncle's hotel is fashionable hotel. Rich
  • Americans, rich Maharajahs, rich people of every nation come to my
  • uncle's hotel. They come, and with them they have brought their pets.
  • Monsieur, it was the existence of a nightmare. Wherever I have looked
  • there are animals. Listen. There is an Indian prince. He has with him
  • two dromedaries. There is also one other Indian prince. With him is a
  • giraffe. The giraffe drink every day one dozen best champagne to keep
  • his coat good. I, the artist, have my bock, and my coat is not good.
  • There is a guest with a young lion. There is a guest with an alligator.
  • But especially there is a cat. He is fat. His name is Alexander. He
  • belongs to an American woman. She is fat. She exhibits him to me. He is
  • wrapped in a silk and fur creation like an opera cloak. Every day she
  • exhibits him. It is 'Alexander this' and 'Alexander that', till I 'ate
  • Alexander very much. I 'ate all the animals, but especially Alexander.
  • And so, monsieur, it goes on, day by day, in this hotel that is a
  • Zoological Garden. And every day I 'ate the animals the more. But
  • especially Alexander.
  • We artists, monsieur, we are martyrs to our nerves. It became
  • insupportable, this thing. Each day it became more insupportable. At
  • night I dream of all the animals, one by one--the giraffe, the two
  • dromedaries, the young lion, the alligator, and Alexander. Especially
  • Alexander. You have 'eard of men who cannot endure the society of a
  • cat--how they cry out and jump in the air if a cat is among those
  • present. _Hein_? Your Lord Roberts? Precisely, monsieur. I have
  • read so much. Listen, then. I am become by degrees almost like 'im. I
  • do not cry out and jump in the air when I see the cat Alexander, but I
  • grind my teeth and I 'ate 'im.
  • Yes, I am the sleeping volcano, and one morning, monsieur, I have
  • suffered the eruption. It is like this. I shall tell you.
  • Not only at that time am I the martyr to nerves, but also to toothache.
  • That morning I 'ave 'ad the toothache very bad. I 'ave been in pain the
  • most terrible. I groan as I add up the figures in my book.
  • As I groan I 'ear a voice.
  • 'Say good morning to M. Priaulx, Alexander.' Conceive my emotions,
  • monsieur, when this fat, beastly cat is placed before me upon my desk!
  • It put the cover upon it. No, that is not the phrase. The lid. It put
  • the lid upon it. All my smothered 'atred of the animal burst forth. I
  • could no longer conceal my 'atred.
  • I rose. I was terrible. I seized 'im by the tail. I flung him--I did
  • not know where. I did not care. Not then. Afterwards, yes, but not
  • then.
  • Your Longfellow has a poem. 'I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to
  • earth, I know not where.' And then he has found it. The arrow in the
  • 'eart of a friend. Am I right? Also was that the tragedy with me. I
  • flung the cat Alexander. My uncle, on whom I am dependent, is passing
  • at the moment. He has received the cat in the middle of his face.
  • My companion, with the artist's instinct for the 'curtain', paused. He
  • looked round the brightly-lit restaurant. From every side arose the
  • clatter of knife and fork, and the clear, sharp note of those who drank
  • soup. In a distant corner a small waiter with a large voice was calling
  • the cook names through the speaking-tube. It was a cheerful scene, but
  • it brought no cheer to my companion. He sighed heavily and resumed:
  • * * * * *
  • I 'urry over that painful scene. There is blooming row. My uncle is
  • 'ot-tempered man. The cat is 'eavy cat. I 'ave thrown 'im very hard,
  • for my nerves and my toothache and my 'atred 'ave given me the giant's
  • strength. Alone is this enough to enrage my 'ot-tempered uncle. I am
  • there in his hotel, you will understand, as cashier, not as
  • cat-thrower. And now, besides all this, I have insulted valuable
  • patron. She 'ave left the hotel that day.
  • There are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome. With certainty I
  • await my _conge_. And after painful scene I get it. I am to go. At
  • once. He 'ave assured the angry American woman that I go at once.
  • He has called me into his private office. 'Jean,' he has said to me, at
  • the end of other things, 'you are a fool, dolt, no-good imbecile. I
  • give you good place in my hotel, and you spend your time flinging cats.
  • I will 'ave no more of you. But even now I cannot forget that you are
  • my dear brother's child. I will now give you one thousand francs and
  • never see you again.'
  • I have thanked him, for to me it is wealth. Not before have I ever had
  • one thousand francs of my own.
  • I go out of the hotel. I go to a _cafe_ and order a bock. I smoke
  • a cigarette. It is necessary that I think out plans. Shall I with my
  • one thousand francs rent a studio in the Quarter and commence my life
  • as artist? No. I have still the genius, the ent'usiasm, but I have not
  • the training. To train myself to paint pictures I must study long, and
  • even one thousand francs will not last for ever. Then what shall I do?
  • I do not know. I order one other bock, and smoke more cigarettes, but
  • still I do not know.
  • And then I say to myself, 'I will go back to my uncle, and plead with
  • him. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him after
  • dinner when he is in good temper. But for that I must be close at hand.
  • I must be--what's your expression?--"Johnny-on-the-spot".'
  • My mind is made up. I have my plan.
  • I have gone back to my uncle's hotel, and I have engaged not too
  • expensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his private
  • office. I secure my room.
  • I dine cheaply that night, but I go to theatre and also to supper after
  • the theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reach
  • my bedroom.
  • I go to bed. I go to sleep.
  • But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice.
  • It is a voice that says, 'Move and I shoot! Move and I shoot!' I lie
  • still. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed.
  • And the voice says again, 'Move and I shoot!' Is it robbers? Is it some
  • marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?
  • I do not know. Per'aps I think yes.
  • 'Who are you?' I have asked.
  • There is no answer.
  • I take my courage in my 'ands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door.
  • No pistol has been fire. I have reached the passage, and have shouted
  • for assistance.
  • Hotel officials run up. Doors open. 'What is it?' voices cry.
  • 'There is in my room an armed robber,' I assure them.
  • And then I have found--no, I am mistaken. My door, you will understand,
  • is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes
  • 'opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot.
  • 'Move and I shoot!' it has said to those gathered in the corridor. It
  • then has bitten me in the 'and and passed on.
  • I am chagrined, monsieur. But only for a moment. Then I forget my
  • chagrin. For a voice from a door that 'as opened says with joy, 'It is
  • my Polly, which I 'ave this evening lost!'
  • I turn. I gasp for admiration. It is a beautiful lady in a pink
  • dressing-gown which 'ave spoken these words.
  • She has looked at me. I 'ave looked at her. I forget everything but
  • that she is adorable. I forget those who stand by. I forget that the
  • parrot has bitten me in the 'and. I forget even that I am standing
  • there in pyjamas, with on my feet nothing. I can only gaze at her and
  • worship.
  • I have found words.
  • 'Mademoiselle,' I have said, 'I am rejoiced that I have been the means
  • of restoring to you your bird.'
  • She has thanked me with her eyes, and then with words also. I am
  • bewitched. She is divine. I care not that my feet are cold. I could
  • wish to stand there talking all night.
  • She has given a cry of dismay.
  • 'Your 'and! It is wounded!'
  • I look at my 'and. Yes, it is bleeding, where the bird 'ave bitten it.
  • 'Tchut, mademoiselle,' I have said. 'It is a bagatelle.'
  • But no. She is distressed. She is what your poet Scott 'ave said, a
  • ministering angel thou. She 'ave torn her 'andkerchief and is binding
  • up my wound. I am enchanted. Such beauty! Such kindness! 'Ardly can I
  • resist to fall on my knees before 'er and declare my passion.
  • We are twin souls. She has thanked me again. She has scolded the
  • parrot. She has smiled upon me as she retires to her room. It is
  • enough. Nothing is said, but I am a man of sensibility and discernment,
  • and I understand that she will not be offended if I seek to renew our
  • friendship on a more suitable occasion.
  • The doors shut. The guests have returned to bed, the hotel servants to
  • their duties. And I go back to my room. But not to sleep. It is very
  • late, but I do not sleep. I lie awake and think of 'er.
  • You will conceive, Monsieur, with what mixed feelings I descend next
  • morning. On the one 'and, I must keep the sharp look-out for my uncle,
  • for 'im I must avoid till he shall have--what do you say in your
  • idiom? Yes, I have it--simmered down and tucked in his shirt. On the
  • other 'and, I must watch for my lady of the parrot. I count the minutes
  • till we shall meet again.
  • I avoid my uncle with success, and I see 'er about the hour of
  • _dejeuner_. She is talking to old gentleman. I have bowed. She
  • have smiled and motioned me to approach.
  • 'Father,' she has said, 'this is the gentleman who caught Polly.'
  • We have shaken hands. He is indulgent papa. He has smiled and thanked
  • me also. We have confided to each other our names. He is English. He
  • owns much land in England. He has been staying in Paris. He is rich.
  • His name is 'Enderson. He addresses his daughter, and call her Marion.
  • In my 'eart I also call her Marion. You will perceive that I am, as you
  • say, pretty far gone.
  • The hour of _dejeuner_ has arrived. I entreat them to be my
  • guests. I can run to it, you understand, for there are still in my
  • pockets plenty of my uncle's francs. They consent. I am in 'eaven.
  • All is well. Our friendship has progressed with marvellous speed. The
  • old gentleman and I are swiftly the dear old pals. I 'ave confided to
  • 'im my dreams of artistic fame, and he has told me 'ow much he dislikes
  • your Lloyd George. He has mentioned that he and Miss Marion depart for
  • London that day. I am desolate. My face tumbles. He has observed my
  • despair. He has invited me to visit them in London.
  • Imagine my chagrin. To visit them in London is the one thing I desire
  • to do. But how? I accept gratefully, but I ask myself how it is to be
  • done? I am poor blighter with no profession and nine 'undred francs. He
  • 'as taken it for granted that I am wealthy.
  • What shall I do? I spend the afternoon trying to form a plan. And then
  • I am resolved. I will go to my uncle and say: 'Uncle, I have the
  • magnificent chance to marry the daughter of wealthy English landowner.
  • Already I 'ave her gratitude. Soon--for I am young, 'andsome,
  • debonair--I shall 'ave her love. Give me one more chance, uncle. Be
  • decent old buck, and put up the money for this affair.'
  • These words I have resolved to say to my uncle.
  • I go back to the hotel. I enter his private office. I reveal no secret
  • when I say that he is not cordial.
  • 'Ten thousand devils!' he has cried. 'What do you here?'
  • I 'asten to tell him all, and plead with him to be decent old buck. He
  • does not believe.
  • Who is he? he asks. This English landowner? How did I meet him? And
  • where?
  • I tell him. He is amazed.
  • 'You 'ad the infernal impudence to take room in my hotel?' he has
  • cried.
  • I am crafty. I am diplomat.
  • 'Where else, dear uncle?' I say. 'In all Paris there is no such 'ome
  • from 'ome. The cuisine--marvellous! The beds--of rose-leaves! The
  • attendance--superb! If only for one night, I have said to myself, I
  • must stay in this of all hotels.'
  • I 'ave--what do you say?--touched the spot.
  • 'In what you say,' he has said, more calmly, 'there is certainly
  • something. It is a good hotel, this of mine!'
  • The only hotel, I have assured him. The Meurice? _Chut!_ I snap my
  • fingers. The Ritz? Bah! Once again I snap my fingers. 'In all Paris
  • there is no hotel like this.'
  • He 'as simmered down. His shirt is tucked in. 'Tell me again this plan
  • of yours, Jean.'
  • When I leave 'im we have come to an understanding. It is agreed between
  • us that I am to 'ave one last chance. He will not spoil this promising
  • ship for the 'a'porth of tar. He will give me money for my purpose. But
  • he has said, as we part, if I fail, his 'ands shall be washed of me. He
  • cannot now forget that I am his dear brother's child; but if I fail to
  • accomplish the conquest of the divine Miss Marion, he thinks he will be
  • able to.
  • It is well. A week later I follow the 'Endersons to London.
  • For the next few days, monsieur, I am in Paradise. My 'ost has much
  • nice 'ouse in Eaton Square. He is rich, popular. There is much society.
  • And I--I have the _succes fou_. I am young, 'andsome, debonair. I
  • cannot speak the English very well--not so well as I now speak 'im--but
  • I manage. I get along. I am intelligent, amiable. Everyone loves me.
  • No, not everyone. Captain Bassett, he does not love me. And why?
  • Because he loves the charming Miss Marion, and observes that already I
  • am succeeding with her like a 'ouse on fire. He is _ami de
  • famille_. He is captain in your Garde Ecossais, and my 'ost told me
  • 'e has distinguished himself as soldier pretty much. It may be so. As
  • soldier, per'aps. But at conversation he is not so good. He is quite
  • nice fellow, you understand--'andsome, yes; distinguished, yes. But he
  • does not sparkle. He has not my _verve_, my _elan_. I--how do
  • you say?--I make the rings round him.
  • But, _Chut_! At that moment I would have made the rings round the
  • 'ole British Army. Yes, and also the Corps Diplomatique. For I am
  • inspired. Love 'as inspired me. I am conqueror.
  • But I will not weary you, monsieur, with the details of my wooing. You
  • are sympathetic, but I must not weary you. Let us say that I 'ave in
  • four days or five made progress the most remarkable, and proceed to the
  • tragic end.
  • Almost could I tell it in four words. In them one would say that it is
  • set forth. There was in London at that time popular a song, a comic,
  • vulgar song of the 'Alls, 'The Cat Came Back'. You 'ave 'eard it? Yes?
  • I 'eard it myself, and without emotion. It had no sinister warning for
  • me. It did not strike me as omen. Yet, in those four words, monsieur,
  • is my tragedy.
  • How? I shall tell you. Every word is a sword twisted in my 'eart, but I
  • shall tell you.
  • One afternoon we are at tea. All is well. I am vivacious, gay; Miss
  • Marion, charming, gracious. There is present also an aunt, Mr
  • 'Enderson's sister; but 'er I do not much notice. It is to Marion I
  • speak--both with my lips and also with my eyes.
  • As we sit, Captain Bassett is announced.
  • He has entered. We have greeted each other politely but coldly, for we
  • are rivals. There is in his manner also a something which I do not much
  • like--a species of suppressed triumph, of elation.
  • I am uneasy--but only yet vaguely, you will understand. I have not the
  • foreboding that he is about to speak my death-sentence.
  • He addresses Miss Marion. There is joy in his voice. 'Miss 'Enderson,'
  • he has said, 'I have for you the bally good news. You will remember,
  • isn't it, the cat belonging to the American woman in the hotel at
  • Paris, of which you have spoken to me? Last night at dinner I have been
  • seated beside her. At first I am not certain is it she. Then I say that
  • there cannot be two Mrs Balderstone Rockmettlers in Europe, so I
  • mention to her the cat. And, to cut the long story short, I have
  • ventured to purchase for you as a little present the cat Alexander.'
  • I have uttered a cry of horror, but it is not 'eard because of Miss
  • Marion's cry of joy.
  • 'Oh, Captain Bassett,' she has said, 'how very splendid of you! Ever
  • since I first saw him have I loved Alexander. I cannot tell you how
  • grateful I am. But it amazes me that you should have been able to
  • induce her to part with 'im. In Paris she has refused all my offers.'
  • He has paused, embarrassed.
  • 'The fact is,' he has said, 'there is between her and Alexander a
  • certain coolness. He 'as deceived 'er, and she loves him no more.
  • Immediately upon arrival in London, he had the misfortune to 'ave six
  • fine kittens. 'Owever, out of evil cometh good, and I have thus been
  • able to secure 'im for you. 'E is downstairs in a basket!'
  • Miss Marion 'as rung the bell and commanded for him to be brought
  • instantly.
  • I will not describe the meeting, monsieur. You are sympathetic. You
  • will understand my feelings. Let us 'urry on.
  • Figure yourself, monsieur, to what extent I was now 'arassed. I am
  • artist. I am a man of nerves. I cannot be gay, brilliant, debonair in
  • the presence of a cat. Yet always the cat is there. It is terrible.
  • I feel that I am falling behind in the race. 'Er gratitude has made her
  • the more gracious to Captain Bassett. She smiles upon him. And, like
  • Chanticleer at the sight of the sun, he flaps his wings and crows. He
  • is no longer the silent listener. It is I who have become the silent
  • listener.
  • I have said to myself that something must be done.
  • Chance has shown me the way. One afternoon I am by fortune alone in the
  • 'all. In his cage the parrot Polly is 'opping. I address him through
  • the bars.
  • 'Move and I shoot I' he has cried.
  • The tears have filled my eyes. 'Ow it has brought the 'ole scene back
  • to me!
  • As I weep, I perceive the cat Alexander approaching.
  • I have formed a plan. I have opened the cage-door and released the
  • parrot. The cat, I think, will attack the parrot of which Miss
  • 'Enderson is so fond. She will love him no more. He will be expelled.
  • * * * * *
  • He paused. I suppose my face must have lost some of its alleged
  • sympathy as he set forth this fiendish plot. Even Percy the bluebottle
  • seemed shocked. He had settled on the sugar-bowl, but at these words he
  • rose in a marked manner and left the table.
  • 'You do not approve?' he said.
  • I shrugged my shoulders.
  • 'It's no business of mine,' I said. 'But don't you think yourself it
  • was playing it a bit low down? Didn't the thought present itself to you
  • in a shadowy way that it was rather rough on the bird?'
  • 'It did, monsieur. But what would you? It is necessary to break eggs in
  • order to make an omelette. All is fair, you say, in love and war, and
  • this was both. Moreover, you must understand, I do not dictate his
  • movements to the parrot. He is free agent. I do but open the cage-door.
  • Should he 'op out and proceed to the floor where is the cat, that is
  • his affair. I shall continue, yes?'
  • * * * * *
  • _Alors!_ I open the cage-door and disappear discreetly. It is not
  • politic that I remain to witness what shall transpire. It is for me to
  • establish an alibi. I go to the drawing-room, where I remain.
  • At dinner that night Mr 'Enderson has laughed.
  • 'In the 'all this afternoon,' he has said, 'I have seen by chance the
  • dickens of a funny occurrence. That parrot of yours, Marion, had
  • escaped once again from its cage and was 'aving an argument with that
  • cat which Captain Bassett has given to you.'
  • 'Oh! I hope that Alexander 'as not hurt poor Polly, of whom I am very
  • fond,' she has said.
  • 'The affair did not come to blows,' has said Mr 'Enderson. 'You may
  • trust that bird to take care of himself, my dear. When I came upon the
  • scene the cat was crouching in a corner, with his fur bristling and his
  • back up, while Polly, standing before 'im, was telling 'im not to move
  • or he would shoot. Nor did he move, till I 'ad seized the parrot and
  • replaced him in the cage, when he shot upstairs like a streak of
  • lightning. By sheer force of character that excellent bird 'ad won the
  • bloodless victory. I drink to 'im!'
  • You can conceive my emotion as I listen to this tale. I am like the
  • poet's mice and men whose best-kid schemes have gone away. I am
  • baffled. I am discouraged. I do not know what I shall do. I must find
  • another plan, but I do not know what.
  • How shall I remove the cat? Shall I kill 'im? No, for I might be
  • suspect.
  • Shall I 'ire someone to steal 'im? No, for my accomplice might betray
  • me.
  • Shall I myself steal 'im? Ah! that is better. That is a very good plan.
  • Soon I have it perfected, this plan. Listen, monsieur; it is as
  • follows. It is simple, but it is good. I will await my opportunity. I
  • will remove the cat secretly from the 'ouse. I will take him to an
  • office of the District Messenger Boys. I will order a messenger to
  • carry him at once to the Cats' House, and to request M. le Directeur
  • immediately to destroy him. It is a simple plan, but it is good.
  • I carry it through without a 'itch. It is not so difficult to secure
  • the cat. 'E is asleep in the drawing-room. There is nobody at hand. I
  • have in my bedroom a 'at-box which I have brought from Paris. I have
  • brought it with me to the drawing-room. I have placed in it the cat. I
  • have escaped from the 'ouse. The cat has uttered a cry, but none has
  • 'eard. I have reached the office of the District Messenger Boys. I have
  • 'anded over the cat in its box. The manager is courteous, sympathetic.
  • A messenger has started in a cab for the Cats' House. I have breathed
  • a sigh of relief. I am saved.
  • That is what I say to myself as I return. My troubles are over, and
  • once more I can be gay, debonair, vivacious with Miss Marion, for no
  • longer will there be present the cat Alexander to 'arass me.
  • When I have returned there is commotion in the 'ouse. I pass on the
  • stairs domestics calling 'Puss, puss!' The butler is chirruping loudly
  • and poking beneath the furniture with a umbrella. All is confusion and
  • agitation.
  • In the drawing-room is Miss Marion. She is distressed.
  • 'Nowhere,' she has said, 'can there be found the cat Alexander of whom
  • I am so fond. Nowhere in the 'ouse is he, Where can he be? He is lost.'
  • I am gentle, sympathetic. I endeavour to console her. I 'int to her
  • that am I not sufficient substitute for a beastly cat? She is, however,
  • inconsolable. I must be patient. I must wait my time.
  • Captain Bassett is announced. He is informed of what has 'appened. He
  • is distressed. He has the air as if he, too, would endeavour to be
  • gentle, sympathetic. But I am Johnny-on-the-spot. I stay till he 'as
  • gone.
  • Next day again it is 'Puss, puss!' Again the butler has explored under
  • the furniture with the umbrella. Again Miss Marion is distressed. Again
  • 'ave I endeavoured to console.
  • This time I think I am not so unsuccessful. I am, you understand,
  • young, 'andsome, sympathetic. In another two ticks I am about to seize
  • 'er 'and and declare my passion.
  • But, before I can do so, Captain Bassett is announced.
  • I gaze at him as at unsuccessful rival. I am confident. I am conqueror.
  • Ah, I little know! It is in the moments of our highest 'ope, monsieur,
  • that we are destroyed.
  • Captain Bassett, he, too, 'as the air of the conqueror.
  • He has begun to speak.
  • 'Miss 'Enderson,' he has said, 'I have once more the bally good news. I
  • rather fancy that I 'ave tracked down the missing Alexander, do you not
  • know?'
  • Miss Marion 'as cried out with joy. But I am calm, for is not Alexander
  • already yesterday destroyed?
  • 'It is like this,' he has resumed. 'I have thought to myself where is
  • lost cat most likely to be? And I have answered, "In the Cats' House."
  • I go this morning to the Cats' House, and there I see a cat which is
  • either lost Alexander or his living image. Exactly is he the same to
  • all appearances as the lost Alexander. But there is, when I try to
  • purchase 'im, some curious 'itch which they do not explain. They must
  • 'ave time, they say, to consider. They cannot at once decide.'
  • 'Why, what nonsense!' Miss Marion 'ave cried. 'If the cat is my cat,
  • surely then must they return 'im to me! Come,' she has said, 'let us
  • all three at once in a taxi-cab go to the Cats' House. If the all three
  • of us identify the lost Alexander, then must they return 'im.'
  • Monsieur, I am uneasy. I have foreboding. But I go. What choice? We go
  • in a taxi-cab to the Cats' House.
  • The _directeur_ is courteous and sympathetic. He has introduced us
  • to the cat, and my 'eart 'as turned to water, for it is Alexander. Why
  • has he not been destroyed?
  • The _directeur_ is speaking. I 'ear him in a dream.
  • 'If you identify 'im as your cat, miss,' he has said, 'the matter is
  • ended. My 'esitation when you, sir, approached me this morning on the
  • matter was due to the fact that a messenger was sent with instructions
  • that he be destroyed at once.'
  • 'Rather rough, wasn't it, that, on the messenger, yes,' Captain Bassett
  • has said. He is facetious, you understand, for he is conqueror.
  • I am silent. I am not facetious. For already I feel--how do you
  • say?--my fowl is cooked.
  • 'Not the messenger, sir,' the _directeur_ has said. 'You 'ave
  • misunderstood me. It was the cat which was to be destroyed as per
  • instructions of the anonymous sender.'
  • 'Who could have played such a wicked trick?' Miss Marion has asked,
  • indignant.
  • The _directeur_ has stooped, and from behind a table he has
  • brought a 'at-box.
  • 'In this,' he has said, 'the above animal was conveyed. But with it was
  • no accompanying letter. The sender was anonymous.'
  • 'Per'aps,' Captain Bassett has said--and still more in a dream I 'ear
  • him--'per'aps on the 'at-box there is some bally name or other, do you
  • not know--what?'
  • I clutch at the table. The room is spinning round and round. I have no
  • stomach--only emptiness.
  • 'Why, bless me,' the _directeur_ has said, 'you're quite right,
  • sir. So there is. Funny of me not to have before observed it. There is
  • a name, and also an address. It is the name of Jean Priaulx, and the
  • address is the Hotel Jules Priaulx, Paris.'
  • My companion stopped abruptly. He passed a handkerchief over his
  • forehead. With a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueur
  • brandy and drained it at a gulp.
  • 'Monsieur,' he said, 'you will not wish me to describe the scene? There
  • is no need for me--_hein?_--to be Zolaesque. You can imagine?'
  • 'She chucked you?' In moments of emotion it is the simplest language
  • that comes to the lips.
  • He nodded.
  • 'And married Captain Bassett?'
  • He nodded again.
  • 'And your uncle?' I said. 'How did he take it?'
  • He sighed.
  • 'There was once more,' he said, 'blooming row, monsieur.'
  • 'He washed his hands of you?'
  • 'Not altogether. He was angry, but he gave me one more chance. I am
  • still 'is dear brother's child, and he cannot forget it. An
  • acquaintance of his, a man of letters, a M. Paul Sartines, was in need
  • of a secretary. The post was not well paid, but it was permanent. My
  • uncle insist that I take it. What choice? I took it. It is the post
  • which I still 'old.'
  • He ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down.
  • 'The name is familiar to you, monsieur? You 'ave 'eard of M. Sartines?'
  • 'I don't think I have. Who is he?'
  • 'He is a man of letters, a _savant_. For five years he has been
  • occupied upon a great work. It is with that that I assist him by
  • collecting facts for 'is use. I 'ave spent this afternoon in the
  • British Museum collecting facts. Tomorrow I go again. And the next day.
  • And again after that. The book will occupy yet another ten years before
  • it is completed. It is his great work.'
  • 'It sounds as if it was,' I said. 'What's it about?'
  • He signalled to the waiter.
  • '_Garcon_, one other liqueur brandy. The book, monsieur, is a
  • '_Istory of the Cat in Ancient Egypt._'
  • RUTH IN EXILE
  • The clock struck five--briskly, as if time were money. Ruth Warden got
  • up from her desk and, having put on her hat, emerged into the outer
  • office where M. Gandinot received visitors. M. Gandinot, the ugliest
  • man in Roville-sur-Mer, presided over the local _mont-de-piete_,
  • and Ruth served him, from ten to five, as a sort of secretary-clerk.
  • Her duties, if monotonous, were simple. They consisted of sitting,
  • detached and invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and entering
  • details of loans in a fat book. She was kept busy as a rule, for
  • Roville possesses two casinos, each offering the attraction of
  • _petits chevaux_, and just round the corner is Monte Carlo. Very
  • brisk was the business done by M. Gandinot, the pawnbroker, and very
  • frequent were the pitying shakes of the head and clicks of the tongue
  • of M. Gandinot, the man; for in his unofficial capacity Ruth's employer
  • had a gentle soul, and winced at the evidences of tragedy which
  • presented themselves before his official eyes.
  • He blinked up at Ruth as she appeared, and Ruth, as she looked at him,
  • was conscious, as usual, of a lightening of the depression which,
  • nowadays, seemed to have settled permanently upon her. The peculiar
  • quality of M. Gandinot's extraordinary countenance was that it induced
  • mirth--not mocking laughter, but a kind of smiling happiness. It
  • possessed that indefinable quality which characterizes the Billiken,
  • due, perhaps, to the unquenchable optimism which shone through the
  • irregular features; for M. Gandinot, despite his calling, believed in
  • his fellow-man.
  • 'You are going, mademoiselle?'
  • As Ruth was wearing her hat and making for the door, and as she always
  • left at this hour, a purist might have considered the question
  • superfluous; but M. Gandinot was a man who seized every opportunity of
  • practising his English.
  • 'You will not wait for the good papa who calls so regularly for you?'
  • 'I think I won't today, M. Gandinot. I want to get out into the air. I
  • have rather a headache. Will you tell my father I have gone to the
  • Promenade?'
  • M. Gandinot sighed as the door closed behind her. Ruth's depression had
  • not escaped his notice. He was sorry for her. And not without cause,
  • for Fate had not dealt too kindly with Ruth.
  • It would have amazed Mr Eugene Warden, that genial old gentleman, if,
  • on one of those occasions of manly emotion when he was in the habit of
  • observing that he had been nobody's enemy but his own, somebody had
  • hinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. Such a thought had
  • never entered his head. He was one of those delightful, irresponsible,
  • erratic persons whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and who
  • are about as deadly to those whose lives are bound up with theirs as a
  • Upas tree.
  • In the memory of his oldest acquaintance, Ruth's father had never done
  • anything but drift amiably through life. There had been a time when he
  • had done his drifting in London, feeding cheerfully from the hand of a
  • long-suffering brother-in-law. But though blood, as he was wont to
  • remark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, a
  • brother-in-law's affection has its limits. A day came when Mr Warden
  • observed with pain that his relative responded less nimbly to the
  • touch. And a little while later the other delivered his ultimatum. Mr
  • Warden was to leave England, and to stay away from England, to behave
  • as if England no longer existed on the map, and a small but sufficient
  • allowance would be made to him. If he declined to do this, not another
  • penny of the speaker's money would he receive. He could choose.
  • He chose. He left England, Ruth with him. They settled in Roville, that
  • haven of the exile who lives upon remittances.
  • Ruth's connexion with the _mont-de-piete_ had come about almost
  • automatically. Very soon after their arrival it became evident that, to
  • a man of Mr Warden's nature, resident a stone's-throw distant from two
  • casinos, the small allowance was not likely to go very far. Even if
  • Ruth had not wished to work, circumstances could have compelled her. As
  • it was, she longed for something to occupy her, and, the vacancy at the
  • _mont-de-piete_ occurring, she had snatched at it. There was a
  • certain fitness in her working there. Business transactions with that
  • useful institution had always been conducted by her, it being Mr
  • Warden's theory that Woman can extract in these crises just that extra
  • franc or two which is denied to the mere male. Through constantly going
  • round, running across, stepping over, and popping down to the
  • _mont-de-piete_ she had established almost a legal claim on any post
  • that might be vacant there.
  • And under M. Gandinot's banner she had served ever since.
  • * * * * *
  • Five minutes' walk took her to the Promenade des Anglais, that
  • apparently endless thoroughfare which is Roville's pride. The evening
  • was fine and warm. The sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, the
  • bright Gardens, and the two gleaming casinos. But Ruth walked
  • listlessly, blind to the glitter of it all.
  • Visitors who go to Roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt to
  • speak of the place, on their return, in a manner that conveys the
  • impression that it is a Paradise on earth, with gambling facilities
  • thrown in. But, then, they are visitors. Their sojourn comes to an end.
  • Ruth's did not.
  • A voice spoke her name. She turned, and saw her father, dapper as ever,
  • standing beside her.
  • 'What an evening, my dear!' said Mr Warden. 'What an evening! Smell the
  • sea!'
  • Mr Warden appeared to be in high spirits. He hummed a tune and twirled
  • his cane. He chirruped frequently to Bill, the companion of his walks
  • abroad, a wiry fox-terrier of a demeanour, like his master's, both
  • jaunty and slightly disreputable. An air of gaiety pervaded his
  • bearing.
  • 'I called in at the _mont-de-piete_ but you had gone. Gandinot
  • told me you had come here. What an ugly fellow that Gandinot is! But a
  • good sort. I like him. I had a chat with him.'
  • The high spirits were explained. Ruth knew her father. She guessed,
  • correctly, that M. Gandinot, kindest of pawnbrokers, had obliged, in
  • his unofficial capacity, with a trifling loan.
  • 'Gandinot ought to go on the stage,' went on Mr Warden, pursuing his
  • theme. 'With that face he would make his fortune. You can't help
  • laughing when you see it. One of these days--'
  • He broke off. Stirring things had begun to occur in the neighbourhood
  • of his ankles, where Bill, the fox-terrier, had encountered an
  • acquaintance, and, to the accompaniment of a loud, gargling noise, was
  • endeavouring to bite his head off. The acquaintance, a gentleman of
  • uncertain breed, equally willing, was chewing Bill's paw with the gusto
  • of a gourmet. An Irish terrier, with no personal bias towards either
  • side, was dancing round and attacking each in turn as he came
  • uppermost. And two poodles leaped madly in and out of the melee,
  • barking encouragement.
  • It takes a better man than Mr Warden to break up a gathering of this
  • kind. The old gentleman was bewildered. He added his voice to the
  • babel, and twice smote Bill grievously with his cane with blows
  • intended for the acquaintance, but beyond that he effected nothing. It
  • seemed probable that the engagement would last till the combatants had
  • consumed each other, after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats, when there
  • suddenly appeared from nowhere a young man in grey.
  • The world is divided into those who can stop dog-fights and those who
  • cannot. The young man in grey belonged to the former class. Within a
  • minute from his entrance on the scene the poodles and the Irish terrier
  • had vanished; the dog of doubtful breed was moving off up the hill,
  • yelping, with the dispatch of one who remembers an important
  • appointment, and Bill, miraculously calmed, was seated in the centre of
  • the Promenade, licking honourable wounds.
  • Mr Warden was disposed to effervesce with gratitude. The scene had
  • shaken him, and there had been moments when he had given his ankles up
  • for lost.
  • 'Don't mention it,' said the young man. 'I enjoy arbitrating in these
  • little disputes. Dogs seem to like me and trust my judgement. I
  • consider myself as a sort of honorary dog.'
  • 'Well, I am bound to say, Mr--?'
  • 'Vince--George Vince.'
  • 'My name is Warden. My daughter.'
  • Ruth inclined her head, and was conscious of a pair of very penetrating
  • brown eyes looking eagerly into hers in a manner which she thoroughly
  • resented. She was not used to the other sex meeting her gaze and
  • holding it as if confident of a friendly welcome. She made up her mind
  • in that instant that this was a young man who required suppression.
  • 'I've seen you several times out here since I arrived, Miss Warden,'
  • said Mr Vince. 'Four in all,' he added, precisely.
  • 'Really?' said Ruth.
  • She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished
  • with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.
  • As they approached the casino restlessness crept into Mr Warden's
  • manner. At the door he stopped and looked at Ruth.
  • 'I think, my dear--' he said.
  • 'Going to have a dash at the _petits chevaux?_' inquired Mr Vince.
  • 'I was there just now. I have an infallible system.'
  • Mr Warden started like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet.
  • 'Only it's infallible the wrong way,' went on the young man. 'Well, I
  • wish you luck. I'll see Miss Warden home.'
  • 'Please don't trouble,' said Ruth, in the haughty manner which had
  • frequently withered unfortunate fellow-exiles in their tracks.
  • It had no such effect on Mr Vince.
  • 'I shall like it,' he said.
  • Ruth set her teeth. She would see whether he would like it.
  • They left Mr Warden, who shot in at the casino door like a homing
  • rabbit, and walked on in silence, which lasted till Ruth, suddenly
  • becoming aware that her companion's eyes were fixed on her face, turned
  • her head, to meet a gaze of complete, not to say loving, admiration.
  • She flushed. She was accustomed to being looked at admiringly, but
  • about this particular look there was a subtle quality that
  • distinguished it from the ordinary--something proprietorial.
  • Mr Vince appeared to be a young man who wasted no time on conventional
  • conversation-openings.
  • 'Do you believe in affinities, Miss Warden?' he said,
  • 'No,' said Ruth.
  • 'You will before we've done,' said Mr Vince, confidently. 'Why did you
  • try to snub me just now?'
  • 'Did I?'
  • 'You mustn't again. It hurts me. I'm a sensitive man. Diffident. Shy.
  • Miss Warden, will you marry me?'
  • Ruth had determined that nothing should shake her from her icy
  • detachment, but this did. She stopped with a gasp, and stared at him.
  • Mr Vince reassured her.
  • 'I don't expect you to say "Yes". That was just a beginning--the shot
  • fired across the bows by way of warning. In you, Miss Warden, I have
  • found my affinity. Have you ever considered this matter of affinities?
  • Affinities are the--the--Wait a moment.'
  • He paused, reflecting.
  • 'I--' began Ruth.
  • ''Sh!' said the young man, holding up his hand.
  • Ruth's eyes flashed. She was not used to having ''Sh!' said to her by
  • young men, and she resented it.
  • 'I've got it,' he declared, with relief. 'I knew I should, but these
  • good things take time. Affinities are the zero on the roulette-board of
  • life. Just as we select a number on which to stake our money, so do we
  • select a type of girl whom we think we should like to marry. And just
  • as zero pops up instead of the number, so does our affinity come along
  • and upset all our pre-conceived notions of the type of girl we should
  • like to marry.'
  • 'I--' began Ruth again.
  • 'The analogy is in the rough at present. I haven't had time to condense
  • and polish it. But you see the idea. Take my case, for instance. When I
  • saw you a couple of days ago I knew in an instant that you were my
  • affinity. But for years I had been looking for a woman almost your
  • exact opposite. You are dark. Three days ago I couldn't have imagined
  • myself marrying anyone who was not fair. Your eyes are grey. Three days
  • ago my preference for blue eyes was a by-word. You have a shocking
  • temper. Three days ago--'
  • 'Mr Vince!'
  • 'There!' said that philosopher, complacently. 'You stamped. The gentle,
  • blue-eyed blonde whom I was looking for three days ago would have
  • drooped timidly. Three days ago my passion for timid droopers amounted
  • to an obsession.'
  • Ruth did not reply. It was useless to bandy words with one who gave
  • such clear evidence of being something out of the common run of
  • word-bandiers. No verbal attack could crush this extraordinary young
  • man. She walked on, all silence and stony profile, uncomfortably
  • conscious that her companion was in no way abashed by the former and
  • was regarding the latter with that frank admiration which had made
  • itself so obnoxious to her before, until they reached their destination.
  • Mr Vince, meanwhile, chatted cheerfully, and pointed out objects of
  • interest by the wayside.
  • At the door Ruth permitted herself a word of farewell.
  • 'Good-bye,' she said.
  • 'Till tomorrow evening,' said Mr Vince. 'I shall be coming to dinner.'
  • Mr Warden ambled home, very happy and contented, two hours later, with
  • half a franc in his pocket, this comparative wealth being due to the
  • fact that the minimum stake permitted by the Roville casino is just
  • double that sum. He was sorry not to have won, but his mind was too
  • full of rosy dreams to permit of remorse. It was the estimable old
  • gentleman's dearest wish that his daughter should marry some rich,
  • open-handed man who would keep him in affluence for the remainder of
  • his days, and to that end he was in the habit of introducing to her
  • notice any such that came his way. There was no question of coercing
  • Ruth. He was too tender-hearted for that. Besides he couldn't. Ruth was
  • not the sort of girl who is readily coerced. He contented himself with
  • giving her the opportunity to inspect his exhibits. Roville is a
  • sociable place, and it was not unusual for him to make friends at the
  • casino and to bring them home, when made, for a cigar. Up to the
  • present, he was bound to admit, his efforts had not been particularly
  • successful. Ruth, he reflected sadly, was a curious girl. She did not
  • show her best side to these visitors. There was no encouragement in her
  • manner. She was apt to frighten the unfortunate exhibits. But of this
  • young man Vince he had brighter hopes. He was rich. That was proved by
  • the very handsome way in which he had behaved in the matter of a small
  • loan when, looking in at the casino after parting from Ruth, he had
  • found Mr Warden in sore straits for want of a little capital to back a
  • brand-new system which he had conceived through closely observing the
  • run of the play. He was also obviously attracted by Ruth. And, as he
  • was remarkably presentable--indeed, quite an unusually good-looking
  • young man--there seemed no reason why Ruth should not be equally
  • attracted by him. The world looked good to Mr Warden as he fell asleep
  • that night.
  • Ruth did not fall asleep so easily. The episode had disturbed her. A
  • new element had entered her life, and one that gave promise of
  • producing strange by-products.
  • When, on the following evening, Ruth returned from the stroll on the
  • Promenade which she always took after leaving the _mont-de-piete_,
  • with a feeling of irritation towards things in general, this feeling
  • was not diminished by the sight of Mr Vince, very much at his ease,
  • standing against the mantelpiece of the tiny parlour.
  • 'How do you do?' he said. 'By an extraordinary coincidence I happened
  • to be hanging about outside this house just now, when your father came
  • along and invited me in to dinner. Have you ever thought much about
  • coincidences, Miss Warden? To my mind, they may be described as the
  • zero on the roulette-board of life.'
  • He regarded her fondly.
  • 'For a shy man, conscious that the girl he loves is inspecting him
  • closely and making up her mind about him,' he proceeded, 'these
  • unexpected meetings are very trying ordeals. You must not form your
  • judgement of me too hastily. You see me now, nervous, embarrassed,
  • tongue-tied. But I am not always like this. Beneath this crust of
  • diffidence there is sterling stuff, Miss Warden. People who know me
  • have spoken of me as a little ray of sun--But here is your father.'
  • Mr Warden was more than usually disappointed with Ruth during dinner.
  • It was the same old story. So far from making herself pleasant to this
  • attractive stranger, she seemed positively to dislike him. She was
  • barely civil to him. With a sigh Mr Warden told himself that he did not
  • understand Ruth, and the rosy dreams he had formed began to fade.
  • Ruth's ideas on the subject of Mr Vince as the days went by were
  • chaotic. Though she told herself that she thoroughly objected to him,
  • he had nevertheless begun to have an undeniable attraction for her. In
  • what this attraction consisted she could not say. When she tried to
  • analyse it, she came to the conclusion that it was due to the fact that
  • he was the only element in her life that made for excitement. Since his
  • advent the days had certainly passed more swiftly for her. The dead
  • level of monotony had been broken. There was a certain fascination in
  • exerting herself to suppress him, which increased daily as each attempt
  • failed.
  • Mr Vince put this feeling into words for her. He had a maddening habit
  • of discussing the progress of his courtship in the manner of an
  • impartial lecturer.
