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diff --git a/2356-h/2356-h.htm b/2356-h/2356-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2765e7b --- /dev/null +++ b/2356-h/2356-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7269 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Tommy and Co.</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + TD { vertical-align: top; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Tommy and Co., by Jerome K. Jerome</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Tommy and Co., by Jerome K. Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Tommy and Co. + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: July 10, 2007 [eBook #2356] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOMMY AND CO.*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1904 Hutchinson and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>TOMMY AND CO.</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +JEROME K. JEROME<br /> +<span class="smcap">author of</span><br /> +“<span class="smcap">paul kelver</span>,” +“<span class="smcap">idle thoughts of an idle +fellow</span>,”<br /> +“<span class="smcap">three men in a boat</span>,” +<span class="smcap">etc.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">london</span><br /> +HUTCHINSON AND CO.<br /> +<span class="smcap">paternoster row</span><br /> +1904</p> +<h2>STORY THE FIRST—Peter Hope plans his Prospectus</h2> +<p>“Come in!” said Peter Hope.</p> +<p>Peter Hope was tall and thin, clean-shaven but for a pair of +side whiskers close-cropped and terminating just below the ear, +with hair of the kind referred to by sympathetic barbers as +“getting a little thin on the top, sir,” but arranged +with economy, that everywhere is poverty’s true +helpmate. About Mr. Peter Hope’s linen, which was +white though somewhat frayed, there was a self-assertiveness that +invariably arrested the attention of even the most casual +observer. Decidedly there was too much of it—its +ostentation aided and abetted by the retiring nature of the +cut-away coat, whose chief aim clearly was to slip off and +disappear behind its owner’s back. “I’m a +poor old thing,” it seemed to say. “I +don’t shine—or, rather, I shine too much among these +up-to-date young modes. I only hamper you. You would +be much more comfortable without me.” To persuade it +to accompany him, its proprietor had to employ force, keeping +fastened the lowest of its three buttons. At every step, it +struggled for its liberty. Another characteristic of +Peter’s, linking him to the past, was his black silk +cravat, secured by a couple of gold pins chained together. +Watching him as he now sat writing, his long legs encased in +tightly strapped grey trousering, crossed beneath the table, the +lamplight falling on his fresh-complexioned face, upon the +shapely hand that steadied the half-written sheet, a stranger +might have rubbed his eyes, wondering by what hallucination he +thus found himself in presence seemingly of some young beau +belonging to the early ’forties; but looking closer, would +have seen the many wrinkles.</p> +<p>“Come in!” repeated Mr. Peter Hope, raising his +voice, but not his eyes.</p> +<p>The door opened, and a small, white face, out of which gleamed +a pair of bright, black eyes, was thrust sideways into the +room.</p> +<p>“Come in!” repeated Mr. Peter Hope for the third +time. “Who is it?”</p> +<p>A hand not over clean, grasping a greasy cloth cap, appeared +below the face.</p> +<p>“Not ready yet,” said Mr. Hope. “Sit +down and wait.”</p> +<p>The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in +and, closing the door behind it, sat itself down upon the extreme +edge of the chair nearest.</p> +<p>“Which are you—<i>Central News</i> or +<i>Courier</i>?” demanded Mr. Peter Hope, but without +looking up from his work.</p> +<p>The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an +examination of the room by a careful scrutiny of the smoke-grimed +ceiling, descended and fixed themselves upon the one clearly +defined bald patch upon his head that, had he been aware of it, +would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope. But the full, red lips +beneath the turned-up nose remained motionless.</p> +<p>That he had received no answer to his question appeared to +have escaped the attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The thin, +white hand moved steadily to and fro across the paper. +Three more sheets were added to those upon the floor. Then +Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and turned his gaze for the +first time upon his visitor.</p> +<p>To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus +Printer’s Devil, small white faces, tangled hair, dirty +hands, and greasy caps were common objects in the neighbourhood +of that buried rivulet, the Fleet. But this was a new +species. Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found them after +some trouble under a heap of newspapers, adjusted them upon his +high, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and +down.</p> +<p>“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope. +“What is it?”</p> +<p>The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came +forward slowly.</p> +<p>Over a tight-fitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively +<i>décolleté</i>, it wore what once had been a +boy’s pepper-and-salt jacket. A worsted comforter +wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of throat showing +above the garibaldi. Below the jacket fell a long, black +skirt, the train of which had been looped up about the waist and +fastened with a cricket-belt.</p> +<p>“Who are you? What do you want?” asked Mr. +Peter Hope.</p> +<p>For answer, the figure, passing the greasy cap into its other +hand, stooped down and, seizing the front of the long skirt, +began to haul it up.</p> +<p>“Don’t do that!” said Mr. Peter Hope. +“I say, you know, you—”</p> +<p>But by this time the skirt had practically disappeared, +leaving to view a pair of much-patched trousers, diving into the +right-hand pocket of which the dirty hand drew forth a folded +paper, which, having opened and smoothed out, it laid upon the +desk.</p> +<p>Mr. Peter Hope pushed up his spectacles till they rested on +his eyebrows, and read aloud—“‘Steak and Kidney +Pie, 4d.; Do. (large size), <i>6d.</i>; Boiled +Mutton—’”</p> +<p>“That’s where I’ve been for the last two +weeks,” said the figure,—“Hammond’s +Eating House!”</p> +<p>The listener noted with surprise that the voice—though +it told him as plainly as if he had risen and drawn aside the red +rep curtains, that outside in Gough Square the yellow fog lay +like the ghost of a dead sea—betrayed no Cockney accent, +found no difficulty with its aitches.</p> +<p>“You ask for Emma. She’ll say a good word +for me. She told me so.”</p> +<p>“But, my good—” Mr. Peter Hope, checking +himself, sought again the assistance of his glasses. The +glasses being unable to decide the point, their owner had to put +the question bluntly:</p> +<p>“Are you a boy or a girl?”