  • 'I am making headway,' he observed. 'The fact that we cannot meet
  • without your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on my
  • spiritual solar plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning at
  • last to understand that we are affinities. To persons of spirit like
  • ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm
  • foundation of almost incessant quarrelling. The most beautiful line in
  • English poetry, to my mind, is, "We fell out, my wife and I." You would
  • be wretched with a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. The
  • position of affairs now is that I have become necessary to you. If I
  • went out of your life now I should leave an aching void. You would
  • still have that beautiful punch of yours, and there would be nobody to
  • exercise it on. You would pine away. From now on matters should, I
  • think, move rapidly. During the course of the next week I shall
  • endeavour to propitiate you with gifts. Here is the first of them.'
  • He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it her. It was a
  • pencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruth
  • could appreciate that--and she was a prejudiced observer, for the
  • sketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her, drawn up to her
  • full height, with enormous, scornful eyes and curling lips, and the
  • artist had managed to combine an excellent likeness while accentuating
  • everything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normal
  • expression of scorn and discontent.
  • 'I didn't know you were an artist, Mr Vince,' she said, handing it
  • back.
  • 'A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it.'
  • 'I have not the slightest wish to keep it.'
  • 'You haven't?'
  • 'It is not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you to
  • show it to me. The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude.'
  • 'A little more,' said Mr Vince, 'and I shall begin to think you don't
  • like it. Are you fond of chocolates?'
  • Ruth did not answer.
  • 'I am sending you some tomorrow.'
  • 'I shall return them.'
  • 'Then I shall send some more, and some fruit. Gifts!' soliloquized Mr
  • Vince. 'Gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men would
  • only stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors.'
  • On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of them
  • in a lordly box. The bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotched in
  • Ruth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effort
  • that she wrapped the box up again and returned it to the sender. She
  • went off to her work at the _mont-de-piete_ with a glow of
  • satisfaction which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in trying
  • circumstances.
  • And at the _mont-de-piete_ there occurred a surprising incident.
  • Surprising incidents, as Mr Vince would have said, are the zero on the
  • roulette-board of life. They pop up disturbingly when least expected,
  • confusing the mind and altering pre-conceived opinions. And this was a
  • very surprising incident indeed.
  • Ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind a
  • ground-glass screen, unseen and unseeing. To her the patrons of the
  • establishment were mere disembodied voices--wheedling voices, pathetic
  • voices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, voices that
  • whined, moaned, broke, appealed to the saints, and in various other
  • ways endeavoured to instil into M. Gandinot more spacious and princely
  • views on the subject of advancing money on property pledged. She was
  • sitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on the
  • blotting-pad, for there had been a lull in the business, when the door
  • opened, and the polite, 'Bonjour, monsieur,' of M. Gandinot announced
  • the arrival of another unfortunate.
  • And then, shaking her like an electric shock, came a voice that she
  • knew--the pleasant voice of Mr Vince.
  • The dialogues that took place on the other side of the screen were
  • often protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to Ruth so
  • interminable, so hideously sordid, as this one.
  • Round and round its miserable centre--a silver cigarette-case--the
  • dreary argument circled. The young man pleaded; M. Gandinot, adamant in
  • his official role, was immovable.
  • Ruth could bear it no longer. She pressed her hands over her burning
  • ears, and the voices ceased to trouble her.
  • And with the silence came thought, and a blaze of understanding that
  • flashed upon her and made all things clear. She understood now why she
  • had closed her ears.
  • Poverty is an acid which reacts differently on differing natures. It
  • had reduced Mr Eugene Warden's self-respect to a minimum. Ruth's it had
  • reared up to an abnormal growth. Her pride had become a weed that ran
  • riot in her soul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. Perhaps it
  • was her father's naive stratagems for the enmeshing of a wealthy
  • husband that had produced in her at last a morbid antipathy to the
  • idea of playing beggar-maid to any man's King Cophetua. The state of
  • mind is intelligible. The Cophetua legend never has been told from the
  • beggar-maid's point of view, and there must have been moments when, if
  • a woman of spirit, she resented that monarch's somewhat condescending
  • attitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence, he had
  • taken her grateful acquiescence very much for granted.
  • This, she saw now, was what had prejudiced her against George Vince.
  • She had assumed that he was rich. He had conveyed the impression of
  • being rich. And she had been on the defensive against him accordingly.
  • Now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. A barrier had been
  • broken down. The royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguised
  • the man she loved.
  • A touch on her arm aroused her. M. Gandinot was standing by her side.
  • Terms, apparently had been agreed upon and the interview concluded, for
  • in his hand was a silver cigarette-case.
  • 'Dreaming, mademoiselle? I could not make you hear. The more I call to
  • you, the more you did not answer. It is necessary to enter this loan.'
  • He recited the details and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done,
  • M. Gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed.
  • 'It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. How he would
  • not take no for an answer, that young man, recently departed. A
  • fellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle. You would say, "What does this
  • young man, so well-dressed, in a _mont-de-piete_?" But I know
  • better, I, Gandinot. You have an expression, you English--I heard it in
  • Paris in a cafe, and inquired its meaning--when you say of a man that he
  • swanks. How many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed--rich,
  • you would say. No, no. The _mont-de-piete_ permits no secrets. To
  • swank, mademoiselle, what is it? To deceive the world, yes. But not the
  • _mont-de-piete_. Yesterday also, when you had departed, was he
  • here, that young man. Yet here he is once more today. He spends his
  • money quickly, alas! that poor young swanker.'
  • When Ruth returned home that evening she found her father in the
  • sitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, but
  • with some uneasiness--for the old gentleman had nerved himself to a
  • delicate task. He had made up his mind tonight to speak seriously to
  • Ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr Vince. The
  • more he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this was
  • the human gold-mine for which he had been searching all these weary
  • years. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on the
  • forehead, and began to speak.
  • It had long been Mr Warden's opinion that, if his daughter had a fault,
  • it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient
  • frankness. She had not that tact which he would have liked a daughter
  • of his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. She
  • was at times painfully blunt.
  • This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interrupted
  • him with a question.
  • 'What makes you think Mr Vince is rich, father?' she asked.
  • Mr Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr Vince's opulence had not
  • entered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact that
  • he was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it,
  • and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. The
  • question was not in order, and it embarrassed him.
  • 'I--why--I don't--I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubt
  • that he has ample--'
  • 'He is quite poor.'
  • Mr Warden's jaw fell slightly.
  • 'Poor? But, my dear, that's absurd!' he cried. 'Why, only this
  • evening--'
  • He broke off abruptly, but it was too late.
  • 'Father, you've been borrowing money from him!'
  • Mr Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but
  • he altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he had
  • every quality but one. He had come to look on her perspicacity in this
  • matter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far to
  • spoiling for him the triumph of success.
  • 'And he has to pawn things to live!' Her voice trembled. 'He was at the
  • _mont-de-piete_ today. And yesterday too. I heard him. He was
  • arguing with M. Gandinot--haggling--'
  • Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was too
  • raw and vivid.
  • Mr Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, but
  • chief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a very
  • fortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware,
  • also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful young
  • man who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have been
  • disastrous results.
  • The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr Vince.
  • He entered the room briskly.
  • 'Good evening!' he said. 'I have brought you some more chocolates, Miss
  • Warden, and some fruit. Great Scott! What's the matter?'
  • He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across the
  • room, and, before the horrified eyes of Mr Warden, was holding Ruth in
  • his arms. She clung to him.
  • Bill, the fox-terrier, over whom Mr Vince had happened to stumble, was
  • the first to speak. Almost simultaneously Mr Warden joined in, and
  • there was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr Warden,
  • searching for words, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort of
  • passionate yelp.
  • Mr Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder and waved it
  • reassuringly at him.
  • 'It's all right,' he said.
  • 'All right! All _right_!'
  • 'Affinities,' explained Mr Vince over his shoulder. 'Two hearts that
  • beat as one. We're going to be married. What's the matter, dear? Don't
  • you worry; you're all right.'
  • 'I refuse!' shouted Mr Warden. 'I absolutely refuse.'
  • Mr Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand,
  • inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.
  • 'You refuse?' he said. 'Why, I thought you liked me.'
  • Mr Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to his
  • nature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint.
  • 'My personal likes and dislikes,' he said, 'have nothing to do with the
  • matter, Mr Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter to
  • consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny.'
  • 'Quite right,' said Mr Vince, approvingly. 'Don't have anything to do
  • with the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police.'
  • Mr Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth's
  • occupation. But necessity compelled.
  • 'Mr Vince, my daughter is employed at the _mont-de-piete,_ and was
  • a witness to all that took place this afternoon.'
  • Mr Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of
  • concern.
  • 'You don't mean to say you have been slaving away in that stuffy--Great
  • Scott! I'll have you out of that quick. You mustn't go there again.'
  • He stooped and kissed her.
  • 'Perhaps you had better let me explain,' he said. 'Explanations, I
  • always think, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They're
  • always somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard of
  • Vince's Stores, Mr Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, my
  • father is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children's toys,
  • but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when I
  • last saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if I
  • couldn't whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of the
  • Billiken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used to
  • brain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came here
  • to recuperate, and the very first morning I got an inspiration. You may
  • have noticed that the manager of the _mont-de-piete_ here isn't
  • strong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and the
  • thing flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandinot, but it isn't. It's
  • Uncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man who Makes You Smile.'
  • He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately.
  • 'I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that I
  • discovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't go
  • up to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, the
  • Hump-Curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in the
  • way of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in.
  • That's the whole story. Do I pass?'
  • Mr Warden's frosty demeanour had gradually thawed during this recital,
  • and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr Vince's
  • hand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did what was
  • certainly the best thing, by passing gently from the room. On his face,
  • as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit of
  • Pisgah.
  • It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark.
  • 'I want you to promise me something,' she said. 'Promise that you
  • won't go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so much
  • money, but it might hurt poor M. Gandinot's feelings, and he has been
  • very kind to me.'
  • 'That settles it,' said Mr Vince. 'It's hard on the children of Great
  • Britain, but say no more. No Uncle Zip for them.'
  • Ruth looked at him, almost with awe.
  • 'You really won't go on with it? In spite of all the money you would
  • make? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what it
  • costs you?'
  • He nodded sadly.
  • 'You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my married
  • life. I feel an awful fraud. And I had encouraged you to look forward
  • to years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage without
  • it? I'm afraid it's going to be shockingly dull for you,' said Mr
  • Vince, regretfully.
  • ARCHIBALD'S BENEFIT
  • Archibald Mealing was one of those golfers in whom desire outruns
  • performance. Nobody could have been more willing than Archibald. He
  • tried, and tried hard. Every morning before he took his bath he would
  • stand in front of his mirror and practise swings. Every night before he
  • went to bed he would read the golden words of some master on the
  • subject of putting, driving, or approaching. Yet on the links most of
  • his time was spent in retrieving lost balls or replacing America.
  • Whether it was that Archibald pressed too much or pressed too little,
  • whether it was that his club deviated from the dotted line which joined
  • the two points A and B in the illustrated plate of the man making the
  • brassy shot in the _Hints on Golf_ book, or whether it was that he
  • was pursued by some malignant fate, I do not know. Archibald rather
  • favoured the last theory.
  • The important point is that, in his thirty-first year, after six
  • seasons of untiring effort, Archibald went in for a championship, and
  • won it.
  • Archibald, mark you, whose golf was a kind of blend of hockey, Swedish
  • drill, and buck-and-wing dancing.
  • I know the ordeal I must face when I make such a statement. I see
  • clearly before me the solid phalanx of men from Missouri, some urging
  • me to tell it to the King of Denmark, others insisting that I produce
  • my Eskimos. Nevertheless, I do not shrink. I state once more that in
  • his thirty-first year Archibald Mealing went in for a golf
  • championship, and won it.
  • * * * * *
  • Archibald belonged to a select little golf club, the members of which
  • lived and worked in New York, but played in Jersey. Men of substance,
  • financially as well as physically, they had combined their superfluous
  • cash and with it purchased a strip of land close to the sea. This land
  • had been drained--to the huge discomfort of a colony of mosquitoes
  • which had come to look on the place as their private property--and
  • converted into links, which had become a sort of refuge for incompetent
  • golfers. The members of the Cape Pleasant Club were easygoing refugees
  • from other and more exacting clubs, men who pottered rather than raced
  • round the links; men, in short, who had grown tired of having to stop
  • their game and stand aside in order to allow perspiring experts to whiz
  • past them. The Cape Pleasant golfers did not make themselves slaves to
  • the game. Their language, when they foozled, was gently regretful
  • rather than sulphurous. The moment in the day's play which they enjoyed
  • most was when they were saying: 'Well, here's luck!' in the club-house.
  • It will, therefore, be readily understood that Archibald's inability to
  • do a hole in single figures did not handicap him at Cape Pleasant as it
  • might have done at St. Andrews. His kindly clubmates took him to their
  • bosoms to a man, and looked on him as a brother. Archibald's was one of
  • those admirable natures which prompt their possessor frequently to
  • remark: 'These are on me!' and his fellow golfers were not slow to
  • appreciate the fact. They all loved Archibald.
  • Archibald was on the floor of his bedroom one afternoon, picking up the
  • fragments of his mirror--a friend had advised him to practise the
  • Walter J. Travis lofting shot--when the telephone bell rang. He took up
  • the receiver, and was hailed by the comfortable voice of McCay, the
  • club secretary.
  • 'Is that Mealing?' asked McCay. 'Say, Archie, I'm putting your name
  • down for our championship competition. That's right, isn't it?'
  • 'Sure,' said Archibald. 'When does it start?'
  • 'Next Saturday.'
  • 'That's me.'
  • 'Good for you. Oh, Archie.'
  • 'Hello?'
  • 'A man I met today told me you were engaged. Is that a fact?'
  • 'Sure,' murmured Archibald, blushfully.
  • The wire hummed with McCay's congratulations.
  • 'Thanks,' said Archibald. 'Thanks, old man. What? Oh, yes. Milsom's her
  • name. By the way, her family have taken a cottage at Cape Pleasant for
  • the summer. Some distance from the links. Yes, very convenient, isn't
  • it? Good-bye.'
  • He hung up the receiver and resumed his task of gathering up the
  • fragments. Now McCay happened to be of a romantic and sentimental
  • nature. He was by profession a chartered accountant, and inclined to be
  • stout; and all rather stout chartered accountants are sentimental.
  • McCay was the sort of man who keeps old ball programmes and bundles of
  • letters tied round with lilac ribbon. At country houses, where they
  • lingered in the porch after dinner to watch the moonlight flooding the
  • quiet garden, it was McCay and his colleague who lingered longest.
  • McCay knew Ella Wheeler Wilcox by heart, and could take Browning
  • without anaesthetics. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that
  • Archibald's remark about his fiancee coming to live at Cape Pleasant
  • should give him food for thought. It appealed to him.
  • He reflected on it a good deal during the day, and, running across
  • Sigsbee, a fellow Cape Pleasanter, after dinner that night at the
  • Sybarites' Club, he spoke of the matter to him. It so happened that
  • both had dined excellently, and were looking on the world with a sort
  • of cosy benevolence. They were in the mood when men pat small boys on
  • the head and ask them if they mean to be President when they grow up.
  • 'I called up Archie Mealing today,' said McCay. 'Did you know he was
  • engaged?'
  • 'I did hear something about it. Girl of the name of Wilson, or--'
  • 'Milsom. She's going to spend the summer at Cape Pleasant, Archie tells
  • me.'
  • 'Then she'll have a chance of seeing him play in the championship
  • competition.'
  • McCay sucked his cigar in silence for a while, watching with dreamy
  • eyes the blue smoke as it curled ceiling-ward. When he spoke his voice
  • was singularly soft.
  • 'Do you know, Sigsbee,' he said, sipping his Maraschino with a gentle
  • melancholy--'do you know, there is something wonderfully pathetic to me
  • in this business. I see the whole thing so clearly. There was a kind of
  • quiver in the poor old chap's voice when he said: "She is coming to
  • Cape Pleasant," which told me more than any words could have done. It
  • is a tragedy in its way, Sigsbee. We may smile at it, think it trivial;
  • but it is none the less a tragedy. That warm-hearted, enthusiastic
  • girl, all eagerness to see the man she loves do well--Archie, poor old
  • Archie, all on fire to prove to her that her trust in him is not
  • misplaced, and the end--Disillusionment--Disappointment--Unhappiness.'
  • 'He ought to keep his eye on the ball,' said the more practical
  • Sigsbee.
  • 'Quite possibly,' continued McCay, 'he has told her that he will win
  • this championship.'
  • 'If Archie's mutt enough to have told her that,' said Sigsbee
  • decidedly, 'he deserves all he gets. Waiter, two Scotch highballs.'
  • McCay was in no mood to subscribe to this stony-hearted view.
  • 'I tell you,' he said, 'I'm _sorry_ for Archie! I'm _sorry_
  • for the poor old chap. And I'm more than sorry for the girl.'
  • 'Well, I don't see what we can do,' said Sigsbee. 'We can hardly be
  • expected to foozle on purpose, just to let Archie show off before his
  • girl.'
  • McCay paused in the act of lighting his cigar, as one smitten with a
  • great thought.
  • 'Why not?' he said. 'Why not, Sigsbee? Sigsbee, you've hit it.'
  • 'Eh?'
  • 'You have! I tell you, Sigsbee, you've solved the whole thing. Archie's
  • such a bully good fellow, why not give him a benefit? Why not let him
  • win this championship? You aren't going to tell me that you care
  • whether you win a tin medal or not?'
  • Sigsbee's benevolence was expanding under the influence of the Scotch
  • highball and his cigar. Little acts of kindness on Archie's part, here
  • a cigar, there a lunch, at another time seats for the theatre, began to
  • rise to the surface of his memory like rainbow-coloured bubbles. He
  • wavered.
  • 'Yes, but what about the rest of the men?' he said. 'There will be a
  • dozen or more in for the medal.'
  • 'We can square them,' said McCay confidently. 'We will broach the
  • matter to them at a series of dinners at which we will be joint hosts.
  • They are white men who will be charmed to do a little thing like that
  • for a sport like Archie.'
  • 'How about Gossett?' said Sigsbee.
  • McCay's face clouded. Gossett was an unpopular subject with members of
  • the Cape Pleasant Golf Club. He was the serpent in their Eden. Nobody
  • seemed quite to know how he had got in, but there, unfortunately, he
  • was. Gossett had introduced into Cape Pleasant golf a cheerless
  • atmosphere of the rigour of the game. It was to enable them to avoid
  • just such golfers as Gossett that the Cape Pleasanters had founded
  • their club. Genial courtesy rather than strict attention to the rules
  • had been the leading characteristics of their play till his arrival. Up
  • to that time it had been looked on as rather bad form to exact a
  • penalty. A cheery give-and-take system had prevailed. Then Gossett had
  • come, full of strange rules, and created about the same stir in the
  • community which a hawk would create in a gathering of middle-aged
  • doves.
  • 'You can't square Gossett,' said Sigsbee.
  • McCay looked unhappy.
  • 'I forgot him,' he said. 'Of course, nothing will stop him trying to
  • win. I wish we could think of something. I would almost as soon see him
  • lose as Archie win. But, after all, he does have off days sometimes.'
  • 'You need to have a very off day to be as bad as Archie.'
  • They sat and smoked in silence.
  • 'I've got it,' said Sigsbee suddenly. 'Gossett is a fine golfer, but
  • nervous. If we upset his nerves enough, he will go right off his
  • stroke. Couldn't we think of some way?'
  • McCay reached out for his glass.
  • 'Yours is a noble nature, Sigsbee,' he said.
  • 'Oh, no,' said the paragon modestly. 'Have another cigar?'
  • * * * * *
  • In order that the reader may get the mental half-Nelson on the plot of
  • this narrative which is so essential if a short story is to charm,
  • elevate, and instruct, it is necessary now, for the nonce (but only for
  • the nonce), to inspect Archibald's past life.
  • Archibald, as he had stated to McCay, was engaged to a Miss
  • Milsom--Miss Margaret Milsom. How few men, dear reader, are engaged to
  • girls with _svelte_ figures, brown hair, and large blue eyes, now
  • sparkling and vivacious, now dreamy and soulful, but always large and
  • blue! How few, I say. You are, dear reader, and so am I, but who else?
  • Archibald was one of the few who happened to be.
  • He was happy. It is true that Margaret's mother was not, as it were,
  • wrapped up in him. She exhibited none of that effervescent joy at his
  • appearance which we like to see in our mothers-in-law elect. On the
  • contrary, she generally cried bitterly whenever she saw him, and at the
  • end of ten minutes was apt to retire sobbing to her room, where she
  • remained in a state of semi-coma till an advanced hour. She was by way
  • of being a confirmed invalid, and something about Archibald seemed to
  • get right in among her nerve centres, reducing them for the time being
  • to a complicated hash. She did not like Archibald. She said she liked
  • big, manly men. Behind his back she not infrequently referred to him as
  • a 'gaby'; sometimes even as that 'guffin'.
  • She did not do this to Margaret, for Margaret, besides being blue-eyed,
  • was also a shade quick-tempered. Whenever she discussed Archibald, it
  • was with her son Stuyvesant. Stuyvesant Milsom, who thought Archibald a
  • bit of an ass, was always ready to sit and listen to his mother on the
  • subject, it being, however, an understood thing that at the conclusion
  • of the seance she yielded one or two saffron-coloured bills towards his
  • racing debts. For Stuyvesant, having developed a habit of backing
  • horses which either did not start at all or else sat down and thought
  • in the middle of the race, could always do with ten dollars or so. His
  • prices for these interviews worked out, as a rule, at about three cents
  • a word.
  • In these circumstances it was perhaps natural that Archibald and
  • Margaret should prefer to meet, when they did meet, at some other spot
  • than the Milsom home. It suited them both better that they should
  • arrange a secret tryst on these occasions. Archibald preferred it
  • because being in the same room as Mrs Milsom always made him feel like
  • a murderer with particularly large feet; and Margaret preferred it
  • because, as she told Archibald, these secret meetings lent a touch of
  • poetry to what might otherwise have been a commonplace engagement.
  • Archibald thought this charming; but at the same time he could not
  • conceal from himself the fact that Margaret's passion for the poetic
  • cut, so to speak, both ways. He admired and loved the loftiness of her
  • soul, but, on the other hand, it was a tough job having to live up to
  • it. For Archibald was a very ordinary young man. They had tried to
  • inoculate him with a love of poetry at school, but it had not taken.
  • Until he was thirty he had been satisfied to class all poetry (except
  • that of Mr George Cohan) under the general heading of punk. Then he met
  • Margaret, and the trouble began. On the day he first met her, at a
  • picnic, she had looked so soulful, so aloof from this world, that he
  • had felt instinctively that here was a girl who expected more from a
  • man than a mere statement that the weather was great. It so chanced
  • that he knew just one quotation from the classics, to wit, Tennyson's
  • critique of the Island-Valley of Avilion. He knew this because he had
  • had the passage to write out one hundred and fifty times at school, on
  • the occasion of his being caught smoking by one of the faculty who
  • happened to be a passionate admirer of the 'Idylls of the King'.
  • A remark of Margaret's that it was a splendid day for a picnic and that
  • the country looked nice gave him his opportunity.
  • 'It reminds me,' he said, 'it reminds me strongly of the Island-Valley
  • of Avilion, where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind
  • blows loudly; but it lies deep-meadow'd, happy, fair, with orchard
  • lawns....'
  • He broke off here to squash a hornet; but Margaret had heard enough.
  • 'Are you fond of the poets, Mr Mealing?' she said, with a far-off look.
  • 'Me?' said Archibald fervently. 'Me? Why, I eat 'em alive!'
  • * * * * *
  • And that was how all the trouble had started. It had meant unremitting
  • toil for Archibald. He felt that he had set himself a standard from
  • which he must not fall. He bought every new volume of poetry which was
  • praised in the press, and learned the reviews by heart. Every evening
  • he read painfully a portion of the classics. He plodded through the
  • poetry sections of Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_. Margaret's
  • devotion to the various bards was so enthusiastic, and her reading so
  • wide, that there were times when Archibald wondered if he could endure
  • the strain. But he persevered heroically, and so far had not been found
  • wanting. But the strain was fearful.
  • * * * * *
  • The early stages of the Cape Pleasant golf tournament need no detailed
  • description. The rules of match play governed the contests, and
  • Archibald disposed of his first three opponents before the twelfth
  • hole. He had been diffident when he teed off with McCay in the first
  • round, but, finding that he defeated the secretary with ease, he met
  • one Butler in the second round with more confidence. Butler, too, he
  • routed; with the result that, by the time he faced Sigsbee in round
  • three, he was practically the conquering hero. Fortune seemed to be
  • beaming upon him with almost insipid sweetness. When he was trapped in
  • the bunker at the seventh hole, Sigsbee became trapped as well. When he
  • sliced at the sixth tee, Sigsbee pulled. And Archibald, striking a
  • brilliant vein, did the next three holes in eleven, nine, and twelve;
  • and, romping home, qualified for the final.
  • Gossett, that serpent, meanwhile, had beaten each of his three
  • opponents without much difficulty.
  • The final was fixed for the following Thursday morning. Gossett, who
  • was a broker, had made some frivolous objection about the difficulty of
  • absenting himself from Wall Street, but had been overruled. When
  • Sigsbee pointed out that he could easily defeat Archibald and get to
  • the city by lunch-time if he wished, and that in any case his partner
  • would be looking after things, he allowed himself to be persuaded,
  • though reluctantly. It was a well-known fact that Gossett was in the
  • midst of some rather sizeable deals at that time.
  • Thursday morning suited Archibald admirably. It had occurred to him
  • that he could bring off a double event. Margaret had arrived at Cape
  • Pleasant on the previous evening, and he had arranged by telephone to
  • meet her at the end of the board-walk, which was about a mile from the
  • links, at one o'clock, supply her with lunch, and spend the afternoon
  • with her on the water. If he started his match with Gossett at
  • eleven-thirty, he would have plenty of time to have his game and be at
  • the end of the board-walk at the appointed hour. He had no delusions
  • about the respective merits of Gossett and himself as golfers. He knew
  • that Gossett would win the necessary ten holes off the reel. It was
  • saddening, but it was a scientific fact. There was no avoiding it. One
  • simply had to face it.
  • Having laid these plans, he caught the train on the Thursday morning
  • with the consoling feeling that, however sadly the morning might begin,
  • it was bound to end well.
  • The day was fine, the sun warm, but tempered with a light breeze. One
  • or two of the club had come to watch the match, among them Sigsbee.
  • Sigsbee drew Gossett aside.
  • 'You must let me caddie for you, old man,' he said. 'I know your
  • temperament so exactly. I know how little it takes to put you off your
  • stroke. In an ordinary game you might take one of these boys, I know,
  • but on an important occasion like this you must not risk it. A grubby
  • boy, probably with a squint, would almost certainly get on your
  • nerves. He might even make comments on the game, or whistle. But I
  • understand you. You must let me carry your clubs.'
  • 'It's very good of you,' said Gossett.
  • 'Not at all,' said Sigsbee.
  • * * * * *
  • Archibald was now preparing to drive off from the first tee. He did
  • this with great care. Everyone who has seen Archibald Mealing play golf
  • knows that his teeing off is one of the most impressive sights ever
  • witnessed on the links. He tilted his cap over his eyes, waggled his
  • club a little, shifted his feet, waggled his club some more, gazed
  • keenly towards the horizon for a moment, waggled his club again, and
  • finally, with the air of a Strong Man lifting a bar of iron, raised it
  • slowly above his head. Then, bringing it down with a sweep, he drove
  • the ball with a lofty slice some fifty yards. It was rarely that he
  • failed either to slice or pull his ball. His progress from hole to hole
  • was generally a majestic zigzag.
  • Gossett's drive took him well on the way to the green. He holed out in
  • five. Archibald, mournful but not surprised, made his way to the second
  • tee.
  • The second hole was shorter. Gossett won it in three. The third he took
  • in six, the fourth in four. Archibald began to feel that he might just
  • as well not be there. He was practically a spectator.
  • At this point he reached in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch, to
  • console himself with smoke. To his dismay he found it was not there. He
  • had had it in the train, but now it had vanished. This added to his
  • gloom, for the pouch had been given to him by Margaret, and he had
  • always thought it one more proof of the way her nature towered over the
  • natures of other girls that she had not woven a monogram on it in
  • forget-me-nots. This record pouch was missing, and Archibald mourned
  • for the loss.
  • His sorrows were not alleviated by the fact that Gossett won the fifth
  • and sixth holes.
  • It was now a quarter past twelve, and Archibald reflected with moody
  • satisfaction that the massacre must soon be over, and that he would
  • then be able to forget it in the society of Margaret.
  • As Gossett was about to drive off from the seventh tee, a telegraph boy
  • approached the little group.
  • 'Mr Gossett,' he said.
  • Gossett lowered his driver, and wheeled round, but Sigsbee had snatched
  • the envelope from the boy's hand.
  • 'It's all right, old man,' he said. 'Go right ahead. I'll keep it safe
  • for you.'
  • 'Give it to me,' said Gossett anxiously. 'It may be from the office.
  • Something may have happened to the market. I may be needed.'
  • 'No, no,' said Sigsbee, soothingly. 'Don't you worry about it. Better
  • not open it. It might have something in it that would put you off your
  • stroke. Wait till the end of the game.'
  • 'Give it to me. I want to see it.'
  • Sigsbee was firm.
  • 'No,' he said. 'I'm here to see you win this championship and I won't
  • have you taking any risks. Besides, even if it was important, a few
  • minutes won't make any difference.'
  • 'Well, at any rate, open it and read it.'
  • 'It is probably in cipher,' said Sigsbee. 'I wouldn't understand it.
  • Play on, old man. You've only a few more holes to win.'
  • Gossett turned and addressed his ball again. Then he swung. The club
  • tipped the ball, and it rolled sluggishly for a couple of feet.
  • Archibald approached the tee. Now there were moments when Archibald
  • could drive quite decently. He always applied a considerable amount of
  • muscular force to his efforts. It was in that direction, as a rule, he
  • erred. On this occasion, whether inspired by his rival's failure or
  • merely favoured by chance, he connected with his ball at precisely the
  • right moment. It flew from the tee, straight, hard, and low, struck the
  • ground near the green, bounded on and finally rocked to within a foot
  • of the hole. No such long ball had been driven on the Cape Pleasant
  • links since their foundation.
  • That it should have taken him three strokes to hole out from this
  • promising position was unfortunate, but not fatal, for Gossett, who
  • seemed suddenly to have fallen off his game, only reached the green in
  • seven. A moment later a murmur of approval signified the fact that
  • Archibald had won his first hole.
  • 'Mr Gossett,' said a voice.
  • Those murmuring approval observed that the telegraph boy was once more
  • in their midst. This time he bore two missives. Sigsbee dexterously
  • impounded both.
  • 'No,' he said with decision. 'I absolutely refuse to let you look at
  • them till the game is over. I know your temperament.'
  • Gossett gesticulated.
  • 'But they must be important. They must come from my office. Where else
  • would I get a stream of telegrams? Something has gone wrong. I am
  • urgently needed.'
  • Sigsbee nodded gravely.
  • 'That is what I fear,' he said. 'That is why I cannot risk having you
  • upset. Time enough, Gossett, for bad news after the game. Play on, man,
  • and dismiss it from your mind. Besides, you couldn't get back to New
  • York just yet, in any case. There are no trains. Dismiss the whole
  • thing from your mind and just play your usual, and you're sure to win.'
  • Archibald had driven off during this conversation, but without his
  • previous success. This time he had pulled his ball into some long
  • grass. Gossett's drive was, however, worse; and the subsequent movement
  • of the pair to the hole resembled more than anything else the
  • manoeuvres of two men rolling peanuts with toothpicks as the result of
  • an election bet. Archibald finally took the hole in twelve after
  • Gossett had played his fourteenth.
  • When Archibald won the next in eleven and the tenth in nine, hope began
  • to flicker feebly in his bosom. But when he won two more holes,
  • bringing the score to like-as-we-lie, it flamed up within him like a
  • beacon.
  • The ordinary golfer, whose scores per hole seldom exceed those of
  • Colonel Bogey, does not understand the whirl of mixed sensations which
  • the really incompetent performer experiences on the rare occasions when
  • he does strike a winning vein. As stroke follows stroke, and he
  • continues to hold his opponent, a wild exhilaration surges through him,
  • followed by a sort of awe, as if he were doing something wrong, even
  • irreligious. Then all these yeasty emotions subside and are blended
  • into one glorious sensation of grandeur and majesty, as of a giant
  • among pygmies.
  • By the time that Archibald, putting with the care of one brushing flies
  • off a sleeping Venus, had holed out and won the thirteenth, he was in
  • the full grip of this feeling. And as he walked to the fifteenth tee,
  • after winning the fourteenth, he felt that this was Life, that till now
  • he had been a mere mollusc.
  • Just at that moment he happened to look at his watch, and the sight was
  • like a douche of cold water. The hands stood at five minutes to one.
  • * * * * *
  • Let us pause and ponder on this point for a while. Let us not dismiss
  • it as if it were some mere trivial, everyday difficulty. You, dear
  • reader, play an accurate, scientific game and beat your opponent with
  • ease every time you go the links, and so do I; but Archibald was not
  • like us. This was the first occasion on which he had ever felt that he
  • was playing well enough to give him a chance of defeating a really good
  • man. True, he had beaten McCay, Sigsbee, and Butler in the earlier
  • rounds; but they were ignoble rivals compared with Gossett. To defeat
  • Gossett, however, meant the championship. On the other hand, he was
  • passionately devoted to Margaret Milsom, whom he was due to meet at the
  • end of the board-walk at one sharp. It was now five minutes to one, and
  • the end of the board-walk still a mile away.
  • The mental struggle was brief but keen. A sharp pang, and his mind was
  • made up. Cost what it might, he must stay on the links. If Margaret
  • broke off the engagement--well, it might be that Time would heal the
  • wound, and that after many years he would find some other girl for whom
  • he might come to care in a wrecked, broken sort of way. But a chance
  • like this could never come again. What is Love compared with holing out
  • before your opponent?
  • The excitement now had become so intense that a small boy, following
  • with the crowd, swallowed his chewing-gum; for a slight improvement had
  • become noticeable in Gossett's play, and a slight improvement in the
  • play of almost anyone meant that it became vastly superior to
  • Archibald's. At the next hole the improvement was not marked enough to
  • have its full effect, and Archibald contrived to halve. This made him
  • two up and three to play. What the average golfer would consider a
  • commanding lead. But Archibald was no average golfer. A commanding
  • lead for him would have been two up and one to play.
  • To give the public of his best, your golfer should have his mind cool
  • and intent upon the game. Inasmuch as Gossett was worrying about the
  • telegrams, while Archibald, strive as he might to dismiss it, was
  • haunted by a vision of Margaret standing alone and deserted on the
  • board-walk, play became, as it were, ragged. Fine putting enabled
  • Gossett to do the sixteenth hole in twelve, and when, winning the
  • seventeenth in nine, he brought his score level with Archibald's the
  • match seemed over. But just then--
  • 'Mr Gossett!' said a familiar voice.
  • Once more was the much-enduring telegraph boy among those present.
  • 'T'ree dis time!' he observed.
  • Gossett sprang, but again the watchful Sigsbee was too swift.
  • 'Be brave, Gossett--be brave,' he said. 'This is a crisis in the game.
  • Keep your nerve. Play just as if nothing existed outside the links. To
  • look at these telegrams now would be fatal.'
  • Eye-witnesses of that great encounter will tell the story of the last
  • hole to their dying day. It was one of those Titanic struggles which
  • Time cannot efface from the memory. Archibald was fortunate in getting
  • a good start. He only missed twice before he struck his ball on the
  • tee. Gossett had four strokes ere he achieved the feat. Nor did
  • Archibald's luck desert him in the journey to the green. He was out of
  • the bunker in eleven.
  • Gossett emerged only after sixteen. Finally, when Archibald's
  • twenty-first stroke sent the ball trickling into the hole, Gossett
  • had played his thirtieth.
  • The ball had hardly rested on the bottom of the hole before Gossett had
  • begun to tear the telegrams from their envelopes. As he read, his eyes
  • bulged in their sockets.
  • 'Not bad news, I hope,' said a sympathetic bystander.
  • Sigsbee took the sheaf of telegrams.
  • The first ran: 'Good luck. Hope you win. McCay.' The second also ran:
  • 'Good luck. Hope you win. McCay.' So, singularly enough, did the third,
  • fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh.
  • 'Great Scott!' said Sigsbee. 'He seems to have been pretty anxious not
  • to run any risk of missing you, Gossett.'
  • As he spoke, Archibald, close beside him, was looking at his watch. The
  • hands stood at a quarter to two.
  • Margaret and her mother were seated in the parlour when Archibald
  • arrived. Mrs Milsom, who had elicited the fact that Archibald had not
  • kept his appointment, had been saying 'I told you so' for some time,
  • and this had not improved Margaret's temper. When, therefore,
  • Archibald, damp and dishevelled, was shown in, the chill in the air
  • nearly gave him frost-bite. Mrs Milsom did her celebrated imitation of
  • the Gorgon, while Margaret, lightly humming an air, picked up a weekly
  • paper and became absorbed in it.
  • 'Margaret, let me explain,' panted Archibald. Mrs Milsom was understood
  • to remark that she dared say. Margaret's attention was riveted by a
  • fashion plate.
  • 'Driving in a taximeter to the ferry this morning,' resumed Archibald,
  • 'I had an accident.'
  • This was the result of some rather feverish brain-work on the way from
  • the links to the cottage.
  • The periodical flopped to the floor.
  • 'Oh, Archie, are you hurt?'
  • 'A few scratches, nothing more; but it made me miss my train.'
  • 'What train did you catch?' asked Mrs Milsom sepulchrally.
  • 'The one o'clock. I came straight on here from the station.'
  • 'Why,' said Margaret, 'Stuyvesant was coming home on the one o'clock
  • train. Did you see him?'
  • Archibald's jaw dropped slightly.
  • 'Er--no,' he said.
  • 'How curious,' said Margaret.
  • 'Very curious,' said Archibald.
  • 'Most curious,' said Mrs Milsom.
  • They were still reflecting on the singularity of this fact when the
  • door opened, and the son of the house entered in person.
  • 'Thought I should find you here, Mealing,' he said. 'They gave me this
  • at the station to give to you; you dropped it this morning when you got
  • out of the train.'
  • He handed Archibald the missing pouch.
  • 'Thanks,' said the latter huskily. 'When you say this morning, of course
  • you mean this afternoon, but thanks all the same--thanks--thanks.'
  • 'No, Archibald Mealing, he does _not_ mean this afternoon,' said
  • Mrs Milsom. 'Stuyvesant, speak! From what train did that guf--did Mr
  • Mealing alight when he dropped the tobacco-pouch?'
  • * * * * *
  • 'The ten o'clock, the fellow told me. Said he would have given it back
  • to him then only he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry.'
  • Six eyes focused themselves upon Archibald.
  • 'Margaret,' he said, 'I will not try to deceive you--'
  • 'You may try,' observed Mrs Milsom, 'but you will not succeed.'
  • 'Well, Archibald?'
  • Archibald fingered his collar.
  • 'There was no taximeter accident.'
  • 'Ah!' said Mrs Milsom.
  • 'The fact is, I have been playing in a golf tournament.'
  • Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise.
  • 'Playing golf!'
  • Archibald bowed his head with manly resignation.
  • 'Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you arrange for us to meet on the
  • links? I should have loved it.'
  • Archibald was amazed.
  • 'You take an interest in golf, Margaret? You! I thought you scorned it,
  • considered it an unintellectual game. I thought you considered all
  • games unintellectual.'
  • 'Why, I play golf myself. Not very well.'
  • 'Margaret! Why didn't you tell me?'
  • 'I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. I
  • feared you would despise me.'
  • Archibald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling.
  • 'Margaret,' he said, 'this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be
  • open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do
  • you like poetry really?'
  • Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:
  • 'No, Archibald,' she said, 'it is as you suspect. I am not worthy of
  • you. I do _not_ like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away! Your
  • face grows hard and scornful!'
  • 'I don't!' yelled Archibald. 'It doesn't! It doesn't do anything of
  • the sort! You've made me another man!'
  • She stared, wild-eyed, astonished.
  • 'What! Do you mean that you, too--'
  • 'I should just say I do. I tell you I hate the beastly stuff. I only
  • pretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I've spent
  • learning it up! I wonder I've not got brain fever.'
  • 'Archie! Used you to read it up, too? Oh, if I'd only known!'
  • 'And you forgive me--this morning, I mean?'
  • 'Of course. You couldn't leave a golf tournament. By the way, how did
  • you get on?'
  • Archibald coughed.
  • 'Rather well,' he said modestly. 'Pretty decently. In fact, not badly.
  • As a matter of fact, I won the championship.'
  • 'The championship!' whispered Margaret. 'Of America?'
  • 'Well, not _absolutely_ of America,' said Archibald. 'But all the
  • same, a championship.'
  • 'My hero.'
  • 'You won't be wanting me for a while, I guess?' said Stuyvesant
  • nonchalantly. 'Think I'll smoke a cigarette on the porch.'
  • And sobs from the stairs told that Mrs Milsom was already on her way to
  • her room.
  • THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA
  • Although this story is concerned principally with the Man and the Maid,
  • the Miasma pervades it to such an extent that I feel justified in
  • putting his name on the bills. Webster's Dictionary gives the meaning
  • of the word 'miasma' as 'an infection floating in the air; a deadly
  • exhalation'; and, in the opinion of Mr Robert Ferguson, his late
  • employer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, on
  • the whole summed up Master Roland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until the
  • previous day he had served Mr Ferguson in the capacity of office-boy;
  • but there was that about Master Bean which made it practically
  • impossible for anyone to employ him for long. A syndicate of Galahad,
  • Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinary
  • erring man, conscious of things done which should not have been done,
  • and other things equally numerous left undone, he was too oppressive.
  • One conscience is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean had
  • to cringe before two. Nobody can last long against an office-boy whose
  • eyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmed
  • spectacles, whose manner is that of a middle-aged saint, and who
  • obviously knows all the Plod and Punctuality books by heart and orders
  • his life by their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of
  • _Stepping-Stones to Success, Millionaires who Have Never Smoked_,
  • and _Young Man, Get up Early_. Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus
  • Aurelius, as I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, but
  • Robert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month he had
  • braced himself up and sacked the Punctual Plodder.
  • Yet now he was sitting in his office, long after the last clerk had
  • left, long after the hour at which he himself was wont to leave, his
  • mind full of his late employee.
  • Was this remorse? Was he longing for the touch of the vanished hand,
  • the gleam of the departed spectacles? He was not. His mind was full of
  • Master Bean because Master Bean was waiting for him in the outer
  • office; and he lingered on at his desk, after the day's work was done,
  • for the same reason. Word had been brought to him earlier in the
  • evening, that Master Roland Bean would like to see him. The answer to
  • that was easy: 'Tell him I'm busy.' Master Bean's admirably dignified
  • reply was that he understood how great was the pressure of Mr
  • Ferguson's work, and that he would wait till he was at liberty.
  • Liberty! Talk of the liberty of the treed possum, but do not use the
  • word in connexion with a man bottled up in an office, with Roland Bean
  • guarding the only exit.
  • Mr Ferguson kicked the waste-paper basket savagely. The unfairness of
  • the thing hurt him. A sacked office-boy ought to stay sacked. He had no
  • business to come popping up again like Banquo's ghost. It was not
  • playing the game.
  • The reader may wonder what was the trouble--why Mr Ferguson could not
  • stalk out and brusquely dispose of his foe; but then the reader has not
  • employed Master Bean for a month. Mr Ferguson had, and his nerve had
  • broken.
  • A slight cough penetrated the door between the two offices. Mr Ferguson
  • rose and grabbed his hat. Perhaps a sudden rush--he shot out with the
  • tense concentration of one moving towards the refreshment-room at a
  • station where the train stops three minutes.
  • 'Good evening, sir!' was the watcher's view-hallo.
  • 'Ah, Bean,' said Mr Ferguson, flitting rapidly, 'you still here? I
  • thought you had gone. I'm afraid I cannot stop now. Some other time--'
  • He was almost through.
  • 'I fear, sir, that you will be unable to get out,' said Master Bean,
  • sympathetically. 'The building is locked up.'
  • Men who have been hit by bullets say the first sensation is merely a
  • sort of dull shock. So it was with Mr Ferguson. He stopped in his
  • tracks and stared.
  • 'The porter closes the door at seven o'clock punctually, sir. It is now
  • nearly twenty minutes after the hour.'
  • Mr Ferguson's brain was still in the numbed stage.
  • 'Closes the door?' he said.
  • 'Yes, sir.'
  • 'Then how are we to get out?'
  • 'I fear we cannot get out, sir.'
  • Mr Ferguson digested this.
  • 'I am no longer in your employment, sir,' said Master Bean,
  • respectfully, 'but I hope that in the circumstances you will permit me
  • to remain here during the night.'
  • 'During the night!'
  • 'It would enable me to sleep more comfortably than on the stairs.'
  • 'But we can't stop here all night,' said Mr Ferguson, feebly.
  • He had anticipated an unpleasant five minutes in Master Bean's company.
  • Imagination boggled at the thought of an unpleasant thirteen hours.
  • He collapsed into a chair.
  • 'I called,' said Master Bean, shelving the trivial subject of the
  • prospective vigil, 'in the hope that I might persuade you, sir, to
  • reconsider your decision in regard to my dismissal. I can assure you,
  • sir, that I am extremely anxious to give satisfaction. If you would
  • take me back and inform me how I have fallen short, I would endeavour
  • to improve, I--'
  • 'We can't stop here all night,' interrupted Mr Ferguson, bounding from
  • his chair and beginning to pace the floor.
  • 'Without presumption, sir, I feel that if you were to give me another
  • chance I should work to your satisfaction. I should endeavour--'
  • Mr Ferguson stared at him in dumb horror. He had a momentary vision of
  • a sleepless night spent in listening to a nicely-polished speech for
  • the defence. He was seized with a mad desire for flight. He could not
  • leave the building, but he must get away somewhere and think.
  • He dashed from the room and raced up the dark stairs. And as he arrived
  • at the next floor his eye was caught by a thin pencil of light which
  • proceeded from a door on the left.
  • No shipwrecked mariner on a desert island could have welcomed the
  • appearance of a sail with greater enthusiasm. He bounded at the door.
  • He knew to whom the room belonged. It was the office of one Blaythwayt;
  • and Blaythwayt was not only an acquaintance, but a sportsman. Quite
  • possibly there might be a pack of cards on Blaythwayt's person to help
  • pass the long hours. And if not, at least he would be company and his
  • office a refuge. He flung open the door without going through the
  • formality of knocking. Etiquette is not for the marooned.
  • 'I say, Blaythwayt--' he began, and stopped abruptly.
  • The only occupant of the room was a girl.
  • 'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I thought--'
  • He stopped again. His eyes, dazzled with the light, had not seen
  • clearly. They did so now.
  • 'You!' he cried.
  • The girl looked at him, first with surprise, then with a cool
  • hostility. There was a long pause. Eighteen months had passed since
  • they had parted, and conversation does not flow easily after eighteen
  • months of silence, especially if the nature of the parting has been
  • bitter and stormy.
  • He was the first to speak.
  • 'What are you doing here?' he said.
  • 'I thought my doings had ceased to interest you,' she said. 'I am Mr
  • Blaythwayt's secretary, I have been here a fortnight. I have wondered
  • if we should meet. I used to see you sometimes in the street.'
  • 'I never saw you.'
  • 'No?' she said indifferently.
  • He ran his hand through his hair in a dazed way.
  • 'Do you know we are locked in?' he said.
  • He had expected wild surprise and dismay. She merely clicked her tongue
  • in an annoyed manner.
  • 'Again!' she said. 'What a nuisance! I was locked in only a week ago.'
  • He looked at her with unwilling respect, the respect of the novice for
  • the veteran. She was nothing to him now, of course. She had passed out
  • of his life. But he could not help remembering that long ago--eighteen
  • months ago--what he had admired most in her had been this same spirit,
  • this game refusal to be disturbed by Fate's blows. It braced him up.
  • He sat down and looked curiously at her.
  • 'So you left the stage?' he said.
  • 'I thought we agreed when we parted not to speak to one another,' said
  • she, coldly.
  • 'Did we? I thought it was only to meet as strangers.'
  • 'It's the same thing.'
  • 'Is it? I often talk to strangers.'
  • 'What a bore they must think you!' she said, hiding one-eighth of a
  • yawn with the tips of two fingers. 'I suppose,' she went on, with faint
  • interest, 'you talk to them in trains when they are trying to read
  • their paper?'
  • 'I don't force my conversation on anyone.'
  • 'Don't you?' she said, raising her eyebrows in sweet surprise. 'Only
  • your company--is that it?'
  • 'Are you alluding to the present occasion?'
  • 'Well, you have an office of your own in this building, I believe.'
  • 'I have.'
  • 'Then why--'
  • 'I am at perfect liberty,' he said, with dignity, 'to sit in my friend
  • Blaythwayt's office if I choose. I wish to see Mr Blaythwayt.'
  • 'On business?'
  • He proved that she had established no corner in raised eyebrows.
  • 'I fear,' he said, 'that I cannot discuss my affairs with Mr
  • Blaythwayt's employees. I must see him personally.'
  • 'Mr Blaythwayt is not here.'
  • 'I will wait.'
  • 'He will not be here for thirteen hours.'
  • I'll wait.'
  • 'Very well,' she burst out; 'you have brought it on yourself. You've
  • only yourself to blame. If you had been good and had gone back to your
  • office, I would have brought you down some cake and cocoa.'
  • 'Cake and cocoa!' said he, superciliously.
  • 'Yes, cake and cocoa,' she snapped. 'It's all very well for you to turn
  • up your nose at them now, but wait. You've thirteen hours of this in
  • front of you. I know what it is. Last time I had to spend the night
  • here I couldn't get to sleep for hours, and when I did I dreamed that I
  • was chasing chocolate _eclairs_ round and round Trafalgar Square.
  • And I never caught them either. Long before the night was finished I
  • would have given _anything_ for even a dry biscuit. I made up my
  • mind I'd always keep something here in case I ever got locked in
  • again--yes, smile. You'd better while you can.'
  • He was smiling, but wanly. Nobody but a professional fasting man could
  • have looked unmoved into the Inferno she had pictured. Then he rallied.
  • 'Cake!' he said, scornfully.
  • She nodded grimly.
  • 'Cocoa!'
  • Again that nod, ineffably sinister.
  • 'I'm afraid I don't care for either,' he said.
  • 'If you will excuse me,' she said, indifferently, 'I have a little work
  • that I must finish.'
  • She turned to her desk, leaving him to his thoughts. They were not
  • exhilarating. He had maintained a brave front, but inwardly he quailed.
  • Reared in the country, he had developed at an early age a fine, healthy
  • appetite. Once, soon after his arrival in London, he had allowed a
  • dangerous fanatic to persuade him that the secret of health was to go
  • without breakfast.
  • His lunch that day had cost him eight shillings, and only decent shame
  • had kept the figure as low as that. He knew perfectly well that long
  • ere the dawn of day his whole soul would be crying out for cake,
  • squealing frantically for cocoa. Would it not be better to--no, a
  • thousand times no! Death, but not surrender. His self-respect was at
  • stake. Looking back, he saw that his entire relations with this girl
  • had been a series of battles of will. So far, though he had certainly
  • not won, he had not been defeated. He must not be defeated now.
  • He crossed his legs and sang a gay air under his breath.
  • 'If you wouldn't mind,' said the girl, looking up.
  • 'I beg your pardon?'
  • 'Your groaning interrupts my work.'
  • 'I was not groaning. I was singing.'
  • 'Oh, I'm sorry!'
  • 'Not at all.'
  • Eight bars rest.
  • Mr Ferguson, deprived of the solace of song, filled in the time by
  • gazing at the toiler's back-hair. It set in motion a train of
  • thought--an express train bound for the Land of Yesterday. It recalled
  • days in the woods, evenings on the lawn. It recalled sunshine--storm.
  • Plenty of storm. Minor tempests that burst from a clear sky, apparently
  • without cause, and the great final tornado. There had been cause enough
  • for that. Why was it, mused Mr Ferguson, that every girl in every
  • country town in every county of England who had ever recited 'Curfew
  • shall not ring tonight' well enough to escape lynching at the hands of
  • a rustic audience was seized with the desire to come to London and go
  • on the stage?
  • He sighed.
  • 'Please don't snort,' said a cold voice, from behind the back-hair.
  • There was a train-wreck in the Land of Yesterday. Mr Ferguson, the
  • only survivor, limped back into the Present.
  • The Present had little charm, but at least it was better than the
  • cakeless Future. He fixed his thoughts on it. He wondered how Master
  • Bean was passing the time. Probably doing deep-breathing exercises, or
  • reading a pocket Aristotle. The girl pushed back her chair and rose.
  • She went to a small cupboard in the corner of the room, and from it
  • produced in instalments all that goes to make cake and cocoa. She did
  • not speak. Presently, filling Space, there sprang into being an Odour;
  • and as it reached him Mr Ferguson stiffened in his chair, bracing
  • himself as for a fight to the death. It was more than an odour. It was
  • the soul of the cocoa singing to him. His fingers gripped the arms of
  • the chair. This was the test.
  • The girl separated a section of cake from the parent body. She caught
  • his eye.
  • 'You had better go,' she said. 'If you go now it's just possible that I
  • may--but I forgot, you don't like cocoa.'
  • 'No,' said he, resolutely, 'I don't.'
  • She seemed now in the mood for conversation.
  • 'I wonder why you came up here at all,' she said.
  • 'There's no reason why you shouldn't know. I came up here because my
  • late office-boy is downstairs.'
  • 'Why should that send you up?'
  • 'You've never met him or you wouldn't ask. Have you ever had to face
  • someone who is simply incarnate Saintliness and Disapproval, who--'
  • 'Are you forgetting that I was engaged to you for several weeks?'
  • He was too startled to be hurt. The idea of himself as a Roland Bean
  • was too new to be assimilated immediately. It called for meditation.
  • 'Was I like that?' he said at last, almost humbly.
  • 'You know you were. Oh, I'm not thinking only about your views on the
  • stage! It was everything. Whatever I did you were there to disapprove
  • like a--like a--like an aunt,' she concluded triumphantly. 'You were
  • too good for anything. If only you would, just once, have done
  • something wrong. I think I'd have--But you couldn't. You're simply
  • perfect.'
  • A man will remain cool and composed under many charges. Hint that his
  • tastes are criminal, and he will shrug his shoulders. But accuse him
  • of goodness, and you rouse the lion.
  • Mr Ferguson's brow darkened.
  • 'As a matter of fact,' he said, haughtily, 'I was to have had supper
  • with a chorus-girl this very night.'
  • 'How very appalling!' said she, languidly.
  • She sipped her cocoa.
  • 'I suppose you consider that very terrible?' she said.
  • 'For a beginner.'
  • She crumbled her cake. Suddenly she looked up.
  • 'Who is she?' she demanded, fiercely.
  • 'I beg your pardon?' he said, coming out of a pleasant reverie.
  • 'Who is this girl?'
  • 'She--er--her name--her name is Marie--Marie Templeton.'
  • She seemed to think for a moment.
  • 'That dear old lady?' she said.' I know her quite well.'
  • 'What!'
  • '"Mother" we used to call her. Have you met her son?'
  • 'Her son?'
  • 'A rather nice-looking man. He plays heavy parts on tour. He's married
  • and has two of the sweetest children. Their grandmother is devoted to
  • them. Hasn't she ever mentioned them to you?'
  • She poured herself out another cup of cocoa. Conversation again
  • languished.
  • 'I suppose you're very fond of her?' she said at length.
  • 'I'm devoted to her.' He paused. 'Dear little thing!' he added.
  • She rose and moved to the door. There was a nasty gleam in her eyes.
  • 'You aren't going?' he said.
  • 'I shall be back in a moment. I'm just going to bring your poor little
  • office-boy up here. He must be missing you.'
  • He sprang up, but she had gone. Leaning over the banisters, he heard a
  • door open below, then a short conversation, and finally footsteps
  • climbing the stairs.
  • It was pitch dark on the landing. He stepped aside, and they passed
  • without seeing him. Master Bean was discoursing easily on cocoa, the
  • processes whereby it was manufactured, and the remarkable distances
  • which natives of Mexico had covered with it as their only food. The
  • door opened, flooding the landing with light, and Mr Ferguson, stepping
  • from ambush, began to descend the stairs.
  • The girl came to the banisters.
  • 'Mr Ferguson!'
  • He stopped.
  • 'Did you want me?' he asked.
  • 'Are you going back to your office?'
  • 'I am. I hope you will enjoy Bean's society. He has a fund of useful
  • information on all subjects.'
  • He went on. After a while she returned to the room and closed the door.
  • Mr Ferguson went into his office and sat down.
  • * * * * *
  • There was once a person of the name of Simeon Stylites, who took up a
  • position on top of a pillar and stayed there, having no other
  • engagements, for thirty years. Mr Ferguson, who had read Tennyson's
  • poem on the subject, had until tonight looked upon this as a pretty
  • good thing. Reading the lines:
  • ...thrice ten years,
  • Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
  • In hunger and in thirsts, fevers and colds,
  • In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes, and cramps,...
  • Patient on this tall pillar I have borne.
  • Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow,
  • he had gathered roughly, as it were, that Simeon had not been
  • comfortable. He had pitied him. But now, sitting in his office-chair,
  • he began to wonder what the man had made such a fuss about. He
  • suspected him of having had a touch of the white feather in him. It was
  • not as if he had not had food. He talked about 'hungers and thirsts',
  • but he must have had something to eat, or he could not have stayed the
  • course. Very likely, if the truth were known, there was somebody below
  • who passed him up regular supplies of cake and cocoa.
  • He began to look on Simeon as an overrated amateur.
  • Sleep refused to come to him. It got as far as his feet, but no
  • farther. He rose and stamped to restore the circulation.
  • It was at this point that he definitely condemned Simeon Stylites as a
  • sybaritic fraud.
  • If this were one of those realistic Zolaesque stories I would describe
  • the crick in the back that--but let us hurry on.
  • It was about six hours later--he had no watch, but the numbers of
  • aches, stitches, not to mention cramps, that he had experienced could
  • not possibly have been condensed into a shorter period--that his manly
  • spirit snapped. Let us not judge him too harshly. The girl upstairs had
  • broken his heart, ruined his life, and practically compared him to
  • Roland Bean, and his pride should have built up an impassable wall
  • between them, but--she had cake and cocoa. In similar circumstances
  • King Arthur would have grovelled before Guinevere.
  • He rushed to the door and tore it open. There was a startled
  • exclamation from the darkness outside.
  • 'I hope I didn't disturb you,' said a meek voice.
  • Mr Ferguson did not answer. His twitching nostrils were drinking in a
  • familiar aroma.
  • 'Were you asleep? May I come in? I've brought you some cake and cocoa.'
  • He took the rich gifts from her in silence. There are moments in a
  • man's life too sacred for words. The wonder of the thing had struck him
  • dumb. An instant before and he had had but a desperate hope of winning
  • these priceless things from her at the cost of all his dignity and
  • self-respect. He had been prepared to secure them through a shower of
  • biting taunts, a blizzard of razor-like 'I told you so's'. Yet here he
  • was, draining the cup, and still able to hold his head up, look the
  • world in the face, and call himself a man.
  • His keen eye detected a crumb on his coat-sleeve. This retrieved and
  • consumed, he turned to her, seeking explanation.
  • She was changed. The battle-gleam had faded from her eyes. She seemed
  • scared and subdued. Her manner was of one craving comfort and
  • protection. 'That awful boy!' she breathed.
  • 'Bean?' said Mr Ferguson, picking a crumb off the carpet.
  • 'He's frightful.'
  • 'I thought you might get a little tired of him! What has he been
  • doing?'
  • 'Talking. I feel battered. He's like one of those awful encyclopedias
  • that give you a sort of dull leaden feeling in your head directly you
  • open them. Do you know how many tons of water go over Niagara Falls
  • every year?'
  • 'No.'
  • 'He does.'
  • 'I told you he had a fund of useful information. The Purpose and
  • Tenacity books insist on it. That's how you Catch your Employer's Eye.
  • One morning the boss suddenly wants to know how many horsehair sofas
  • there are in Brixton, the number of pins that would reach from London
  • Bridge to Waterloo. You tell him, and he takes you into partnership.
  • Later you become a millionaire. But I haven't thanked you for the
  • cocoa. It was fine.'
  • He waited for the retort, but it did not come. A pleased wonderment
  • filled him. Could these things really be thus?
  • 'And it isn't only what he says,' she went on. 'I know what you mean
  • about him now. It's his accusing manner.'
  • 'I've tried to analyse that manner. I believe it's the spectacles.'
  • 'It's frightful when he looks at you; you think of all the wrong things
  • you have ever done or ever wanted to do.'
  • 'Does he have that effect on you?' he said, excitedly. 'Why, that
  • exactly describes what I feel.'
  • The affinities looked at one another.
  • She was the first to speak.
  • 'We always did think alike on most things, didn't we?' she said.
  • 'Of course we did.'
  • He shifted his chair forward.
  • 'It was all my fault,' he said. 'I mean, what happened.'
  • 'It wasn't. It--'
  • 'Yes, it was. I want to tell you something. I don't know if it will
  • make any difference now, but I should like you to know it. It's this.
  • I've altered a good deal since I came to London. For the better, I
  • think. I'm a pretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least I don't
  • imagine I can measure life with a foot-rule. I don't judge the world
  • any longer by the standards of a country town. London has knocked some
  • of the corners off me. I don't think you would find me the Bean type
  • any longer. I don't disapprove of other people much now. Not as a
  • habit. I find I have enough to do keeping myself up to the mark.'
  • 'I want to tell you something, too,' she said. 'I expect it's too late,
  • but never mind. I want you to hear it. I've altered, too, since I came
  • to London. I used to think the Universe had been invented just to look
  • on and wave its hat while I did great things. London has put a large
  • piece of cold ice against my head, and the swelling has gone down. I'm
  • not the girl with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed,
  • and not have too bad a time when the day's work is over.'
  • He came across to where she sat.
  • 'We said we would meet as strangers, and we do. We never have known
  • each other. Don't you think we had better get acquainted?' he said.
  • There was a respectful tap at the door.
  • 'Come in?' snapped Mr Ferguson. 'Well?' Behind the gold-rimmed
  • spectacles of Master Bean there shone a softer look than usual, a look
  • rather complacent than disapproving.
  • 'I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am no longer in your
  • employment, but I do hope that in the circumstances you will forgive
  • my entering your private office. Thinking over our situation just now
  • an idea came to me by means of which I fancy we might be enabled to
  • leave the building.'
  • 'What!'
  • 'It occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearest
  • police-station--'
  • 'Good heavens!' cried Mr Ferguson.
  • Two minutes later he replaced the receiver.
  • 'It's all right,' he said. 'I've made them understand the trouble.
  • They're bringing a ladder. I wonder what the time is? It must be about
  • four in the morning.'
  • Master Bean produced a Waterbury watch.
  • 'The time, sir, is almost exactly half past ten.'
  • 'Half past ten! We must have been here longer than three hours. Your
  • watch is wrong.'
  • 'No, sir, I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I do not wish to
  • run any risk of being unpunctual.'
  • 'Half past ten!' cried Mr Ferguson. 'Why, we're in heaps of time to
  • look in at the Savoy for supper. This is great. I'll phone them to keep
  • a table.'
  • 'Supper! I thought--'
  • She stopped.
  • 'What's that? Thought what?'
  • 'Hadn't you an engagement for supper?'
  • He stared at her.
  • 'Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not.'
  • 'I thought you said you were taking Miss Templeton--'
  • 'Miss Temp--Oh!' His face cleared. 'Oh, there isn't such a person. I
  • invented her. I had to when you accused me of being like our friend the
  • Miasma. Legitimate self-defence.'
  • 'I do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy,' said Master
  • Bean, 'but--'
  • 'Come and see me tomorrow morning,' said Mr Ferguson.
  • * * * * *
  • 'Bob,' said the girl, as the first threatening mutters from the
  • orchestra heralded an imminent storm of melody, 'when that boy comes
  • tomorrow, what are going to do?'
  • 'Call up the police.'
  • 'No, but you must do something. We shouldn't have been here if it
  • hadn't been for him.'
  • 'That's true!' He pondered. 'I've got it; I'll get him a job with
  • Raikes and Courtenay.'
  • 'Why Raikes and Courtenay?'
  • 'Because I have a pull with them. But principally,' said Mr Ferguson,
  • with a devilish grin, 'because they live in Edinburgh, which, as you
  • are doubtless aware, is a long, long way from London.'
  • He bent across the table.
  • 'Isn't this like old times?' he said. 'Do you remember the first time I
  • ever ki--'
  • Just then the orchestra broke out.
  • THE GOOD ANGEL
  • Any man under thirty years of age who tells you he is not afraid of an
  • English butler lies. He may not show his fear. Outwardly he may be
  • brave--aggressive even, perhaps to the extent of calling the great man
  • 'Here!' or 'Hi!' But, in his heart, when he meets that, cold, blue,
  • introspective eye, he quakes.
  • The effect that Keggs, the butler at the Keiths', had on Martin
  • Rossiter was to make him feel as if he had been caught laughing in a
  • cathedral. He fought against the feeling. He asked himself who Keggs
  • was, anyway; and replied defiantly that Keggs was a Menial--and an
  • overfed Menial. But all the while he knew that logic was useless.
  • When the Keiths had invited him to their country home he had been
  • delighted. They were among his oldest friends. He liked Mr Keith. He
  • liked Mrs Keith. He loved Elsa Keith, and had done so from boyhood.
  • But things had gone wrong. As he leaned out of his bedroom window at
  • the end of the first week, preparatory to dressing for dinner, he was
  • more than half inclined to make some excuse and get right out of the
  • place next day. The bland dignity of Keggs had taken all the heart out
  • of him.
  • Nor was it Keggs alone who had driven his thoughts towards flight.
  • Keggs was merely a passive evil, like toothache or a rainy day. What
  • had begun actively to make the place impossible was a perfectly
  • pestilential young man of the name of Barstowe.
  • The house-party at the Keiths had originally been, from Martin's
  • view-point, almost ideal. The rest of the men were of the speechless,
  • moustache-tugging breed. They had come to shoot, and they shot. When
  • they were not shooting they congregated in the billiard-room and
  • devoted their powerful intellects exclusively to snooker-pool, leaving
  • Martin free to talk undisturbed to Elsa. He had been doing this for
  • five days with great contentment when Aubrey Barstowe arrived. Mrs
  • Keith had developed of late leanings towards culture. In her town house
  • a charge of small-shot, fired in any direction on a Thursday
  • afternoon, could not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist, or a
  • painter. Aubrey Barstowe, author of _The Soul's Eclipse_ and other
  • poems, was a constant member of the crowd. A youth of insinuating
  • manners, he had appealed to Mrs Keith from the start; and unfortunately
  • the virus had extended to Elsa. Many a pleasant, sunshiny Thursday
  • afternoon had been poisoned for Martin by the sight of Aubrey and Elsa
  • together on a distant settee, matching temperaments. The rest is too
  • painful. It was a rout. The poet did not shoot, so that when Martin
  • returned of an evening his rival was about five hours of soul-to-soul
  • talk up and only two to play. And those two, the after-dinner hours,
  • which had once been the hours for which Martin had lived, were pure
  • torture.
  • So engrossed was he with his thoughts that the first intimation he had
  • that he was not alone in the room was a genteel cough. Behind him,
  • holding a small can, was Keggs.
  • 'Your 'ot water, sir,' said the butler, austerely but not unkindly.
  • Keggs was a man--one must use that word, though it seems grossly
  • inadequate--of medium height, pigeon-toed at the base, bulgy half-way
  • up, and bald at the apex. His manner was restrained and dignified, his
  • voice soft and grave.
  • But it was his eye that quelled Martin. That cold, blue,
  • dukes-have-treated-me-as-an-elder-brother eye.
  • He fixed it upon him now, as he added, placing the can on the floor.
  • 'It is Frederick's duty, but tonight I hundertook it.'
  • Martin had no answer. He was dazed. Keggs had spoken with the proud
  • humility of an emperor compelled by misfortune to shine shoes.
  • 'Might I have a word with you, sir?'
  • 'Ye-e-ss, yes,' stammered Martin. 'Won't you take a--I mean, yes,
  • certainly.'
  • 'It is perhaps a liberty,' began Keggs. He paused, and raked Martin
  • with the eye that had rested on dining dukes.
  • 'Not at all,' said Martin, hurriedly.
  • 'I should like,' went on Keggs, bowing, 'to speak to you on a somewhat
  • intimate subject--Miss Elsa.'
  • Martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly.
  • 'You are going the wrong way to work, if you will allow me to say so,
  • sir.'
  • Martin's jaw dropped another inch.
  • 'Wha-a--'
  • 'Women, sir,' proceeded Keggs, 'young ladies--are peculiar. I have had,
  • if I may say so, certain hopportunities of observing their ways. Miss
  • Elsa reminds me in some respects of Lady Angelica Fendall, whom I had
  • the honour of knowing when I was butler to her father, Lord Stockleigh.
  • Her ladyship was hinclined to be romantic. She was fond of poetry, like
  • Miss Elsa. She would sit by the hour, sir, listening to young Mr Knox
  • reading Tennyson, which was no part of his duties, he being employed by
  • his lordship to teach Lord Bertie Latin and Greek and what not. You may
  • have noticed, sir, that young ladies is often took by Tennyson,
  • hespecially in the summertime. Mr Barstowe was reading Tennyson to Miss
  • Elsa in the 'all when I passed through just now. _The Princess_,
  • if I am not mistaken.'
  • 'I don't know what the thing was,' groaned Martin. 'She seemed to be
  • enjoying it.'
  • 'Lady Angelica was greatly addicted to _The Princess_. Young Mr
  • Knox was reading portions of that poem to her when his lordship come
  • upon them. Most rashly his lordship made a public hexpose and packed Mr
  • Knox off next day. It was not my place to volunteer advice, but I could
  • have told him what would happen. Two days later her ladyship slips away
  • to London early in the morning, and they're married at a
  • registry-office. That is why I say that you are going the wrong way to
  • work with Miss Elsa, sir. With certain types of 'igh spirited young lady
  • hopposition is useless. Now, when Mr Barstowe was reading to Miss Elsa
  • on the occasion to which I 'ave alluded, you were sitting by, trying to
  • engage her attention. It's not the way, sir. You should leave them
  • alone together. Let her see so much of him, and nobody else but him,
  • that she will grow tired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir, is very much
  • like the whisky 'abit. You can't cure a man what has got that by
  • hopposition. Now, if you will permit me to offer a word of advice, sir,
  • I say, let Miss Elsa 'ave all the poetry she wants.'
  • Martin was conscious of one coherent feeling at the conclusion of this
  • address, and that was one of amazed gratitude. A lesser man who had
  • entered his room and begun to discuss his private affairs would have
  • had reason to retire with some speed; but that Keggs should descend
  • from his pedestal and interest himself in such lowly matters was a
  • different thing altogether.
  • 'I'm very much obliged--' he was stammering, when the butler raised a
  • deprecatory hand.
  • 'My interest in the matter,' he said, smoothly, 'is not entirely
  • haltruistic. For some years back, in fact, since Miss Elsa came out, we
  • have had a matrimonial sweepstake in the servants' hall at each
  • house-party. The names of the gentlemen in the party are placed in a hat
  • and drawn in due course. Should Miss Elsa become engaged to any member
  • of the party, the pool goes to the drawer of his name. Should no
  • engagement occur, the money remains in my charge until the following
  • year, when it is added to the new pool. Hitherto I have 'ad the
  • misfortune to draw nothing but married gentlemen, but on this occasion
  • I have secured you, sir. And I may tell you, sir,' he added, with
  • stately courtesy, 'that, in the opinion of the servants' hall, your
  • chances are 'ighly fancied,--very 'ighly. The pool has now reached
  • considerable proportions, and, 'aving had certain losses on the Turf
  • very recent, I am extremely anxious to win it. So I thought, if I might
  • take the liberty, sir, I would place my knowledge of the sex at your
  • disposal. You will find it sound in every respect. That is all. Thank
  • you, sir.'
  • Martin's feelings had undergone a complete revulsion. In the last few
  • minutes the butler had shed his wings and grown horns, cloven feet, and
  • a forked tail. His rage deprived him of words. He could only gurgle.
  • 'Don't thank me, sir,' said the butler, indulgently. 'I ask no thanks.
  • We are working together for a common hobject, and any little 'elp I can
  • provide is given freely.'
  • 'You old scoundrel!' shouted Martin, his wrath prevailing even against
  • that blue eye. 'You have the insolence to come to me and--'
  • He stopped. The thought of these hounds, these demons, coolly gossiping
  • and speculating below stairs about Elsa, making her the subject of
  • little sporting flutters to relieve the monotony of country life,
  • choked him.
  • 'I shall tell Mr Keith,' he said.
  • The butler shook his bald head gravely.
  • 'I shouldn't, sir. It is a 'ighly fantastic story, and I don't think he
  • would believe it.'
  • 'Then I'll--Oh, get out!'
  • Keggs bowed deferentially.
  • 'If you wish it, sir,' he said, 'I will withdraw. If I may make the
  • suggestion, sir, I think you should commence to dress. Dinner will be
  • served in a few minutes. Thank you, sir.'
  • He passed softly out of the room.
  • * * * * *
  • It was more as a demonstration of defiance against Keggs than because
  • he really hoped that anything would come of it that Martin approached
  • Elsa next morning after breakfast. Elsa was strolling on the terrace in
  • front of the house with the bard, but Martin broke in on the conference
  • with the dogged determination of a steam-drill.
  • 'Coming out with the guns today, Elsa?' he said.
  • She raised her eyes. There was an absent look in them.
  • 'The guns?' she said. 'Oh, no; I hate watching men shoot.'
  • 'You used to like it.'
  • 'I used to like dolls,' she said, impatiently.
  • Mr Barstowe gave tongue. He was a slim, tall, sickeningly beautiful
  • young man, with large, dark eyes, full of expression.
  • 'We develop,' he said. 'The years go by, and we develop. Our souls
  • expand--timidly at first, like little, half-fledged birds stealing out
  • from the--'
  • 'I don't know that I'm so set on shooting today, myself,' said Martin.
  • 'Will you come round the links?'
  • 'I am going out in the motor with Mr Barstowe,' said Elsa.
  • 'The motor!' cried Mr Barstowe. 'Ah, Rossiter, that is the very poetry
  • of motion. I never ride in a motor-car without those words of
  • Shakespeare's ringing in my mind: "I'll put a girdle round about the
  • earth in forty minutes."'
  • 'I shouldn't give way to that sort of thing if I were you,' said
  • Martin. 'The police are pretty down on road-hogging in these parts.'
  • 'Mr Barstowe was speaking figuratively,' said Elsa, with disdain.
  • 'Was he?' grunted Martin, whose sorrows were tending to make him every
  • day more like a sulky schoolboy. 'I'm afraid I haven't got a poetic
  • soul.'
  • 'I'm afraid you haven't,' said Elsa.
  • There was a brief silence. A bird made itself heard in a neighbouring
  • tree.
  • '"The moan of doves in immemorial elms,"' quoted Mr Barstowe, softly.
  • 'Only it happens to be a crow in a beech,' said Martin, as the bird
  • flew out.
  • Elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn. Martin turned on his heel and
  • walked away.
  • 'It's the wrong way, sir; it's the wrong way,' said a voice. 'I was
  • hobserving you from a window, sir. It's Lady Angelica over again.
  • Hopposition is useless, believe me, sir.'
  • Martin faced round, flushed and wrathful. The butler went on unmoved:
  • 'Miss Elsa is going for a ride in the car today, sir.'
  • 'I know that.'
  • 'Uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. I was saying so to
  • Roberts, the chauffeur, just as soon as I 'eard Miss Elsa was going out
  • with Mr Barstowe. I said, "Roberts, these cars is tricky; break down
  • when you're twenty miles from hanywhere as soon as look at you.
  • Roberts," I said, slipping him a sovereign, "'ow awful it would be if
  • the car should break down twenty miles from hanywhere today!"'
  • Martin stared.
  • 'You bribed Roberts to--'
  • 'Sir! I gave Roberts the sovereign because I am sorry for him. He is a
  • poor man, and has a wife and family to support.'
  • 'Very well,' said Martin, sternly; 'I shall go and warn Miss Keith.'
  • 'Warn her, sir!'
  • 'I shall tell her that you have bribed Roberts to make the car break
  • down so that--'
  • Keggs shook his head.
  • 'I fear she would hardly credit the statement, sir. She might even
  • think that you was trying to keep her from going for your own pussonal
  • ends.'
  • 'I believe you are the devil,' said Martin.
  • 'I 'ope you will come to look on me, sir,' said Keggs, unctuously, 'as
  • your good hangel.'
  • Martin shot abominably that day, and, coming home in the evening gloomy
  • and savage, went straight to his room, and did not reappear till
  • dinner-time. Elsa had been taken in by one of the moustache-tuggers.
  • Martin found himself seated on her other side. It was so pleasant to be
  • near her, and to feel that the bard was away at the other end of the
  • table, that for the moment his spirits revived.
  • 'Well, how did you like the ride?' he asked, with a smile. 'Did you put
  • that girdle round the world?'
  • She looked at him--once. The next moment he had an uninterrupted view
  • of her shoulder, and heard the sound of her voice as she prattled gaily
  • to the man on her other side.
  • His heart gave a sudden bound. He understood now. The demon butler had
  • had his wicked way. Good heavens! She had thought he was taunting her!
  • He must explain at once. He--
  • 'Hock or sherry, sir?'
  • He looked up into Kegg's expressionless eyes. The butler was wearing
  • his on-duty mask. There was no sign of triumph in his face.
  • 'Oh, sherry. I mean hock. No, sherry. Neither.'
  • This was awful. He must put this right.
  • 'Elsa,' he said.
  • She was engrossed in her conversation with her neighbour.
  • From down the table in a sudden lull in the talk came the voice of Mr
  • Barstowe. He seemed to be in the middle of a narrative.
  • 'Fortunately,' he was saying, 'I had with me a volume of Shelley, and
  • one of my own little efforts. I had read Miss Keith the whole of the
  • latter and much of the former before the chauffeur announced that it
  • was once more possible--'
  • 'Elsa,' said the wretched man, 'I had no idea--you don't think--'
  • She turned to him.
  • 'I beg your pardon?' she said, very sweetly.
  • 'I swear I didn't know--I mean, I'd forgotten--I mean--'
  • She wrinkled her forehead.
  • 'I'm really afraid I don't understand.'
  • 'I mean, about the car breaking down.'
  • 'The car? Oh, yes. Yes, it broke down. We were delayed quite a little
  • while. Mr Barstowe read me some of his poems. It was perfectly lovely.
  • I was quite sorry when Roberts told us we could go on again. But do you
  • really mean to tell me, Mr Lambert, that you--'
  • And once more the world became all shoulder.
  • When the men trailed into the presence of the ladies for that brief
  • seance on which etiquette insisted before permitting the stampede to
  • the billiard-room, Elsa was not to be seen.
  • 'Elsa?' said Mrs Keith in answer to Martin's question. 'She has gone to
  • bed. The poor child has a headache. I am afraid she had a tiring day.'
  • There was an early start for the guns next morning, and as Elsa did not
  • appear at breakfast Martin had to leave without seeing her. His
  • shooting was even worse than it had been on the previous day.
  • It was not until late in the evening that the party returned to the
  • house. Martin, on the way to his room, met Mrs Keith on the stairs. She
  • appeared somewhat agitated.
  • 'Oh, Martin,' she said. 'I'm so glad you're back. Have you seen
  • anything of Elsa?'
  • 'Elsa?'
  • 'Wasn't she with the guns?'
  • 'With the guns' said Martin, puzzled. 'No.'
  • 'I have seen nothing of her all day. I'm getting worried. I can't think
  • what can have happened to her. Are you sure she wasn't with the guns?'
  • 'Absolutely certain. Didn't she come in to lunch?'
  • 'No. Tom,' she said, as Mr Keith came up, 'I'm so worried about Elsa. I
  • haven't seen her all day. I thought she must be out with the guns.'
  • Mr Keith was a man who had built up a large fortune mainly by
  • consistently refusing to allow anything to agitate him. He carried this
  • policy into private life.
  • 'Wasn't she in at lunch?' he asked, placidly.
  • 'I tell you I haven't seen her all day. She breakfasted in her room--'
  • 'Late?'
  • 'Yes. She was tired, poor girl.'
  • 'If she breakfasted late,' said Mr Keith, 'she wouldn't need any lunch.
  • She's gone for a stroll somewhere.'
  • 'Would you put back dinner, do you think?' inquired Mrs Keith,
  • anxiously.
  • 'I am not good at riddles,' said Mr Keith, comfortably, 'but I can
  • answer that one. I would not put back dinner. I would not put back
  • dinner for the King.'
  • Elsa did not come back for dinner. Nor was hers the only vacant place.
  • Mr Barstowe had also vanished. Even Mr Keith's calm was momentarily
  • ruffled by this discovery. The poet was not a favourite of his--it was
  • only reluctantly that he had consented to his being invited at all; and
  • the presumption being that when two members of a house-party disappear
  • simultaneously they are likely to be spending the time in each other's
  • society, he was annoyed. Elsa was not the girl to make a fool of
  • herself, of course, but--He was unwontedly silent at dinner.
  • Mrs Keith's anxiety displayed itself differently. She was frankly
  • worried, and mentioned it. By the time the fish had been reached
  • conversation at the table had fixed itself definitely on the one
  • topic.
  • 'It isn't the car this time, at any rate,' said Mr Keith. 'It hasn't
  • been out today.'
  • 'I can't understand it,' said Mrs Keith for the twentieth time. And
  • that was the farthest point reached in the investigation of the
  • mystery.
  • By the time dinner was over a spirit of unrest was abroad. The company
  • sat about in uneasy groups. Snooker-pool was, if not forgotten, at any
  • rate shelved. Somebody suggested search-parties, and one or two of the
  • moustache-tuggers wandered rather aimlessly out into the darkness.
  • Martin was standing in the porch with Mr Keith when Keggs approached.
  • As his eyes lit on him, Martin was conscious of a sudden solidifying of
  • the vague suspicion which had been forming in his mind. And yet that
  • suspicion seemed so wild. How could Keggs, with the worst intentions,
  • have had anything to do with this? He could not forcibly have abducted
  • the missing pair and kept them under lock and key. He could not have
  • stunned them and left them in a ditch. Nevertheless, looking at him
  • standing there in his attitude of deferential dignity, with the light
  • from the open door shining on his bald head, Martin felt perfectly
  • certain that he had in some mysterious fashion engineered the whole
  • thing.
  • 'Might I have a word, sir, if you are at leisure?'
  • 'Well, Keggs?'
  • 'Miss Elsa, sir.'
  • 'Yes?'
  • Kegg's voice took on a sympathetic softness.
  • 'It was not my place, sir, to make any remark while in the dining-room,
  • but I could not 'elp but hoverhear the conversation. I gathered from
  • remarks that was passed that you was somewhat hat a loss to account for
  • Miss Elsa's non-appearance, sir.'
  • Mr Keith laughed shortly.
  • 'You gathered that, eh?'
  • Keggs bowed.
  • 'I think, sir, that possibly I may be hable to throw light on the
  • matter.'
  • 'What!' cried Mr Keith. 'Great Scott, man! then why didn't you say so
  • at the time? Where is she?'
  • 'It was not my place, sir, to henter into the conversation of the
  • dinner-table,' said the butler, with a touch of reproof. 'If I might
  • speak now, sir?'
  • Mr Keith clutched at his forehead.
  • 'Heavens above! Do you want a signed permit to tell me where my
  • daughter is? Get on, man, get on!'
  • 'I think it 'ighly possible, sir, that Miss Elsa and Mr Barstowe may be
  • on the hisland in the lake, sir.' About half a mile from the house was
  • a picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and a
  • little less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and densely
  • wooded island. It was a favourite haunt of visitors at the house when
  • there was nothing else to engage their attention, but during the past
  • week, with shooting to fill up the days, it had been neglected.
  • 'On the island?' said Mr Keith. 'What put that idea into your head?'
  • 'I 'appened to be rowing on the lake this morning, sir. I frequently
  • row of a morning, sir, when there are no duties to detain me in the
  • 'ouse. I find the hexercise hadmirable for the 'ealth. I walk briskly
  • to the boat-'ouse, and--'
  • 'Yes, yes. I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Cut out the
  • athletic reminiscences and come to the point.'