</p> +<p>“I dunno.”</p> +<p>“You don’t know!”</p> +<p>“What’s the difference?”</p> +<p>Mr. Peter Hope stood up, and taking the strange figure by the +shoulders, turned it round slowly twice, apparently under the +impression that the process might afford to him some clue. +But it did not.</p> +<p>“What is your name?”</p> +<p>“Tommy.”</p> +<p>“Tommy what?”</p> +<p>“Anything you like. I dunno. I’ve had +so many of ’em.”</p> +<p>“What do you want? What have you come +for?”</p> +<p>“You’re Mr. Hope, ain’t you, second floor, +16, Gough Square?”</p> +<p>“That is my name.”</p> +<p>“You want somebody to do for you?”</p> +<p>“You mean a housekeeper!”</p> +<p>“Didn’t say anything about housekeeper. Said +you wanted somebody to do for you—cook and clean the place +up. Heard ’em talking about it in the shop this +afternoon. Old lady in green bonnet was asking Mother +Hammond if she knew of anyone.”</p> +<p>“Mrs. Postwhistle—yes, I did ask her to look out +for someone for me. Why, do you know of anyone? Have +you been sent by anybody?”</p> +<p>“You don’t want anything too ’laborate in +the way o’ cooking? You was a simple old chap, so +they said; not much trouble.”</p> +<p>“No—no. I don’t want +much—someone clean and respectable. But why +couldn’t she come herself? Who is it?”</p> +<p>“Well, what’s wrong about me?”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“Why won’t I do? I can make beds and clean +rooms—all that sort o’ thing. As for cooking, +I’ve got a natural aptitude for it. You ask Emma; +she’ll tell you. You don’t want nothing +’laborate?”</p> +<p>“Elizabeth,” said Mr. Peter Hope, as he crossed +and, taking up the poker, proceeded to stir the fire, “are +we awake or asleep?”</p> +<p>Elizabeth thus appealed to, raised herself on her hind legs +and dug her claws into her master’s thigh. Mr. +Hope’s trousers being thin, it was the most practical +answer she could have given him.</p> +<p>“Done a lot of looking after other people for their +benefit,” continued Tommy. “Don’t see why +I shouldn’t do it for my own.”</p> +<p>“My dear—I do wish I knew whether you were a boy +or a girl. Do you seriously suggest that I should engage +you as my housekeeper?” asked Mr. Peter Hope, now upright +with his back to the fire.</p> +<p>“I’d do for you all right,” persisted +Tommy. “You give me my grub and a shake-down and, +say, sixpence a week, and I’ll grumble less than most of +’em.”</p> +<p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mr. Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“You won’t try me?”</p> +<p>“Of course not; you must be mad.”</p> +<p>“All right. No harm done.” The dirty +hand reached out towards the desk, and possessing itself again of +Hammond’s Bill of Fare, commenced the operations necessary +for bearing it away in safety.</p> +<p>“Here’s a shilling for you,” said Mr. Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“Rather not,” said Tommy. “Thanks all +the same.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense!” said Mr. Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“Rather not,” repeated Tommy. “Never +know where that sort of thing may lead you to.”</p> +<p>“All right,” said Mr. Peter Hope, replacing the +coin in his pocket. “Don’t!”</p> +<p>The figure moved towards the door.</p> +<p>“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” said Mr. +Peter Hope irritably.</p> +<p>The figure, with its hand upon the door, stood still.</p> +<p>“Are you going back to Hammond’s?”</p> +<p>“No. I’ve finished there. Only took me +on for a couple o’ weeks, while one of the gals was +ill. She came back this morning.”</p> +<p>“Who are your people?”</p> +<p>Tommy seemed puzzled. “What d’ye +mean?”</p> +<p>“Well, whom do you live with?”</p> +<p>“Nobody.”</p> +<p>“You’ve got nobody to look after you—to take +care of you?”</p> +<p>“Take care of me! D’ye think I’m a +bloomin’ kid?”</p> +<p>“Then where are you going to now?”</p> +<p>“Going? Out.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope’s irritation was growing.</p> +<p>“I mean, where are you going to sleep? Got any +money for a lodging?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I’ve got some money,” answered +Tommy. “But I don’t think much o’ +lodgings. Not a particular nice class as you meet +there. I shall sleep out to-night. +’Tain’t raining.”</p> +<p>Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry.</p> +<p>“Serves you right!” growled Peter savagely. +“How can anyone help treading on you when you will get just +between one’s legs. Told you of it a hundred +times.”</p> +<p>The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry +with himself. For no reason whatever, as he told himself, +his memory would persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a +certain desolate corner of which lay a fragile little woman whose +lungs had been but ill adapted to breathing London fogs; with, on +the top of her, a still smaller and still more fragile mite of +humanity that, in compliment to its only relative worth a +penny-piece, had been christened Thomas—a name common +enough in all conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than +once. In the name of common sense, what had dead and buried +Tommy Hope to do with this affair? The whole thing was the +veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr. Peter Hope’s +abomination. Had he not penned articles innumerable +pointing out its baneful influence upon the age? Had he not +always condemned it, wherever he had come across it in play or +book? Now and then the suspicion had crossed Peter’s +mind that, in spite of all this, he was somewhat of a +sentimentalist himself—things had suggested this to +him. The fear had always made him savage.</p> +<p>“You wait here till I come back,” he growled, +seizing the astonished Tommy by the worsted comforter and +spinning it into the centre of the room. “Sit down, +and don’t you dare to move.” And Peter went out +and slammed the door behind him.</p> +<p>“Bit off his chump, ain’t he?” remarked +Tommy to Elizabeth, as the sound of Peter’s descending +footsteps died away. People had a way of addressing remarks +to Elizabeth. Something in her manner invited this.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s +work,” commented Tommy cheerfully, and sat down as bid.</p> +<p>Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, +accompanied by a large, restful lady, to whom surprise—one +felt it instinctively—had always been, and always would +remain, an unknown quantity.</p> +<p>Tommy rose.</p> +<p>“That’s the—the article,” explained +Peter.</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her +head. It was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from +which she regarded most human affairs.</p> +<p>“That’s right,” said Mrs. Postwhistle; +“I remember seeing ’er there—leastways, it was +an ’er right enough then. What ’ave you done +with your clothes?”</p> +<p>“They weren’t mine,” explained Tommy. +“They were things what Mrs. Hammond had lent me.”