  • 'As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I 'appened to see a
  • boat 'itched up to a tree on the hisland. I think that possibly Miss
  • Elsa and Mr Barstowe might 'ave taken a row out there. Mr Barstowe
  • would wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic.'
  • 'But you say you saw the boat there this morning?'
  • 'Yes, sir.'
  • 'Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's kept
  • them all this while?'
  • 'It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr Barstowe,
  • if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons,
  • and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied.
  • Or'--his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on
  • Martin's--'some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus.'
  • 'Untied it on purpose?' said Mr Keith. 'What on earth for?'
  • Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realizing his
  • limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human
  • actions.
  • 'I thought it right, sir, to let you know,' he said.
  • 'Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on that
  • island by that long-haired--Here, come along, Martin.'
  • He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment
  • gazing fixedly at the butler.
  • 'I 'ope, sir,' said Keggs, cordially, 'that my hinformation will prove
  • of genuine hassistance.'
  • 'Do you know what I should like to do to you?' said Martin slowly.
  • 'I think I 'ear Mr Keith calling you, sir.'
  • 'I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and--'
  • 'There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? Quite distinct it was.'
  • Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could
  • you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster
  • Abbey.
  • 'I should 'urry, sir,' suggested Keggs, respectfully. 'I think Mr Keith
  • must have met with some haccident.'
  • His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his host
  • seated on the ground in evident pain.
  • 'Twisted my ankle in a hole,' he explained, briefly. 'Give me an arm
  • back to the house, there's a good fellow, and then run on down to the
  • lake and see if what Keggs said is true.'
  • Martin did as he was requested--so far, that is to say, as the first
  • half of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he took
  • it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr Keith to his
  • room, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands of
  • a group of his fellow guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa's
  • feelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but it
  • might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to
  • connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin
  • had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He had
  • been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his
  • sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa's
  • frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's.
  • The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the
  • porch.
  • It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he
  • was lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the
  • sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:
  • 'It's all right. We've found them.'
  • Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.
  • * * * * *
  • Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a
  • day had passed since she had taken to her bed.
  • 'How are you feeling today, dear?'
  • 'Has he gone, mother?'
  • 'Who?'
  • 'Mr Barstowe?'
  • 'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his
  • publisher in London.'
  • 'Then I can get up,' said Elsa, thankfully.
  • 'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an
  • accident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away.'
  • 'It was, it was, it _was_!' cried Elsa, thumping the pillow
  • malignantly. 'I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read me
  • his horrid poetry without my having a chance to escape. I believe
  • that's the only way he can get people to listen to it.'
  • 'But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musical
  • voice.'
  • 'Musical voice!' The pillow became a shapeless heap. 'Mother, it was
  • like a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics.
  • It was _awful_! If he had been even the least bit upset himself I
  • think I could have borne up. But he _enjoyed_ it! He _revelled_
  • in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley's
  • _Epipsychidion_, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on and
  • read and read till my head began to split. Mother'--her voice sank to
  • a whisper--'I hit him!'
  • 'Elsa!'
  • 'I did!' she went on, defiantly. 'I hit him as hard as I could, and
  • he--he'--she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter--'he tripped
  • over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn't
  • think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And
  • it stopped him talking.'
  • 'But, Elsa, _dear_! Why?'
  • 'The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky
  • looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so
  • to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see the
  • resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And he said no,
  • because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that
  • was when I hit him.'
  • 'Elsa!'
  • 'Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I'll get
  • up. It looks lovely out.'
  • Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs Keith had assured
  • him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired,
  • but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could
  • reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard
  • his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near
  • the terrace.
  • 'Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?' she said.
  • 'I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were.'
  • 'How nice of you! Why don't you sit down?'
  • 'May I?'
  • Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.
  • 'You know, you're a very restful person, Martin. You're so big and
  • outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so
  • lazy.'
  • Martin took the magazine.
  • 'What shall I read? Here's a poem by--'
  • Elsa shuddered.
  • 'Oh, please, no,' she cried. 'I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what I
  • should love--the advertisements. There's one about sardines. I started
  • it, and it seemed splendid. It's at the back somewhere.'
  • 'Is this it--Langley and Fielding's sardines?'
  • 'That's it.'
  • Martin began to read.
  • '"Langley and Fielding's sardines. When you want the daintiest, most
  • delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, 'Langley and Fielding's,
  • please!' You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smoked
  • sardines, packed in the purest olive oil."'
  • Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure
  • curving her mouth.
  • 'Go on,' she said, dreamily.
  • '"Nothing nicer."' resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence as
  • the theme began to develop, '"for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probably
  • your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price
  • fivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!"'
  • 'Isn't it _lovely_?' she murmured.
  • Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes.
  • 'Don't stop reading,' she said. 'I never heard anything so soothing.'
  • 'Elsa!'
  • He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing.
  • 'Elsa, I--'
  • 'Mr Keith,' said a quiet voice, 'desired me to say--'
  • Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon them
  • stood Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence.
  • 'Mr Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would
  • come and sit with him for a while.'
  • 'I'll come at once,' said Elsa, stepping from the hammock.
  • The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching him
  • as he moved across the terrace.
  • 'What a saintly old man Keggs looks,' said Elsa. 'Don't you think so?
  • He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he
  • shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has?'
  • 'I wonder!' said Martin.
  • 'He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he
  • came up?'
  • POTS O'MONEY
  • Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr Sheppherd, and
  • with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and
  • twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the
  • influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban
  • Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of
  • thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by
  • the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred
  • that, if you have got to have young men to chant 'We are merry and gay,
  • tra-la, for this is Bohemia,' in the Artists' Ball scene, you might
  • just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had
  • not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class
  • cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a
  • googly bowler who had done well in the last Varsity match; but he had
  • been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is
  • known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr Sheppherd
  • that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found
  • himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.
  • From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his
  • income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two
  • hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his
  • failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took
  • the heart out of him. Mr Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy
  • father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as
  • he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical.
  • Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever
  • happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second
  • minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through
  • the air, urged by Mr Sheppherd's boot, his transit indicated by a
  • dotted line and a few stars.
  • Mr Sheppherd's manner was inclined to bleakness.
  • 'This is most unfortunate,' he said. 'Most unfortunate. I have my
  • daughter's happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.' He
  • paused. 'You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that
  • your uncle--? Surely, with his influence--?'
  • 'My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished
  • him, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not his only nephew, you know. There
  • are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds.'
  • Mr Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feeling
  • more than a little aggrieved.
  • He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle
  • Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite
  • each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr Sheppherd did
  • not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing
  • with the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it was
  • sharp practice on Owen's part to accept his invitation to call, and,
  • having called, to continue calling long enough to make the present
  • deplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been in
  • better taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved more
  • like a bank-clerk and less like an heir.
  • 'I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr Bentley,' he said, 'but you will
  • understand that I cannot--It is, of course, out of the question. It
  • would be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see my
  • daughter again--'
  • 'She's waiting in the passage outside,' said Owen, simply.
  • '--after today. Good-bye.'
  • Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of the
  • door. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they always
  • did, at the sight of her.
  • 'Well?' she said.
  • He shook his head.
  • 'No good,' he said.
  • Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an
  • idea.
  • 'Shall I go in and cry?'
  • 'It wouldn't be of any use.'
  • 'Tell me what happened.'
  • 'He said I mustn't see you again.'
  • 'He didn't mean it.'
  • 'He thinks he did.'
  • Audrey reflected.
  • 'We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the
  • telephone. That isn't seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?'
  • 'Yes. But--'
  • 'That's all right, then. I'll ring you up every day.'
  • 'I wish I could make some money,' said Owen, thoughtfully. 'But I seem
  • to be one of those chaps who can't. Nothing I try comes off. I've never
  • drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on
  • sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn't win a
  • thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing
  • a novel. Nothing came of that, either.'
  • 'What novel?'
  • 'A thing called _White Roses,_ by a woman named Edith Butler.'
  • Audrey looked up quickly.
  • 'I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?'
  • 'I didn't know her at all. I'd never met her. I just happened to buy
  • the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I
  • expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to
  • send it back or even to acknowledge receipt.'
  • 'Perhaps she never got it?'
  • 'I registered it.'
  • 'She was a cat,' said Audrey, decidedly. 'I'm glad of it, though. If
  • another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of
  • jealousy.'
  • Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting
  • with Mr Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing
  • schemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it,
  • sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink and
  • its customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting out
  • rainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glow
  • faded and hopelessness grew.
  • If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more than
  • fulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang him
  • up at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which was
  • noted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head of
  • his department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing his
  • subordinates' work for them.
  • As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing, was discursive and lacked
  • central motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart.
  • 'Owen'--her voice was excited--'have you seen the paper today? Then
  • listen. I'll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: "The
  • Piccadilly Theatre will reopen shortly with a dramatized version of
  • Miss Edith Butler's popular novel, _White Roses_, prepared by the
  • authoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including--" And
  • then a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?'
  • 'What am I going to do?'
  • 'Don't you see what's happened? That awful woman has stolen your play.
  • She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are you
  • laughing at?'
  • 'I wasn't laughing.'
  • 'Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I'll ring off if you do it again.
  • You don't believe me. Well, you wait and see if I'm not--'
  • 'Edith Butler's incapable of such a thing.'
  • There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.
  • 'I thought you said you didn't know her,' said Audrey, jealously.
  • 'I don't--I don't,' said Owen, hastily. 'But I've read her books.
  • They're simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She's a sort of
  • literary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn't steal a
  • play if she tried.'
  • 'You can't judge authors from their books. You must go and see the play
  • when it comes on. Then you'll see I'm right. I'm absolutely certain
  • that woman is trying to swindle you. Don't laugh in that horrid way.
  • Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I'm going to.'
  • At the beginning of the next month Owen's annual holiday arrived. The
  • authorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. They
  • recognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employees ten
  • days in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelve
  • months' work.
  • Owen spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his father
  • had been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, to
  • the farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire.
  • There is something about the country there, with its green fields and
  • miniature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasant
  • background for sentimental musings.
  • It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr Dorman,
  • an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr Dorman's
  • mother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wise
  • woman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and it
  • was known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even the
  • botts by means of spells.
  • Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. It
  • seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room,
  • and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and
  • sing 'Asthore', the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him
  • strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement
  • in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr Dorman appeared,
  • somewhat agitated.
  • 'If you don't mind, Mr Owen,' he said. 'I forgot to tell you. There's a
  • lit'ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can't bear to
  • be disturbed.'
  • A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.
  • 'Writing a book he is,' continued Mr Dorman. 'He caught young George a
  • clip over the ear-'ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs.
  • Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he'd skin him if he ever did it
  • again. So, if you don't mind--'
  • 'Oh, all right,' said Owen. 'Who is he?'
  • 'Gentleman of the name of Prosser.'
  • Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of that
  • name; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was a
  • celebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.
  • 'I never heard of him,' he said, 'but that's no reason why I should
  • disturb him. Let him rip. I'll cut out the musical effects in future.'
  • The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible,
  • though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy of
  • composition. Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old Mrs
  • Dorman.
  • That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, was
  • indicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipe
  • at the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him to
  • the station, when George, the son of the house, entered.
  • George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:
  • 'Farsezjerligranmatellyerforchbythecards?'
  • 'Eh?' said Owen.
  • The youth repeated the word.
  • 'Once again.'
  • On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent in
  • the place, added to this ten days' stay, had made Owen something of a
  • linguist.
  • 'Father says would I like grandma to do what?'
  • 'Tell yer forch'n by ther cards.'
  • 'Where is she?'
  • 'Backyarnder.'
  • Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr Dorman, the
  • farmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an old
  • woman, whom he remembered well.
  • 'Mother wants to tell your fortune,' said Mr Dorman, in a hoarse aside.
  • 'She always will tell visitors' fortunes. She told Mr Prosser's, and he
  • didn't half like it, because she said he'd be engaged in two months and
  • married inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn't make him do it.'
  • 'She can tell me that if she likes. I shan't object.'
  • 'Mother, here's Mr Owen.'
  • 'I seed him fast enough,' said the old woman, briskly. 'Shuffle, an' cut
  • three times.'
  • She then performed mysterious manoeuvres with the cards.
  • 'I see pots o' money,' announced the sibyl.
  • 'If she says it, it's there right enough,' said her son.
  • 'She means my bonus,' said Owen. 'But that's only ten pounds. And I lose
  • it if I'm late twice more before Christmas.'
  • 'It'll come sure enough.'
  • 'Pots,' said the old woman, and she was still mumbling the encouraging
  • word when Owen left the kitchen and returned to the sitting-room.
  • He laughed rather ruefully. At that moment he could have found a use
  • for pots o' money.
  • He walked to the window, and looked out. It was a glorious morning. The
  • heat-mist was dancing over the meadow beyond the brook, and from the
  • farmyard came the liquid charawks of care-free fowls. It seemed wicked
  • to leave these haunts of peace for London on such a day.
  • An acute melancholy seized him. Absently, he sat down at the piano. The
  • prejudices of literary Mr Prosser had slipped from his mind. Softly at
  • first, then gathering volume as the spirit of the song gripped him, he
  • began to sing 'Asthore'. He became absorbed.
  • He had just, for the sixth time, won through to 'Iyam-ah waiting for-er
  • theeee-yass-thorre,' and was doing some intricate three-chord work
  • preparatory to starting over again, when a loaf of bread whizzed past
  • his ear. It missed him by an inch, and crashed against a plaster
  • statuette of the Infant Samuel on the top of the piano.
  • It was a standard loaf, containing eighty per cent of semolina, and it
  • practically wiped the Infant Samuel out of existence. At the same
  • moment, at his back, there sounded a loud, wrathful snort.
  • He spun round. The door was open, and at the other side of the table
  • was standing a large, black-bearded, shirt-sleeved man, in an attitude
  • rather reminiscent of Ajax defying the lightning. His hands trembled.
  • His beard bristled. His eyes gleamed ferociously beneath enormous
  • eyebrows. As Owen turned, he gave tongue in a voice like the discharge
  • of a broadside.
  • 'Stop it!'
  • Owen's mind, wrenched too suddenly from the dreamy future to the vivid
  • present, was not yet completely under control. He gaped.
  • 'Stop--that--infernal--noise!' roared the man.
  • He shot through the door, banging it after him, and pounded up the
  • stairs.
  • Owen was annoyed. The artistic temperament was all very well, but
  • there were limits. It was absurd that obscure authors should behave in
  • this way. Prosser! Who on earth was Prosser? Had anyone ever heard of
  • him? No! Yet here he was going about the country clipping small boys
  • over the ear-hole, and flinging loaves of bread at bank-clerks as if he
  • were Henry James or Marie Corelli. Owen reproached himself bitterly for
  • his momentary loss of presence of mind. If he had only kept his head,
  • he could have taken a flying shot at the man with the marmalade-pot. It
  • had been within easy reach. Instead of which, he had merely stood and
  • gaped. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It
  • might have been.'
  • His manly regret was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Dorman with the
  • information that the dog-cart was at the door.
  • * * * * *
  • Audrey was out of town when Owen arrived in London, but she returned a
  • week later. The sound of her voice through the telephone did much to
  • cure the restlessness from which he had been suffering since the
  • conclusion of his holiday. But the thought that she was so near yet so
  • inaccessible produced in him a meditative melancholy which enveloped
  • him like a cloud that would not lift. His manner became distrait. He
  • lost weight.
  • If customers were not vaguely pained by his sad, pale face, it was only
  • because the fierce rush of modern commercial life leaves your business
  • man little leisure for observing pallor in bank-clerks. What did pain
  • them was the gentle dreaminess with which he performed his duties. He
  • was in the Inward Bills Department, one of the features of which was
  • the sudden inrush, towards the end of each afternoon, of hatless,
  • energetic young men with leather bags strapped to their left arms,
  • clamouring for mysterious crackling documents, much fastened with pins.
  • Owen had never quite understood what it was that these young men did
  • want, and now his detached mind refused even more emphatically to
  • grapple with the problem. He distributed the documents at random with
  • the air of a preoccupied monarch scattering largess to the mob, and the
  • subsequent chaos had to be handled by a wrathful head of the department
  • in person.
  • Man's power of endurance is limited. At the end of the second week the
  • overwrought head appealed passionately for relief, and Owen was removed
  • to the Postage Department, where, when he had leisure from answering
  • Audrey's telephone calls, he entered the addresses of letters in a
  • large book and took them to the post. He was supposed also to stamp
  • them, but a man in love cannot think of everything, and he was apt at
  • times to overlook this formality.
  • One morning, receiving from one of the bank messengers the usual
  • intimation that a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone, he went
  • to the box and took up the receiver.
  • 'Is that you, Owen? Owen, I went to _White Roses_ last night. Have
  • you been yet?'
  • 'Not yet.'
  • 'Then you must go tonight. Owen, I'm _certain_ you wrote it. It's
  • perfectly lovely. I cried my eyes out. If you don't go tonight, I'll
  • never speak to you again, even on the telephone. Promise.'
  • 'Must I?'
  • 'Yes, you must. Why, suppose it _is_ yours! It may mean a fortune.
  • The stalls were simply packed. I'm going to ring up the theatre now and
  • engage a seat for you, and pay for it myself.'
  • 'No--I say--' protested Owen.
  • 'Yes, I shall. I can't trust you to go if I don't. And I'll ring up
  • early tomorrow to hear all about it. Good-bye.'
  • Owen left the box somewhat depressed. Life was quite gloomy enough as
  • it was, without going out of one's way to cry one's eyes out over
  • sentimental plays.
  • His depression was increased by the receipt, on his return to his
  • department, of a message from the manager, stating that he would like
  • to see Mr Bentley in his private room for a moment. Owen never enjoyed
  • these little chats with Authority. Out of office hours, in the circle
  • of his friends, he had no doubt the manager was a delightful and
  • entertaining companion; but in his private room his conversation was
  • less enjoyable.
  • The manager was seated at his table, thoughtfully regarding the
  • ceiling. His resemblance to a stuffed trout, always striking, was
  • subtly accentuated, and Owen, an expert in these matters, felt that his
  • fears had been well founded--there was trouble in the air. Somebody had
  • been complaining of him, and he was now about, as the phrase went, to
  • be 'run-in'.
  • A large man, seated with his back to the door, turned as he entered,
  • and Owen recognized the well-remembered features of Mr Prosser, the
  • literary loaf-slinger.
  • Owen regarded him without resentment. Since returning to London he had
  • taken the trouble of looking up his name in _Who's Who_ and had
  • found that he was not so undistinguished as he had supposed. He was, it
  • appeared, a Regius Professor and the author of some half-dozen works on
  • sociology--a record, Owen felt, that almost justified loaf-slinging and
  • ear-hole clipping in moments of irritation.
  • The manager started to speak, but the man of letters anticipated him.
  • 'Is this the fool?' he roared. 'Young man, I have no wish to be hard on
  • a congenital idiot who is not responsible for his actions, but I must
  • insist on an explanation. I understand that you are in charge of the
  • correspondence in this office. Well, during the last week you have
  • three times sent unstamped letters to my fiancee, Miss Vera Delane,
  • Woodlands, Southbourne, Hants. What's the matter with you? Do you think
  • she likes paying twopence a time, or what is it?'
  • Owen's mind leaped back at the words. They recalled something to him.
  • Then he remembered.
  • He was conscious of a not unpleasant thrill. He had not known that he
  • was superstitious, but for some reason he had not been able to get
  • those absurd words of Mr Dorman's mother out of his mind. And here was
  • another prediction of hers, equally improbable, fulfilled to the
  • letter.
  • 'Great Scott!' he cried. 'Are you going to be married?'
  • Mr Prosser and the manager started simultaneously.
  • 'Mrs Dorman said you would be,' said Owen. 'Don't you remember?'
  • Mr Prosser looked keenly at him.
  • 'Why, I've seen you before,' he said. 'You're the young turnip-headed
  • scallywag at the farm.'
  • 'That's right,' said Owen.
  • 'I've been wanting to meet you again. I thought the whole thing over,
  • and it struck me,' said Mr Prosser, handsomely, 'that I may have seemed
  • a little abrupt at our last meeting.'
  • 'No, no.'
  • 'The fact is, I was in the middle of an infernally difficult passage of
  • my book that morning, and when you began--'
  • 'It was my fault entirely. I quite understand.'
  • Mr Prosser produced a card-case.
  • 'We must see more of each other,' he said. 'Come and have a bit of
  • dinner some night. Come tonight.'
  • 'I'm very sorry. I have to go to the theatre tonight.'
  • 'Then come and have a bit of supper afterwards. Excellent. Meet me at
  • the Savoy at eleven-fifteen. I'm glad I didn't hit you with that loaf.
  • Abruptness has been my failing through life. My father was just the
  • same. Eleven-fifteen at the Savoy, then.'
  • The manager, who had been listening with some restlessness to the
  • conversation, now intervened. He was a man with a sense of fitness of
  • things, and he objected to having his private room made the scene of
  • what appeared to be a reunion of old college chums. He hinted as much.
  • 'Ha! Prrumph!' he observed, disapprovingly. 'Er--Mr Bentley, that is
  • all. You may return to your work--ah'mmm! Kindly be more careful
  • another time in stamping the letters.'
  • 'Yes, by Jove,' said Mr Prosser, suddenly reminded of his wrongs,
  • 'that's right. Exercise a little ordinary care, you ivory-skulled
  • young son of a gun. Do you think Miss Delane is _made_ of
  • twopences? Keep an eye on him,' he urged the manager. 'These young
  • fellows nowadays want someone standing over them with a knout all the
  • time. Be more careful another time, young man. Eleven-fifteen,
  • remember. Make a note of it, or you'll go forgetting _that_.'
  • * * * * *
  • The seat Audrey had bought for him at the Piccadilly Theatre proved to
  • be in the centre of the sixth row of stalls--practically a death-trap.
  • Whatever his sufferings might be, escape was impossible. He was
  • securely wedged in.
  • The cheaper parts of the house were sparsely occupied, but the stalls
  • were full. Owen, disapproving of the whole business, refused to buy a
  • programme, and settled himself in his seat prepared for the worst. He
  • had a vivid recollection of _White Roses_, the novel, and he did
  • not anticipate any keen enjoyment from it in its dramatized form. He
  • had long ceased to be a member of that large public for which Miss
  • Edith Butler catered. The sentimental adventures of governesses in
  • ducal houses--the heroine of _White Roses_ was a governess--no
  • longer contented his soul.
  • There is always a curiously dream-like atmosphere about a play founded
  • on a book. One seems to have seen it all before. During the whole of
  • the first act Owen attributed to this his feeling of familiarity with
  • what was going on on the stage. At the beginning of the second act he
  • found himself anticipating events. But it was not till the third act
  • that the truth sank in.
  • The third was the only act in which, in his dramatization, he had taken
  • any real liberties with the text of the novel. But in this act he had
  • introduced a character who did not appear in the novel--a creature of
  • his own imagination. And now, with bulging eyes, he observed this
  • creature emerge from the wings, and heard him utter lines which he now
  • clearly remembered having written.
  • Audrey had been right! Serpent Edith Butler had stolen his play.
  • His mind, during the remainder of the play, was active. By the time the
  • final curtain fell and he passed out into the open air he had perceived
  • some of the difficulties of the case. To prove oneself the author of an
  • original play is hard, but not impossible. Friends to whom one had
  • sketched the plot may come forward as witnesses. One may have preserved
  • rough notes. But a dramatization of a novel is another matter. All
  • dramatizations of any given novel must necessarily be very much alike.
  • He started to walk along Piccadilly, and had reached Hyde Park Corner
  • before he recollected that he had an engagement to take supper with Mr
  • Prosser at the Savoy Hotel. He hailed a cab.
  • 'You're late,' boomed the author of sociological treatises, as he
  • appeared. 'You're infernally late. I suppose, in your woollen-headed
  • way, you forgot all about it. Come along. We'll just have time for an
  • olive and a glass of something before they turn the lights out.'
  • Owen was still thinking deeply as he began his supper. Surely there was
  • some way by which he could prove his claims. What had he done with the
  • original manuscript? He remembered now. He had burnt it. It had seemed
  • mere useless litter then. Probably, he felt bitterly, the woman Butler
  • had counted on this.
  • Mr Prosser concluded an animated conversation with a waiter on the
  • subject of the wines of France, leaned forward, and, having helped
  • himself briskly to anchovies, began to talk. He talked loudly and
  • rapidly. Owen, his thoughts far away, hardly listened.
  • Presently the waiter returned with the selected brand. He filled Owen's
  • glass, and Owen drank, and felt better. Finding his glass magically
  • full once more, he emptied it again. And then suddenly he found himself
  • looking across the table at his Host, and feeling a sense of absolute
  • conviction that this was the one man of all others whom he would have
  • selected as a confidant. How kindly, though somewhat misty, his face
  • was! How soothing, if a little indistinct, his voice!
  • 'Prosser,' he said, 'you are a man of the world, and I should like your
  • advice. What would you do in a case like this? I go to a theatre to see
  • a play, and what do I find?'
  • He paused, and eyed his host impressively.
  • 'What's that tune they're playing?' said Mr Prosser. 'You hear it
  • everywhere. One of these Viennese things, I suppose.'
  • Owen was annoyed. He began to doubt whether, after all, Mr Prosser's
  • virtues as a confidant were not more apparent than real.
  • 'I find, by Jove,' he continued, 'that I wrote the thing myself.'
  • 'It's not a patch on _The Merry Widow_,' said Mr Prosser.
  • Owen thumped the table.
  • 'I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself.'
  • 'What thing?'
  • 'This play I'm telling you about. This _White Roses_ thing.'
  • He found that he had at last got his host's ear. Mr Prosser seemed
  • genuinely interested.
  • 'What do you mean?'
  • Owen plunged on with his story. He started from its dim beginning, from
  • the days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath to
  • Cheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of the
  • package, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched the
  • progress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crisp
  • character-sketch of Mr Sheppherd. He took his hearer right up to
  • the moment when the truth had come home to him.
  • Towards the end of his narrative the lights went out, and he finished
  • his story in the hotel courtyard. In the cool air he felt revived. The
  • outlines of Mr Prosser became sharp and distinct again.
  • The sociologist listened admirably. He appeared absorbed, and did not
  • interrupt once.
  • 'What makes you so certain that this was your version?' he asked, as
  • they passed into the Strand.
  • Owen told him of the creature of his imagination in Act III.
  • 'But you have lost your manuscript?'
  • 'Yes; I burnt it.'
  • 'Just what one might have expected you to do,' said Mr Prosser,
  • unkindly. 'Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something in
  • this. You haven't got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in a
  • court of law, of course; but still, I'm inclined to believe you. For
  • one thing, you haven't the intelligence to invent such a story.'
  • Owen thanked him.
  • 'In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied.'
  • It seemed to Owen that Mr Prosser was tending to get a little above
  • himself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but that
  • appeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort of
  • judge and master of the ceremonies.
  • 'That's very good of you,' he said; 'but will Edith Butler be
  • satisfied? That's more to the point.'
  • 'I _am_ Edith Butler,' said Mr Prosser.
  • Owen stopped. 'You?'
  • 'You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person
  • besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn't have told you if I could
  • have helped it. It isn't a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don't
  • goggle at me like a fish! Haven't you heard of pseudonyms before?'
  • 'Yes, but--'
  • 'Well, never mind. Take it from me that I _am_ Edith Butler. Now
  • listen to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country.
  • There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the fact
  • that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of
  • thing you would have done, to put no name on the thing.'
  • 'I enclosed a letter, anyhow.'
  • 'There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. There
  • was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that
  • was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as "Dear Madam". But one
  • thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent from some
  • hotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?'
  • 'I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham's. I was stopping there.'
  • 'You pass,' said Mr Prosser. 'It was Wilbraham's.'
  • Owen's heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.
  • 'Then do you mean to say that it's all right--that you believe--'
  • 'I do,' said Mr Prosser. 'By the way,' he said, 'the notice of _White
  • Roses_ went up last night.'
  • Owen's heart turned to lead.
  • 'But--but--' he stammered. 'But tonight the house was packed.'
  • 'It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London were
  • there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,' he
  • cried, with sudden vehemence, 'serve 'em right. If I told them once it
  • would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public
  • won't stand that sort of blithering twaddle.'
  • Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. He
  • signalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blow
  • could have unmanned him more completely than this hideous
  • disappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be running
  • his way.
  • 'Sooner ride than walk,' said Mr Prosser, pushing his head through the
  • open window. 'Laziness--slackness--that's the curse of the modern young
  • man. Where shall I tell him to drive to?'
  • Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked his
  • host for his hospitality.
  • 'It was awfully good of you to give me supper, Mr Prosser,' he said.
  • 'I've enjoyed it tremendously.'
  • 'Come again,' said Mr Prosser. 'I'm afraid you're disappointed about
  • the play?'
  • Owen forced a smile.
  • 'Oh, no, that's all right,' he said. 'It can't be helped.'
  • Mr Prosser half turned, then thrust his head through the window again.
  • 'I knew there was something I had forgotten to say,' he said. 'I ought
  • to have told you that the play was produced in America before it came
  • to London. It ran two seasons in New York and one in Chicago, and there
  • are three companies playing it still on the road. Here's my card. Come
  • round and see me tomorrow. I can't tell you the actual figures
  • off-hand, but you'll be all right. You'll have pots o' money.'
  • OUT OF SCHOOL
  • Mark you, I am not defending James Datchett. I hold no brief for James.
  • On the contrary, I am very decidedly of the opinion that he should not
  • have done it. I merely say that there were extenuating circumstances.
  • Just that. Ext. circ. Nothing more.
  • Let us review the matter calmly and judicially, not condemning James
  • off-hand, but rather probing the whole affair to its core, to see if we
  • can confirm my view that it is possible to find excuses for him.
  • We will begin at the time when the subject of the Colonies first showed
  • a tendency to creep menacingly into the daily chit-chat of his Uncle
  • Frederick.
  • James's Uncle Frederick was always talking more or less about the
  • Colonies, having made a substantial fortune out in Western Australia,
  • but it was only when James came down from Oxford that the thing became
  • really menacing. Up to that time the uncle had merely spoken of the
  • Colonies _as_ Colonies. Now he began to speak of them with
  • sinister reference to his nephew. He starred James. It became a case of
  • 'Frederick Knott presents James Datchett in "The Colonies",' and there
  • seemed every prospect that the production would be an early one; for if
  • there was one section of the public which Mr Knott disliked more than
  • another, it was Young Men Who Ought To Be Out Earning Their Livings
  • Instead Of Idling At Home. He expressed his views on the subject with
  • some eloquence whenever he visited his sister's house. Mrs Datchett was
  • a widow, and since her husband's death had been in the habit of
  • accepting every utterance of her brother Frederick as a piece of
  • genuine all-wool wisdom; though, as a matter of fact, James's uncle had
  • just about enough brain to make a jay-bird fly crooked, and no more. He
  • had made his money through keeping sheep. And any fool can keep sheep.
  • However, he had this reputation for wisdom, and what he said went. It
  • was not long, therefore, before it was evident that the ranks of the
  • Y.M.W.O.T.B.O.E.T.L.I.O.I.A.H. were about to lose a member.
  • James, for his part, was all against the Colonies. As a setting for his
  • career, that is to say. He was no Little Englander. He had no earthly
  • objection to Great Britain _having Colonies._ By all means have
  • Colonies. They could rely on him for moral support. But when it came to
  • legging it out to West Australia to act as a sort of valet to Uncle
  • Frederick's beastly sheep--no. Not for James. For him the literary
  • life. Yes, that was James's dream--to have a stab at the literary life.
  • At Oxford he had contributed to the _Isis,_ and since coming down
  • had been endeavouring to do the same to the papers of the Metropolis.
  • He had had no success so far. But some inward voice seemed to tell
  • him--(Read on. Read on. This is no story about the young beginner's
  • struggles in London. We do not get within fifty miles of Fleet Street.)
  • A temporary compromise was effected between the two parties by the
  • securing for James of a post as assistant-master at Harrow House, the
  • private school of one Blatherwick, M.A., the understanding being that
  • if he could hold the job he could remain in England and write, if it
  • pleased him, in his spare time. But if he fell short in any way as a
  • handler of small boys he was to descend a step in the animal kingdom
  • and be matched against the West Australian sheep. There was to be no
  • second chance in the event of failure. From the way Uncle Frederick
  • talked James almost got the idea that he attached a spiritual
  • importance to a connexion with sheep. He seemed to strive with a sort
  • of religious frenzy to convert James to West Australia. So James went
  • to Harrow House with much the same emotions that the Old Guard must
  • have felt on their way up the hill at Waterloo.
  • Harrow House was a grim mansion on the outskirts of Dover. It is
  • better, of course, to be on the outskirts of Dover than actually in
  • it, but when you have said that you have said everything. James's
  • impressions of that portion of his life were made up almost entirely of
  • chalk. Chalk in the school-room, chalk all over the country-side, chalk
  • in the milk. In this universe of chalk he taught bored boys the
  • rudiments of Latin, geography, and arithmetic, and in the evenings,
  • after a stately cup of coffee with Mr Blatherwick in his study, went to
  • his room and wrote stories. The life had the advantage of offering few
  • distractions. Except for Mr Blatherwick and a weird freak who came up
  • from Dover on Tuesdays and Fridays to teach French, he saw nobody.
  • It was about five weeks from the beginning of term that the river of
  • life at Harrow House became ruffled for the new assistant-master.
  • I want you to follow me very closely here. As far as the excusing of
  • James's conduct is concerned, it is now or never. If I fail at this
  • point to touch you, I have shot my bolt.
  • Let us marshal the facts.
  • In the first place it was a perfectly ripping morning.
  • Moreover he had received at breakfast a letter from the editor of a
  • monthly magazine accepting a short story.
  • This had never happened to him before.
  • He was twenty-two.
  • And, just as he rounded the angle of the house, he came upon Violet,
  • taking the air like himself.
  • Violet was one of the housemaids, a trim, energetic little person with
  • round blue eyes and a friendly smile. She smiled at James now. James
  • halted.
  • 'Good morning, sir,' said Violet.
  • From my list of contributory causes I find that I have omitted one
  • item--viz., that there did not appear to be anybody else about.
  • James looked meditatively at Violet. Violet looked smilingly at James.
  • The morning was just as ripping as it had been a moment before. James
  • was still twenty-two. And the editor's letter had not ceased to crackle
  • in his breast-pocket.
  • Consequently James stooped, and--in a purely brotherly way--kissed
  • Violet.
  • This, of course, was wrong. It was no part of James's duties as
  • assistant-master at Harrow House to wander about bestowing brotherly
  • kisses on housemaids. On the other hand, there was no great harm done.
  • In the circles in which Violet moved the kiss was equivalent to the
  • hand-shake of loftier society. Everybody who came to the back door
  • kissed Violet. The carrier did; so did the grocer, the baker, the
  • butcher, the gardener, the postman, the policeman, and the fishmonger.
  • They were men of widely differing views on most points. On religion,
  • politics, and the prospects of the entrants for the three o'clock race
  • their opinions clashed. But in one respect they were unanimous.
  • Whenever they came to the back door of Harrow House they all kissed
  • Violet.
  • 'I've had a story accepted by the _Universal Magazine_,' said
  • James, casually.
  • 'Have you, sir?' said Violet.
  • 'It's a pretty good magazine. I shall probably do a great deal for it
  • from time to time. The editor seems a decent chap.'
  • 'Does he, sir?'
  • 'I shan't tie myself up in any way, of course, unless I get very good
  • terms. But I shall certainly let him see a good lot of my stuff. Jolly
  • morning, isn't it?'
  • He strolled on; and Violet, having sniffed the air for a few more
  • minutes with her tip-tilted nose, went indoors to attend to her work.
  • Five minutes later James, back in the atmosphere of chalk, was writing
  • on the blackboard certain sentences for his class to turn into Latin
  • prose. A somewhat topical note ran through them. As thus:
  • 'The uncle of Balbus wished him to tend sheep in the Colonies
  • (_Provincia_).'
  • 'Balbus said that England was good enough for him (_placeo_).'
  • 'Balbus sent a story (versus) to Maecenas, who replied that he hoped to
  • use it in due course.'
  • His mind floated away from the classroom when a shrill voice brought
  • him back.
  • 'Sir, please, sir, what does "due course" mean?'
  • James reflected. 'Alter it to "immediately,"' he said.
  • 'Balbus is a great man,' he wrote on the blackboard.
  • Two minutes later he was in the office of an important magazine, and
  • there was a look of relief on the editor's face, for James had
  • practically promised to do a series of twelve short stories for him.
  • * * * * *
  • It has been well observed that when a writer has a story rejected he
  • should send that story to another editor, but that when he has one
  • accepted he should send another story to that editor. Acting on this
  • excellent plan, James, being off duty for an hour after tea, smoked a
  • pipe in his bedroom and settled down to work on a second effort for the
  • Universal.
  • He was getting on rather well when his flow of ideas was broken by a
  • knock on the door.
  • 'Come in,' yelled James. (Your author is notoriously irritable.)
  • The new-comer was Adolf. Adolf was one of that numerous band of Swiss
  • and German youths who come to this country prepared to give their
  • services ridiculously cheap in exchange for the opportunity of learning
  • the English language. Mr Blatherwick held the view that for a private
  • school a male front-door opener was superior to a female, arguing that
  • the parents of prospective pupils would be impressed by the sight of a
  • man in livery. He would have liked something a bit more imposing than
  • Adolf, but the latter was the showiest thing that could be got for the
  • money, so he made the best of it, and engaged him. After all, an
  • astigmatic parent, seeing Adolf in a dim light, might be impressed by
  • him. You never could tell.
  • 'Well?' said James, glaring.
  • 'Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?'
  • The bulk of Adolf's perquisites consisted of the tips he received for
  • going to the general store down the road for tobacco, stamps, and so
  • on. 'No. Get out,' growled James, turning to his work.
  • He was surprised to find that Adolf, so far from getting out, came in
  • and shut the door.
  • 'Zst!' said Adolf, with a finger on his lips.
  • James stared.
  • 'In dze garten zis morning,' proceeded his visitor, grinning like a
  • gargoyle, 'I did zee you giss Violed. Zo!'
  • James's heart missed a beat. Considered purely as a situation, his
  • present position was not ideal. He had to work hard, and there was not
  • much money attached to the job. But it was what the situation stood for
  • that counted. It was his little rock of safety in the midst of a
  • surging ocean of West Australian sheep. Once let him lose his grip on
  • it, and there was no chance for him. He would be swept away beyond hope
  • of return.
  • 'What do you mean?' he said hoarsely.
  • 'In dze garten. I you vrom a window did zee. You und Violed. Zo!' And
  • Adolf, in the worst taste, gave a realistic imitation of the scene,
  • himself sustaining the role of James.
  • James said nothing. The whole world seemed to be filled with a vast
  • baa-ing, as of countless flocks.
  • 'Lizzun!' said Adolf. 'Berhaps I Herr Blazzervig dell. Berhaps not I
  • do. Zo!'
  • James roused himself. At all costs he must placate this worm. Mr
  • Blatherwick was an austere man. He would not overlook such a crime.
  • He appealed to the other's chivalry.
  • 'What about Violet?' he said. 'Surely you don't want to lose the poor
  • girl her job? They'd be bound to sack her, too.'
  • Adolf's eyes gleamed.
  • 'Zo? Lizzun! When I do gom virst here, I myself do to giss Violed vunce
  • vish. But she do push dze zide of my face, and my lof is durned to
  • hate.'
  • James listened attentively to this tabloid tragedy, but made no
  • comment.
  • 'Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?'
  • Adolf's voice was meaning. James produced a half-crown.
  • 'Here you are, then. Get me half a dozen stamps and keep the change.'
  • 'Zdamps? Yes, sare. At vunce.'
  • James's last impression of the departing one was of a vast and greasy
  • grin, stretching most of the way across his face.
  • * * * * *
  • Adolf, as blackmailer, in which role he now showed himself, differed in
  • some respects from the conventional blackmailer of fiction. It may be
  • that he was doubtful as to how much James would stand, or it may be
  • that his soul as a general rule was above money. At any rate, in actual
  • specie he took very little from his victim. He seemed to wish to be
  • sent to the village oftener than before, but that was all. Half a crown
  • a week would have covered James's financial loss.
  • But he asserted himself in another way. In his most light-hearted
  • moments Adolf never forgot the reason which had brought him to England.
  • He had come to the country to learn the language, and he meant to do
  • it. The difficulty which had always handicapped him hitherto--namely,
  • the poverty of the vocabularies of those in the servants' quarters--was
  • now removed. He appointed James tutor-in-chief of the English language
  • to himself, and saw that he entered upon his duties at once.
  • The first time that he accosted James in the passage outside the
  • classroom, and desired him to explain certain difficult words in a
  • leading article of yesterday's paper, James was pleased. Adolf, he
  • thought, regarded the painful episode as closed. He had accepted the
  • half-crown as the full price of silence, and was now endeavouring to be
  • friendly in order to make amends.
  • This right-minded conduct gratified James. He felt genially disposed
  • toward Adolf. He read the leading article, and proceeded to give a full
  • and kindly explanation of the hard words. He took trouble over it. He
  • went into the derivations of the words. He touched on certain rather
  • tricky sub-meanings of the same. Adolf went away with any doubts he
  • might have had of James's capabilities as a teacher of English
  • definitely scattered. He felt that he had got hold of the right man.
  • There was a shade less geniality in James's manner when the same thing
  • happened on the following morning. But he did not refuse to help the
  • untutored foreigner. The lecture was less exhaustive than that of the
  • previous morning, but we must suppose that it satisfied Adolf, for he
  • came again next day, his faith in his teacher undiminished.
  • James was trying to write a story. He turned on the student.
  • 'Get out!' he howled. 'And take that beastly paper away. Can't you see
  • I'm busy? Do you think I can spend all my time teaching you to read?
  • Get out!'
  • 'Dere some hard vord vos,' said Adolf, patiently, 'of which I gannot
  • dze meaning.'
  • James briefly cursed the hard word.
  • 'But,' proceeded Adolf, 'of one vord, of dze vord "giss", I dze meaning
  • know. Zo!'
  • James looked at him. There was a pause.
  • Two minutes later the English lesson was in full swing.
  • * * * * *
  • All that James had ever heard or read about the wonderful devotion to
  • study of the modern German young man came home to him during the next
  • two weeks. Our English youth fritters away its time in idleness and
  • pleasure-seeking. The German concentrates. Adolf concentrated like a
  • porous plaster. Every day after breakfast, just when the success of
  • James's literary career depended on absolute seclusion, he would come
  • trotting up for his lesson. James's writing practically ceased.
  • This sort of thing cannot last. There is a limit, and Adolf reached it
  • when he attempted to add night-classes to the existing curriculum.
  • James, as had been said, was in the habit of taking coffee with Mr
  • Blatherwick in his study after seeing the boys into bed. It was while
  • he was on his way to keep this appointment, a fortnight after his first
  • interview with Adolf, that the young student waylaid him with the
  • evening paper.
  • Something should have warned Adolf that the moment was not well chosen.
  • To begin with, James had a headache, the result of a hard day with the
  • boys. Then that morning's English lesson had caused him to forget
  • entirely an idea which had promised to be the nucleus of an excellent
  • plot. And, lastly, passing through the hall but an instant before, he
  • had met Violet, carrying the coffee and the evening post to the study,
  • and she had given him two long envelopes addressed in his own
  • handwriting. He was brooding over these, preparatory to opening them,
  • at the very moment when Adolf addressed him.
  • 'Eggscuse,' said Adolf, opening the paper.
  • James's eyes gleamed ominously.
  • 'Zere are here,' continued Adolf, unseeing, 'some beyond-gombarison hard
  • vords vich I do nod onderstand. For eggsample--'
  • It was at this point that James kicked him.
  • Adolf leaped like a stricken chamois.
  • 'Vot iss?' he cried.
  • With these long envelopes in his hand James cared for nothing. He
  • kicked Adolf again.
  • 'Zo!' said the student, having bounded away. He added a few words in
  • his native tongue, and proceeded. 'Vait! Lizzun! I zay to you, vait!
  • Brezendly, ven I haf dze zilver bolished und my odder dudies zo
  • numerous berformed, I do Herr Blazzervig vil vith von liddle szdory
  • vich you do know go. Zo!'
  • He shot off to his lair.
  • James turned away and went down the passage to restore his nervous
  • tissues with coffee.
  • Meanwhile, in the study, leaning against the mantelpiece in moody
  • reflection, Mr Blatherwick was musing sadly on the hardships of the
  • schoolmaster's life. The proprietor of Harrow House was a long, grave
  • man, one of the last to hold out against the anti-whisker crusade. He
  • had expressionless hazel eyes, and a general air of being present in
  • body but absent in spirit. Mothers who visited the school to introduce
  • their sons put his vagueness down to activity of mind. 'That busy
  • brain,' they thought, 'is never at rest. Even while he is talking to
  • us some abstruse point in the classics is occupying his mind.'
  • What was occupying his mind at the present moment was the thoroughly
  • unsatisfactory conduct of his wife's brother, Bertie Baxter. The more
  • tensely he brooded over the salient points in the life-history of his
  • wife's brother, Bertie Baxter, the deeper did the iron become embedded
  • in his soul. Bertie was one of Nature's touchers. This is the age of
  • the specialist, Bertie's speciality was borrowing money. He was a man
  • of almost eerie versatility in this direction. Time could not wither
  • nor custom stale his infinite variety. He could borrow with a breezy
  • bluffness which made the thing practically a hold-up. And anon, when
  • his victim had steeled himself against this method, he could extract
  • another five-pound note from his little hoard with the delicacy of one
  • playing spillikins. Mr Blatherwick had been a gold-mine to him for
  • years. As a rule, the proprietor of Harrow House unbelted without
  • complaint, for Bertie, as every good borrower should, had that knack of
  • making his victim feel during the actual moment of paying over, as if
  • he had just made a rather good investment. But released from the spell
  • of his brother-in-law's personal magnetism, Mr Blatherwick was apt to
  • brood. He was brooding now. Why, he was asking himself morosely, should
  • he be harassed by this Bertie? It was not as if Bertie was penniless.
  • He had a little income of his own. No, it was pure lack of
  • consideration. Who was Bertie that he--
  • At this point in his meditations Violet entered with the after-dinner
  • coffee and the evening post.
  • Mr Blatherwick took the letters. There were two of them, and one he
  • saw, with a rush of indignation, was in the handwriting of his
  • brother-in-law. Mr Blatherwick's blood simmered. So the fellow thought
  • he could borrow by post, did he? Not even trouble to pay a visit, eh?
  • He tore the letter open, and the first thing he saw was a cheque for
  • five pounds.
  • Mr Blatherwick was astounded. That a letter from his brother-in-law
  • should not contain a request for money was surprising; that it should
  • contain a cheque, even for five pounds, was miraculous.
  • He opened the second letter. It was short, but full of the finest,
  • noblest sentiments; to wit, that the writer, Charles J. Pickersgill,
  • having heard the school so highly spoken of by his friend, Mr Herbert
  • Baxter, would be glad if Mr Blatherwick could take in his three sons,
  • aged seven, nine, and eleven respectively, at the earliest convenient
  • date.
  • Mr Blatherwick's first feeling was one of remorse that even in thought
  • he should have been harsh to the golden-hearted Bertie. His next was
  • one of elation.
  • Violet, meanwhile, stood patiently before him with the coffee. Mr
  • Blatherwick helped himself. His eye fell on Violet.
  • Violet was a friendly, warm-hearted little thing. She saw that Mr
  • Blatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters which
  • had contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up at
  • Mr Blatherwick.
  • Mr Blatherwick's dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The major
  • portion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions of
  • a school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires.
  • The section of it which still worked in the present was just large
  • enough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almost
  • grateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see how
  • wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffee
  • tray just as James Datchett walked into the room.
  • James paused. Mr Blatherwick coughed. Violet, absolutely unmoved,
  • supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room.
  • She left behind her a somewhat massive silence.
  • Mr Blatherwick coughed again.
  • 'It looks like rain,' said James, carelessly.
  • 'Ah?' said Mr Blatherwick.
  • 'Very like rain,' said James.
  • 'Indeed!' said Mr Blatherwick.
  • A pause.
  • 'Pity if it rains,' said James.
  • 'True,' said Mr Blatherwick.
  • Another pause.
  • 'Er--Datchett,' said Mr Blatherwick.
  • 'Yes,' said James.
  • 'I--er--feel that perhaps--'
  • James waited attentively.
  • 'Have you sugar?'
  • 'Plenty, thanks,' said James.
  • 'I shall be sorry if it rains,' said Mr Blatherwick.
  • Conversation languished.
  • James laid his cup down.
  • 'I have some writing to do,' he said. 'I think I'll be going upstairs
  • now.'
  • 'Er--just so,' said Mr Blatherwick, with relief. 'Just so. An excellent
  • idea.'
  • * * * * *
  • 'Er--Datchett,' said Mr Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.
  • 'Yes?' said James.
  • A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken
  • through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received on
  • the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter
  • from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain
  • passages indicated in the margin.
  • 'I have--ah--unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf,' said Mr
  • Blatherwick.
  • 'Yes?' said James. He had missed Adolf's shining morning face.
  • 'Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a
  • malicious--er--fabrication respecting yourself which I need
  • not--ah--particularize.'
  • James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one's
  • bosom.
  • 'Why, I've been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately.
  • No sense of gratitude, these foreigners,' he said, sadly.
  • 'So I was compelled,' proceeded Mr Blatherwick, 'to--in fact, just so.'
  • James nodded sympathetically.
  • 'Do you know anything about West Australia?' he asked, changing the
  • subject. 'It's a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there
  • at one time.'
  • 'Indeed?' said Mr Blatherwick.
  • 'But I've given up the idea now,' said James.
  • THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE
  • Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a
  • large white statue, labelled 'Our City', the figure of a woman in
  • Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it
  • for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was
  • faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror in
  • evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of
  • goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. It
  • changes.
  • Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she
  • received Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he had
  • found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had
  • changed Mary Hill quite remarkably.
  • Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from
  • Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, young
  • men born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on the
  • paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring
  • spirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of
  • the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make
  • their fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of
  • the village sages, had prospered.
  • Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All she
  • demanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her a
  • living wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting and
  • shorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and the
  • romance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows,
  • and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at that
  • moment had said 'Huh!' This had damped Mary. She saw that there were
  • going to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly on
  • Eddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a church
  • festival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhaps
  • he was still willing to do that--she had not inquired--but, at any
  • rate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He had
  • been very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, and
  • said he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a man
  • at lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went by
  • and she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled,
  • and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed her
  • outlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merely
  • frightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazed
  • helplessness.
  • But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized the
  • completeness of the change. On 1 May she would have thanked Eddy
  • politely for his trouble, adding, however, that she would really prefer
  • not to meet poor Joe again. On 16 May she welcomed him as something
  • Heaven-sent. The fact that she was to be employed outweighed a
  • thousand-fold the fact that her employer was to be Joe.
  • It was not that she disliked Joe. She was sorry for him.
  • She remembered Joe, a silent, shambling youth, all hands, feet, and
  • shyness, who had spent most of his spare time twisting his fingers and
  • staring adoringly at her from afar. The opinion of those in the social
  • whirl of Dunsterville had been that it was his hopeless passion for her
  • that had made him fly to New York. It would be embarrassing meeting him
  • again. It would require tact to discourage his silent worshipping
  • without wounding him more deeply. She hated hurting people.
  • But, even at the cost of that, she must accept the post. To refuse
  • meant ignominious retreat to Dunsterville, and from that her pride
  • revolted. She must revisit Dunsterville in triumph or not at all.
  • Joe Rendal's office was in the heart of the financial district,
  • situated about half-way up a building that, to Mary, reared amidst the
  • less impressive architecture of her home-town, seemed to reach nearly
  • to the sky. A proud-looking office-boy, apparently baffled and
  • mortified by the information that she had an appointment, took her
  • name, and she sat down, filled with a fine mixed assortment of
  • emotions, to wait.
  • For the first time since her arrival in New York she felt almost easy
  • in her mind. New York, with its shoving, jostling, hurrying crowds; a
  • giant fowl-run, full of human fowls scurrying to and fro; clucking,
  • ever on the look-out for some desired morsel, and ever ready to swoop
  • down and snatch it from its temporary possessor, had numbed her. But
  • now she felt a slackening of the strain. New York might be too much for
  • her, but she could cope with Joe.
  • The haughty boy returned. Mr Rendal was disengaged. She rose and went
  • into an inner room, where a big man was seated at a desk.
  • It was Joe. There was no doubt about that. But it was not the Joe she
  • remembered, he of the twisted ringers and silent stare. In his case,
  • New York had conjured effectively. He was better-looking, better-dressed,
  • improved in every respect. In the old days one had noticed the hands
  • and feet and deduced the presence of Joe somewhere in the background.
  • Now they were merely adjuncts. It was with a rush of indignation that
  • Mary found herself bucolic and awkward. Awkward with Joe! It was an
  • outrage.
  • His manner heightened the feeling. If he had given the least sign of
  • embarrassment she might have softened towards him. He showed no
  • embarrassment whatever. He was very much at his ease. He was cheerful.
  • He was even flippant.
  • 'Welcome to our beautiful little city,' he said.
  • Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore the
  • past in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him to
  • pulp?
  • 'Won't you sit down?' he went on. 'It's splendid, seeing you again,
  • Mary. You're looking very well. How long have you been in New York?
  • Eddy tells me you want to be taken on as a secretary. As it happens,
  • there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy,
  • left by a lady who departed yesterday in a shower of burning words and
  • hairpins. She said she would never return, and between ourselves, that
  • was the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do?
  • Will you take this letter down?'
  • Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary took
  • the pencil and pad which he offered--and she took them meekly. Until
  • this moment she had always been astonished by the reports which
  • filtered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Of
  • course, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance; but it takes
  • something more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely,
  • and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure of
  • himself.
  • 'Read it please,' he said, when he had finished dictating. 'Yes, that's
  • all right. You'll do.'
  • For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire gripped
  • her to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt of
  • the serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and her
  • heart failed her.
  • 'Thank you,' she said, in a small voice.
  • As she spoke the door opened.
  • 'Well, well, well!' said Joe. 'Here we all are! Come in, Eddy. Mary
  • has just been showing me what she can do.'
  • If time had done much for Joe, it had done more for his fellow-emigrant,
  • Eddy Moore. He had always been good-looking and--according to local
  • standards--presentable. Tall, slim, with dark eyes that made you catch
  • your breath when they looked into yours, and a ready flow of speech,
  • he had been Dunsterville's prize exhibit. And here he was with all his
  • excellence heightened and accentuated by the polish of the city. He
  • had filled out. His clothes were wonderful. And his voice, when he
  • spoke, had just that same musical quality.
  • 'So you and Joe have fixed it up? Capital! Shall we all go and lunch
  • somewhere?'
  • 'Got an appointment,' said Joe. 'I'm late already. Be here at two
  • sharp, Mary.' He took up his hat and went out.
  • The effect of Eddy's suavity had been to make Mary forget the position
  • in which she now stood to Joe. Eddy had created for the moment quite an
  • old-time atmosphere of good fellowship. She hated Joe for shattering
  • this and reminding her that she was his employee. Her quick flush was
  • not lost on Eddy.
  • 'Dear old Joe is a little abrupt sometimes,' he said. 'But--'
  • 'He's a pig!' said Mary, defiantly.
  • 'But you mustn't mind it. New York makes men like that.'
  • 'It hasn't made you--not to me, at any rate. Oh, Eddy,' she cried,
  • impulsively, 'I'm frightened. I wish I had never come here. You're the
  • only thing in this whole city that isn't hateful.'
  • 'Poor little girl!' he said. 'Never mind. Let me take you and give you
  • some lunch. Come along.'
  • Eddy was soothing. There was no doubt of that. He stayed her with
  • minced chicken and comforted her with soft shelled crab. His voice was
  • a lullaby, lulling her Joe-harassed nerves to rest.
  • They discussed the dear old days. A carper might have said that Eddy
  • was the least bit vague on the subject of the dear old days. A carper
  • might have pointed out that the discussion of the dear old days, when
  • you came to analyse it, was practically a monologue on Mary's part,
  • punctuated with musical 'Yes, yes's' from her companion. But who cares
  • what carpers think? Mary herself had no fault to find. In the roar of
  • New York Dunsterville had suddenly become very dear to her, and she
  • found in Eddy a sympathetic soul to whom she could open her heart.
  • 'Do you remember the old school, Eddy, and how you and I used to walk
  • there together, you carrying my dinner-basket and helping me over
  • the fences?'
  • 'Yes, yes.'
  • 'And we'd gather hickory-nuts and persimmons?'
  • 'Persimmons, yes,' murmured Eddy.
  • 'Do you remember the prizes the teacher gave the one who got best marks
  • in the spelling class? And the treats at Christmas, when we all got
  • twelve sticks of striped peppermint candy? And drawing the water out of
  • the well in that old wooden bucket in the winter, and pouring it out in
  • the playground and skating on it when it froze? And wasn't it cold in
  • the winter, too! Do you remember the stove in the school-room? How we
  • used to crowd round it!'
  • 'The stove, yes,' said Eddy, dreamily. 'Ah, yes, the stove. Yes, yes.
  • Those were the dear old days!' Mary leaned her elbows on the table and
  • her chin on her hands, and looked across at him with sparkling eyes.
  • 'Oh, Eddy,' she said, 'you don't know how nice it is to meet someone
  • who remembers all about those old times! I felt a hundred million miles
  • from Dunsterville before I saw you, and I was homesick. But now it's
  • all different.'
  • 'Poor little Mary!'
  • 'Do you remember--?'
  • He glanced at his watch with some haste.
  • 'It's two o'clock,' he said. 'I think we should be going.'
  • Mary's face fell.
  • 'Back to that pig, Joe! I hate him. And I'll show him that I do!'
  • Eddy looked almost alarmed.
  • 'I--I shouldn't do that,' he said. 'I don't think I should do that.
  • It's only his manner at first. You'll get to like him better. He's an
  • awfully good fellow really, Joe. And if you--er--quarrelled with him
  • you might find it hard--what I mean is, it's not so easy to pick up
  • jobs in New York, I shouldn't like to think of you, Mary,' he added,
  • tenderly, 'hunting for a job--tired--perhaps hungry--'
  • Mary's eyes filled with tears.
  • 'How good you are, Eddy!' she said. 'And I'm horrid, grumbling when I
  • ought to be thanking you for getting me the place. I'll be nice to
  • him--if I can--as nice as I can.'
  • 'That's right. Do try. And we shall be seeing quite a lot of each
  • other. We must often lunch together.'
  • Mary re-entered the office not without some trepidation. Two hours ago
  • it would have seemed absurd to be frightened of Joe, but Eddy had
  • brought it home to her again how completely she was dependent on her
  • former serf's good-will. And he had told her to be back at two sharp,
  • and it was now nearly a quarter past.
  • The outer office was empty. She went on into the inner room.
  • She had speculated as she went on Joe's probable attitude. She had
  • pictured him as annoyed, even rude. What she was not prepared for was
  • to find him on all fours, grunting and rooting about in a pile of
  • papers. She stopped short.
  • 'What _are_ you doing?' she gasped.
  • 'I can't think what you meant,' he said. 'There must be some mistake.
  • I'm not even a passable pig. I couldn't deceive a novice.'
  • He rose and dusted his knees.
  • 'Yet you seemed absolutely certain in the restaurant just now. Did you
  • notice that you were sitting near to a sort of jungle of potted palms?
  • I was lunching immediately on the other side of the forest.'
  • Mary drew herself up and fixed him with an eye that shone with rage and
  • scorn.
  • 'Eavesdropper!' she cried.
  • 'Not guilty,' he said, cheerfully. 'I hadn't a notion that you were
  • there till you shouted, "That pig Joe, I hate him!" and almost directly
  • afterwards I left.'
  • 'I did not shout.'
  • 'My dear girl, you cracked a wine-glass at my table. The man I was
  • lunching with jumped clean out of his seat and swallowed his cigar. You
  • ought to be more careful!'
  • Mary bit her lip.
  • 'And now, I suppose, you are going to dismiss me?'
  • 'Dismiss you? Not much. The thing has simply confirmed my high opinion
  • of your qualifications. The ideal secretary must have two qualities:
  • she must be able to sec. and she must think her employer a pig. You
  • fill the bill. Would you mind taking down this letter?'
  • * * * * *
  • Life was very swift and stimulating for Mary during the early days of
  • her professional career. The inner workings of a busy broker's office
  • are always interesting to the stranger. She had never understood how
  • business men made their money, and she did not understand now; but it
  • did not take her long to see that if they were all like Joe Rendal they
  • earned it. There were days of comparative calm. There were days that
  • were busy. And there were days that packed into the space of a few
  • hours the concentrated essence of a music-hall knock-about sketch, an
  • earthquake, a football scrummage, and the rush-hour on the Tube; when
  • the office was full of shouting men, when strange figures dived in and
  • out and banged doors like characters in an old farce, and Harold, the
  • proud office-boy, lost his air of being on the point of lunching with a
  • duke at the club and perspired like one of the proletariat. On these
  • occasions you could not help admiring Joe, even if you hated him. When
  • a man is doing his own job well, it is impossible not to admire him.
  • And Joe did his job well, superlatively well. He was everywhere. Where
  • others trotted, he sprang. Where others raised their voices, he yelled.
  • Where others were in two places at once, he was in three and moving
  • towards a fourth.
  • These upheavals had the effect on Mary of making her feel curiously
  • linked to the firm. On ordinary days work was work, but on these
  • occasions of storm and stress it was a fight, and she looked on every
  • member of the little band grouped under the banner of J. Rendal as a
  • brother-in-arms. For Joe, while the battle raged, she would have done
  • anything. Her resentment at being under his orders vanished completely.
  • He was her captain, and she a mere unit in the firing line. It was a
  • privilege to do what she was told. And if the order came sharp and
  • abrupt, that only meant that the fighting was fierce and that she was
  • all the more fortunate in being in a position to be of service.
  • The reaction would come with the end of the fight. Her private
  • hostilities began when the firm's ceased. She became an ordinary
  • individual again, and so did Joe. And to Joe, as an ordinary
  • individual, she objected. There was an indefinable something in his
  • manner which jarred on her. She came to the conclusion that it was
  • principally his insufferable good-humour. If only he would lose his
  • temper with her now and then, she felt he would be bearable. He lost it
  • with others. Why not with her? Because, she told herself bitterly, he
  • wanted to show her that she mattered so little to him that it was not
  • worth while quarrelling with her; because he wanted to put her in the
  • wrong, to be superior. She had a perfect right to hate a man who
  • treated her in that way.
  • She compared him, to his disadvantage, with Eddy. Eddy, during these
  • days, continued to be more and more of a comfort. It rather surprised
  • her that he found so much time to devote to her. When she had first
  • called on him, on her arrival in the city, he had given her the
  • impression--more, she admitted, by his manner than his words--that she
  • was not wanted. He had shown no disposition to seek her company. But
  • now he seemed always to be on hand. To take her out to lunch appeared
  • to be his chief hobby.
  • One afternoon Joe commented on it, with that air of suppressing an
  • indulgent smile which Mary found so trying.
  • 'I saw you and Eddy at Stephano's just now,' he said, between sentences
  • of a letter which he was dictating. 'You're seeing a great deal of
  • Eddy, aren't you?'
  • 'Yes,' said Mary. 'He's very kind. He knows I'm lonely.' She paused.
  • '_He_ hasn't forgotten the old days,' she said, defiantly.
  • Joe nodded.
  • 'Good old Eddy!' he said.
  • There was nothing in the words to make Mary fire up, but much in the
  • way they were spoken, and she fired up accordingly.
  • 'What do you mean?' she cried.
  • 'Mean?' queried Joe.
  • 'You're hinting at something. If you have anything to say against Eddy,
  • why don't you say it straight out?'
  • 'It's a good working rule in life never to say anything straight out.
  • Speaking in parables, I will observe that, if America was a monarchy
  • instead of a republic and people here had titles, Eddy would be a
  • certainty for first Earl of Pearl Street.'
  • Dignity fought with curiosity in Mary for a moment. The latter won.
  • 'I don't know what you mean! Why Pearl Street?'
  • 'Go and have a look at it.'
  • Dignity recovered its ground. Mary tossed her head.
  • 'We are wasting a great deal of time,' she said, coldly. 'Shall I take
  • down the rest of this letter?'
  • 'Great idea!' said Joe, indulgently. 'Do.'
  • * * * * *
  • A policeman, brooding on life in the neighbourhood of City Hall Park
  • and Broadway that evening, awoke with a start from his meditations to
  • find himself being addressed by a young lady. The young lady had large
  • grey eyes and a slim figure. She appealed to the aesthetic taste of the
  • policeman.
  • 'Hold to me, lady,' he said, with gallant alacrity. 'I'll see yez
  • acrost.'
  • 'Thank you, I don't want to cross,' she said. 'Officer!'
  • The policeman rather liked being called 'Officer'.
  • 'Ma'am?' he beamed.
  • 'Officer, do you know a street called Pearl Street?'
  • 'I do that, ma'am.'
  • She hesitated. 'What sort of street is it?'
  • The policeman searched in his mind for a neat definition.
  • 'Darned crooked, miss,' he said.
  • He then proceeded to point the way, but the lady had gone.
  • It was a bomb in a blue dress that Joe found waiting for him at the
  • office next morning. He surveyed it in silence, then raised his hands
  • over his head.
  • 'Don't shoot,' he said. 'What's the matter?'
  • 'What right had you to say that about Eddy? You know what I mean--about
  • Pearl Street.'
  • Joe laughed.
  • 'Did you take a look at Pearl Street?'
  • Mary's anger blazed out.
  • 'I didn't think you could be so mean and cowardly,' she cried. 'You
  • ought to be ashamed to talk about people behind their backs,
  • when--when--besides, if he's what you say, how did it happen that
  • you engaged me on his recommendation?'
  • He looked at her for an instant without replying. 'I'd have engaged
  • you,' he said, 'on the recommendation of a syndicate of forgers and
  • three-card-trick men.'
  • He stood fingering a pile of papers on the desk.
  • 'Eddy isn't the only person who remembers the old days, Mary,' he said
  • slowly.
  • She looked at him, surprised. There was a note in his voice that she
  • had not heard before. She was conscious of a curious embarrassment and
  • a subtler feeling which she could not analyse. But before she could
  • speak, Harold, the office-boy, entered the room with a card, and the
  • conversation was swept away on a tidal wave of work.
  • * * * * *
  • Joe made no attempt to resume it. That morning happened to be one of
  • the earthquake, knock-about-sketch mornings, and conversation, what
  • there was of it, consisted of brief, strenuous remarks of a purely
  • business nature.
  • But at intervals during the day Mary found herself returning to his
  • words. Their effect on her mind puzzled her. It seemed to her that
  • somehow they caused things to alter their perspective. In some way Joe
  • had become more human. She still refused to believe that Eddy was not
  • all that was chivalrous and noble, but her anger against Joe for his
  • insinuations had given way to a feeling of regret that he should have
  • made them. She ceased to look on him as something wantonly malevolent,
  • a Thersites recklessly slandering his betters. She felt that there must
  • have been a misunderstanding somewhere and was sorry for it.
  • Thinking it over, she made up her mind that it was for her to remove
  • this misunderstanding. The days which followed strengthened the
  • decision; for the improvement in Joe was steadily maintained. The
  • indefinable something in his manner which had so irritated her had
  • vanished. It had been, when it had existed, so nebulous that words were
  • not needed to eliminate it. Indeed, even now she could not say exactly
  • in what it had consisted. She only knew that the atmosphere had
  • changed. Without a word spoken on either side it seemed that peace had
  • been established between them, and it amazed her what a difference it
  • made. She was soothed and happy, and kindly disposed to all men, and
  • every day felt more strongly the necessity of convincing Joe and Eddy
  • of each other's merits, or, rather, of convincing Joe, for Eddy, she
  • admitted, always spoke most generously of the other.
  • For a week Eddy did not appear at the office. On the eighth day,
  • however, he rang her up on the telephone, and invited her to lunch.
  • Later in the morning Joe happened to ask her out to lunch.
  • 'I'm so sorry,' said Mary; 'I've just promised Eddy. He wants me to
  • meet him at Stephano's, but--' She hesitated. 'Why shouldn't we all
  • lunch together?' she went on, impulsively.
  • She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subject
  • of Eddy had not come up between them since that memorable conversation
  • a week before, and she was uncertain of her ground.
  • 'I wish you liked Eddy, Joe,' she said. 'He's very fond of you, and it
  • seems such a shame that--I mean--we're all from the same old town,
  • and--oh, I know I put it badly, but--'
  • 'I think you put it very well,' said Joe; 'and if I could like a man to
  • order I'd do it to oblige you. But--well, I'm not going to keep harping
  • on it. Perhaps you'll see through Eddy yourself one of these days.'
  • A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on her
  • hat without replying, and turned to go.
  • At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did so
  • she met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had so
  • often seen him look three years before in Dunsterville--humbly,
  • appealingly, hungrily.
  • He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were on
  • the door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside.
  • She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed so
  • thoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness and
  • awkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, his
  • manner--everything had pointed to that. And now--it was as if those
  • three years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were--herself.
  • Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her like
  • some physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her.
  • If only she could get away from them and think quietly--
  • And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy.
  • 'Glad you could come,' he said. 'I've something I want to talk to you
  • about. It'll be quiet at Stephano's.'
  • She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He was
  • unwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think.
  • He gave the waiter an order, and became silent again, drumming with
  • his fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over and
  • the coffee was on the table. Then he leant forward.
  • 'Mary,' he said, 'we've always been pretty good friends, haven't we?'
  • His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in them
  • that was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that there
  • was effort behind the smile.
  • 'Of course we have, Eddy,' she said. He touched her hand.
  • 'Dear little Mary!' he said, softly.
  • He paused for a moment.
  • 'Mary,' he went on, 'you would like to do me a good turn? You would,
  • wouldn't you, Mary?'
  • 'Why, Eddy, of course!'
  • He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated on
  • her. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidence
  • of friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality,--of
  • calculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in her
  • some watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard.
  • He drew in a quick breath.
  • 'It's nothing much. Nothing at all. It's only this. I--I--Joe will be
  • writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday--Thursday
  • remember. There won't be anything in it--nothing of importance--nothing
  • private--but--I--I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A--a copy
  • of--'
  • She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.
  • 'For goodness' sake,' he said, irritably, 'don't look like that. I'm
  • not asking you to commit murder. What's the matter with you? Look here,
  • Mary; you'll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I'm the only man in
  • New York that's ever done anything for you. Didn't I get you your job?
  • Well, then, it's not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous,
  • or difficult, or--'
  • She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not look
  • at her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.
  • 'Look here,' he said; 'I'll be square with you. You're in New York to
  • make money. Well, you aren't going to make it hammering a typewriter.
  • I'm giving you your chance. I'm going to be square with you. Let me see
  • that letter, and--'
  • His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. He
  • smiled, and this time the effort was obvious.
  • 'Halloa, Joe!' he said.
  • Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large and
  • wholesome and restful.
  • 'I don't want to intrude,' he said; 'but I wanted to see you, Eddy, and
  • I thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Weston
  • yesterday--after I got home from the office--and one to you; and
  • somehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn't
  • matter much, because they both said the same thing.'
  • 'The same thing?'
  • 'Yes; I told you I should be writing to you again on Thursday, to tip
  • you something good that I was expecting from old Longwood. Jack Weston
  • has just rung me up on the 'phone to say that he got a letter that
  • doesn't belong to him. I explained to him and thought I'd drop in here
  • and explain to you. Why, what's your hurry, Eddy?'
  • Eddy had risen from his seat.
  • 'I'm due back at the office,' he said, hoarsely.
  • 'Busy man! I'm having a slack day. Well, good-bye. I'll see Mary back.'
  • Joe seated himself in the vacant chair.
  • 'You're looking tired,' he said. 'Did Eddy talk too much?'
  • 'Yes, he did ... Joe, you were right.'
  • 'Ah--Mary!' Joe chuckled. 'I'll tell you something I didn't tell Eddy.
  • It wasn't entirely through carelessness that I posted those letters in
  • the wrong envelopes. In fact, to be absolutely frank, it wasn't through
  • carelessness at all. There's an old gentleman in Pittsburgh by the name
  • of John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of some
  • of his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of the
  • world knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to get
  • early information too. Do you remember my telling you that your
  • predecessor at the office left a little abruptly? There was a reason. I
  • engaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. She
  • confided in Eddy. From the look on your face as I came in I gathered
  • that he had just been proposing that you should perform a similar act
  • of Christian charity. Had he?'
  • Mary clenched her hands.
  • 'It's this awful New York!' she cried. 'Eddy was never like that in
  • Dunsterville.'
  • 'Dunsterville does not offer quite the same scope,' said Joe.
  • 'New York changes everything,' Mary returned. 'It has changed Eddy--it
  • has changed you.'
  • He bent towards her and lowered his voice.
  • 'Not altogether,' he said. 'I'm just the same in one way. I've tried to
  • pretend I had altered, but it's no use. I give it up. I'm still just
  • the same poor fool who used to hang round staring at you in
  • Dunsterville.'
  • A waiter was approaching the table with the air, which waiters
  • cultivate, of just happening by chance to be going in that direction.
  • Joe leaned farther forward, speaking quickly.
  • 'And for whom,' he said, 'you didn't care a single, solitary snap of
  • your fingers, Mary.'
  • She looked up at him. The waiter hovered, poising for his swoop.
  • Suddenly she smiled.
  • 'New York has changed me too, Joe,' she said.
  • 'Mary!' he cried.
  • 'Ze pill, sare,' observed the waiter.
  • Joe turned.
  • 'Ze what!' he exclaimed. 'Well, I'm hanged! Eddy's gone off and left me
  • to pay for his lunch! That man's a wonder! When it comes to brain-work,
  • he's in a class by himself.' He paused. 'But I have the luck,' he said.
  • THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE
  • In the crowd that strolled on the Promenade des Etrangers, enjoying the
  • morning sunshine, there were some who had come to Roville for their
  • health, others who wished to avoid the rigours of the English spring,
  • and many more who liked the place because it was cheap and close to
  • Monte Carlo.
  • None of these motives had brought George Albert Balmer. He was there
  • because, three weeks before, Harold Flower had called him a vegetable.
  • What is it that makes men do perilous deeds? Why does a man go over
  • Niagara Falls in a barrel? Not for his health. Half an hour with a
  • skipping-rope would be equally beneficial to his liver. No; in nine
  • cases out of ten he does it to prove to his friends and relations that
  • he is not the mild, steady-going person they have always thought him.
  • Observe the music-hall acrobat as he prepares to swing from the roof by
  • his eyelids. His gaze sweeps the house. 'It isn't true,' it seems to
  • say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'
  • It was so with George Balmer.
  • In London at the present moment there exist some thousands of
  • respectable, neatly-dressed, mechanical, unenterprising young men,
  • employed at modest salaries by various banks, corporations, stores,
  • shops, and business firms. They are put to work when young, and they
  • stay put. They are mussels. Each has his special place on the rock, and
  • remains glued to it all his life.
  • To these thousands George Albert Balmer belonged. He differed in no
  • detail from the rest of the great army. He was as respectable, as
  • neatly-dressed, as mechanical, and as unenterprising. His life was
  • bounded, east, west, north, and south, by the Planet Insurance Company,
  • which employed him; and that there were other ways in which a man might
  • fulfil himself than by giving daily imitations behind a counter of a
  • mechanical figure walking in its sleep had never seriously crossed his
  • mind.
  • On George, at the age of twenty-four, there descended, out of a dear
  • sky, a legacy of a thousand pounds.
  • Physically, he remained unchanged beneath the shock. No trace of hauteur
  • crept into his bearing. When the head of his department, calling his
  • attention to a technical flaw in his work of the previous afternoon,
  • addressed him as 'Here, you--young what's-your-confounded-name!' he
  • did not point out that this was no way to speak to a gentleman of
  • property. You would have said that the sudden smile of Fortune had
  • failed to unsettle him.
  • But all the while his mind, knocked head over heels, was lying in a
  • limp heap, wondering what had struck it.
  • To him, in his dazed state, came Harold Flower. Harold, messenger to the
  • Planet Insurance Company and one of the most assiduous money-borrowers
  • in London, had listened to the office gossip about the legacy as if to
  • the strains of some grand, sweet anthem. He was a bibulous individual
  • of uncertain age, who, in the intervals of creeping about his duties,
  • kept an eye open for possible additions to his staff of creditors. Most
  • of the clerks at the Planet had been laid under contribution by him in
  • their time, for Harold had a way with him that was good for threepence
  • any pay-day, and it seemed to him that things had come to a sorry pass
  • if he could not extract something special from Plutocrat Balmer in his
  • hour of rejoicing.
  • Throughout the day he shadowed George, and, shortly before closing-time,
  • backed him into a corner, tapped him on the chest, and requested the
  • temporary loan of a sovereign.
  • In the same breath he told him that he was a gentleman, that a
  • messenger's life was practically that of a blanky slave, and that a
  • young man of spirit who wished to add to his already large fortune
  • would have a bit on Giant Gooseberry for the City and Suburban. He then
  • paused for a reply.
  • Now, all through the day George had been assailed by a steady stream of
  • determined ear-biters. Again and again he had been staked out as an
  • ore-producing claim by men whom it would have been impolitic to rebuff.
  • He was tired of lending, and in a mood to resent unauthorized demands.
  • Harold Flower's struck him as particularly unauthorized. He said so.
  • It took some little time to convince Mr Flower that he really meant it,
  • but, realizing at last the grim truth, he drew a long breath and spoke.
  • 'Ho!' he said. 'Afraid you can't spare it, can't you? A gentleman comes
  • and asks you with tack and civility for a temp'y loan of about 'arf
  • nothing, and all you do is to curse and swear at him. Do you know what
  • I call you--you and your thousand quid? A tuppenny millionaire, that's
  • what I call you. Keep your blooming money. That's all I ask.
  • _Keep_ it. Much good you'll get out of it. I know your sort.
  • You'll never have any pleasure of it. Not you. You're the careful sort.
  • You'll put it into Consols, _you_ will, and draw your three-ha'pence
  • a year. Money wasn't meant for your kind. It don't _mean_ nothing
  • to you. You ain't got the go in you to appreciate it. A vegetable--that's
  • all you are. A blanky little vegetable. A blanky little gor-blimey
  • vegetable. I seen turnips with more spirit in 'em that what you've got.
  • And Brussels sprouts. Yes, _and_ parsnips.'
  • It is difficult to walk away with dignity when a man with a hoarse
  • voice and a watery eye is comparing you to your disadvantage with a
  • parsnip, and George did not come anywhere near achieving the feat. But
  • he extricated himself somehow, and went home brooding.
  • Mr Flower's remarks rankled particularly because it so happened that
  • Consols were the identical investment on which he had decided. His
  • Uncle Robert, with whom he lived as a paying guest, had strongly
  • advocated them. Also they had suggested themselves to him
  • independently.
  • But Harold Flower's words gave him pause. They made him think. For two
  • weeks and some days he thought, flushing uncomfortably whenever he met
  • that watery but contemptuous eye. And then came the day of his annual
  • vacation, and with it inspiration. He sought out the messenger, whom
  • till now he had carefully avoided.
  • 'Er--Flower,' he said.
  • 'Me lord?'
  • 'I am taking my holiday tomorrow. Will you forward my letters? I will
  • wire you the address. I have not settled on my hotel yet. I am popping
  • over'--he paused--'I am popping over,' he resumed, carelessly, 'to
  • Monte.'
  • 'To who?' inquired Mr Flower.
  • 'To Monte. Monte Carlo, you know.'
  • Mr Flower blinked twice rapidly, then pulled himself together.
  • 'Yus, I _don't_ think!' he said.
  • And that settled it.
  • The George who strolled that pleasant morning on the Promenade des
  • Strangers differed both externally and internally from the George who
  • had fallen out with Harold Flower in the offices of the Planet
  • Insurance Company. For a day after his arrival he had clung to the garb
  • of middle-class England. On the second he had discovered that this was
  • unpleasantly warm and, worse, conspicuous. At the Casino Municipale
  • that evening he had observed a man wearing an arrangement in bright
  • yellow velvet without attracting attention. The sight had impressed
  • him. Next morning he had emerged from his hotel in a flannel suit so
  • light that it had been unanimously condemned as impossible by his Uncle
  • Robert, his Aunt Louisa, his Cousins Percy, Eva, and Geraldine, and his
  • Aunt Louisa's mother, and at a shop in the Rue Lasalle had spent twenty
  • francs on a Homburg hat. And Roville had taken it without blinking.
  • Internally his alteration had been even more considerable. Roville was
  • not Monte Carlo (in which gay spot he had remained only long enough to
  • send a picture post-card to Harold Flower before retiring down the
  • coast to find something cheaper), but it had been a revelation to him.
  • For the first time in his life he was seeing colour, and it intoxicated
  • him. The silky blueness of the sea was startling. The pure white of the
  • great hotels along the promenade and the Casino Municipale fascinated
  • him. He was dazzled. At the Casino the pillars were crimson and cream,
  • the tables sky-blue and pink. Seated on a green-and-white striped chair
  • he watched a _revue_, of which from start to finish he understood
  • but one word--'out', to wit--absorbed in the doings of a red-moustached
  • gentleman in blue who wrangled in rapid French with a black-moustached
  • gentleman in yellow, while a snow-white _commere_ and a _compere_
  • in a mauve flannel suit looked on at the brawl.
  • It was during that evening that there flitted across his mind the first
  • suspicion he had ever had that his Uncle Robert's mental outlook was a
  • little limited.
  • And now, as he paced the promenade, watching the stir and bustle of the
  • crowd, he definitely condemned his absent relative as a narrow-minded
  • chump.
  • If the brown boots which he had polished so assiduously in his bedroom
  • that morning with the inside of a banana-skin, and which now gleamed
  • for the first time on his feet, had a fault, it was that they were a
  • shade tight. To promenade with the gay crowd, therefore, for any length
  • of time was injudicious; and George, warned by a red-hot shooting
  • sensation that the moment had arrived for rest, sank down gracefully on
  • a seat, to rise at once on discovering that between him and it was
  • something oblong with sharp corners.
  • It was a book--a fat new novel. George drew it out and inspected it.
  • There was a name inside--Julia Waveney.
  • George, from boyhood up, had been raised in that school of thought
  • whose watchword is 'Findings are keepings', and, having ascertained
  • that there was no address attached to the name, he was on the point, I
  • regret to say, of pouching the volume, which already he looked upon as
  • his own, when a figure detached itself from the crowd, and he found
  • himself gazing into a pair of grey and, to his startled conscience,
  • accusing eyes.
  • 'Oh, thank you! I was afraid it was lost.'
  • She was breathing quickly, and there was a slight flush on her face.
  • She took the book from George's unresisting hand and rewarded him with
  • a smile.
  • 'I missed it, and I couldn't think where I could have left it. Then I
  • remembered that I had been sitting here. Thank you so much.'
  • She smiled again, turned, and walked away, leaving George to reckon up
  • all the social solecisms he had contrived to commit in the space of a
  • single moment. He had remained seated, he reminded himself, throughout
  • the interview; one. He had not raised his hat, that fascinating Homburg
  • simply made to be raised with a debonair swish under such conditions;
  • two. Call it three, because he ought to have raised it twice. He had
  • gaped like a fool; four. And, five, he had not uttered a single word of
  • acknowledgement in reply to her thanks.
  • Five vast bloomers in under a minute! What could she have thought of
  • him? The sun ceased to shine. What sort of an utter outsider could she
  • have considered him? An east wind sprang up. What kind of a Cockney
  • bounder and cad could she have taken him for? The sea turned to an oily
  • grey; and George, rising, strode back in the direction of his hotel in
  • a mood that made him forget that he had brown boots on at all.
  • His mind was active. Several times since he had come to Roville he had
  • been conscious of a sensation which he could not understand, a vague,
  • yearning sensation, a feeling that, splendid as everything was in this
  • paradise of colour, there was nevertheless something lacking. Now he
  • understood. You had to be in love to get the full flavour of these
  • vivid whites and blues. He was getting it now. His mood of dejection
  • had passed swiftly, to be succeeded by an exhilaration such as he had
  • only felt once in his life before, about half-way through a dinner
  • given to the Planet staff on a princely scale by a retiring general
  • manager.