</p> +<p>“Is that your own?” asked Mrs. Postwhistle, +indicating the blue silk garibaldi.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“What went with it?”</p> +<p>“Tights. They were too far gone.”</p> +<p>“What made you give up the tumbling business and go to +Mrs. ’Ammond’s?”</p> +<p>“It gave me up. Hurt myself.”</p> +<p>“Who were you with last?”</p> +<p>“Martini troupe.”</p> +<p>“And before that?”</p> +<p>“Oh! heaps of ’em.”</p> +<p>“Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a +girl?”</p> +<p>“Nobody as I’d care to believe. Some of them +called me the one, some of them the other. It depended upon +what was wanted.”</p> +<p>“How old are you?”</p> +<p>“I dunno.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.</p> +<p>“Well, there’s the bed upstairs. It’s +for you to decide.”</p> +<p>“What I don’t want to do,” explained Peter, +sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “is to make a +fool of myself.”</p> +<p>“That’s always a good rule,” agreed Mrs. +Postwhistle, “for those to whom it’s +possible.”</p> +<p>“Anyhow,” said Peter, “one night can’t +do any harm. To-morrow we can think what’s to be +done.”</p> +<p>“To-morrow” had always been Peter’s lucky +day. At the mere mention of the magic date his spirits +invariably rose. He now turned upon Tommy a countenance +from which all hesitation was banished.</p> +<p>“Very well, Tommy,” said Mr. Peter Hope, +“you can sleep here to-night. Go with Mrs. +Postwhistle, and she’ll show you your room.”</p> +<p>The black eyes shone.</p> +<p>“You’re going to give me a trial?”</p> +<p>“We’ll talk about all that to-morrow.” +The black eyes clouded.</p> +<p>“Look here. I tell you straight, it ain’t no +good.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean? What isn’t any +good?” demanded Peter.</p> +<p>“You’ll want to send me to prison.”</p> +<p>“To prison!”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes. You’ll call it a school, I +know. You ain’t the first that’s tried that +on. It won’t work.” The bright, black +eyes were flashing passionately. “I ain’t done +any harm. I’m willing to work. I can keep +myself. I always have. What’s it got to do with +anybody else?”</p> +<p>Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of +passionate defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common +sense. Only Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly +fill with wild tears. And at sight of them Peter’s +common sense went out of the room disgusted, and there was born +the history of many things.</p> +<p>“Don’t be silly,” said Peter. +“You didn’t understand. Of course I’m +going to give you a trial. You’re going to +‘do’ for me. I merely meant that we’d +leave the details till to-morrow. Come, housekeepers +don’t cry.”</p> +<p>The little wet face looked up.</p> +<p>“You mean it? Honour bright?”</p> +<p>“Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. +Then you shall get me my supper.”</p> +<p>The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood +up.</p> +<p>“And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a +week?”</p> +<p>“Yes, yes; I think that’s a fair +arrangement,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope, considering. +“Don’t you, Mrs. Postwhistle?”</p> +<p>“With a frock—or a suit of trousers—thrown +in,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. “It’s +generally done.”</p> +<p>“If it’s the custom, certainly,” agreed Mr. +Peter Hope. “Sixpence a week and clothes.”</p> +<p>And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, +sat waiting the return of Tommy.</p> +<p>“I rather hope,” said Peter, “it’s a +boy. It was the fogs, you know. If only I could have +afforded to send him away!”</p> +<p>Elizabeth looked thoughtful. The door opened.</p> +<p>“Ah! that’s better, much better,” said Mr. +Peter Hope. “’Pon my word, you look quite +respectable.”</p> +<p>By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, +benefiting both parties, had been arrived at with the +long-trained skirt; while an ample shawl arranged with judgment +disguised the nakedness that lay below. Peter, a fastidious +gentleman, observed with satisfaction that the hands, now clean, +had been well cared for.</p> +<p>“Give me that cap,” said Peter. He threw it +in the glowing fire. It burned brightly, diffusing strange +odours.</p> +<p>“There’s a travelling cap of mine hanging up in +the passage. You can wear that for the present. Take +this half-sovereign and get me some cold meat and beer for +supper. You’ll find everything else you want in that +sideboard or else in the kitchen. Don’t ask me a +hundred questions, and don’t make a noise,” and Peter +went back to his work.</p> +<p>“Good idea, that half-sovereign,” said +Peter. “Shan’t be bothered with ‘Master +Tommy’ any more, don’t expect. Starting a +nursery at our time of life. Madness.” +Peter’s pen scratched and spluttered. Elizabeth kept +an eye upon the door.</p> +<p>“Quarter of an hour,” said Peter, looking at his +watch. “Told you so.” The article on +which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a worrying +nature.</p> +<p>“Then why,” said Peter, “why did he refuse +that shilling? Artfulness,” concluded Peter, +“pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old girl, we’ve +got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that +half-sovereign.” Peter gave vent to a chuckle that +had the effect of alarming Elizabeth.</p> +<p>But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.</p> +<p>“Pingle’s was sold out,” explained Tommy, +entering with parcels; “had to go to Bow’s in +Farringdon Street.”</p> +<p>“Oh!” said Peter, without looking up.</p> +<p>Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind. +Peter wrote on rapidly, making up for lost time.</p> +<p>“Good!” murmured Peter, smiling to himself, +“that’s a neat phrase. That ought to irritate +them.”</p> +<p>Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen +behind him, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen, +there came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to +him as if for a long time he had been ill—so ill as not +even to have been aware of it—and that now he was beginning +to be himself again; consciousness of things returning to +him. This solidly furnished, long, oak-panelled room with +its air of old-world dignity and repose—this sober, kindly +room in which for more than half his life he had lived and +worked—why had he forgotten it? It came forward +greeting him with an amused smile, as of some old friend long +parted from. The faded photos, in stiff, wooden frames upon +the chimney-piece, among them that of the fragile little woman +with the unadaptable lungs.</p> +<p>“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing +back his chair. “It’s thirty years ago. +How time does fly! Why, let me see, I must +be—”</p> +<p>“D’you like it with a head on it?” demanded +Tommy, who had been waiting patiently for signs.</p> +<p>Peter shook himself awake and went to his supper.