  • He was exalted. Nothing seemed impossible to him. He would meet the
  • girl again on the promenade, he told himself, dashingly renew the
  • acquaintance, show her that he was not the gaping idiot he had
  • appeared. His imagination donned its seven-league boots. He saw himself
  • proposing--eloquently--accepted, married, living happily ever after.
  • It occurred to him that an excellent first move would be to find out
  • where she was staying. He bought a paper and turned to the list of
  • visitors. Miss Waveney. Where was it. He ran his eye down the column.
  • And then, with a crash, down came his air-castles in hideous ruin.
  • 'Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee. Lord Frederick Weston. The Countess
  • of Southborne and the Hon. Adelaide Liss. Lady Julia Waveney--'
  • He dropped the paper and hobbled on to his hotel. His boots had begun
  • to hurt him again, for he no longer walked on air.
  • * * * * *
  • At Roville there are several institutions provided by the municipality
  • for the purpose of enabling visitors temporarily to kill thought. Chief
  • among these is the Casino Municipale, where, for a price, the sorrowful
  • may obtain oblivion by means of the ingenious game of _boule_.
  • Disappointed lovers at Roville take to _boule_ as in other places
  • they might take to drink. It is a fascinating game. A wooden-faced high
  • priest flicks a red india-rubber ball into a polished oaken bowl, at
  • the bottom of which are holes, each bearing a number up to nine. The
  • ball swings round and round like a planet, slows down, stumbles among
  • the holes, rests for a moment in the one which you have backed, then
  • hops into the next one, and you lose. If ever there was a pastime
  • calculated to place young Adam Cupid in the background, this is it.
  • To the _boule_ tables that night fled George with his hopeless
  • passion. From the instant when he read the fatal words in the paper he
  • had recognized its hopelessness. All other obstacles he had been
  • prepared to overcome, but a title--no. He had no illusions as to his
  • place in the social scale. The Lady Julias of this world did not marry
  • insurance clerks, even if their late mother's cousin had left them a
  • thousand pounds. That day-dream was definitely ended. It was a thing of
  • the past--all over except the heartache.
  • By way of a preliminary sip of the waters of Lethe, before beginning
  • the full draught, he placed a franc on number seven and lost. Another
  • franc on six suffered the same fate. He threw a five-franc cart-wheel
  • recklessly on evens. It won.
  • It was enough. Thrusting his hat on the back of his head and wedging
  • himself firmly against the table, he settled down to make a night of
  • it.
  • There is nothing like _boule_ for absorbing the mind. It was some
  • time before George became aware that a hand was prodding him in the
  • ribs. He turned, irritated. Immediately behind him, filling the
  • landscape, were two stout Frenchmen. But, even as he searched his brain
  • for words that would convey to them in their native tongue his
  • disapproval of this jostling, he perceived that they, though stout and
  • in a general way offensive, were in this particular respect guiltless.
  • The prodding hand belonged to somebody invisible behind them. It was
  • small and gloved, a woman's hand. It held a five-franc piece.
  • Then in a gap, caused by a movement in the crowd, he saw the face of
  • Lady Julia Waveney.
  • She smiled at him.
  • 'On eight, please, would you mind?' he heard her say, and then the
  • crowd shifted again and she disappeared, leaving him holding the coin,
  • his mind in a whirl.
  • The game of _boule_ demands undivided attention from its devotees.
  • To play with a mind full of other matters is a mistake. This mistake
  • George made. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he flung the coin
  • on the board. She had asked him to place it on eight, and he thought
  • that he had placed it on eight. That, in reality, blinded by emotion,
  • he had placed it on three was a fact which came home to him neither
  • then nor later.
  • Consequently, when the ball ceased to roll and a sepulchral voice
  • croaked the news that eight was the winning number, he fixed on the
  • croupier a gaze that began by being joyful and expectant and ended, the
  • croupier remaining entirely unresponsive, by being wrathful.
  • He leaned towards him.
  • 'Monsieur,' he said. _'Moi! J'ai jete cinq francs sur huit!'_
  • The croupier was a man with a pointed moustache and an air of having
  • seen all the sorrow and wickedness that there had ever been in the
  • world. He twisted the former and permitted a faint smile to deepen the
  • melancholy of the latter, but he did not speak.
  • George moved to his side. The two stout Frenchmen had strolled off,
  • leaving elbow-room behind them.
  • He tapped the croupier on the shoulder.
  • 'I say,' he said. 'What's the game? _J'ai jete cinq francs sur
  • huit,_ I tell you, _moi!_'
  • A forgotten idiom from the days of boyhood and French exercises came to
  • him.
  • '_Moi qui parle_,' he added.
  • '_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_,' crooned the croupier, in a
  • detached manner.
  • To the normal George, as to most Englishmen of his age, the one
  • cardinal rule in life was at all costs to avoid rendering himself
  • conspicuous in public. Than George normal, no violet that ever hid
  • itself in a mossy bank could have had a greater distaste for scenes.
  • But tonight he was not normal. Roville and its colour had wrought a
  • sort of fever in his brain. _Boule_ had increased it. And love had
  • caused it to rage. If this had been entirely his own affair it is
  • probable that the croupier's frigid calm would have quelled him and he
  • would have retired, fermenting but baffled. But it was not his own
  • affair. He was fighting the cause of the only girl in the world. She
  • had trusted him. Could he fail her? No, he was dashed if he could. He
  • would show her what he was made of. His heart swelled within him. A
  • thrill permeated his entire being, starting at his head and running out
  • at his heels. He felt tremendous--a sort of blend of Oliver Cromwell, a
  • Berserk warrior, and Sir Galahad.
  • 'Monsieur,' he said again. 'Hi! What about it?'
  • This time the croupier did speak.
  • '_C'est fini_,' he said; and print cannot convey the pensive scorn
  • of his voice. It stung George, in his exalted mood, like a blow.
  • Finished, was it? All right, now he would show them. They had asked for
  • it, and now they should get it. How much did it come to? Five francs
  • the stake had been, and you got seven times your stake. And you got
  • your stake back. He was nearly forgetting that. Forty francs in all,
  • then. Two of those gold what-d'you-call'ems, in fact. Very well, then.
  • He leaned forward quickly across the croupier, snatched the lid off the
  • gold tray, and removed two louis.
  • It is a remarkable fact in life that the scenes which we have rehearsed
  • in our minds never happen as we have pictured them happening. In the
  • present case, for instance, it had been George's intention to handle
  • the subsequent stages of this little dispute with an easy dignity. He
  • had proposed, the money obtained, to hand it over to its rightful
  • owner, raise his hat, and retire with an air, a gallant champion of the
  • oppressed. It was probably about one-sixteenth of a second after his
  • hand had closed on the coins that he realized in the most vivid manner
  • that these were not the lines on which the incident was to develop,
  • and, with all his heart, he congratulated himself on having discarded
  • those brown boots in favour of a worn but roomy pair of gent's Oxfords.
  • For a moment there was a pause and a silence of utter astonishment,
  • while the minds of those who had witnessed the affair adjusted
  • themselves to the marvel, and then the world became full of starting
  • eyes, yelling throats, and clutching hands. From all over the casino
  • fresh units swarmed like bees to swell the crowd at the centre of
  • things. Promenaders ceased to promenade, waiters to wait. Elderly
  • gentlemen sprang on to tables.
  • But in that momentary pause George had got off the mark. The table at
  • which he had been standing was the one nearest to the door, and he had
  • been on the door side of it. As the first eyes began to start, the
  • first throats to yell, and the first hands to clutch, he was passing
  • the counter of the money-changer. He charged the swing-door at full
  • speed, and, true to its mission, it swung. He had a vague glimpse from
  • the corner of his eye of the hat-and-cloak counter, and then he was in
  • the square with the cold night breeze blowing on his forehead and the
  • stars winking down from the blue sky.
  • A paper-seller on the pavement, ever the man of business, stepped
  • forward and offered him the Paris edition of the _Daily Mail_,
  • and, being in the direct line of transit, shot swiftly into the road
  • and fell into a heap, while George, shaken but going well, turned off
  • to the left, where there seemed to be rather more darkness than
  • anywhere else.
  • And then the casino disgorged the pursuers.
  • To George, looking hastily over his shoulder, there seemed a thousand
  • of them. The square rang with their cries. He could not understand
  • them, but gathered that they were uncomplimentary. At any rate, they
  • stimulated a little man in evening dress strolling along the pavement
  • towards him, to become suddenly animated and to leap from side to side
  • with outstretched arms.
  • Panic makes Harlequin three-quarters of us all. For one who had never
  • played Rugby football George handled the situation well. He drew the
  • defence with a feint to the left, then, swerving to the right, shot
  • past into the friendly darkness. From behind came the ringing of feet
  • and an evergrowing din.
  • It is one of the few compensations a fugitive pursued by a crowd enjoys
  • that, while he has space for his manoeuvres, those who pursue are
  • hampered by their numbers. In the little regiment that pounded at his
  • heels it is probable that there were many faster runners than George.
  • On the other hand, there were many slower, and in the early stages of
  • the chase these impeded their swifter brethren. At the end of the first
  • half-minute, therefore, George, not sparing himself, had drawn well
  • ahead, and for the first time found leisure for connected thought.
  • His brain became preternaturally alert, so that when, rounding a
  • corner, he perceived entering the main road from a side-street in front
  • of him a small knot of pedestrians, he did not waver, but was seized
  • with a keen spasm of presence of mind. Without pausing in his stride,
  • he pointed excitedly before him, and at the same moment shouted the
  • words, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_'
  • His stock of French was small, but it ran to that, and for his purpose
  • it was ample. The French temperament is not stolid. When the French
  • temperament sees a man running rapidly and pointing into the middle
  • distance and hears him shouting, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_' it does
  • not stop to make formal inquiries. It sprints like a mustang. It did so
  • now, with the happy result that a moment later George was racing down
  • the road, the centre and recognized leader of an enthusiastic band of
  • six, which, in the next twenty yards, swelled to eleven.
  • Five minutes later, in a wine-shop near the harbour, he was sipping the
  • first glass of a bottle of cheap but comforting _vin ordinaire_
  • while he explained to the interested proprietor, by means of a mixture
  • of English, broken French, and gestures that he had been helping to
  • chase a thief, but had been forced by fatigue to retire prematurely for
  • refreshment. The proprietor gathered, however, that he had every
  • confidence in the zeal of his still active colleagues.
  • It is convincing evidence of the extent to which love had triumphed
  • over prudence in George's soul that the advisability of lying hid in
  • his hotel on the following day did not even cross his mind. Immediately
  • after breakfast, or what passed for it at Roville, he set out for the
  • Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee to hand over the two louis to their
  • owner.
  • Lady Julia, he was informed on arrival, was out. The porter, politely
  • genial, advised monsieur to seek her on the Promenade des Etrangers.
  • She was there, on the same seat where she had left the book.
  • 'Good morning,' he said.
  • She had not seen him coming, and she started at his voice. The flush
  • was back on her face as she turned to him. There was a look of
  • astonishment in the grey eyes.
  • He held out the two louis.
  • 'I couldn't give them to you last night,' he said.
  • A horrible idea seized him. It had not occurred to him before.
  • 'I say,' he stammered--'I say, I hope you don't think I had run off
  • with your winnings for good! The croupier wouldn't give them up, you
  • know, so I had to grab them and run. They came to exactly two louis.
  • You put on five francs, you know, and you get seven times your stake.
  • I--'
  • An elderly lady seated on the bench, who had loomed from behind a
  • parasol towards the middle of these remarks, broke abruptly into
  • speech.
  • 'Who is this young man?'
  • George looked at her, startled. He had hardly been aware of her
  • presence till now. Rapidly he diagnosed her as a mother--or aunt. She
  • looked more like an aunt. Of course, it must seem odd to her, his
  • charging in like this, a perfect stranger, and beginning to chat with
  • her daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justify
  • himself.
  • 'I met your--this young lady'--something told him that was not the
  • proper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?--'at the
  • casino last night.'
  • He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable.
  • Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. She
  • stared at the girl.
  • 'So you were gambling at the casino last night?' she said.
  • She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure.
  • 'I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financial
  • transactions with your--friend, I should like to speak to you. You will
  • find me in my room.'
  • George looked after her dumbly.
  • The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speaking
  • to herself.
  • 'I don't care,' she said. 'I'm glad.'
  • George was concerned.
  • 'I'm afraid your mother is offended, Lady Julia.'
  • There was a puzzled look in her grey eyes as they met his. Then they
  • lit up. She leaned back in the seat and began to laugh, softly at
  • first, and then with a note that jarred on George. Whatever the humour
  • of the situation--and he had not detected it at present--this mirth, he
  • felt, was unnatural and excessive.
  • She checked herself at length, and a flush crept over her face.
  • 'I don't know why I did that,' she said, abruptly. 'I'm sorry. There
  • was nothing funny in what you said. But I'm not Lady Julia, and I have
  • no mother. That was Lady Julia who has just gone, and I am nothing more
  • important than her companion.'
  • 'Her companion!'
  • 'I had better say her late companion. It will soon be that. I had
  • strict orders, you see, not to go near the casino without her--and I
  • went.'
  • 'Then--then I've lost you your job--I mean, your position! If it hadn't
  • been for me she wouldn't have known. I--'
  • 'You have done me a great service,' she said. 'You have cut the painter
  • for me when I have been trying for months to muster up the courage to
  • cut it for myself. I don't suppose you know what it is to get into a
  • groove and long to get out of it and not have the pluck. My brother has
  • been writing to me for a long time to join him in Canada. And I hadn't
  • the courage, or the energy, or whatever it is that takes people out of
  • grooves. I knew I was wasting my life, but I was fairly happy--at
  • least, not unhappy; so--well, there it was. I suppose women are like
  • that.'
  • 'And now--?'
  • 'And now you have jerked me out of the groove. I shall go out to Bob by
  • the first boat.'
  • He scratched the concrete thoughtfully with his stick.
  • 'It's a hard life out there,' he said.
  • 'But it _is_ a life.'
  • He looked at the strollers on the promenade. They seemed very far
  • away--in another world.
  • 'Look here,' he said, hoarsely, and stopped. 'May I sit down?' he
  • asked, abruptly. 'I've got something to say, and I can't say it when
  • I'm looking at you.'
  • He sat down, and fastened his gaze on a yacht that swayed at anchor
  • against the cloudless sky.
  • 'Look here,' he said. 'Will you marry me?'
  • He heard her turn quickly, and felt her eyes upon him. He went on
  • doggedly.
  • 'I know,' he said, 'we only met yesterday. You probably think I'm mad.'
  • 'I don't think you're mad,' she said, quietly. 'I only think you're too
  • quixotic. You're sorry for me and you are letting a kind impulse carry
  • you away, as you did last night at the casino. It's like you.'
  • For the first time he turned towards her.
  • 'I don't know what you suppose I am,' he said, 'but I'll tell you. I'm
  • a clerk in an insurance office. I get a hundred a year and ten days'
  • holiday. Did you take me for a millionaire? If I am, I'm only a
  • tuppenny one. Somebody left me a thousand pounds a few weeks ago.
  • That's how I come to be here. Now you know all about me. I don't know
  • anything about you except that I shall never love anybody else. Marry
  • me, and we'll go to Canada together. You say I've helped you out of
  • your groove. Well, I've only one chance of getting out of mine, and
  • that's through you. If you won't help me, I don't care if I get out of
  • it or not. Will you pull me out?'
  • She did not speak. She sat looking out to sea, past the many-coloured
  • crowd.
  • He watched her face, but her hat shaded her eyes and he could read
  • nothing in it.
  • And then, suddenly, without quite knowing how it had got there, he
  • found that her hand was in his, and he was clutching it as a drowning
  • man clutches a rope.
  • He could see her eyes now, and there was a message in them that set his
  • heart racing. A great content filled him. She was so companionable,
  • such a friend. It seemed incredible to him that it was only yesterday
  • that they had met for the first time.
  • 'And now,' she said, 'would you mind telling me your name?'
  • * * * * *
  • The little waves murmured as they rolled lazily up the beach. Somewhere
  • behind the trees in the gardens a band had begun to play. The breeze,
  • blowing in from the blue Mediterranean, was charged with salt and
  • happiness. And from a seat on the promenade, a young man swept the
  • crowd with a defiant gaze.
  • 'It isn't true,' it seemed to say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'
  • AHEAD OF SCHEDULE
  • It was to Wilson, his valet, with whom he frequently chatted in airy
  • fashion before rising of a morning, that Rollo Finch first disclosed
  • his great idea. Wilson was a man of silent habit, and men of silent
  • habit rarely escaped Rollo's confidences.
  • 'Wilson,' he said one morning from the recesses of his bed, as the
  • valet entered with his shaving-water, 'have you ever been in love?'
  • 'Yes, sir,' said the valet, unperturbed.
  • One would hardly have expected the answer to be in the affirmative.
  • Like most valets and all chauffeurs, Wilson gave the impression of
  • being above the softer emotions.
  • 'What happened?' inquired Rollo.
  • 'It came to nothing, sir,' said Wilson, beginning to strop the razor
  • with no appearance of concern.
  • 'Ah!' said Rollo. 'And I bet I know why. You didn't go the right way to
  • work.'
  • 'No, sir?'
  • 'Not one fellow in a hundred does. I know. I've thought it out. I've
  • been thinking the deuce of a lot about it lately. It's dashed tricky,
  • this making love. Most fellows haven't a notion how to work it. No
  • system. No system, Wilson, old scout.'
  • 'No, sir?'
  • 'Now, I _have_ a system. And I'll tell it you. It may do you a bit
  • of good next time you feel that impulse. You're not dead yet. Now, my
  • system is simply to go to it gradually, by degrees. Work by schedule.
  • See what I mean?'
  • 'Not entirely, sir.'
  • 'Well, I'll give you the details. First thing, you want to find the
  • girl.'
  • 'Just so, sir.'
  • 'Well, when you've found her, what do you do? You just look at her. See
  • what I mean?'
  • 'Not entirely, sir.'
  • 'Look at her, my boy. That's just the start--the foundation. You
  • develop from that. But you keep away. That's the point. I've thought
  • this thing out. Mind you, I don't claim absolutely all the credit for
  • the idea myself. It's by way of being based on Christian Science.
  • Absent treatment, and all that. But most of it's mine. All the fine
  • work.'
  • 'Yes, sir?'
  • 'Yes. Absolutely all the fine work. Here's the thing in a nutshell. You
  • find the girl. Right. Of course, you've got to meet her once, just to
  • establish the connexion. Then you get busy. First week, looks. Just
  • look at her. Second week, letters. Write to her every day. Third week,
  • flowers. Send her some every afternoon. Fourth week, presents with a
  • bit more class about them. Bit of jewellery now and then. See what I
  • mean? Fifth week,--lunches and suppers and things. Sixth week, propose,
  • though you can do it in the fifth week if you see a chance. You've got
  • to leave that to the fellow's judgement. Well, there you are. See what
  • I mean?'
  • Wilson stropped his master's razor thoughtfully.
  • 'A trifle elaborate, sir, is it not?' he said.
  • Rollo thumped the counterpane.
  • 'I knew you'd say that. That's what nine fellows out of ten
  • _would_ say. They'd want to rush it. I tell you, Wilson, old
  • scout, you _can't_ rush it.'
  • Wilson brooded awhile, his mind back in the passionate past.
  • 'In Market Bumpstead, sir--'
  • 'What the deuce is Market Bumpstead?'
  • 'A village, sir, where I lived until I came to London.'
  • 'Well?'
  • 'In Market Bumpstead, sir, the prevailing custom was to escort the
  • young lady home from church, buy her some little present--some ribbons,
  • possibly--next day, take her for a walk, and kiss her, sir.'
  • Wilson's voice, as he unfolded these devices of the dashing youth of
  • Market Bumpstead, had taken on an animation quite unsuitable to a
  • conscientious valet. He gave the impression of a man who does not
  • depend on idle rumour for his facts. His eye gleamed unprofessionally
  • for a moment before resuming its habitual expression of quiet
  • introspection.
  • Rollo shook his head.
  • 'That sort of thing might work in a village,' he said, 'but you want
  • something better for London.'
  • * * * * *
  • Rollo Finch--in the present unsatisfactory state of the law parents may
  • still christen a child Rollo--was a youth to whom Nature had given a
  • cheerful disposition not marred by any superfluity of brain. Everyone
  • liked Rollo--the great majority on sight, the rest as soon as they
  • heard that he would be a millionaire on the death of his Uncle Andrew.
  • There is a subtle something, a sort of nebulous charm, as it were,
  • about young men who will be millionaires on the death of their Uncle
  • Andrew which softens the ruggedest misanthrope.
  • Rollo's mother had been a Miss Galloway, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,
  • U.S.A.; and Andrew Galloway, the world-famous Braces King, the inventor
  • and proprietor of the inimitable 'Tried and Proven', was her brother.
  • His braces had penetrated to every corner of the earth. Wherever
  • civilization reigned you would find men wearing Galloway's 'Tried and
  • Proven'.
  • Between Rollo and this human benefactor there had always existed
  • friendly relations, and it was an open secret that, unless his uncle
  • were to marry and supply the world with little Galloways as well as
  • braces, the young man would come into his money.
  • So Rollo moved on his way through life, popular and happy. Always merry
  • and bright. That was Rollo.
  • Or nearly always. For there were moments--we all have our greyer
  • moments--when he could have wished that Mr Galloway had been a trifle
  • older or a trifle less robust. The Braces potentate was at present
  • passing, in excellent health, through the Indian summer of life. He
  • was, moreover, as has been stated, by birth and residence a Pittsburgh
  • man. And the tendency of middle-aged Pittsburgh millionaires to marry
  • chorus-girls is notoriously like the homing instinct of pigeons.
  • Something--it may be the smoke--seems to work on them like a charm.
  • In the case of Andrew Galloway, Nature had been thwarted up till now by
  • the accident of an unfortunate attachment in early life. The facts were
  • not fully known, but it was generally understood that his fiancee had
  • exercised Woman's prerogative and changed her mind. Also, that she had
  • done this on the actual wedding-day, causing annoyance to all, and had
  • clinched the matter by eloping to Jersey City with the prospective
  • bridegroom's own coachman. Whatever the facts, there was no doubt about
  • their result. Mr Galloway, having abjured woman utterly, had flung
  • himself with moody energy into the manufacture and propagation of his
  • 'Tried and Proven' Braces, and had found consolation in it ever since.
  • He would be strong, he told himself, like his braces. Hearts might snap
  • beneath a sudden strain. Not so the 'Tried and Proven'. Love might tug
  • and tug again, but never more should the trousers of passion break away
  • from the tough, masterful braces of self-control.
  • As Mr Galloway had been in this frame of mind for a matter of eleven
  • years, it seemed to Rollo not unreasonable to hope that he might
  • continue in it permanently. He had the very strongest objection to his
  • uncle marrying a chorus-girl; and, as the years went on and the
  • disaster did not happen, his hopes of playing the role of heir till the
  • fall of the curtain grew stronger and stronger. He was one of those
  • young men who must be heirs or nothing. This is the age of the
  • specialist, and years ago Rollo had settled on his career. Even as a
  • boy, hardly capable of connected thought, he had been convinced that
  • his speciality, the one thing he could do really well, was to inherit
  • money. All he wanted was a chance. It would be bitter if Fate should
  • withhold it from him.
  • He did not object on principle to men marrying chorus-girls. On the
  • contrary, he wanted to marry one himself.
  • It was this fact which had given that turn to his thoughts which had
  • finally resulted in the schedule.
  • * * * * *
  • The first intimation that Wilson had that the schedule was actually to
  • be put into practical operation was when his employer, one Monday
  • evening, requested him to buy a medium-sized bunch of the best red
  • roses and deliver them personally, with a note, to Miss Marguerite
  • Parker at the stage-door of the Duke of Cornwall's Theatre.
  • Wilson received the order in his customary gravely deferential manner,
  • and was turning to go; but Rollo had more to add.
  • 'Flowers, Wilson,' he said, significantly.
  • 'So I understood you to say, sir. I will see to it at once.'
  • 'See what I mean? Third week, Wilson.'
  • 'Indeed, sir?'
  • Rollo remained for a moment in what he would have called thought.
  • 'Charming girl, Wilson.'
  • 'Indeed, sir?'
  • 'Seen the show?'
  • 'Not yet, sir.'
  • 'You should,' said Rollo, earnestly. 'Take my advice, old scout, and
  • see it first chance you get. It's topping. I've had the same seat in
  • the middle of the front row of the stalls for two weeks.'
  • 'Indeed, sir?'
  • 'Looks, Wilson! The good old schedule.'
  • 'Have you noticed any satisfactory results, sir?'
  • 'It's working. On Saturday night she looked at me five times. She's a
  • delightful girl, Wilson. Nice, quiet girl--not the usual sort. I met
  • her first at a lunch at Oddy's. She's the last girl on the O.P. side.
  • I'm sure you'd like her, Wilson.'
  • 'I have every confidence in your taste, sir.'
  • 'You'll see her for yourself this evening. Don't let the fellow at the
  • stage-door put you off. Slip him half a crown or a couple of quid or
  • something, and say you must see her personally. Are you a close
  • observer, Wilson?'
  • 'I think so, sir.'
  • 'Because I want you to notice particularly how she takes it. See that
  • she reads the note in your presence. I've taken a good deal of trouble
  • over that note, Wilson. It's a good note. Well expressed. Watch her
  • face while she's reading it.'
  • 'Very good, sir. Excuse me, sir.'
  • 'Eh?'
  • 'I had almost forgotten to mention it. Mr Galloway rang up on the
  • telephone shortly before you came in.'
  • 'What! Is he in England?'
  • Mr Galloway was in the habit of taking occasional trips to Great
  • Britain to confer with the general manager of his London branch. Rollo
  • had grown accustomed to receiving no notice of these visits.
  • 'He arrived two days ago on the _Baltic_, sir. He left a message
  • that he was in London for a week, and would be glad if you would dine
  • with him tomorrow at his club.'
  • Rollo nodded. On these occasions it was his practice to hold himself
  • unreservedly at Mr Galloway's disposal. The latter's invitations were
  • royal commands. Rollo was glad that the visit had happened now. In
  • another two weeks it might have been disastrous to the schedule.
  • The club to which the Braces King belonged was a richly but gloomily
  • furnished building in Pall Mall, a place of soft carpets, shaded
  • lights, and whispers. Grave, elderly men moved noiselessly to and fro,
  • or sat in meditative silence in deep arm-chairs. Sometimes the visitor
  • felt that he was in a cathedral, sometimes in a Turkish bath; while now
  • and then there was a suggestion of the waiting-room of a more than
  • usually prosperous dentist. It was magnificent, but not exhilarating.
  • Rollo was shown into the smoking-room, where his uncle received him.
  • There was a good deal of Mr Andrew Galloway. Grief, gnawing at his
  • heart, had not sagged his ample waistcoat, which preceded him as he
  • moved in much the same manner as Birnam Woods preceded the army of
  • Macduff. A well-nourished hand crept round the corner of the edifice
  • and enveloped Rollo's in a powerful grip.
  • 'Ah, my boy!' bellowed Mr Galloway cheerfully. His voice was always
  • loud. 'Glad you've come.'
  • It would be absurd to say that Rollo looked at his uncle keenly. He was
  • not capable of looking keenly at anyone. But certainly a puzzled
  • expression came into his face. Whether it was the heartiness of the
  • other's hand-shake or the unusual cheeriness of his voice, he could not
  • say; but something gave him the impression that a curious change had
  • come over the Braces King. When they had met before during the last few
  • years Mr Galloway had been practically sixteen stone five of blood and
  • iron--one of those stern, soured men. His attitude had been that of one
  • for whom Life's music had ceased. Had he then inserted another record?
  • His manner conveyed that idea.
  • Sustained thought always gave Rollo a headache. He ceased to speculate.
  • 'Still got the same _chef_ here, uncle?' he said. 'Deuced brainy
  • fellow. I always like dining here.'
  • 'Here!' Mr Galloway surveyed the somnolent occupants of the room with
  • spirited scorn. 'We aren't going to dine in this forsaken old
  • mausoleum. I've sent in my resignation today. If I find myself wanting
  • this sort of thing at any time, I'll go to Paris and hunt up the
  • Morgue. Bunch of old dead-beats! Bah! I've engaged a table at Romano's.
  • That's more in my line. Get your coat, and let's be going.'
  • In the cab Rollo risked the headache. At whatever cost this thing must
  • be pondered over. His uncle prattled gaily throughout the journey. Once
  • he whooped--some weird, forgotten college yell, dragged from the misty
  • depths of the past. It was passing strange. And in this unusual manner
  • the two rolled into the Strand, and drew up at Romano's door.
  • Mr Galloway was a good trencherman. At a very early date he had
  • realized that a man who wishes to make satisfactory braces must keep
  • his strength up. He wanted a good deal here below, and he wanted it
  • warm and well cooked. It was, therefore, not immediately that his
  • dinner with Rollo became a feast of reason and a flow of soul. Indeed,
  • the two revellers had lighted their cigars before the elder gave forth
  • any remark that was not purely gastronomic.
  • When he did jerk the conversation up on to a higher plane, he jerked it
  • hard. He sent it shooting into the realms of the soulful with a whiz.
  • 'Rollo,' he said, blowing a smoke-ring, 'do you believe in affinities?'
  • Rollo, in the act of sipping a liqueur brandy, lowered his glass in
  • surprise. His head was singing slightly as the result of some rather
  • spirited Bollinger (extra sec), and he wondered if he had heard aright.
  • Mr Galloway continued, his voice rising as he spoke.
  • 'My boy,' he said, 'I feel young tonight for the first time in years.
  • And, hang it, I'm not so old! Men have married at twice my age.'
  • Strictly speaking, this was incorrect, unless one counted Methuselah;
  • but perhaps Mr Galloway spoke figuratively.
  • 'Three times my age,' he proceeded, leaning back and blowing smoke,
  • thereby missing his nephew's agitated start. 'Four times my age. Five
  • times my age. Six--'
  • He pulled himself together in some confusion. A generous wine, that
  • Bollinger. He must be careful.
  • He coughed.
  • 'Are you--you aren't--are you--' Rollo paused. 'Are you thinking of
  • getting married, uncle?'
  • Mr Galloway's gaze was still on the ceiling.
  • 'A great deal of nonsense,' he yelled severely, 'is talked about men
  • lowering themselves by marrying actresses. I was a guest at a
  • supper-party last night at which an actress was present. And a more
  • charming, sensible girl I never wish to meet. Not one of your silly,
  • brainless chits who don't know the difference between lobster Newburg
  • and canvas-back duck, and who prefer sweet champagne to dry. No, sir!
  • Not one of your mincing, affected kind who pretend they never touch
  • anything except a spoonful of cold _consomme_. No, sir! Good, healthy
  • appetite. Enjoyed her food, and knew why she was enjoying it. I give
  • you my word, my boy, until I met her I didn't know a woman existed who
  • could talk so damned sensibly about a _bavaroise au rhum_.'
  • He suspended his striking tribute in order to relight his cigar.
  • 'She can use a chafing-dish,' he resumed, his voice vibrating with
  • emotion. 'She told me so. She said she could fix chicken so that a man
  • would leave home for it.' He paused, momentarily overcome. '_And_
  • Welsh rarebits,' he added reverently.
  • He puffed hard at his cigar.
  • 'Yes,' he said. 'Welsh rarebits, too. And because,' he shouted
  • wrathfully, 'because, forsooth, she earns an honest living by singing
  • in the chorus of a comic opera, a whole bunch of snivelling idiots will
  • say I have made a fool of myself. Let them!' he bellowed, sitting up
  • and glaring at Rollo. 'I say, let them! I'll show them that Andrew
  • Galloway is not the man to--to--is not the man--' He stopped. 'Well,
  • anyway, I'll show them,' he concluded rather lamely.
  • Rollo eyed him with fallen jaw. His liqueur had turned to wormwood. He
  • had been fearing this for years. You may drive out Nature with a
  • pitchfork, but she will return. Blood will tell. Once a Pittsburgh
  • millionaire, always a Pittsburgh millionaire. For eleven years his
  • uncle had fought against his natural propensities, with apparent
  • success; but Nature had won in the end. His words could have no other
  • meaning. Andrew Galloway was going to marry a chorus-girl.
  • Mr Galloway rapped on the table, and ordered another kummel.
  • 'Marguerite Parker!' he roared dreamily, rolling the words round his
  • tongue, like port.
  • 'Marguerite Parker!' exclaimed Rollo, bounding in his chair.
  • His uncle met his eye sternly.
  • 'That was the name I said. You seem to know it. Perhaps you have
  • something to say against the lady. Eh? Have you? Have you? I warn you
  • to be careful. What do you know of Miss Parker? Speak!'
  • 'Er--no, no. Oh, no! I just know the name, that's all. I--I rather
  • think I met her once at lunch. Or it may have been somebody else. I
  • know it was someone.'
  • He plunged at his glass. His uncle's gaze relaxed its austerity.
  • 'I hope you will meet her many more times at lunch, my boy. I hope you
  • will come to look upon her as a second mother.'
  • This was where Rollo asked if he might have a little more brandy.
  • When the restorative came he drank it at a gulp; then looked across at
  • his uncle. The great man still mused.
  • 'Er--when is it to be?' asked Rollo. 'The wedding, and all that?'
  • 'Hardly before the Fall, I think. No, not before the Fall. I shall be
  • busy till then. I have taken no steps in the matter yet.'
  • 'No steps? You mean--? Haven't you--haven't you proposed?'
  • 'I have had no time. Be reasonable, my boy; be reasonable.'
  • 'Oh!' said Rollo.
  • He breathed a long breath. A suspicion of silver lining had become
  • visible through the clouds.
  • 'I doubt,' said Mr Galloway, meditatively, 'if I shall be able to find
  • time till the end of the week. I am very busy. Let me see. Tomorrow?
  • No. Meeting of the shareholders. Thursday? Friday? No. No, it will have
  • to stand over till Saturday. After Saturday's matinee. That will do
  • excellently.'
  • * * * * *
  • There is a dramatic spectacle to be observed every day in this land of
  • ours, which, though deserving of recognition, no artist has yet
  • pictured on canvas. We allude to the suburban season-ticket holder's
  • sudden flash of speed. Everyone must have seen at one time or another a
  • happy, bright-faced season-ticket holder strolling placidly towards the
  • station, humming, perhaps, in his light-heartedness, some gay air. He
  • feels secure. Fate cannot touch him, for he has left himself for once
  • plenty of time to catch that 8.50, for which he has so often sprinted
  • like the gazelle of the prairie. As he strolls, suddenly his eye falls
  • on the church clock. The next moment with a passionate cry he is
  • endeavouring to lower his record for the fifty-yard dash. All the while
  • his watch has been fifteen minutes slow.
  • In just such a case was Rollo Finch. He had fancied that he had plenty
  • of time. And now, in an instant, the fact was borne in upon him that he
  • must hurry.
  • For the greater part of the night of his uncle's dinner he lay
  • sleepless, vainly endeavouring to find a way out of the difficulty. It
  • was not till early morning that he faced the inevitable. He hated to
  • abandon the schedule. To do so meant changing a well-ordered advance
  • into a forlorn hope. But circumstances compelled it. There are moments
  • when speed alone can save love's season-ticket holder.
  • On the following afternoon he acted. It was no occasion for stint. He
  • had to condense into one day the carefully considered movements of two
  • weeks, and to the best of his ability he did so. He bought three
  • bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, and sent them
  • to the theatre by messenger-boy. With them went an invitation to
  • supper.
  • Then, with the feeling that he had done all that was possible, he
  • returned to his flat and waited for the hour.
  • He dressed with more than usual care that night. Your wise general
  • never throws away a move. He was particular about his tie. As a rule,
  • Wilson selected one for him. But there had been times when Wilson had
  • made mistakes. One could not rely absolutely on Wilson's taste in ties.
  • He did not blame him. Better men than Wilson had gone wrong over an
  • evening tie. But tonight there must be no taking of chances.
  • 'Where do we keep our ties, Wilson?' he asked.
  • 'The closet to the right of the door, sir. The first twelve shallow
  • shelves, counting from the top, sir. They contain a fair selection of
  • our various cravats. Replicas in bulk are to be found in the third nest
  • of drawers in your dressing-room, sir.'
  • 'I only want one, my good man. I'm not a regiment. Ah! I stake all on
  • this one. Not a word, Wilson. No discussion. This is the tie I wear.
  • What's the time?'
  • 'Eight minutes to eleven, sir.'
  • 'I must be off. I shall be late. I shan't want you any more tonight.
  • Don't wait for me.'
  • 'Very good, sir.'
  • Rollo left the room, pale but determined, and hailed a taxi.
  • * * * * *
  • It is a pleasant spot, the vestibule of the Carlton Hotel.
  • Glare--glitter--distant music--fair women--brave men. But one can have
  • too much of it, and as the moments pass, and she does not arrive, a
  • chill seems to creep into the atmosphere. We wait on, hoping against
  • hope, and at last, just as waiters and commissionaires are beginning to
  • eye us with suspicion, we face the truth. She is not coming. Then out we
  • crawl into cold, callous Pall Mall, and so home. You have been through
  • it, dear reader, and so have I.
  • And so, at eleven forty-five that evening, had Rollo. For a full
  • three-quarters of an hour he waited, scanning the face of each new
  • arrival with the anxious scrutiny of a lost dog seeking its master; but
  • at fourteen minutes to twelve the last faint flicker of hope had died
  • away. A girl may be a quarter of an hour late for supper. She may be
  • half an hour late. But there is a limit, and to Rollo's mind forty-five
  • minutes passed it. At ten minutes to twelve a uniformed official
  • outside the Carlton signalled to a taxi-cab, and there entered it a
  • young man whose faith in Woman was dead.
  • Rollo meditated bitterly as he drove home. It was not so much the fact
  • that she had not come that stirred him. Many things may keep a girl
  • from supper. It was the calm way in which she had ignored the
  • invitation. When you send a girl three bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold
  • Billiken with ruby eyes, you do not expect an entire absence of
  • recognition. Even a penny-in-the-slot machine treats you better than
  • that. It may give you hairpins when you want matches but at least it
  • takes some notice of you.
  • He was still deep in gloomy thought when he inserted his latchkey and
  • opened the door of his flat.
  • He was roused from his reflections by a laugh from the sitting-room. He
  • started. It was a pleasant laugh, and musical, but it sent Rollo
  • diving, outraged, for the handle of the door. What was a woman doing in
  • his sitting-room at this hour? Was his flat an hotel?
  • The advent of an unbidden guest rarely fails to produce a certain
  • _gene_. The sudden appearance of Rollo caused a dead silence.
  • It was broken by the fall of a chair on the carpet as Wilson rose
  • hurriedly to his feet.
  • Rollo stood in the doorway, an impressive statue of restrained
  • indignation. He could see the outlying portions of a girl in blue at
  • the further end of the table, but Wilson obscured his vision.
  • 'Didn't expect you back, sir,' said Wilson.
  • For the first time in the history of their acquaintance his accustomed
  • calm seemed somewhat ruffled.
  • 'So I should think,' said Rollo. 'I believe you, by George!'
  • 'You had better explain, Jim,' said a dispassionate voice from the end
  • of the table.
  • Wilson stepped aside.
  • 'My wife, sir,' he said, apologetically, but with pride.
  • 'Your wife!'
  • 'We were married this morning, sir.'
  • The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with an
  • impudent nose and a mass of brown hair.
  • 'Awfully glad to meet you,' she said, cracking a walnut.
  • Rollo gaped.
  • She looked at him again.
  • 'We've met, haven't we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And
  • you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you,' she said,
  • beaming.
  • She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductions
  • were complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more.
  • She appeared at peace with all men.
  • The situation was slipping from Rollo's grip. He continued to gape.
  • Then he remembered his grievance.
  • 'I think you might have let me know you weren't coming to supper.'
  • 'Supper?'
  • 'I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon.'
  • 'I haven't been to the theatre today. They let me off because I was
  • going to be married. I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't wait long.'
  • Rollo's resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile.
  • 'Hardly any time,' he said, untruthfully.
  • 'If I might explain, sir,' said Wilson.
  • 'By George! If you can, you'll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose,
  • and don't be afraid you'll bore me. You won't.'
  • 'Mrs Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. In
  • fact--'
  • Rollo's face cleared.
  • 'By George! Market what's-its-name! Why, of course. Then she--'
  • 'Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever been
  • in love, and I replied in the affirmative.'
  • 'And it was--'
  • 'Mrs Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us came
  • to London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my--'
  • 'Jim! It was mine.'
  • 'No, it was all through my being a fool.'
  • 'It was not. You know it wasn't!'
  • Rollo intervened.
  • 'Well?'
  • 'And when you sent me with the flowers, sir--well, we talked it over
  • again, and--that was how it came about, sir.'
  • The bride looked up from her walnuts.
  • 'You aren't angry?' she smiled up at Rollo.
  • 'Angry?' He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he should
  • be a little--well, not exactly angry, but--And then for the first time
  • it came to him that the situation was not entirely without its
  • compensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten Mr
  • Galloway.
  • 'Angry?' he said. 'Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time to
  • get a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I'm
  • hungry. Here we all are, eh? Let's enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout,
  • bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a "B.
  • and S." for the best man. Mrs Wilson, if you'll look in at the theatre
  • tomorrow you'll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you.
  • Three bouquets--they'll be a bit withered, I'm afraid--a bracelet, and
  • a gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he'll bring you luck. Oh,
  • Wilson!'
  • 'Sir?'
  • 'Touching this little business--don't answer if it's a delicate
  • question, but I _should_ like to know--I suppose you didn't try
  • the schedule. What? More the Market Thingummy method, eh? The one you
  • described to me?'
  • 'Market Bumpstead, sir?' said Wilson. 'On those lines.'
  • Rollo nodded thoughtfully.
  • 'It seems to me,' he said, 'they know a thing or two down in Market
  • Bumpstead.'
  • 'A very rising little place, sir,' assented Wilson.
  • SIR AGRAVAINE
  • A TALE OF KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE
  • Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestral
  • castle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (pronounced
  • Wop), I came across an old black-letter MS. It is on this that the
  • story which follows is based.
  • I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here and
  • there, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their idea
  • of telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning away
  • without any stops or dialogue till the thing was over.
  • I have also condensed the title. In the original it ran, '"How it came
  • about that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Round
  • did fare forth to succour a damsel in distress and after divers
  • journeyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his bride
  • and right happily did they twain live ever afterwards," by Ambrose ye
  • monk.'
  • It was a pretty snappy title for those days, but we have such a high
  • standard in titles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a few
  • yards of it.
  • We may now proceed to the story.
  • * * * * *
  • The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoon
  • boiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves on
  • each other's spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone;
  • handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knock
  • the cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long since
  • become hoarse with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries of
  • itinerant merchants: 'Iced malvoisie,' 'Score-cards; ye cannot tell the
  • jousters without a score-card.' All was revelry and excitement.
  • A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mounted
  • knight in armour had entered.
  • The herald raised his hand.
  • 'Ladeez'n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahad
  • on my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!'
  • A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but found
  • no takers. Nor was the public's caution without reason.
  • A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine,
  • shooting over his horse's crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang.
  • He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was not
  • unused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to him
  • in his whole jousting career.
  • The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element at
  • King Arthur's court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that had
  • given him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived his
  • title.
  • Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under the
  • impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the
  • Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory says
  • nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently
  • there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have
  • been the chief.
  • There was, it seems, nothing to mitigate this unfortunate man's
  • physical deficiencies. There is a place in the world for the strong,
  • ugly man, and there is a place for the weak, handsome man. But to fall
  • short both in features and in muscle is to stake your all on brain. And
  • in the days of King Arthur you did not find the populace turning out to
  • do homage to brain. It was a drug on the market. Agravaine was a good
  • deal better equipped than his contemporaries with grey matter, but his
  • height in his socks was but five feet four; and his muscles, though he
  • had taken three correspondence courses in physical culture, remained
  • distressingly flaccid. His eyes were pale and mild, his nose snub, and
  • his chin receded sharply from his lower lip, as if Nature, designing
  • him, had had to leave off in a hurry and finish the job anyhow. The
  • upper teeth, protruding, completed the resemblance to a nervous rabbit.
  • Handicapped in this manner, it is no wonder that he should feel sad and
  • lonely in King Arthur's court. At heart he ached for romance; but
  • romance passed him by. The ladies of the court ignored his existence,
  • while, as for those wandering damsels who came periodically to Camelot
  • to complain of the behaviour of dragons, giants, and the like, and to
  • ask permission of the king to take a knight back with them to fight
  • their cause (just as, nowadays, one goes out and calls a policeman), he
  • simply had no chance. The choice always fell on Lancelot or some other
  • popular favourite.
  • * * * * *
  • The tournament was followed by a feast. In those brave days almost
  • everything was followed by a feast. The scene was gay and animated.
  • Fair ladies, brave knights, churls, varlets, squires, scurvy knaves,
  • men-at-arms, malapert rogues--all were merry. All save Agravaine. He
  • sat silent and moody. To the jests of Dagonet he turned a deaf ear. And
  • when his neighbour, Sir Kay, arguing with Sir Percivale on current
  • form, appealed to him to back up his statement that Sir Gawain, though
  • a workman-like middle-weight, lacked the punch, he did not answer,
  • though the subject was one on which he held strong views. He sat on,
  • brooding.
  • As he sat there, a man-at-arms entered the hall.
  • 'Your majesty,' he cried, 'a damsel in distress waits without.'
  • There was a murmur of excitement and interest.
  • 'Show her in,' said the king, beaming.
  • The man-at-arms retired. Around the table the knights were struggling
  • into an upright position in their seats and twirling their moustaches.
  • Agravaine alone made no movement. He had been through this sort of
  • thing so often. What were distressed damsels to him? His whole
  • demeanour said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, 'What's the
  • use?'
  • The crowd at the door parted, and through the opening came a figure at
  • the sight of whom the expectant faces of the knights turned pale with
  • consternation. For the new-comer was quite the plainest girl those
  • stately halls had ever seen. Possibly the only plain girl they had ever
  • seen, for no instance is recorded in our authorities of the existence
  • at that period of any such.
  • The knights gazed at her blankly. Those were the grand old days of
  • chivalry, when a thousand swords would leap from their scabbards to
  • protect defenceless woman, if she were beautiful. The present seemed
  • something in the nature of a special case, and nobody was quite certain
  • as to the correct procedure.
  • An awkward silence was broken by the king.
  • 'Er--yes?' he said.
  • The damsel halted.
  • 'Your majesty,' she cried, 'I am in distress. I crave help!'
  • 'Just so,' said the king, uneasily, flashing an apprehensive glance at
  • the rows of perturbed faces before him. 'Just _so_. What--er--what is
  • the exact nature of the--ah--trouble? Any assistance these gallant
  • knights can render will, I am sure, be--ah--eagerly rendered.'
  • He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speech
  • was the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even a
  • murmur.
  • 'I may say enthusiastically,' he added.
  • Not a sound.
  • 'Precisely,' said the king, ever tactful. 'And now--you were saying?'
  • 'I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills,' said the damsel,
  • 'and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knight
  • against a fiery dragon that ravages the country-side.'
  • 'A dragon, gentlemen,' said the king, aside. It was usually a safe
  • draw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk bout
  • with a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence.
  • 'Fiery,' said the king.
  • Some more silence.
  • The king had recourse to the direct appeal. 'Sir Gawain, this Court
  • would be greatly indebted to you if--'
  • Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament.
  • 'Sir Pelleas.'
  • The king's voice was growing flat with consternation. The situation was
  • unprecedented.
  • Sir Pelleas said he had an ingrowing toe-nail.
  • The king's eye rolled in anguish around the table. Suddenly it stopped.
  • It brightened. His look of dismay changed to one of relief.
  • A knight had risen to his feet. It was Agravaine.
  • 'Ah!' said the king, drawing a deep breath.
  • Sir Agravaine gulped. He was feeling more nervous than he had ever felt
  • in his life. Never before had he risen to volunteer his services in a
  • matter of this kind, and his state of mind was that of a small boy
  • about to recite his first piece of poetry.
  • It was not only the consciousness that every eye, except one of Sir
  • Balin's which had been closed in the tournament that afternoon, was
  • upon him. What made him feel like a mild gentleman in a post-office who
  • has asked the lady assistant if she will have time to attend to him
  • soon and has caught her eye, was the fact that he thought he had
  • observed the damsel Yvonne frown as he rose. He groaned in spirit. This
  • damsel, he felt, wanted the proper goods or none at all. She might not
  • be able to get Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad; but she was not going to be
  • satisfied with a half-portion.
  • The fact was that Sir Agravaine had fallen in love at first sight. The
  • moment he had caught a glimpse of the damsel Yvonne, he loved her
  • devotedly. To others she seemed plain and unattractive. To him she was
  • a Queen of Beauty. He was amazed at the inexplicable attitude of the
  • knights around him. He had expected them to rise in a body to clamour
  • for the chance of assisting this radiant vision. He could hardly
  • believe, even now, that he was positively the only starter.
  • 'This is Sir Agravaine the Dolorous,' said the king to the damsel.
  • 'Will you take him as your champion?'
  • Agravaine held his breath. But all was well. The damsel bowed.
  • 'Then, Sir Agravaine,' said the king, 'perhaps you had better have your
  • charger sent round at once. I imagine that the matter is pressing--time
  • and--er--dragons wait for no man.'
  • Ten minutes later Agravaine, still dazed, was jogging along to the
  • hills, with the damsel by his side.
  • It was some time before either of them spoke. The damsel seemed
  • preoccupied, and Agravaine's mind was a welter of confused thoughts,
  • the most prominent of which and the one to which he kept returning
  • being the startling reflection that he, who had pined for romance so
  • long, had got it now in full measure.
  • A dragon! Fiery withal. Was he absolutely certain that he was capable
  • of handling an argument with a fiery dragon? He would have given much
  • for a little previous experience of this sort of thing. It was too late
  • now, but he wished he had had the forethought to get Merlin to put up a
  • magic prescription for him, rendering him immune to dragon-bites. But
  • did dragons bite? Or did they whack at you with their tails? Or just
  • blow fire?
  • There were a dozen such points that he would have liked to have settled
  • before starting. It was silly to start out on a venture of this sort
  • without special knowledge. He had half a mind to plead a forgotten
  • engagement and go straight back.
  • Then he looked at the damsel, and his mind was made up. What did death
  • matter if he could serve her?
  • He coughed. She came out of her reverie with a start.
  • 'This dragon, now?' said Agravaine.
  • For a moment the damsel did not reply. 'A fearsome worm, Sir Knight,'
  • she said at length. 'It raveneth by day and by night. It breathes fire
  • from its nostrils.'
  • 'Does it!' said Agravaine. '_Does_ it! You couldn't give some
  • idea what it looks like, what kind of _size_ it is?'
  • 'Its body is as thick as ten stout trees, and its head touches the
  • clouds.'
  • 'Does it!' said Agravaine thoughtfully. '_Does_ it!'
  • 'Oh, Sir Knight, I pray you have a care.'
  • 'I will,' said Agravaine. And he had seldom said anything more
  • fervently. The future looked about as bad as it could be. Any hopes
  • he may have entertained that this dragon might turn out to
  • be comparatively small and inoffensive were dissipated. This was
  • plainly no debilitated wreck of a dragon, its growth stunted by
  • excessive-fire-breathing. A body as thick as ten stout trees! He would
  • not even have the melancholy satisfaction of giving the creature
  • indigestion. For all the impression he was likely to make on that vast
  • interior, he might as well be a salted almond.
  • As they were speaking, a dim mass on the skyline began to take shape.
  • 'Behold!' said the damsel. 'My father's castle.' And presently they
  • were riding across the drawbridge and through the great gate, which
  • shut behind them with a clang.
  • As they dismounted a man came out through a door at the farther end of
  • the courtyard.
  • 'Father,' said Yvonne, 'this is the gallant knight Sir Agravaine, who
  • has come to--' it seemed to Agravaine that she hesitated for a moment.
  • 'To tackle our dragon?' said the father. 'Excellent. Come right in.'
  • Earl Dorm of the Hills, was a small, elderly man, with what Agravaine
  • considered a distinctly furtive air about him. His eyes were too close
  • together, and he was over-lavish with a weak, cunning smile. Even
  • Agravaine, who was in the mood to like the whole family, if possible,
  • for Yvonne's sake, could not help feeling that appearances were against
  • this particular exhibit. He might have a heart of gold beneath the
  • outward aspect of a confidence-trick expert whose hobby was dog-stealing,
  • but there was no doubt that his exterior did not inspire a genial glow
  • of confidence.
  • 'Very good of you to come,' said the earl.
  • 'It's a pleasure,' said Agravaine. 'I have been hearing all about the
  • dragon.'
  • 'A great scourge,' agreed his host. 'We must have a long talk about it
  • after dinner.'
  • It was the custom in those days in the stately homes of England for the
  • whole strength of the company to take their meals together. The guests
  • sat at the upper table, the ladies in a gallery above them, while the
  • usual drove of men-at-arms, archers, malapert rogues, varlets, scurvy
  • knaves, scullions, and plug-uglies attached to all medieval households,
  • squashed in near the door, wherever they could find room.
  • The retinue of Earl Dorm was not strong numerically--the household
  • being, to judge from appearances, one that had seen better days; but it
  • struck Agravaine that what it lacked in numbers it made up in
  • toughness. Among all those at the bottom of the room there was not one
  • whom it would have been agreeable to meet alone in a dark alley. Of
  • all those foreheads not one achieved a height of more than one point
  • nought four inches. A sinister collection, indeed, and one which,
  • Agravaine felt, should have been capable of handling without his
  • assistance any dragon that ever came into the world to stimulate the
  • asbestos industry.
  • He was roused from his reflections by the voice of his host.
  • 'I hope you are not tired after your journey, Sir Agravaine? My little
  • girl did not bore you, I trust? We are very quiet folk here. Country
  • mice. But we must try to make your visit interesting.'
  • Agravaine felt that the dragon might be counted upon to do that. He
  • said as much.
  • 'Ah, yes, the dragon,' said Earl Dorm, 'I was forgetting the dragon. I
  • want to have a long talk with you about that dragon. Not now. Later
  • on.'
  • His eye caught Agravaine's, and he smiled that weak, cunning smile of
  • his. And for the first time the knight was conscious of a curious
  • feeling that all was not square and aboveboard in this castle. A
  • conviction began to steal over him that in some way he was being played
  • with, that some game was afoot which he did not understand, that--in a
  • word--there was dirty work at the cross-roads.
  • There was a touch of mystery in the atmosphere which made him vaguely
  • uneasy. When a fiery dragon is ravaging the country-side to such an
  • extent that the S.O.S. call has been sent out to the Round Table, a
  • knight has a right to expect the monster to be the main theme of
  • conversation. The tendency on his host's part was apparently to avoid
  • touching on the subject at all. He was vague and elusive; and the one
  • topic on which an honest man is not vague and elusive is that of fiery
  • dragons. It was not right. It was as if one should phone for the police
  • and engage them, on arrival, in a discussion on the day's football
  • results.
  • A wave of distrust swept over Agravaine. He had heard stories of robber
  • chiefs who lured strangers into their strongholds and then held them
  • prisoners while the public nervously dodged their anxious friends who
  • had formed subscription lists to make up the ransom. Could this be such
  • a case? The man certainly had an evasive manner and a smile which would
  • have justified any jury in returning a verdict without leaving the box.
  • On the other hand, there was Yvonne. His reason revolted against the
  • idea of that sweet girl being a party to any such conspiracy.
  • No, probably it was only the Earl's unfortunate manner. Perhaps he
  • suffered from some muscular weakness of the face which made him smile
  • like that.
  • Nevertheless, he certainly wished that he had not allowed himself to be
  • deprived of his sword and armour. At the time it had seemed to him that
  • the Earl's remark that the latter needed polishing and the former
  • stropping betrayed only a kindly consideration for his guest's well-being.
  • Now, it had the aspect of being part of a carefully-constructed plot.
  • On the other hand--here philosophy came to his rescue--if anybody did
  • mean to start anything, his sword and armour might just as well not be
  • there. Any one of those mammoth low-brows at the door could eat him,
  • armour and all.
  • He resumed his meal, uneasy but resigned.
  • Dinner at Earl Dorm's was no lunch-counter scuffle. It started early
  • and finished late. It was not till an advanced hour that Agravaine was
  • conducted to his room.
  • The room which had been allotted to him was high up in the eastern
  • tower. It was a nice room, but to one in Agravaine's state of
  • suppressed suspicion a trifle too solidly upholstered. The door was of
  • the thickest oak, studded with iron nails. Iron bars formed a neat
  • pattern across the only window.
  • Hardly had Agravaine observed these things when the door opened, and
  • before him stood the damsel Yvonne, pale of face and panting for
  • breath.
  • She leaned against the doorpost and gulped.
  • 'Fly!' she whispered.
  • Reader, if you had come to spend the night in the lonely castle of a
  • perfect stranger with a shifty eye and a rogues' gallery smile, and on
  • retiring to your room had found the door kick-proof and the window
  • barred, and if, immediately after your discovery of these phenomena, a
  • white-faced young lady had plunged in upon you and urged you to
  • immediate flight, wouldn't that jar you?
  • It jarred Agravaine.
  • 'Eh?' he cried.
  • 'Fly! Fly, Sir Knight.'
  • Another footstep sounded in the passage. The damsel gave a startled
  • look over her shoulder.
  • 'And what's all this?'
  • Earl Dorm appeared in the dim-lit corridor. His voice had a nasty
  • tinkle in it.
  • 'Your--your daughter,' said Agravaine, hurriedly, 'was just telling me
  • that breakfast would--'
  • The sentence remained unfinished. A sudden movement of the earl's hand,
  • and the great door banged in his face. There came the sound of a bolt
  • shooting into its socket. A key turned in the lock. He was trapped.
  • Outside, the earl had seized his daughter by the wrist and was
  • administering a paternal cross-examination.
  • 'What were you saying to him?'
  • Yvonne did not flinch.
  • 'I was bidding him fly.'
  • 'If he wants to leave this castle,' said the earl, grimly, 'he'll have
  • to.'
  • 'Father,' said Yvonne,' I can't.'
  • 'Can't what?'
  • 'I can't.'
  • His grip on her wrist tightened. From the other side of the door came
  • the muffled sound of blows on the solid oak. 'Oh?' said Earl Dorm.
  • 'You can't, eh? Well, listen to me. You've got to. Do you understand? I
  • admit he might be better-looking, but--'
  • 'Father, I love him.'
  • He released her wrist, and stared at her in the uncertain light.
  • 'You love him!'
  • 'Yes.'
  • 'Then what--? Why? Well, I never did understand women,' he said at
  • last, and stumped off down the passage.
  • While this cryptic conversation was in progress, Agravaine, his worst
  • apprehensions realized, was trying to batter down the door. After a few
  • moments, however, he realized the futility of his efforts, and sat down
  • on the bed to think.
  • At the risk of forfeiting the reader's respect, it must be admitted
  • that his first emotion was one of profound relief. If he was locked up
  • like this, it must mean that that dragon story was fictitious, and that
  • all danger was at an end of having to pit his inexperience against a
  • ravening monster who had spent a lifetime devouring knights. He had
  • never liked the prospect, though he had been prepared to go through
  • with it, and to feel that it was definitely cancelled made up for a
  • good deal.
  • His mind next turned to his immediate future. What were they going to
  • do with him? On this point he felt tolerably comfortable. This
  • imprisonment could mean nothing more than that he would be compelled to
  • disgorge a ransom. This did not trouble him. He was rich, and, now that
  • the situation had been switched to a purely business basis, he felt
  • that he could handle it.
  • In any case, there was nothing to be gained by sitting up, so he went
  • to bed, like a good philosopher.
  • The sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoken by the
  • entrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink.
  • He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at the
  • bottom of the room the night before--a vast, beetle-browed fellow with
  • a squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine's
  • attempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, and
  • in a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
  • He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size and
  • ugliness, and with even less conversational _elan_. This one did
  • not even grunt.
  • Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measure
  • by the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm.
  • The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismic
  • plug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in the
  • evening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, but
  • tending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mind
  • which welcomes any break in the daily round.
  • He was fortunate enough to get it.
  • He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just dropping
  • comfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard the
  • sound of angry voices.
  • It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned.
  • Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place.
  • He listened intently and distinguished words.
  • 'Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?'
  • 'Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?'
  • 'Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?'
  • 'Who dost thou think thou art?'
  • 'Who do I think that I am?'
  • 'Aye, who dost thou think thou art?'
  • Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearing
  • the first genuine cross-talk that had ever occurred in those dim,
  • pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was to
  • be popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. But
  • till then it had been unknown.
  • The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have been
  • plain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and the
  • dagger, that medieval forerunner of the slap-stick, brought into play.
  • But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise when
  • suddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. There
  • was a scuffling noise, some groans, and then silence.
  • And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate in
  • the keyhole.
  • The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine could
  • distinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he took
  • correctly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies.
  • 'It is I, Yvonne,' said a voice.
  • 'What is it? What has been happening?'
  • 'It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of the
  • kitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she had
  • favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now--'
  • She glanced at the shapeless heap, and shuddered. Agravaine nodded.
  • 'No wedding-bells for her,' he said, reverently.
  • 'And I don't care. I did it to save you. But come! We are wasting time.
  • Come! I will help you to escape.'
  • A man who has been shut up for two days in a small room is seldom slow
  • off the mark when a chance presents itself of taking exercise.
  • Agravaine followed without a word, and together they crept down the
  • dark staircase until they had reached the main hall. From somewhere in
  • the distance came the rhythmic snores of scurvy knaves getting their
  • eight hours.
  • Softly Yvonne unbolted a small door, and, passing through it, Agravaine
  • found himself looking up at the stars, while the great walls of the
  • castle towered above him.
  • 'Good-bye,' said Yvonne.
  • There was a pause. For the first time Agravaine found himself
  • examining the exact position of affairs. After his sojourn in the
  • guarded room, freedom looked very good to him. But freedom meant
  • parting from Yvonne.
  • He looked at the sky and he looked at the castle walls, and he took a
  • step back towards the door.
  • 'I'm not so sure I want to go,' he said.
  • 'Oh, fly! Fly, Sir Knight!' she cried.
  • 'You don't understand,' said Agravaine. 'I don't want to seem to be
  • saying anything that might be interpreted as in the least derogatory to
  • your father in any way whatever, but without prejudice, surely he is
  • just a plain, ordinary brigand? I mean it's only a question of a
  • ransom? And I don't in the least object--'
  • 'No, no, no.' Her voice trembled. 'He would ask no ransom.'
  • 'Don't tell me he kidnaps people just as a hobby!'
  • 'You don't understand. He--No, I cannot tell you. Fly!'
  • 'What don't I understand?'
  • She was silent. Then she began to speak rapidly. 'Very well. I will
  • tell you. Listen. My father had six children, all daughters. We were
  • poor. We had to stay buried in this out-of-the-way spot. We saw no one.
  • It seemed impossible that any of us should ever marry. My father was in
  • despair. Then he said, "If we cannot get to town, the town must come to
  • us." So he sent my sister Yseult to Camelot to ask the king to let us
  • have a knight to protect us against a giant with three heads. There was
  • no giant, but she got the knight. It was Sir Sagramore. Perhaps you
  • knew him?'
  • Agravaine nodded. He began to see daylight.
  • 'My sister Yseult was very beautiful. After the first day Sir Sagramore
  • forgot all about the giant, and seemed to want to do nothing else
  • except have Yseult show him how to play cat's cradle. They were married
  • two months later, and my father sent my sister Elaine to Camelot to
  • ask for a knight to protect us against a wild unicorn.'
  • 'And who bit?' asked Agravaine, deeply interested.
  • 'Sir Malibran of Devon. They were married within three weeks, and my
  • father--I can't go on. You understand now.'
  • 'I understand the main idea,' said Agravaine. 'But in my case--'
  • 'You were to marry me,' said Yvonne. Her voice was quiet and cold, but
  • she was quivering.
  • Agravaine was conscious of a dull, heavy weight pressing on his heart.
  • He had known his love was hopeless, but even hopelessness is the better
  • for being indefinite. He understood now.
  • 'And you naturally want to get rid of me before it can happen,' he
  • said. 'I don't wonder. I'm not vain... Well, I'll go. I knew I had no
  • chance. Good-bye.'
  • He turned. She stopped him with a sharp cry.
  • 'What do you mean? You cannot wish to stay now? I am saving you.'
  • 'Saving me! I have loved you since the moment you entered the Hall at
  • Camelot,' said Agravaine.
  • She drew in her breath.
  • 'You--you love me!'
  • They looked at each other in the starlight. She held out her hands.
  • 'Agravaine!'
  • She drooped towards him, and he gathered her into his arms. For a
  • novice, he did it uncommonly well.
  • It was about six months later that Agravaine, having ridden into the
  • forest, called upon a Wise Man at his cell.
  • In those days almost anyone who was not a perfect bonehead could set up
  • as a Wise Man and get away with it. All you had to do was to live in a
  • forest and grow a white beard. This particular Wise Man, for a wonder,
  • had a certain amount of rude sagacity. He listened carefully to what
  • the knight had to say.
  • 'It has puzzled me to such an extent,' said Agravaine, 'that I felt
  • that I must consult a specialist. You see me. Take a good look at me.
  • What do you think of my personal appearance? You needn't hesitate. It's
  • worse than that. I am the ugliest man in England.'
  • 'Would you go as far as that?' said the Wise Man, politely.
  • 'Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. She
  • tells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well,
  • she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make of
  • that? And here's another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that my
  • wife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seen
  • them all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literally
  • marooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain.
  • What do you make of it?'
  • The Wise Man stroked his beard.
  • 'My son,' he said, 'the matter is simple. True love takes no account of
  • looks.'
  • 'No?' said Agravaine.
  • 'You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing.
  • Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d'you-call-its.'
  • 'I'm beginning to see,' said Agravaine.
  • 'What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He plays
  • odd tricks with the eyesight.'
  • 'Yes,' said Agravaine.
  • 'Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He
  • takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine.'
  • 'I get you,' said Agravaine.
  • The Wise Man began to warm to his work.
  • 'Or shall we say--'
  • 'I think I must be going,' said Agravaine. 'I promised my wife I would
  • be back early.'
  • 'We might put it--' began the Wise Man perseveringly.
  • 'I understand,' said Agravaine, hurriedly. 'I quite see now. Good-bye.'
  • The Wise Man sighed resignedly.
  • 'Good-bye, Sir Knight,' he said. 'Good-bye. Pay at ye desk.'
  • And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling.
  • THE GOAL-KEEPER AND THE PLUTOCRAT
  • The main difficulty in writing a story is to convey to the reader
  • clearly yet tersely the natures and dispositions of one's leading
  • characters. Brevity, brevity--that is the cry. Perhaps, after all, the
  • play-bill style is the best. In this drama of love, football
  • (Association code), and politics, then, the principals are as follows,
  • in their order of entry:
  • ISABEL RACKSTRAW (an angel).
  • THE HON. CLARENCE TRESILLIAN (a Greek god).
  • LADY RUNNYMEDE (a proud old aristocrat).
  • MR RACKSTRAW (a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician).
  • More about Clarence later. For the moment let him go as a Greek god.
  • There were other sides, too, to Mr Rackstraw's character, but for the
  • moment let him go as a multi-millionaire City man and Radical
  • politician. Not that it is satisfactory; it is too mild. The Radical
  • politics of other Radical politicians were as skim-milk to the Radical
  • politics of Radical Politician Rackstraw. Where Mr Lloyd George
  • referred to the House of Lords as blithering backwoodsmen and asinine
  • anachronisms, Mr Rackstraw scorned to be so guarded in his speech. He
  • did not mince his words. His attitude towards a member of the peerage
  • was that of the terrier to the perambulating cat.
  • It was at a charity bazaar that Isabel and Clarence first met. Isabel
  • was presiding over the Billiken, Teddy-bear, and Fancy Goods stall.
  • There she stood, that slim, radiant girl, bouncing Ardent Youth out of
  • its father's hard--earned with a smile that alone was nearly worth the
  • money, when she observed, approaching, the handsomest man she had ever
  • seen. It was--this is not one of those mystery stories--it was
  • Clarence Tresillian. Over the heads of the bevy of gilded youths who
  • clustered round the stall their eyes met. A thrill ran through Isabel.
  • She dropped her eyes. The next moment Clarence had made his spring; the
  • gilded youths had shredded away like a mist, and he was leaning towards
  • her, opening negotiations for the purchase of a yellow Teddy-bear at
  • sixteen times its face value.
  • He returned at intervals during the afternoon. Over the second Teddy-bear
  • they became friendly, over the third intimate. He proposed as she was
  • wrapping up the fourth golliwog, and she gave him her heart and the
  • parcel simultaneously. At six o'clock, carrying four Teddy-bears, seven
  • photograph frames, five golliwogs, and a billiken, Clarence went home
  • to tell the news to his parents.
  • Clarence, when not at the University, lived with his father and mother
  • in Belgrave Square. His mother had been a Miss Trotter, of Chicago, and
  • it was on her dowry that the Runnymedes contrived to make both ends
  • meet. For a noble family they were in somewhat straitened circumstances
  • financially. They lived, simply and without envy of their rich
  • fellow-citizens, on their hundred thousand pounds a year. They asked no
  • more. It enabled them to entertain on a modest scale. Clarence had been
  • able to go to Oxford; his elder brother, Lord Staines, into the Guards.
  • The girls could buy an occasional new frock. On the whole, they were a
  • thoroughly happy, contented English family of the best sort. Mr Trotter,
  • it is true, was something of a drawback. He was a rugged old tainted
  • millionaire of the old school, with a fondness for shirt-sleeves and a
  • tendency to give undue publicity to toothpicks. But he had been made to
  • understand at an early date that the dead-line for him was the farther
  • shore of the Atlantic Ocean, and he now gave little trouble.
  • Having dressed for dinner, Clarence proceeded to the library, where he
  • found his mother in hysterics and his father in a state of collapse on
  • the sofa. Clarence was too well-bred to make any comment. A true
  • Runnymede, he affected to notice nothing, and, picking up the evening
  • paper, began to read. The announcement of his engagement could be
  • postponed to a more suitable time.
  • 'Clarence!' whispered a voice from the sofa.
  • 'Yes, father?'
  • The silver-haired old man gasped for utterance.
  • 'I've lost my little veto,' he said, brokenly, at length.
  • 'Where did you see it last?' asked Clarence, ever practical.
  • 'It's that fellow Rackstraw!' cried the old man, in feeble rage. 'That
  • bounder Rackstraw! He's the man behind it all. The robber!'
  • 'Clarence!'
  • It was his mother who spoke. Her voice seemed to rip the air into a
  • million shreds and stamp on them. There are few things more terrible
  • than a Chicago voice raised in excitement or anguish.
  • 'Mother?'
  • 'Never mind your pop and his old veto. He didn't know he had one till
  • the paper said he'd lost it. You listen to me. Clarence, we are
  • ruined.'
  • Clarence looked at her inquiringly.
  • 'Ruined much?' he asked.
  • 'Bed-rock,' said his mother. 'If we have sixty thousand dollars a year
  • after this, it's all we shall have.'
  • A low howl escaped from the stricken old man on the sofa.
  • Clarence betrayed no emotion.
  • 'Ah,' he said, calmly. 'How did it happen?'
  • 'I've just had a cable from Chicago, from your grand-pop. He's been
  • trying to corner wheat. He always was an impulsive old gazook.'
  • 'But surely,' said Clarence, a dim recollection of something he had
  • heard or read somewhere coming to him, 'isn't cornering wheat a rather
  • profitable process?'
  • 'Sure,' said his mother. 'Sure it is. I guess dad's try at cornering
  • wheat was about the most profitable thing that ever happened--to the
  • other fellows. It seems like they got busy and clubbed fifty-seven
  • varieties of Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got to give up a lot
  • of his expensive habits, and one of them is sending money to us. That's
  • how it is.'
  • 'And on top of that, mind you,' moaned Lord Runnymede, 'I lose my
  • little veto. It's bitter--bitter.'
  • Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. 'I don't see how
  • we're going to manage on twelve thousand quid a year,' he said.
  • His mother crisply revised his pronouns.
  • 'We aren't,' she said. 'You've got to get out and hustle.'
  • Clarence looked at her blankly.
  • 'Me?'
  • 'You.'
  • 'Work?'
  • 'Work.'
  • Clarence drew a deep breath.
  • 'Work? Well, of course, mind you, fellows _do_ work,' he went on,
  • thoughtfully. 'I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's only
  • yesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousin
  • worked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know.'
  • His father raised himself on the sofa.
  • 'Haven't I given you the education of an English gentleman?'
  • 'That's the difficulty,' said Clarence.
  • 'Can't you do _anything_?' asked his mother.
  • 'Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll sign on as a pro. I'll take a
  • new name. I'll call myself Jones. I can get signed on in a minute. Any
  • club will jump at me.'
  • This was no idle boast. Since early childhood Clarence had concentrated
  • his energies on becoming a footballer, and was now an exceedingly fine
  • goal-keeper. It was a pleasing sight to see him, poised on one foot in
  • the attitude of a Salome dancer, with one eye on the man with the ball,
  • the other gazing coldly on the rest of the opposition forward line,
  • uncurl abruptly like the main-spring of a watch and stop a hot one.
  • Clarence in goal was the nearest approach to an india-rubber acrobat
  • and society contortionist to be seen off the music-hall stage. He was,
  • in brief, hot stuff. He had the goods.
  • Scarcely had he uttered these momentous words when the butler entered
  • with the announcement that he was wanted by a lady on the telephone.
  • It was Isabel, disturbed and fearful.
  • 'Oh, Clarence,' she cried, 'my precious angel wonder-child, I don't
  • know how to begin.'
  • 'Begin just like that,' said Clarence, approvingly. 'It's topping. You
  • can't beat it.'
  • 'Clarence, a terrible thing has happened. I told papa of our
  • engagement, and he wouldn't hear of it. He c-called you a a p-p-p--'
  • 'A what?'
  • 'A pr-pr-pr--'
  • 'He's wrong. I'm nothing of the sort. He must be thinking of someone
  • else.'
  • 'A preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos. He doesn't like your
  • father being an earl.'
  • 'A man may be an earl and still a gentleman,' said Clarence, not
  • without a touch of coldness in his voice.
  • 'I forgot to tell him that. But I don't think it would make any
  • difference. He says I shall only marry a man who works.'
  • 'I am going to work, dearest,' said Clarence. 'I am going to work like a
  • horse. Something--I know not what--tells me I shall be rather good at
  • work. And one day when I--'
  • 'Good-bye,' said Isabel, hastily. 'I hear papa coming.'
  • * * * * *
  • Clarence, as he had predicted, found no difficulty in obtaining
  • employment. He was signed on at once, under the name of Jones, by
  • Houndsditch Wednesday, the premier metropolitan club, and embarked at
  • once on his new career.
  • The season during which Clarence Tresillian kept goal for Houndsditch
  • Wednesday is destined to live long in the memory of followers of
  • professional football. Probably never in the history of the game has
  • there been such persistent and widespread mortality among the more
  • distant relatives of office-boys and junior clerks. Statisticians have
  • estimated that if all the grandmothers alone who perished between the
  • months of September and April that season could have been placed end to
  • end, they would have reached from Hyde Park Corner to the outskirts of
  • Manchester. And it was Clarence who was responsible for this
  • holocaust. Previous to the opening of the season sceptics had shaken
  • their heads over the Wednesday's chances in the First League. Other
  • clubs had bought up the best men in the market, leaving only a mixed
  • assortment of inferior Scotsmen, Irishmen, and Northcountrymen to
  • uphold the honour of the London club.
  • And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresillian had flashed upon the world
  • of football. In the opening game he had behaved in the goal-mouth like
  • a Chinese cracker, and exhibited an absolutely impassable defence; and
  • from then onward, except for an occasional check, Houndsditch Wednesday
  • had never looked back.
  • Among the spectators who flocked to the Houndsditch ground to watch
  • Clarence perform there appeared week after week a little, grey, dried-up
  • man, insignificant except for a certain happy choice of language in
  • moments of emotion and an enthusiasm far surpassing that of the
  • ordinary spectator. To the trained eye there are subtle distinctions
  • between football enthusiasts. This man belonged to the comparatively
  • small class of those who have football on the cerebrum.
  • Fate had made Daniel Rackstraw a millionaire and a Radical, but at
  • heart he was a spectator of football. He never missed a match. His
  • library of football literature was the finest in the country. His
  • football museum had but one equal, that of Mr Jacob Dodson, of
  • Manchester. Between them the two had cornered, at enormous expense, the
  • curio market of the game. It was Rackstraw who had secured the
  • authentic pair of boots in which Bloomer had first played for England;
  • but it was Dodson who possessed the painted india-rubber ball used by
  • Meredith when a boy--probably the first thing except a nurse ever
  • kicked by that talented foot. The two men were friends, as far as rival
  • connoisseurs can be friends; and Mr Dodson, when at leisure, would
  • frequently pay a visit to Mr Rackstraw's country house, where he would
  • spend hours gazing wistfully at the Bloomer boots, buoyed up only by
  • the thoughts of the Meredith ball at home.
  • Isabel saw little of Clarence during the winter months, except from a
  • distance. She contented herself with clipping photographs of him from
  • the sporting papers. Each was a little more unlike him than the last,
  • and this lent variety to the collection. Her father marked her new-born
  • enthusiasm for the game with approval. It had been secretly a great
  • grief to the old gentleman that his only child did not know the
  • difference between a linesman and an inside right, and, more, did not
  • seem to care to know. He felt himself drawn closer to her. An
  • understanding, as pleasant as it was new and strange, began to spring
  • up between parent and child.
  • As for Clarence, how easy it would be to haul up one's slacks to
  • practically an unlimited extent on the subject of his emotions at this
  • time. One can figure him, after the game is over and the gay throng has
  • dispersed, creeping moodily--but what's the use? Brevity--that is the
  • cry. Brevity. Let us on.
  • The months sped by; the Cup-ties began, and soon it was evident that
  • the Final must be fought out between Houndsditch Wednesday and Mr Jacob
  • Dodson's pet team, Manchester United. With each match the Wednesday
  • seemed to improve. Clarence was a Gibraltar among goal-keepers.
  • Those were delirious days for Daniel Rackstraw. Long before the fourth
  • round his voice had dwindled to a husky whisper. Deep lines appeared on
  • his forehead; for it is an awful thing for a football enthusiast to be
  • compelled to applaud, in the very middle of the Cup-ties, purely by
  • means of facial expression. In this time of affliction he found Isabel
  • an ever-increasing comfort to him. Side by side they would sit, and the
  • old man's face would lose its drawn look, and light up, as her clear
  • young soprano pealed out over the din, urging this player to shoot,
  • that to kick some opponent in the face; or describing the referee in no
  • uncertain terms as a reincarnation of the late Mr Dick Turpin.
  • And now the day of the Final at the Crystal Palace approached, and all
  • England was alert, confident of a record-breaking contest. But alas!
  • How truly does Epictetus observe: 'We know not what awaiteth us round
  • the corner, and the hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatched
  • oft-times doth but step on the banana-skin.' The prophets who
  • anticipated a struggle keener than any in football history were
  • destined to be proved false.
  • It was not that their judgement of form was at fault. On the run of the
  • season's play Houndsditch Wednesday _v_. Manchester United should
  • have been the two most evenly-matched teams in the history of the game.
  • Forward, the latter held a slight superiority; but this was balanced by
  • the inspired goal-keeping of Clarence Tresillian. Even the keenest
  • supporters of either side were not confident. They argued at length,
  • figuring out the odds with the aid of stubs of pencils and the backs of
  • envelopes, but they were not confident. Out of all those frenzied
  • millions two men alone had no doubts. Mr Daniel Rackstraw said that he
  • did not desire to be unfair to Manchester United. He wished it to be
  • clearly understood that in their own class Manchester United might
  • quite possibly show to considerable advantage. In some rural league,
  • for instance, he did not deny that they might sweep all before them.
  • But when it came to competing with Houndsditch Wednesday--here words
  • failed Mr Rackstraw.
  • Mr Jacob Dodson, interviewed by the _Manchester Weekly Football
  • Boot_, stated that his decision, arrived at after a close and
  • careful study of the work of both teams, was that Houndsditch Wednesday
  • had rather less chance in the forthcoming tourney than a stuffed rat in
  • the Battersea Dogs' Home. It was his carefully-considered opinion that
  • in a contest with the second eleven of a village Church Lads' Brigade,
  • Houndsditch Wednesday might, with an effort (conceding them that slice
  • of luck which so often turns the tide of a game), scrape home. But when
  • it was a question of meeting a team like Manchester United--here Mr
  • Dodson, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair,
  • and watchful secretaries brought him round with oxygen.
  • Throughout the whole country nothing but the approaching match was
  • discussed. Wherever civilization reigned, and in portions of Liverpool,
  • one question alone was on every lip: Who would win? Octogenarians
  • mumbled it. Infants lisped it. Tired City men, trampled under foot in
  • the rush for their tram, asked it of the ambulance attendants who
  • carried them to the hospital.
  • And then, one bright, clear morning, when the birds sang and all Nature
  • seemed fair and gay, Clarence Tresillian developed mumps.
  • London was in a ferment. I could have wished to go into details, to
  • describe in crisp, burning sentences the panic that swept like a
  • tornado through a million homes. A little encouragement, the slightest
  • softening of the editorial austerity and the thing would have been
  • done. But no. Brevity. That was the cry. Brevity. Let us on.
  • Houndsditch Wednesday met Manchester United at the Crystal Palace, and
  • for nearly two hours the sweat of agony trickled unceasingly down the
  • corrugated foreheads of the patriots in the stands. The men from
  • Manchester, freed from the fear of Clarence, smiled grim smiles and
  • proceeded to pile up points. It was in vain that the Houndsditch backs
  • and halfbacks skimmed like swallows about the field. They could not
  • keep the score down. From start to finish Houndsditch were a beaten
  • side.
  • London during that black period was a desert. Gloom gripped the City.
  • In distant Brixton red-eyed wives faced silently-scowling husbands at
  • the evening meal, and the children were sent early to bed. Newsboys
  • called the extras in a whisper.
  • Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart than Daniel Rackstraw.
  • Leaving the ground with the air of a father mourning over some prodigal
  • son, he encountered Mr Jacob Dodson, of Manchester.
  • Now, Mr Dodson was perhaps the slightest bit shy on the finer feelings.
  • He should have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He should have
  • abstained from exulting. But he was in too exhilarated a condition to
  • be magnanimous. Sighting Mr Rackstraw, he addressed himself joyously to
  • the task of rubbing the thing in. Mr Rackstraw listened in silent
  • anguish.
  • 'If we had had Jones--' he said at length.
  • 'That's what they all say,' whooped Mr Dodson, 'Jones! Who's Jones?'
  • 'If we had had Jones, we should have--' He paused. An idea had flashed
  • upon his overwrought mind. 'Dodson,' he said, 'look here. Wait till
  • Jones is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anything
  • you like a side in my private park.'
  • Mr Dodson reflected.
  • 'You're on,' he said. 'What side bet? A million? Two million? Three?'
  • Mr Rackstraw shook his head scornfully.
  • 'A million? Who wants a million? I'll put up my Bloomer boot against
  • your Meredith ball. Does that go?'
  • 'I should say it did,' said Mr Dodson, joyfully. 'I've been wanting
  • that boot for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking.'
  • 'Very well,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'Then let's get it fixed up.'
  • Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. I
  • particularly wished at this point to introduce a description of Mr
  • Rackstraw's country house and estate, featuring the private football
  • ground with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a double
  • purpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a fine
  • stimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of home
  • they would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved their
  • money. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. You
  • give it up? It was Brevity--brevity! Let us on.
  • The two teams arrived at Mr Rackstraw's house in time for lunch.
  • Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customary
  • finely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the automobile with a
  • swelling heart. Presently he found an opportunity to slip away and
  • meet Isabel. I will pass lightly over the meeting of the two lovers.
  • I will not describe the dewy softness of their eyes, the catching of
  • their breath, their murmured endearments. I could, mind you. It is at
  • just such descriptions that I am particularly happy. But I have grown
  • discouraged. My spirit is broken. It is enough to say that Clarence had
  • reached a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with among goal-keepers
  • of the First League, when Isabel broke from him with a startled
  • exclamation, and vanished; and, looking over his shoulder, Clarence
  • observed Mr Daniel Rackstraw moving towards him.