</p> +<p>A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night. “Of +course; why didn’t I think of it before? Settle the +question at once.” Peter fell into an easy sleep.</p> +<p>“Tommy,” said Peter, as he sat himself down to +breakfast the next morning. “By-the-by,” asked +Peter with a puzzled expression, putting down his cup, +“what is this?”</p> +<p>“Cauffee,” informed him Tommy. “You +said cauffee.”</p> +<p>“Oh!” replied Peter. “For the future, +Tommy, if you don’t mind, I will take tea of a +morning.”</p> +<p>“All the same to me,” explained the agreeable +Tommy, “it’s your breakfast.”</p> +<p>“What I was about to say,” continued Peter, +“was that you’re not looking very well, +Tommy.”</p> +<p>“I’m all right,” asserted Tommy; +“never nothing the matter with me.”</p> +<p>“Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very +bad way, Tommy, without being aware of it. I cannot have +anyone about me that I am not sure is in thoroughly sound +health.”</p> +<p>“If you mean you’ve changed your mind and want to +get rid of me—” began Tommy, with its chin in the +air.</p> +<p>“I don’t want any of your uppishness,” +snapped Peter, who had wound himself up for the occasion to a +degree of assertiveness that surprised even himself. +“If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as I +think you are, I shall be very glad to retain your +services. But upon that point I must be satisfied. It +is the custom,” explained Peter. “It is always +done in good families. Run round to this +address”—Peter wrote it upon a leaf of his +notebook—“and ask Dr. Smith to come and see me before +he begins his round. You go at once, and don’t let us +have any argument.”</p> +<p>“That is the way to talk to that young +person—clearly,” said Peter to himself, listening to +Tommy’s footsteps dying down the stairs.</p> +<p>Hearing the street-door slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and +brewed himself a cup of coffee.</p> +<p>Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in +consequence of difference of opinion with his Government was now +an Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it +was that strangers would mistake him for a foreigner. He +was short and stout, with bushy eyebrows and a grey moustache, +and looked so fierce that children cried when they saw him, until +he patted them on the head and addressed them as “mein +leedle frent” in a voice so soft and tender that they had +to leave off howling just to wonder where it came from. He +and Peter, who was a vehement Radical, had been cronies for many +years, and had each an indulgent contempt for the other’s +understanding, tempered by a sincere affection for one another +they would have found it difficult to account for.</p> +<p>“What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?” +demanded Dr. Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter +glanced round the room. The kitchen door was closed.</p> +<p>“How do you know it’s a wench?”</p> +<p>The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder. “If +id is not a wench, why dress it—”</p> +<p>“Haven’t dressed it,” interrupted +Peter. “Just what I’m waiting to do—so +soon as I know.”</p> +<p>And Peter recounted the events of the preceding evening.</p> +<p>Tears gathered in the doctor’s small, round eyes. +His absurd sentimentalism was the quality in his friend that most +irritated Peter.</p> +<p>“Poor leedle waif!” murmured the soft-hearted old +gentleman. “Id was de good Providence dat guided +her—or him, whichever id be.”</p> +<p>“Providence be hanged!” snarled Peter. +“What was my Providence doing—landing me with a +gutter-brat to look after?”</p> +<p>“So like you Radicals,” sneered the doctor, +“to despise a fellow human creature just because id may not +have been born in burble and fine linen.”</p> +<p>“I didn’t send for you to argue politics,” +retorted Peter, controlling his indignation by an effort. +“I want you to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, +so that I may know what to do with it.”</p> +<p>“What mean you to do wid id?” inquired the +doctor.</p> +<p>“I don’t know,” confessed Peter. +“If it’s a boy, as I rather think it is, maybe +I’ll be able to find it a place in one of the +offices—after I’ve taught it a little +civilisation.”</p> +<p>“And if id be a girl?”</p> +<p>“How can it be a girl when it wears trousers?” +demanded Peter. “Why anticipate +difficulties?”</p> +<p>Peter, alone, paced to and fro the room, his hands behind his +back, his ear on the alert to catch the slightest sound from +above.</p> +<p>“I do hope it is a boy,” said Peter, glancing +up.</p> +<p>Peter’s eyes rested on the photo of the fragile little +woman gazing down at him from its stiff frame upon the +chimney-piece. Thirty years ago, in this same room, Peter +had paced to and fro, his hands behind his back, his ear alert to +catch the slightest sound from above, had said to himself the +same words.</p> +<p>“It’s odd,” mused Peter—“very +odd indeed.”</p> +<p>The door opened. The stout doctor, preceded at a little +distance by his watch-chain, entered and closed the door behind +him.</p> +<p>“A very healthy child,” said the doctor, “as +fine a child as any one could wish to see. A +girl.”</p> +<p>The two old gentlemen looked at one another. Elizabeth, +possibly relieved in her mind, began to purr.</p> +<p>“What am I to do with it?” demanded Peter.</p> +<p>“A very awkward bosition for you,” agreed the +sympathetic doctor.</p> +<p>“I was a fool!” declared Peter.</p> +<p>“You haf no one here to look after de leedle wench when +you are away,” pointed out the thoughtful doctor.</p> +<p>“And from what I’ve seen of the imp,” added +Peter, “it will want some looking after.”</p> +<p>“I tink—I tink,” said the helpful doctor, +“I see a way out!”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>The doctor thrust his fierce face forward and tapped knowingly +with his right forefinger the right side of his round nose. +“I will take charge of de leedle wench.”</p> +<p>“You?”</p> +<p>“To me de case will not present de same +difficulties. I haf a housekeeper.”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes, Mrs. Whateley.”</p> +<p>“She is a goot woman when you know her,” explained +the doctor. “She only wants managing.”</p> +<p>“Pooh!” ejaculated Peter.</p> +<p>“Why do you say dat?” inquired the doctor.</p> +<p>“You! bringing up a headstrong girl. The +idea!”</p> +<p>“I should be kind, but firm.”</p> +<p>“You don’t know her.”</p> +<p>“How long haf you known her?”</p> +<p>“Anyhow, I’m not a soft-hearted sentimentalist +that would just ruin the child.”</p> +<p>“Girls are not boys,” persisted the doctor; +“dey want different treatment.”</p> +<p>“Well, I’m not a brute!” snarled +Peter. “Besides, suppose she turns out rubbish! +What do you know about her?”</p> +<p>“I take my chance,” agreed the generous +doctor.</p> +<p>“It wouldn’t be fair,” retorted honest +Peter.</p> +<p>“Tink it over,” said the doctor. “A +place is never home widout de leedle feet. We Englishmen +love de home. You are different. You haf no +sentiment.”