  • It was evident from the millionaire's demeanour that he had seen
  • nothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. He
  • sighted Clarence, and hurried up to him.
  • 'Jones,' he said, 'I've been looking for you. I want a word with you.'
  • 'A thousand, if you wish it,' said Clarence, courteously.
  • 'Now, look here,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'I want to explain to you just
  • what this game means to me. Don't run away with the idea I've had you
  • fellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry and
  • bright. If Houndsditch wins today, it means that I shall be able to hold
  • up my head again and look my fellow-man in the face, instead of
  • crawling round on my stomach and feeling like a black-beetle under a
  • steam-roller. Do you get that?'
  • 'I do,' replied Clarence.
  • 'And not only that,' went on the millionaire. 'There's more. I have put
  • up my Bloomer boot against Mr Dodson's Meredith ball as a side bet. You
  • understand what that means? It means that either you win or my life is
  • soured for ever. See?'
  • 'I have got you,' said Clarence.
  • 'Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day for
  • keeping goal as you've never kept goal before. Everything depends on
  • you. With you keeping goal like mother used to make it, Houndsditch are
  • safe. Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. It's one thing or
  • the other. It's all up to you. Win, and there's four thousand pounds
  • waiting for you above what you share with the others.'
  • Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly.
  • 'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'keep your dross. I care nothing for money.
  • All I ask of you,' proceeded Clarence, 'is your consent to my
  • engagement to your daughter.'
  • Mr Rackstraw looked sharply at him.
  • 'Repeat that,' he said. 'I don't think I quite got it.'
  • 'All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.'
  • 'Young man,' said Mr Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, 'I
  • admire cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so far
  • that you'd need to look for it with a telescope.'
  • 'You refuse your consent?'
  • 'I never said you weren't a clever guesser.'
  • 'Why?'
  • Mr Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs that
  • hit you like a bullet.
  • 'How would you support my daughter?'
  • 'I was thinking that you would help to some extent.'
  • 'You were, were you?'
  • 'I was.'
  • 'Oh?'
  • Mr Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.
  • 'Well,' he said, 'it's off. You can take that as coming from an
  • authoritative source. No wedding-bells for you.'
  • Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bitter
  • smile curving his expressive lips.
  • 'And no Meredith ball for you!' he cried.
  • Mr Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger into
  • him.
  • 'What?' he shouted.
  • Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.
  • 'Come, come,' said Mr Rackstraw, 'you wouldn't let a little private
  • difference like that influence you in a really important thing like
  • this football match, would you?'
  • 'I would.'
  • 'You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?'
  • 'Every time.'
  • 'Her white-haired old father?'
  • 'The colour of his hair would not affect me.'
  • 'Nothing would move you?'
  • 'Nothing.'
  • 'Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry
  • Isabel; and I'll take you into partnership in my business this very
  • day. I've been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you for
  • years. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout.
  • My boy, we'll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City has
  • ever seen. Shake hands.'
  • For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, and
  • he spoke.
  • 'Mr Rackstraw,' he said, 'I cannot deceive you.'
  • 'That won't matter,' said the enthusiastic old man. 'I bet you'll be
  • able to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we'll be
  • the greatest--'
  • 'My name is not Jones.'
  • 'Nor is mine. What does that matter?'
  • 'My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son of
  • the Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views--'
  • 'Nonsense, nonsense,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'What are political views
  • compared with the chance of getting a goal-keeper like you into the
  • family? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but I
  • didn't know who you were then.'
  • 'I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos,' said Clarence,
  • eyeing him doubtfully.
  • 'Then I'll be one too,' cried Mr Rackstraw. 'I own I've set my face
  • against it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I'll ring up the
  • Prime Minister on the phone tomorrow, and buy a title myself.'
  • Clarence's last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man's
  • hand, outstretched to meet his.
  • Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am
  • at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.
  • Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady
  • is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is
  • Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same
  • stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long
  • ago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs the
  • child stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.
  • 'Wah?' he says.
  • 'That?' said Isabel. 'That is the ball Mr Meredith used to play with
  • when he was a little boy.'
  • She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to her
  • lip.
  • 'Hush!' she says. 'We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy in
  • there cornering wheat.'
  • And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.
  • IN ALCALA
  • In Alcala, as in most of New York's apartment houses, the schedule of
  • prices is like a badly rolled cigarette--thick in the middle and thin
  • at both ends. The rooms half-way up are expensive; some of them almost
  • as expensive as if Fashion, instead of being gone for ever, were still
  • lingering. The top rooms are cheap, the ground-floor rooms cheaper
  • still.
  • Cheapest of all was the hall-bedroom. Its furniture was of the
  • simplest. It consisted of a chair, another chair, a worn carpet, and a
  • folding-bed. The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffled
  • hopes. For years it had been trying to look like a bookcase in the
  • daytime, and now it looked more like a folding-bed than ever. There
  • was also a plain deal table, much stained with ink. At this, night
  • after night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell would
  • sit and write stories. Now and then it happened that one would be a
  • good story, and find a market.
  • Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of an
  • Englishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the world
  • over. He was by profession one of the numerous employees of the New
  • Asiatic Bank, which has its branches all over the world. It is a sound,
  • trustworthy institution, and steady-going relatives would assure
  • Rutherford that he was lucky to have got a berth in it. Rutherford did
  • not agree with them. However sound and trustworthy, it was not exactly
  • romantic. Nor did it err on the side of over-lavishness to those who
  • served it. Rutherford's salary was small. So were his prospects--if he
  • remained in the bank. At a very early date he had registered a vow that
  • he would not. And the road that led out of it for him was the uphill
  • road of literature.
  • He was thankful for small mercies. Fate had not been over-kind up to
  • the present, but at least she had dispatched him to New York, the
  • centre of things, where he would have the chance to try, instead of to
  • some spot off the map. Whether he won or lost, at any rate he was in
  • the ring, and could fight. So every night he sat in Alcala, and wrote.
  • Sometimes he would only try to write, and that was torture.
  • There is never an hour of the day or night when Alcala is wholly
  • asleep. The middle of the house is a sort of chorus-girl belt, while in
  • the upper rooms there are reporters and other nightbirds. Long after he
  • had gone to bed, Rutherford would hear footsteps passing his door and
  • the sound of voices in the passage. He grew to welcome them. They
  • seemed to connect him with the outer world. But for them he was alone
  • after he had left the office, utterly alone, as it is possible to be
  • only in the heart of a great city. Some nights he would hear scraps of
  • conversations, at rare intervals a name. He used to build up in his
  • mind identities for the owners of the names. One in particular, Peggy,
  • gave him much food for thought. He pictured her as bright and
  • vivacious. This was because she sang sometimes as she passed his door.
  • She had been singing when he first heard her name. 'Oh, cut it out,
  • Peggy,' a girl's voice had said. 'Don't you get enough of that tune at
  • the theatre?' He felt that he would like to meet Peggy.
  • June came, and July, making an oven of New York, bringing close,
  • scorching days and nights when the pen seemed made of lead; and still
  • Rutherford worked on, sipping ice-water, in his shirt-sleeves, and
  • filling the sheets of paper slowly, but with a dogged persistence which
  • the weather could not kill. Despite the heat, he was cheerful. Things
  • were beginning to run his way a little now. A novelette, an airy
  • trifle, conceived in days when the thermometer was lower and it was
  • possible to think, and worked out almost mechanically, had been
  • accepted by a magazine of a higher standing than those which hitherto
  • had shown him hospitality. He began to dream of a holiday in the woods.
  • The holiday spirit was abroad. Alcala was emptying itself. It would not
  • be long before he too would be able to get away.
  • He was so deep in his thoughts that at first he did not hear the
  • knocking at the door. But it was a sharp, insistent knocking, and
  • forced itself upon his attention. He got up and turned the handle.
  • Outside in the passage was standing a girl, tall and sleepy-eyed. She
  • wore a picture-hat and a costume the keynote of which was a certain
  • aggressive attractiveness. There was no room for doubt as to which
  • particular brand of scent was her favourite at the moment.
  • She gazed at Rutherford dully. Like Banquo's ghost, she had no
  • speculation in her eyes. Rutherford looked at her inquiringly, somewhat
  • conscious of his shirt-sleeves.
  • 'Did you knock?' he said, opening, as a man must do, with the
  • inevitable foolish question.
  • The apparition spoke.
  • 'Say,' she said, 'got a cigarette?'
  • 'I'm afraid I haven't,' said Rutherford, apologetically. 'I've been
  • smoking a pipe. I'm very sorry.'
  • 'What?' said the apparition.
  • 'I'm afraid I haven't.'
  • 'Oh!' A pause. 'Say, got a cigarette?'
  • The intellectual pressure of the conversation was beginning to be a
  • little too much for Rutherford. Combined with the heat of the night it
  • made his head swim.
  • His visitor advanced into the room. Arriving at the table, she began
  • fiddling with its contents. The pen seemed to fascinate her. She picked
  • it up and inspected it closely.
  • 'Say, what d'you call this?' she said.
  • 'That's a pen,' said Rutherford, soothingly. 'A fountain-pen.'
  • 'Oh!' A pause. 'Say, got a cigarette?'
  • Rutherford clutched a chair with one hand, and his forehead with the
  • other. He was in sore straits.
  • At this moment Rescue arrived, not before it was needed. A brisk sound
  • of footsteps in the passage, and there appeared in the doorway a second
  • girl.
  • 'What do you think you're doing, Gladys?' demanded the new-comer. 'You
  • mustn't come butting into folks' rooms this way. Who's your friend?'
  • 'My name is Maxwell,' began Rutherford eagerly.
  • 'What say, Peggy?' said the seeker after cigarettes, dropping a sheet
  • of manuscript to the floor.
  • Rutherford looked at the girl in the doorway with interest. So this was
  • Peggy. She was little, and trim of figure. That was how he had always
  • imagined her. Her dress was simpler than the other's. The face beneath
  • the picture-hat was small and well-shaped, the nose delicately
  • tip-tilted, the chin determined, the mouth a little wide and suggesting
  • good-humour. A pair of grey eyes looked steadily into his before
  • transferring themselves to the statuesque being at the table.
  • 'Don't monkey with the man's inkwell, Gladys. Come along up to bed.'
  • 'What? Say, got a cigarette?'
  • 'There's plenty upstairs. Come along.'
  • The other went with perfect docility. At the door she paused, and
  • inspected Rutherford with a grave stare.
  • 'Good night, boy!' she said, with haughty condescension.
  • 'Good night!' said Rutherford.
  • 'Pleased to have met you. Good night.'
  • 'Good night!' said Rutherford.
  • 'Good night!'
  • 'Come along, Gladys,' said Peggy, firmly.
  • Gladys went.
  • Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief,
  • feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors.
  • 2
  • He had lit his pipe, and was re-reading his night's work preparatory to
  • turning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time there
  • was no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallest
  • noise.
  • 'Come in!' he cried.
  • It was Peggy.
  • Rutherford jumped to his feet.
  • 'Won't you--' he began, pushing the chair forward.
  • She seated herself with composure on the table. She no longer wore the
  • picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion
  • that the change was an improvement.
  • 'This'll do for me,' she said. 'Thought I'd just look in. I'm sorry
  • about Gladys. She isn't often like that. It's the hot weather.'
  • 'It is hot,' said Rutherford.
  • 'You've noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock
  • Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?'
  • 'Good heavens, no! Why?'
  • 'She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn't thought to
  • get another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like that
  • sometimes in the hot weather.' She looked round the room for a moment,
  • then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. 'What did you say your name was?'
  • she asked.
  • 'Rutherford Maxwell.'
  • 'Gee! That's going some, isn't it? Wants amputation, a name like that.
  • I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like--what's
  • it? Rutherford? I got it--to go through the world with. Haven't you got
  • something shorter--Tom, or Charles or something?'
  • 'I'm afraid not.'
  • The round, grey eyes fixed him again.
  • 'I shall call you George,' she decided at last.
  • 'Thanks, I wish you would,' said Rutherford.
  • 'George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton's my name.'
  • 'Thanks, I will.'
  • 'Say, you're English, aren't you?' she said.
  • 'Yes. How did you know?'
  • 'You're so strong on the gratitude thing. It's "Thanks, thanks," all
  • the time. Not that I mind it, George.'
  • 'Thanks. Sorry. I should say, "Oh, you Peggy!"'
  • She looked at him curiously.
  • 'How d'you like New York, George?'
  • 'Fine--tonight.'
  • 'Been to Coney?'
  • 'Not yet.'
  • 'You should. Say, what do you do, George?'
  • 'What do I do?'
  • 'Cut it out, George! Don't answer back as though we were a vaudeville
  • team doing a cross-talk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds your
  • envelope on to you Saturdays, what's it for?'
  • 'I'm in a bank.'
  • 'Like it?'
  • 'Hate it!'
  • 'Why don't you quit, then?'
  • 'Can't afford to. There's money in being in a bank. Not much, it's
  • true, but what there is of it is good.'
  • 'What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don't work
  • you all day, do they?'
  • 'No; they'd like to, but they don't. I have been writing.'
  • 'Writing what? Say, you don't mind my putting you on the witness-stand,
  • do you? If you do, say so, and I'll cut out the District Attorney act
  • and talk about the weather.'
  • 'Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as you
  • like.'
  • 'Guess there's no doubt about your being English, George. We don't have
  • time over here to shoot it off like that. If you'd have just said
  • "Sure!" I'd have got a line on your meaning. You don't mind me doing
  • school-marm, George, do you? It's all for your good.'
  • 'Sure,' said Rutherford, with a grin.
  • She smiled approvingly.
  • 'That's better! You're Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What
  • were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational
  • rail? I know--about your writing. What were you writing?'
  • 'A story.'
  • 'For a paper?'
  • 'For a magazine.'
  • 'What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl
  • whose life he saved, like you read?'
  • 'That's the idea.'
  • She looked at him with a new interest.
  • 'Gee, George, who'd have thought it! Fancy you being one of the
  • high-brows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary.'
  • 'Thanks!'
  • 'I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn't mean you were a bad
  • looker. You're not. You've got nice eyes, George.'
  • 'Thanks.'
  • 'I like the shape of your nose, too.'
  • 'I say, thanks!'
  • 'And your hair's just lovely!'
  • 'I say, really. Thanks awfully!'
  • She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:
  • 'You say you don't like the bank?'
  • 'I certainly don't.'
  • 'And you'd like to strike some paying line of business?'
  • 'Sure.'
  • 'Then why don't you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a
  • museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. You
  • sit there just saying "Thanks," and "Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly," while
  • a girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you
  • don't do a thing!'
  • Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.
  • 'I'm sorry!' he said. 'Slowness is our national failing, you know.'
  • 'I believe you.'
  • 'Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you do
  • besides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?'
  • 'Give you three guesses.'
  • 'Stage?'
  • 'Gee! You're the human sleuth all right, all right! It's a home-run
  • every time when you get your deductive theories unlimbered. Yes,
  • George; the stage it is. I'm an actorine--one of the pony ballet in
  • _The Island of Girls_ at the Melody. Seen our show?'
  • 'Not yet. I'll go tomorrow.'
  • 'Great! I'll let them know, so that they can have the awning out and
  • the red carpet down. It's a cute little piece.'
  • 'So I've heard.'
  • 'Well, if I see you in front tomorrow, I'll give you half a smile, so
  • that you shan't feel you haven't got your money's worth. Good night,
  • George!'
  • 'Good night, Peggy!'
  • She jumped down from the table. Her eye was caught by the photographs
  • on the mantelpiece. She began to examine them.
  • 'Who are these Willies?' she said, picking up a group.
  • 'That is the football team of my old school. The lout with the sheepish
  • smirk, holding the ball, is myself as I was before the cares of the
  • world soured me.'
  • Her eye wandered along the mantelpiece, and she swooped down on a
  • cabinet photograph of a girl.
  • 'And who's _this_, George?' she cried.
  • He took the photograph from her, and replaced it, with a curious blend
  • of shyness and defiance, in the very centre of the mantelpiece. For a
  • moment he stood looking intently at it, his elbows resting on the
  • imitation marble.
  • 'Who is it?' asked Peggy. 'Wake up, George. Who's this?'
  • Rutherford started.
  • 'Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking about something.'
  • 'I bet you were. You looked like it. Well, who is she?'
  • 'Eh! Oh, that's a girl.'
  • Peggy laughed satirically.
  • 'Thanks awf'lly, as you would say. I've got eyes, George.'
  • 'I noticed that,' said Rutherford, smiling. 'Charming ones, too.'
  • 'Gee! What would she say if she heard you talking like that!'
  • She came a step nearer, looking up at him. Their eyes met.
  • 'She would say,' said Rutherford, slowly: '"I know you love me, and I
  • know I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to your
  • telling Miss Norton the truth about her eyes. Miss Norton is a dear,
  • good little sort, one of the best, in fact, and I hope you'll be great
  • pals!"'
  • There was a silence.
  • 'She'd say that, would she?' said Peggy, at last.
  • 'She would.'
  • Peggy looked at the photograph, and back again at Rutherford.
  • 'You're pretty fond of her, George, I guess, aren't you?'
  • 'I am,' said Rutherford, quietly.
  • 'George.'
  • 'Yes?'
  • 'George, she's a pretty good long way away, isn't she?'
  • She looked up at him with a curious light in her grey eyes. Rutherford
  • met her glance steadily.
  • 'Not to me,' he said. 'She's here now, and all the time.'
  • He stepped away and picked up the sheaf of papers which he had dropped
  • at Peggy's entrance. Peggy laughed.
  • 'Good night, Georgie boy,' she said. 'I mustn't keep you up any more,
  • or you'll be late in the morning. And what would the bank do then?
  • Smash or something, I guess. Good night, Georgie! See you again one of
  • these old evenings.'
  • 'Good night, Peggy!'
  • The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps hesitate, stop, and
  • then move quickly on once more.
  • 3
  • He saw much of her after this first visit. Gradually it became an
  • understood thing between them that she should look in on her return
  • from the theatre. He grew to expect her, and to feel restless when she
  • was late. Once she brought the cigarette-loving Gladys with her, but
  • the experiment was not a success. Gladys was languid and rather
  • overpoweringly refined, and conversation became forced. After that,
  • Peggy came alone.
  • Generally she found him working. His industry amazed her.
  • 'Gee, George,' she said one night, sitting in her favourite place on
  • the table, from which he had moved a little pile of manuscript to make
  • room for her. 'Don't you ever let up for a second? Seems to me you
  • write all the time.'
  • Rutherford laughed.
  • 'I'll take a rest,' he said, 'when there's a bit more demand for my
  • stuff than there is at present. When I'm in the twenty-cents-a-word
  • class I'll write once a month, and spend the rest of my time
  • travelling.'
  • Peggy shook her head.
  • 'No travelling for mine,' she said. 'Seems to me it's just cussedness
  • that makes people go away from Broadway when they've got plunks enough
  • to stay there and enjoy themselves.'
  • 'Do you like Broadway, Peggy?'
  • 'Do I like Broadway? Does a kid like candy? Why, don't you?'
  • 'It's all right for the time. It's not my ideal.'
  • 'Oh, and what particular sort of little old Paradise do _you_
  • hanker after?'
  • He puffed at his pipe, and looked dreamily at her through the smoke.
  • 'Way over in England, Peggy, there's a county called Worcestershire.
  • And somewhere near the edge of that there's a grey house with gables,
  • and there's a lawn and a meadow and a shrubbery, and an orchard and a
  • rose-garden, and a big cedar on the terrace before you get to the
  • rose-garden. And if you climb to the top of that cedar, you can see the
  • river through the apple trees in the orchard. And in the distance there
  • are hills. And--'
  • 'Of all the rube joints!' exclaimed Peggy, in deep disgust. 'Why, a day
  • of that would be about twenty-three hours and a bit too long for me.
  • Broadway for mine! Put me where I can touch Forty-Second Street without
  • over-balancing, and then you can leave me. I never thought you were
  • such a hayseed, George.'
  • 'Don't worry, Peggy. It'll be a long time, I expect, before I go there.
  • I've got to make my fortune first.'
  • 'Getting anywhere near the John D. class yet?'
  • 'I've still some way to go. But things are moving, I think. Do you
  • know, Peggy, you remind me of a little Billiken, sitting on that
  • table?'
  • 'Thank _you_, George. I always knew my mouth was rather wide, but
  • I did think I had Billiken to the bad. Do you do that sort of Candid
  • Friend stunt with _her_?' She pointed to the photograph on the
  • mantelpiece. It was the first time since the night when they had met
  • that she had made any allusion to it. By silent agreement the subject
  • had been ruled out between them. 'By the way, you never told me her
  • name.'
  • 'Halliday,' said Rutherford, shortly.
  • 'What else?'
  • 'Alice.'
  • 'Don't bite at me, George! I'm not hurting you. Tell me about her. I'm
  • interested. Does she live in the grey house with the pigs and chickens
  • and all them roses, and the rest of the rube outfit?'
  • 'No.'
  • 'Be chummy, George. What's the matter with you?'
  • 'I'm sorry, Peggy,' he said. 'I'm a fool. It's only that it all seems
  • so damned hopeless! Here am I, earning about half a dollar a year,
  • and--Still, it's no use kicking, is it? Besides, I may make a home-run
  • with my writing one of these days. That's what I meant when I said you
  • were a Billiken, Peggy. Do you know, you've brought me luck. Ever since
  • I met you, I've been doing twice as well. You're my mascot.'
  • 'Bully for me! We've all got our uses in the world, haven't we? I
  • wonder if it would help any if I was to kiss you, George?'
  • 'Don't you do it. One mustn't work a mascot too hard.'
  • She jumped down, and came across the room to where he sat, looking down
  • at him with the round, grey eyes that always reminded him of a
  • kitten's.
  • 'George!'
  • 'Yes?'
  • 'Oh, nothing!'
  • She turned away to the mantelpiece, and stood gazing at the photograph,
  • her back towards him.
  • 'George!'
  • 'Hullo?'
  • 'Say, what colour eyes has she got?'
  • 'Grey.'
  • 'Like mine?'
  • 'Darker than yours.'
  • 'Nicer than mine?'
  • 'Don't you think we might talk about something else?'
  • She swung round, her fists clenched, her face blazing.
  • 'I hate you!' she cried. 'I do! I wish I'd never seen you! I wish--'
  • She leaned on the mantelpiece, burying her face in her arms, and burst
  • into a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. He
  • sprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
  • 'Peggy, old girl--'
  • She broke from him.
  • 'Don't you touch me! Don't you do it! Gee, I wish I'd never seen you!'
  • She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her.
  • Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almost
  • mechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe.
  • Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. She
  • was pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled--a pathetic little smile.
  • 'Peggy!'
  • He took a step towards her.
  • She held out her hand.
  • 'I'm sorry, George. I feel mean.'
  • 'Dear old girl, what rot!'
  • 'I do. You don't know how mean I feel. You've been real nice to me,
  • George. Thought I'd look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!'
  • On the following night he waited, but she did not come. The nights went
  • by, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, he
  • saw that _The Island of Girls_ had gone west to Chicago.
  • 4
  • Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, a
  • golden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and was
  • back in Alcala, trying with poor success, to pick up the threads of his
  • work. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy in
  • the air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after night
  • went wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure. He could
  • not work. He was restless. His thoughts would not concentrate
  • themselves. Something was wrong; and he knew what it was, though he
  • fought against admitting it to himself. It was the absence of Peggy
  • that had brought about the change. Not till now had he realized to the
  • full how greatly her visits had stimulated him. He had called her
  • laughingly his mascot; but the thing was no joke. It was true. Her
  • absence was robbing him of the power to write.
  • He was lonely. For the first time since he had come to New York he was
  • really lonely. Solitude had not hurt him till now. In his black moments
  • it had been enough for him to look up at the photograph on the
  • mantelpiece, and instantly he was alone no longer. But now the
  • photograph had lost its magic. It could not hold him. Always his mind
  • would wander back to the little, black-haired ghost that sat on the
  • table, smiling at him, and questioning him with its grey eyes.
  • And the days went by, unvarying in their monotony. And always the ghost
  • sat on the table, smiling at him.
  • With the Fall came the reopening of the theatres. One by one the
  • electric signs blazed out along Broadway, spreading the message that
  • the dull days were over, and New York was itself again. At the Melody,
  • where ages ago _The Island of Girls_ had run its light-hearted
  • course, a new musical piece was in rehearsal. Alcala was full once
  • more. The nightly snatches of conversation outside his door had
  • recommenced. He listened for her voice, but he never heard it.
  • He sat up, waiting, into the small hours, but she did not come. Once he
  • had been trying to write, and had fallen, as usual, to brooding--there
  • was a soft knock at the door. In an instant he had bounded from his
  • chair, and turned the handle. It was one of the reporters from
  • upstairs, who had run out of matches. Rutherford gave him a handful.
  • The reporter went out, wondering what the man had laughed at.
  • There is balm in Broadway, especially by night. Depression vanishes
  • before the cheerfulness of the great white way when the lights are lit
  • and the human tide is in full flood. Rutherford had developed of late a
  • habit of patrolling the neighbourhood of Forty-Second Street at
  • theatre-time. He found it did him good. There is a gaiety, a bonhomie,
  • in the atmosphere of the New York streets. Rutherford loved to stand on
  • the sidewalk and watch the passers-by, weaving stories round them.
  • One night his wanderings had brought him to Herald Square. The theatres
  • were just emptying themselves. This was the time he liked best. He drew
  • to one side to watch, and as he moved he saw Peggy.
  • She was standing at the corner, buttoning a glove. He was by her side
  • in an instant.
  • 'Peggy!' he cried.
  • She was looking pale and tired, but the colour came back to her cheeks
  • as she held out her hand. There was no trace of embarrassment in her
  • manner; only a frank pleasure at seeing him again.
  • 'Where have you been?' he said. 'I couldn't think what had become of
  • you.'
  • She looked at him curiously.
  • 'Did you miss me, George?'
  • 'Miss you? Of course I did. My work's been going all to pieces since
  • you went away.'
  • 'I only came back last night. I'm in the new piece at the Madison. Gee,
  • I'm tired, George! We've been rehearsing all day.'
  • He took her by the arm.
  • 'Come along and have some supper. You look worn out. By Jove, Peggy,
  • it's good seeing you again! Can you walk as far as Rector's, or shall I
  • carry you?'
  • 'Guess I can walk that far. But Rector's? Has your rich uncle died and
  • left you a fortune, George?'
  • 'Don't you worry, Peggy. This is an occasion. I thought I was never
  • going to see you again. I'll buy you the whole hotel, if you like.'
  • 'Just supper'll do, I guess. You're getting quite the rounder, George.'
  • 'You bet I am. There are all sorts of sides to my character you've
  • never so much as dreamed of.'
  • They seemed to know Peggy at Rector's. Paul, the head waiter, beamed
  • upon her paternally. One or two men turned and looked after her as she
  • passed. The waiters smiled slight but friendly smiles. Rutherford,
  • intent on her, noticed none of these things.
  • Despite her protests, he ordered an elaborate and expensive supper. He
  • was particular about the wine. The waiter, who had been doubtful about
  • him, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting that
  • it was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherford
  • was probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn't care
  • how they dressed.
  • 'Well?' said Peggy, when he had finished.
  • 'Well?' said Rutherford.
  • 'You're looking brown, George.'
  • 'I've been away in the Catskills.'
  • 'Still as strong on the rube proposition as ever?'
  • 'Yes. But Broadway has its points, too.'
  • 'Oh, you're beginning to see that? Gee, I'm glad to be back. I've had
  • enough of the Wild West. If anybody ever tries to steer you west of
  • Eleventh Avenue, George, don't you go. There's nothing doing. How have
  • you been making out at your writing stunt?'
  • 'Pretty well. But I wanted you. I was lost without my mascot. I've got
  • a story in this month's _Wilson's_. A long story, and paid
  • accordingly. That's why I'm able to go about giving suppers to great
  • actresses.'
  • 'I read it on the train,' said Peggy. 'It's dandy. Do you know what you
  • ought to do, George? You ought to turn it into a play. There's a heap
  • of money in plays.'
  • 'I know. But who wants a play by an unknown man?'
  • 'I know who would want _Willie in the Wilderness_, if you made it
  • into a play, and that's Winfield Knight. Ever seen him?'
  • 'I saw him in _The Outsider_. He's clever.'
  • 'He's It, if he gets a part to suit him. If he doesn't, he don't amount
  • to a row of beans. It's just a gamble. This thing he's in now is no
  • good. The part doesn't begin to fit him. In a month he'll be squealing
  • for another play, so's you can hear him in Connecticut.'
  • 'He shall not squeal in vain,' said Rutherford. 'If he wants my work,
  • who am I that I should stand in the way of his simple pleasures? I'll
  • start on the thing tomorrow.'
  • 'I can help you some too, I guess. I used to know Winfield Knight. I
  • can put you wise on lots of things about him that'll help you work up
  • Willie's character so's it'll fit him like a glove.'
  • Rutherford raised his glass.
  • 'Peggy,' he said, 'you're more than a mascot. You ought to be drawing a
  • big commission on everything I write. It beats me how any of these
  • other fellows ever write anything without you there to help them. I
  • wonder what's the most expensive cigar they keep here? I must have it,
  • whatever it is. _Noblesse oblige_. We popular playwrights mustn't
  • be seen in public smoking any cheap stuff.'
  • * * * * *
  • It was Rutherford's artistic temperament which, when they left the
  • restaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young men
  • drawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries are
  • supplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggy
  • was for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused to
  • countenance such an anti-climax.
  • Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and there
  • was silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway.
  • He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistful
  • and fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her up
  • and crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix his
  • thoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man of
  • honour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened till
  • every muscle of his arm was rigid.
  • The cab, crossing a rough piece of road, jolted Peggy from her corner.
  • Her hand fell on his.
  • 'Peggy!' he cried, hoarsely.
  • Her grey eyes were wet. He could see them glisten. And then his arms
  • were round her, and he was covering her upturned face with kisses.
  • The cab drew up at the entrance to Alcala. They alighted in silence,
  • and without a word made their way through into the hall. From force of
  • habit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot of
  • the stairs. There was one letter in his pigeon-hole.
  • Mechanically he drew it out; and, as his eyes fell on the handwriting,
  • something seemed to snap inside him.
  • He looked at Peggy, standing on the bottom stair, and back again at the
  • envelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that left
  • him physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of a
  • trance.
  • With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a few
  • steps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read the
  • meaning now in the grey eyes.
  • 'Good night, Peggy,' he said in a low voice. She turned, facing him,
  • and for a moment neither moved.
  • 'Good night!' said Rutherford again.
  • Her lips parted, as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing.
  • Then she turned again, and began to walk slowly upstairs.
  • He stood watching her till she had reached the top of the long flight.
  • She did not look back.
  • 5
  • Peggy's nightly visits began afresh after this, and the ghost on the
  • table troubled Rutherford no more. His restlessness left him. He began
  • to write with a new vigour and success. In after years he wrote many
  • plays, most of them good, clear-cut pieces of work, but none that came
  • from him with the utter absence of labour which made the writing of
  • _Willie in the Wilderness_ a joy. He wrote easily, without effort.
  • And always Peggy was there, helping, stimulating, encouraging.
  • Sometimes, when he came in after dinner to settle down to work, he
  • would find a piece of paper on his table covered with her schoolgirl
  • scrawl. It would run somewhat as follows:
  • 'He is proud of his arms. They are skinny, but he thinks them the
  • limit. Better put in a shirt-sleeve scene for Willie somewhere.'
  • 'He thinks he has a beautiful profile. Couldn't you make one of the
  • girls say something about Willie having the goods in that line?'
  • 'He is crazy about golf.'
  • 'He is proud of his French accent. Couldn't you make Willie speak a
  • little piece in French?'
  • 'He' being Winfield Knight.
  • * * * * *
  • And so, little by little, the character of Willie grew, till it ceased
  • to be the Willie of the magazine story, and became Winfield Knight
  • himself, with improvements. The task began to fascinate Rutherford. It
  • was like planning a pleasant surprise for a child. 'He'll like that,'
  • he would say to himself, as he wrote in some speech enabling Willie to
  • display one of the accomplishments, real or imagined, of the absent
  • actor. Peggy read it, and approved. It was she who suggested the big
  • speech in the second act where Willie described the progress of his
  • love affair in terms of the golf-links. From her, too, came information
  • as to little traits in the man's character which the stranger would not
  • have suspected.
  • As the play progressed Rutherford was amazed at the completeness of the
  • character he had built. It lived. Willie in the magazine story might
  • have been anyone. He fitted into the story, but you could not see him.
  • He had no real individuality. But Willie in the play! He felt that he
  • would recognize him in the street. There was all the difference between
  • the two that there is between a nameless figure in some cheap picture
  • and a portrait by Sargent. There were times when the story of the play
  • seemed thin to him, and the other characters wooden, but in his
  • blackest moods he was sure of Willie. All the contradictions in the
  • character rang true: the humour, the pathos, the surface vanity
  • covering a real diffidence, the strength and weakness fighting one
  • another.
  • 'You're alive, my son,' said Rutherford, admiringly, as he read the
  • sheets. 'But you don't belong to me.'
  • At last there came the day when the play was finished, when the last
  • line was written, and the last possible alteration made; and later, the
  • day when Rutherford, bearing the brown-paper-covered package under his
  • arm, called at the Players' Club to keep an appointment with Winfield
  • Knight.
  • Almost from the first Rutherford had a feeling that he had met the man
  • before, that he knew him. As their acquaintance progressed--the actor
  • was in an expansive mood, and talked much before coming to business--the
  • feeling grew. Then he understood. This was Willie, and no other. The
  • likeness was extraordinary. Little turns of thought, little
  • expressions--they were all in the play.
  • The actor paused in a description of how he had almost beaten a
  • champion at golf, and looked at the parcel.
  • 'Is that the play?' he said.
  • 'Yes,' said Rutherford. 'Shall I read it?'
  • 'Guess I'll just look through it myself. Where's Act I? Here we are!
  • Have a cigar while you're waiting?'
  • Rutherford settled himself in his chair, and watched the other's face.
  • For the first few pages, which contained some tame dialogue between
  • minor characters, it was blank.
  • '"Enter Willie,"' he said. 'Am I Willie?'
  • 'I hope so,' said Rutherford, with a smile. 'It's the star part.'
  • 'H'm.'
  • He went on reading. Rutherford watched him with furtive keenness. There
  • was a line coming at the bottom of the page which he was then reading
  • which ought to hit him, an epigram on golf, a whimsical thought put
  • almost exactly as he had put it himself five minutes back when telling
  • his golf story.
  • The shot did not miss fire. The chuckle from the actor and the sigh of
  • relief from Rutherford were almost simultaneous. Winfield Knight turned
  • to him.
  • 'That's a dandy line about golf,' said he.
  • Rutherford puffed complacently at his cigar.
  • 'There's lots more of them in the piece,' he said.
  • 'Bully for you,' said the actor. And went on reading.
  • Three-quarters of an hour passed before he spoke again. Then he looked
  • up.
  • 'It's me,' he said; 'it's me all the time. I wish I'd seen this before
  • I put on the punk I'm doing now. This is me from the drive off the tee.
  • It's great! Say, what'll you have?'
  • Rutherford leaned back in his chair, his mind in a whirl. He had
  • arrived at last. His struggles were over. He would not admit of the
  • possibility of the play being a failure. He was a made man. He could go
  • where he pleased, and do as he pleased.
  • It gave him something of a shock to find how persistently his thoughts
  • refused to remain in England. Try as he might to keep them there, they
  • kept flitting back to Alcala.
  • 6
  • _Willie in the Wilderness_ was not a failure. It was a triumph.
  • Principally, it is true, a personal triumph for Winfield Knight.
  • Everyone was agreed that he had never had a part that suited him so
  • well. Critics forgave the blunders of the piece for the sake of its
  • principal character. The play was a curiously amateurish thing. It was
  • only later that Rutherford learned craft and caution. When he wrote
  • _Willie_ he was a colt, rambling unchecked through the field of
  • play-writing, ignorant of its pitfalls. But, with all its faults,
  • _Willie in the Wilderness_ was a success. It might, as one critic
  • pointed out, be more of a monologue act for Winfield Knight than a
  • play, but that did not affect Rutherford.
  • It was late on the opening night when he returned to Alcala. He had
  • tried to get away earlier. He wanted to see Peggy. But Winfield Knight,
  • flushed with success, was in his most expansive mood. He seized upon
  • Rutherford and would not let him go. There was supper, a gay,
  • uproarious supper, at which everybody seemed to be congratulating
  • everybody else. Men he had never met before shook him warmly by the
  • hand. Somebody made a speech, despite the efforts of the rest of the
  • company to prevent him. Rutherford sat there, dazed, out of touch with
  • the mood of the party. He wanted Peggy. He was tired of all this
  • excitement and noise. He had had enough of it. All he asked was to be
  • allowed to slip away quietly and go home. He wanted to think, to try
  • and realize what all this meant to him.
  • At length the party broke up in one last explosion of handshaking and
  • congratulations; and, eluding Winfield Knight, who proposed to take him
  • off to his club, he started to walk up Broadway.
  • It was late when he reached Alcala. There was a light in his room.
  • Peggy had waited up to hear the news.
  • She jumped off the table as he came in.
  • 'Well?' she cried.
  • Rutherford sat down and stretched out his legs.
  • 'It's a success,' he said. 'A tremendous success!'
  • Peggy clapped her hands.
  • 'Bully for you, George! I knew it would be. Tell me all about it. Was
  • Winfield good?'
  • 'He was the whole piece. There was nothing in it but him.' He rose and
  • placed his hands on her shoulders. 'Peggy, old girl, I don't know what
  • to say. You know as well as I do that it's all owing to you that the
  • piece has been a success. If I hadn't had your help--'
  • Peggy laughed.
  • 'Oh, beat it, George!' she said. 'Don't you come jollying me. I look
  • like a high-brow playwright, don't I! No; I'm real glad you've made a
  • hit, George, but don't start handing out any story about it's not being
  • your own. I didn't do a thing.'
  • 'You did. You did everything.'
  • 'I didn't. But, say, don't let's start quarrelling. Tell me more about
  • it. How many calls did you take.'
  • He told her all that had happened. When he had finished, there was a
  • silence.
  • 'I guess you'll be quitting soon, George?' said Peggy, at last. 'Now
  • that you've made a home-run. You'll be going back to that rube joint,
  • with the cows and hens--isn't that it?'
  • Rutherford did not reply. He was staring thoughtfully at the floor. He
  • did not seem to have heard.
  • 'I guess that girl'll be glad to see you,' she went on. 'Shall you
  • cable tomorrow, George? And then you'll get married and go and live in
  • the rube house, and become a regular hayseed and--' She broke off
  • suddenly, with a catch in her voice. 'Gee,' she whispered, halt to
  • herself, 'I'll be sorry when you go, George.'
  • He sprang up.
  • 'Peggy!'
  • He seized her by the arm. He heard the quick intake of her breath.
  • 'Peggy, listen!' He gripped her till she winced with pain. 'I'm not
  • going back. I'm never going back. I'm a cad, I'm a hound! I know I am.
  • But I'm not going back. I'm going to stay here with you. I want you,
  • Peggy. Do you hear? I want you!'
  • She tried to draw herself away, but he held her.
  • 'I love you, Peggy! Peggy, will you be my wife?'
  • There was utter astonishment in her grey eyes. Her face was very white.
  • 'Will you, Peggy?'
  • He dropped her arm.
  • 'Will you, Peggy?'
  • 'No!' she cried.
  • He drew back.
  • 'No!' she cried sharply, as if it hurt her to speak. 'I wouldn't play
  • you such a mean trick. I'm too fond of you, George. There's never been
  • anybody just like you. You've been mighty good to me. I've never met a
  • man who treated me like you. You're the only real white man that's ever
  • happened to me, and I guess I'm not going to play you a low-down trick
  • like spoiling your life. George, I thought you knew. Honest, I thought
  • you knew. How did you think I lived in a swell place like this, if you
  • didn't know? How did you suppose everyone knew me at Rector's? How did
  • you think I'd managed to find out so much about Winfield Knight? Can't
  • you guess?'
  • She drew a long breath.
  • 'I--'
  • He interrupted her hoarsely.
  • 'Is there anyone now, Peggy?'
  • 'Yes,' she said, 'there is.'
  • 'You don't love him, Peggy, do you?'
  • 'Love him?' She laughed bitterly. 'No; I don't love him.'
  • 'Then come to me, dear,' he said.
  • She shook her head in silence. Rutherford sat down, his chin resting in
  • his hands. She came across to him, and smoothed his hair.
  • 'It wouldn't do, George,' she said. 'Honest, it wouldn't do. Listen.
  • When we first met, I--I rather liked you, George, and I was mad at you
  • for being so fond of the other girl and taking no notice of me--not in
  • the way I wanted, and I tried--Gee, I feel mean. It was all my fault. I
  • didn't think it would matter. There didn't seem no chance then of your
  • being able to go back and have the sort of good time you wanted; and I
  • thought you'd just stay here and we'd be pals and--but now you can go
  • back, it's all different. I couldn't keep you. It would be too mean.
  • You see, you don't really want to stop. You think you do, but you
  • don't!'
  • 'I love you,' he muttered.
  • 'You'll forget me. It's all just a Broadway dream, George. Think of it
  • like that. Broadway's got you now, but you don't really belong. You're
  • not like me. It's not in your blood, so's you can't get it out. It's
  • the chickens and roses you want really. Just a Broadway dream. That's
  • what it is. George, when I was a kid, I remember crying and crying for
  • a lump of candy in the window of a store till one of my brothers up and
  • bought it for me just to stop the racket. Gee! For about a minute I was
  • the busiest thing that ever happened, eating away. And then it didn't
  • seem to interest me no more. Broadway's like that for you, George. You
  • go back to the girl and the cows and all of it. It'll hurt some, I
  • guess, but I reckon you'll be glad you did.'
  • She stooped swiftly, and kissed him on the forehead.
  • 'I'll miss you, dear,' she said, softly, and was gone.
  • * * * * *
  • Rutherford sat on, motionless. Outside, the blackness changed to grey,
  • and the grey to white. He got up. He felt very stiff and cold.
  • 'A Broadway dream!' he muttered.
  • He went to the mantelpiece and took up the photograph. He carried it to
  • the window where he could see it better.
  • A shaft of sunlight pierced the curtains and fell upon it.
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