</p> +<p>“I cannot help feeling,” explained Peter, “a +sense of duty in this matter. The child came to me. +It is as if this thing had been laid upon me.”</p> +<p>“If you look upon id dat way, Peter,” sighed the +doctor.</p> +<p>“With sentiment,” went on Peter, “I have +nothing to do; but duty—duty is quite another +thing.” Peter, feeling himself an ancient Roman, +thanked the doctor and shook hands with him.</p> +<p>Tommy, summoned, appeared.</p> +<p>“The doctor, Tommy,” said Peter, without looking +up from his writing, “gives a very satisfactory account of +you. So you can stop.”</p> +<p>“Told you so,” returned Tommy. “Might +have saved your money.”</p> +<p>“But we shall have to find you another name.”</p> +<p>“What for?”</p> +<p>“If you are to be a housekeeper, you must be a +girl.”</p> +<p>“Don’t like girls.”</p> +<p>“Can’t say I think much of them myself, +Tommy. We must make the best of it. To begin with, we +must get you proper clothes.”</p> +<p>“Hate skirts. They hamper you.”</p> +<p>“Tommy,” said Peter severely, “don’t +argue.”</p> +<p>“Pointing out facts ain’t arguing,” argued +Tommy. “They do hamper you. You try +’em.”</p> +<p>The clothes were quickly made, and after a while they came to +fit; but the name proved more difficult of adjustment. A +sweet-faced, laughing lady, known to fame by a title respectable +and orthodox, appears an honoured guest to-day at many a literary +gathering. But the old fellows, pressing round, still call +her “Tommy.”</p> +<p>The week’s trial came to an end. Peter, whose +digestion was delicate, had had a happy thought.</p> +<p>“What I propose, Tommy—I mean Jane,” said +Peter, “is that we should get in a woman to do just the +mere cooking. That will give you more time to—to +attend to other things, Tommy—Jane, I mean.”</p> +<p>“What other things?” chin in the air.</p> +<p>“The—the keeping of the rooms in order, +Tommy. The—the dusting.”</p> +<p>“Don’t want twenty-four hours a day to dust four +rooms.”</p> +<p>“Then there are messages, Tommy. It would be a +great advantage to me to have someone I could send on a message +without feeling I was interfering with the housework.”</p> +<p>“What are you driving at?” demanded Tommy. +“Why, I don’t have half enough to do as it is. +I can do all—”</p> +<p>Peter put his foot down. “When I say a thing, I +mean a thing. The sooner you understand that, the +better. How dare you argue with me! +Fiddle-de-dee!” For two pins Peter would have +employed an expletive even stronger, so determined was he +feeling.</p> +<p>Tommy without another word left the room. Peter looked +at Elizabeth and winked.</p> +<p>Poor Peter! His triumph was short-lived. Five +minutes later, Tommy returned, clad in the long, black skirt, +supported by the cricket belt, the blue garibaldi cut +<i>décolleté</i>, the pepper-and-salt jacket, the +worsted comforter, the red lips very tightly pressed, the long +lashes over the black eyes moving very rapidly.</p> +<p>“Tommy” (severely), “what is this +tomfoolery?”</p> +<p>“I understand. I ain’t no good to you. +Thanks for giving me a trial. My fault.”</p> +<p>“Tommy” (less severely), “don’t be an +idiot.”</p> +<p>“Ain’t an idiot. ’Twas Emma. +Told me I was good at cooking. Said I’d got an +aptitude for it. She meant well.”</p> +<p>“Tommy” (no trace of severity), “sit +down. Emma was quite right. Your cooking is—is +promising. As Emma puts it, you have aptitude. +Your—perseverance, your hopefulness proves it.”</p> +<p>“Then why d’ye want to get someone else in to do +it?”</p> +<p>If Peter could have answered truthfully! If Peter could +have replied:</p> +<p>“My dear, I am a lonely old gentleman. I did not +know it until—until the other day. Now I cannot +forget it again. Wife and child died many years ago. +I was poor, or I might have saved them. That made me +hard. The clock of my life stood still. I hid away +the key. I did not want to think. You crept to me out +of the cruel fog, awakened old dreams. Do not go away any +more”—perhaps Tommy, in spite of her fierce +independence, would have consented to be useful; and thus Peter +might have gained his end at less cost of indigestion. But +the penalty for being an anti-sentimentalist is that you must not +talk like this even to yourself. So Peter had to cast about +for other methods.</p> +<p>“Why shouldn’t I keep two servants if I +like?” It did seem hard on the old gentleman.</p> +<p>“What’s the sense of paying two to do the work of +one? You would only be keeping me on out of +charity.” The black eyes flashed. “I +ain’t a beggar.”</p> +<p>“And you really think, Tommy—I should say Jane, +you can manage the—the whole of it? You won’t +mind being sent on a message, perhaps in the very middle of your +cooking. It was that I was thinking of, Tommy—some +cooks would.”</p> +<p>“You go easy,” advised him Tommy, “till I +complain of having too much to do.”</p> +<p>Peter returned to his desk. Elizabeth looked up. +It seemed to Peter that Elizabeth winked.</p> +<p>The fortnight that followed was a period of trouble to Peter, +for Tommy, her suspicions having been aroused, was sceptical of +“business” demanding that Peter should dine with this +man at the club, lunch with this editor at the Cheshire +Cheese. At once the chin would go up into the air, the +black eyes cloud threateningly. Peter, an unmarried man for +thirty years, lacking experience, would under cross-examination +contradict himself, become confused, break down over essential +points.</p> +<p>“Really,” grumbled Peter to himself one evening, +sawing at a mutton chop, “really there’s no other +word for it—I’m henpecked.”</p> +<p>Peter that day had looked forward to a little dinner at a +favourite restaurant, with his “dear old friend +Blenkinsopp, a bit of a gourmet, Tommy—that means a man who +likes what you would call elaborate +cooking!”—forgetful at the moment that he had used up +“Blenkinsopp” three days before for a farewell +supper, “Blenkinsopp” having to set out the next +morning for Egypt. Peter was not facile at invention. +Names in particular had always been a difficulty to him.</p> +<p>“I like a spirit of independence,” continued Peter +to himself. “Wish she hadn’t quite so much of +it. Wonder where she got it from.”</p> +<p>The situation was becoming more serious to Peter than he cared +to admit. For day by day, in spite of her tyrannies, Tommy +was growing more and more indispensable to Peter. Tommy was +the first audience that for thirty years had laughed at +Peter’s jokes; Tommy was the first public that for thirty +years had been convinced that Peter was the most brilliant +journalist in Fleet Street; Tommy was the first anxiety that for +thirty years had rendered it needful that Peter each night should +mount stealthily the creaking stairs, steal with shaded candle to +a bedside. If only Tommy wouldn’t “do” +for him! If only she could be persuaded to “do” +something else.</p> +<p>Another happy thought occurred to Peter.</p> +<p>“Tommy—I mean Jane,” said Peter, “I +know what I’ll do with you.”</p> +<p>“What’s the game now?”</p> +<p>“I’ll make a journalist of you.”</p> +<p>“Don’t talk rot.”</p> +<p>“It isn’t rot. Besides, I won’t have +you answer me like that. As a Devil—that means, +Tommy, the unseen person in the background that helps a +journalist to do his work—you would be invaluable to +me. It would pay me, Tommy—pay me very +handsomely. I should make money out of you.”</p> +<p>This appeared to be an argument that Tommy understood. +Peter, with secret delight, noticed that the chin retained its +normal level.</p> +<p>“I did help a chap to sell papers, once,” +remembered Tommy; “he said I was fly at it.”</p> +<p>“I told you so,” exclaimed Peter +triumphantly. “The methods are different, but the +instinct required is the same. We will get a woman in to +relieve you of the housework.”</p> +<p>The chin shot up into the air.</p> +<p>“I could do it in my spare time.”</p> +<p>“You see, Tommy, I should want you to go about with +me—to be always with me.”</p> +<p>“Better try me first. Maybe you’re making an +error.”</p> +<p>Peter was learning the wisdom of the serpent.</p> +<p>“Quite right, Tommy. We will first see what you +can do. Perhaps, after all, it may turn out that you are +better as a cook.” In his heart Peter doubted +this.</p> +<p>But the seed had fallen upon good ground. It was Tommy +herself that manoeuvred her first essay in journalism. A +great man had come to London—was staying in apartments +especially prepared for him in St. James’s Palace. +Said every journalist in London to himself: “If I could +obtain an interview with this Big Man, what a big thing it would +be for me!” For a week past, Peter had carried +everywhere about with him a paper headed: “Interview of Our +Special Correspondent with Prince Blank,” questions down +left-hand column, very narrow; space for answers right-hand side, +very wide. But the Big Man was experienced.</p> +<p>“I wonder,” said Peter, spreading the neatly +folded paper on the desk before him, “I wonder if there can +be any way of getting at him—any dodge or trick, any piece +of low cunning, any plausible lie that I haven’t thought +of.”</p> +<p>“Old Man Martin—called himself Martini—was +just such another,” commented Tommy. “Come pay +time, Saturday afternoon, you just couldn’t get at +him—simply wasn’t any way. I was a bit too good +for him once, though,” remembered Tommy, with a touch of +pride in her voice; “got half a quid out of him that +time. It did surprise him.”</p> +<p>“No,” communed Peter to himself aloud, “I +don’t honestly think there can be any method, creditable or +discreditable, that I haven’t tried.” Peter +flung the one-sided interview into the wastepaper-basket, and +slipping his notebook into his pocket, departed to drink tea with +a lady novelist, whose great desire, as stated in a postscript to +her invitation, was to avoid publicity, if possible.</p> +<p>Tommy, as soon as Peter’s back was turned, fished it out +again.</p> +<p>An hour later in the fog around St. James’s Palace stood +an Imp, clad in patched trousers and a pepper-and-salt jacket +turned up about the neck, gazing with admiring eyes upon the +sentry.</p> +<p>“Now, then, young seventeen-and-sixpence the +soot,” said the sentry, “what do you want?”</p> +<p>“Makes you a bit anxious, don’t it,” +suggested the Imp, “having a big pot like him to look +after?”</p> +<p>“Does get a bit on yer mind, if yer thinks about +it,” agreed the sentry.</p> +<p>“How do you find him to talk to, like?”</p> +<p>“Well,” said the sentry, bringing his right leg +into action for the purpose of relieving his left, +“ain’t ’ad much to do with ’im myself, +not person’ly, as yet. Oh, ’e ain’t a bad +sort when yer know ’im.”</p> +<p>“That’s his shake-down, ain’t it?” +asked the Imp, “where the lights are.”</p> +<p>“That’s it,” admitted sentry. +“You ain’t an Anarchist? Tell me if you +are.”</p> +<p>“I’ll let you know if I feel it coming on,” +the Imp assured him.</p> +<p>Had the sentry been a man of swift and penetrating +observation—which he wasn’t—he might have asked +the question in more serious a tone. For he would have +remarked that the Imp’s black eyes were resting lovingly +upon a rain-water-pipe, giving to a skilful climber easy access +to the terrace underneath the Prince’s windows.</p> +<p>“I would like to see him,” said the Imp.</p> +<p>“Friend o’ yours?” asked the sentry.</p> +<p>“Well, not exactly,” admitted the Imp. +“But there, you know, everybody’s talking about him +down our street.”</p> +<p>“Well, yer’ll ’ave to be quick about +it,” said the sentry. “’E’s off +to-night.”</p> +<p>Tommy’s face fell. “I thought it +wasn’t till Friday morning.”</p> +<p>“Ah!” said the sentry, “that’s what +the papers say, is it?” The sentry’s voice took +unconsciously the accent of those from whom no secret is +hid. “I’ll tell yer what yer can do,” +continued the sentry, enjoying an unaccustomed sense of +importance. The sentry glanced left, then right. +“’E’s a slipping off all by ’imself down +to Osborne by the 6.40 from Waterloo. Nobody knows +it—’cept, o’ course, just a few of us. +That’s ’is way all over. ’E just +’ates—”</p> +<p>A footstep sounded down the corridor. The sentry became +statuesque.</p> +<p>At Waterloo, Tommy inspected the 6.40 train. Only one +compartment indicated possibilities, an extra large one at the +end of the coach next the guard’s van. It was +labelled “Reserved,” and in the place of the usual +fittings was furnished with a table and four easy-chairs. +Having noticed its position, Tommy took a walk up the platform +and disappeared into the fog.</p> +<p>Twenty minutes later, Prince Blank stepped hurriedly across +the platform, unnoticed save by half a dozen obsequious +officials, and entered the compartment reserved for him. +The obsequious officials bowed. Prince Blank, in military +fashion, raised his hand. The 6.40 steamed out slowly.</p> +<p>Prince Blank, who was a stout gentleman, though he tried to +disguise the fact, seldom found himself alone. When he did, +he generally indulged himself in a little healthy +relaxation. With two hours’ run to Southampton before +him, free from all possibility of intrusion, Prince Blank let +loose the buttons of his powerfully built waistcoat, rested his +bald head on the top of his chair, stretched his great legs +across another, and closed his terrible, small eyes.</p> +<p>For an instant it seemed to Prince Blank that a draught had +entered into the carriage. As, however, the sensation +immediately passed away, he did not trouble to wake up. +Then the Prince dreamed that somebody was in the carriage with +him—was sitting opposite to him. This being an +annoying sort of dream, the Prince opened his eyes for the +purpose of dispelling it. There was somebody sitting +opposite to him—a very grimy little person, wiping blood +off its face and hands with a dingy handkerchief. Had the +Prince been a man capable of surprise, he would have been +surprised.</p> +<p>“It’s all right,” assured him Tommy. +“I ain’t here to do any harm. I ain’t an +Anarchist.”</p> +<p>The Prince, by a muscular effort, retired some four or five +inches and commenced to rebutton his waistcoat.</p> +<p>“How did you get here?” asked the Prince.</p> +<p>“’Twas a bigger job than I’d reckoned +on,” admitted Tommy, seeking a dry inch in the smeared +handkerchief, and finding none. “But that don’t +matter,” added Tommy cheerfully, “now I’m +here.”</p> +<p>“If you do not wish me to hand you over to the police at +Southampton, you had better answer my questions,” remarked +the Prince drily.</p> +<p>Tommy was not afraid of princes, but in the lexicon of her +harassed youth “Police” had always been a word of +dread.</p> +<p>“I wanted to get at you.”</p> +<p>“I gather that.”</p> +<p>“There didn’t seem any other way. It’s +jolly difficult to get at you. You’re so jolly +artful.”</p> +<p>“Tell me how you managed it.”</p> +<p>“There’s a little bridge for signals just outside +Waterloo. I could see that the train would have to pass +under it. So I climbed up and waited. It being a +foggy night, you see, nobody twigged me. I say, you are +Prince Blank, ain’t you?”</p> +<p>“I am Prince Blank.”</p> +<p>“Should have been mad if I’d landed the wrong +man.”</p> +<p>“Go on.”</p> +<p>“I knew which was your carriage—leastways, I +guessed it; and as it came along, I did a drop.” +Tommy spread out her arms and legs to illustrate the +action. “The lamps, you know,” explained Tommy, +still dabbing at her face—“one of them caught +me.”</p> +<p>“And from the roof?”</p> +<p>“Oh, well, it was easy after that. There’s +an iron thing at the back, and steps. You’ve only got +to walk downstairs and round the corner, and there you are. +Bit of luck your other door not being locked. I +hadn’t thought of that. Haven’t got such a +thing as a handkerchief about you, have you?”</p> +<p>The Prince drew one from his sleeve and passed it to +her. “You mean to tell me, boy—”</p> +<p>“Ain’t a boy,” explained Tommy. +“I’m a girl!”</p> +<p>She said it sadly. Deeming her new friends such as could +be trusted, Tommy had accepted their statement that she really +was a girl. But for many a long year to come the thought of +her lost manhood tinged her voice with bitterness.</p> +<p>“A girl!”</p> +<p>Tommy nodded her head.</p> +<p>“Umph!” said the Prince; “I have heard a +good deal about the English girl. I was beginning to think +it exaggerated. Stand up.”</p> +<p>Tommy obeyed. It was not altogether her way; but with +those eyes beneath their shaggy brows bent upon her, it seemed +the simplest thing to do.</p> +<p>“So. And now that you are here, what do you +want?”</p> +<p>“To interview you.”</p> +<p>Tommy drew forth her list of questions.</p> +<p>The shaggy brows contracted.</p> +<p>“Who put you up to this absurdity? Who was +it? Tell me at once.”</p> +<p>“Nobody.”</p> +<p>“Don’t lie to me. His name?”</p> +<p>The terrible, small eyes flashed fire. But Tommy also +had a pair of eyes. Before their blaze of indignation the +great man positively quailed. This type of opponent was new +to him.</p> +<p>“I’m not lying.”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the Prince.</p> +<p>And at this point it occurred to the Prince, who being really +a great man, had naturally a sense of humour, that a conference +conducted on these lines between the leading statesman of an +Empire and an impertinent hussy of, say, twelve years old at the +outside, might end by becoming ridiculous. So the Prince +took up his chair and put it down again beside Tommy’s, and +employing skilfully his undoubted diplomatic gifts, drew from her +bit by bit the whole story.</p> +<p>“I’m inclined, Miss Jane,” said the Great +Man, the story ended, “to agree with our friend Mr. +Hope. I should say your <i>métier</i> was +journalism.”</p> +<p>“And you’ll let me interview you?” asked +Tommy, showing her white teeth.</p> +<p>The Great Man, laying a hand heavier than he guessed on +Tommy’s shoulder, rose. “I think you are +entitled to it.”</p> +<p>“What’s your views?” demanded Tommy, +reading, “of the future political and social +relationships—”</p> +<p>“Perhaps,” suggested the Great Man, “it will +be simpler if I write it myself.”</p> +<p>“Well,” concurred Tommy; “my spelling is a +bit rocky.”</p> +<p>The Great Man drew a chair to the table.</p> +<p>“You won’t miss out anything—will +you?” insisted Tommy.</p> +<p>“I shall endeavour, Miss Jane, to give you no cause for +complaint,” gravely he assured her, and sat down to +write.</p> +<p>Not till the train began to slacken speed had the Prince +finished. Then, blotting and refolding the paper, he stood +up.</p> +<p>“I have added some instructions on the back of the last +page,” explained the Prince, “to which you will draw +Mr. Hope’s particular attention. I would wish you to +promise me, Miss Jane, never again to have recourse to dangerous +acrobatic tricks, not even in the sacred cause of +journalism.”</p> +<p>“Of course, if you hadn’t been so jolly difficult +to get at—”</p> +<p>“My fault, I know,” agreed the Prince. +“There is not the least doubt as to which sex you belong +to. Nevertheless, I want you to promise me. +Come,” urged the Prince, “I have done a good deal for +you—more than you know.”</p> +<p>“All right,” consented Tommy a little +sulkily. Tommy hated making promises, because she always +kept them. “I promise.”</p> +<p>“There is your Interview.” The first +Southampton platform lamp shone in upon the Prince and Tommy as +they stood facing one another. The Prince, who had acquired +the reputation, not altogether unjustly, of an ill-tempered and +savage old gentleman, did a strange thing: taking the little, +blood-smeared face between his paws, he kissed it. Tommy +always remembered the smoky flavour of the bristly grey +moustache.</p> +<p>“One thing more,” said the Prince +sternly—“not a word of all this. Don’t +open your mouth to speak of it till you are back in Gough +Square.”</p> +<p>“Do you take me for a mug?” answered Tommy.</p> +<p>They behaved very oddly to Tommy after the Prince had +disappeared. Everybody took a deal of trouble for her, but +none of them seemed to know why they were doing it. They +looked at her and went away, and came again and looked at +her. And the more they thought about it, the more puzzled +they became. Some of them asked her questions, but what +Tommy really didn’t know, added to what she didn’t +mean to tell, was so prodigious that Curiosity itself paled at +contemplation of it.</p> +<p>They washed and brushed her up and gave her an excellent +supper; and putting her into a first-class compartment labelled +“Reserved,” sent her back to Waterloo, and thence in +a cab to Gough Square, where she arrived about midnight, +suffering from a sense of self-importance, traces of which to +this day are still discernible.</p> +<p>Such and thus was the beginning of all things. Tommy, +having talked for half an hour at the rate of two hundred words a +minute, had suddenly dropped her head upon the table, had been +aroused with difficulty and persuaded to go to bed. Peter, +in the deep easy-chair before the fire, sat long into the +night. Elizabeth, liking quiet company, purred +softly. Out of the shadows crept to Peter Hope an old +forgotten dream—the dream of a wonderful new Journal, price +one penny weekly, of which the Editor should come to be one +Thomas Hope, son of Peter Hope, its honoured Founder and +Originator: a powerful Journal that should supply a long-felt +want, popular, but at the same time elevating—a pleasure to +the public, a profit to its owners. “Do you not +remember me?” whispered the Dream. “We had long +talks together. The morning and the noonday pass. The +evening still is ours. The twilight also brings its +promise.”</p> +<p>Elizabeth stopped purring and looked up surprised. Peter +was laughing to himself.</p> +<h2>STORY THE SECOND—William Clodd appoints himself +Managing Director</h2> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle sat on a Windsor-chair in the centre of Rolls +Court. Mrs. Postwhistle, who, in the days of her Hebehood, +had been likened by admiring frequenters of the old Mitre in +Chancery Lane to the ladies, somewhat emaciated, that an English +artist, since become famous, was then commencing to popularise, +had developed with the passing years, yet still retained a face +of placid youthfulness. The two facts, taken in +conjunction, had resulted in an asset to her income not to be +despised. The wanderer through Rolls Court this +summer’s afternoon, presuming him to be familiar with +current journalism, would have retired haunted by the sense that +the restful-looking lady on the Windsor-chair was someone that he +ought to know. Glancing through almost any illustrated +paper of the period, the problem would have been solved for +him. A photograph of Mrs. Postwhistle, taken quite +recently, he would have encountered with this legend: +“<i>Before</i> use of Professor Hardtop’s certain +cure for corpulency.” Beside it a photograph of Mrs. +Postwhistle, then Arabella Higgins, taken twenty years ago, the +legend slightly varied: “<i>After</i> use,” +etc. The face was the same, the figure—there was no +denying it—had undergone decided alteration.</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle had reached with her chair the centre of +Rolls Court in course of following the sun. The little +shop, over the lintel of which ran: “Timothy Postwhistle, +Grocer and Provision Merchant,” she had left behind her in +the shadow. Old inhabitants of St. Dunstan-in-the-West +retained recollection of a gentlemanly figure, always in a very +gorgeous waistcoat, with Dundreary whiskers, to be seen +occasionally there behind the counter. All customers it +would refer, with the air of a Lord High Chamberlain introducing +<i>débutantes</i>, to Mrs. Postwhistle, evidently +regarding itself purely as ornamental. For the last ten +years, however, no one had noticed it there, and Mrs. Postwhistle +had a facility amounting almost to genius for ignoring or +misunderstanding questions it was not to her taste to +answer. Most things were suspected, nothing known. +St. Dunstan-in-the-West had turned to other problems.</p> +<p>“If I wasn’t wanting to see ’im,” +remarked to herself Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting with one +eye upon the shop, “’e’d a been ’ere +’fore I’d ’ad time to clear the dinner things +away; certain to ’ave been. It’s a strange +world.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle was desirous for the arrival of a gentleman +not usually awaited with impatience by the ladies of Rolls +Court—to wit, one William Clodd, rent-collector, whose day +for St. Dunstan-in-the-West was Tuesday.</p> +<p>“At last,” said Mrs. Postwhistle, though without +hope that Mr. Clodd, who had just appeared at the other end of +the court, could possibly hear her. “Was beginning to +be afraid as you’d tumbled over yerself in your ’urry +and ’urt yerself.”</p> +<p>Mr. Clodd, perceiving Mrs. Postwhistle, decided to abandon +method and take No. 7 first.</p> +<p>Mr. Clodd was a short, thick-set, bullet-headed young man, +with ways that were bustling, and eyes that, though kind, +suggested trickiness.</p> +<p>“Ah!” said Mr. Clodd admiringly, as he pocketed +the six half-crowns that the lady handed up to him. +“If only they were all like you, Mrs. +Postwhistle!”</p> +<p>“Wouldn’t be no need of chaps like you to worry +’em,” pointed out Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“It’s an irony of fate, my being a rent-collector, +when you come to think of it,” remarked Mr. Clodd, writing +out the receipt. “If I had my way, I’d put an +end to landlordism, root and branch. Curse of the +country.”</p> +<p>“Just the very thing I wanted to talk to you +about,” returned the lady—“that lodger o’ +mine.”</p> +<p>“Ah! don’t pay, don’t he? You just +hand him over to me. I’ll soon have it out of +him.”</p> +<p>“It’s not that,” explained Mrs. +Postwhistle. “If a Saturday morning ’appened to +come round as ’e didn’t pay up without me asking, I +should know I’d made a mistake—that it must be +Friday. If I don’t ’appen to be in at +’alf-past ten, ’e puts it in an envelope and leaves +it on the table.”</p> +<p>“Wonder if his mother has got any more like him?” +mused Mr. Clodd. “Could do with a few about this +neighbourhood. What is it you want to say about him, +then? Merely to brag about him?”</p> +<p>“I wanted to ask you,” continued Mrs. Postwhistle, +“’ow I could get rid of ’im. It was +rather a curious agreement.”</p> +<p>“Why do you want to get rid of him? Too +noisy?”</p> +<p>“Noisy! Why, the cat makes more noise about the +’ouse than ’e does. ’E’d make +’is fortune as a burglar.”</p> +<p>“Come home late?”</p> +<p>“Never known ’im out after the shutters are +up.”</p> +<p>“Gives you too much trouble then?”</p> +<p>“I can’t say that of ’im. Never know +whether ’e’s in the ’ouse or isn’t, +without going upstairs and knocking at the door.”</p> +<p>“Here, you tell it your own way,” suggested the +bewildered Clodd. “If it was anyone else but you, I +should say you didn’t know your own business.”</p> +<p>“’E gets on my nerves,” said Mrs. +Postwhistle. “You ain’t in a ’urry for +five minutes?”</p> +<p>Mr. Clodd was always in a hurry. “But I can forget +it talking to you,” added the gallant Mr. Clodd.</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle led the way into the little parlour.</p> +<p>“Just the name of it,” consented Mr. Clodd. +“Cheerfulness combined with temperance; that’s the +ideal.”</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you what ’appened only last +night,” commenced Mrs. Postwhistle, seating herself the +opposite side of the loo-table. “A letter came for +’im by the seven o’clock post. I’d seen +’im go out two hours before, and though I’d been +sitting in the shop the whole blessed time, I never saw or +’eard ’im pass through. E’s like +that. It’s like ’aving a ghost for a +lodger. I opened ’is door without knocking and went +in. If you’ll believe me, ’e was clinging with +’is arms and legs to the top of the +bedstead—it’s one of those old-fashioned, four-post +things—’is ’ead touching the ceiling. +’E ’adn’t got too much clothes on, and was +cracking nuts with ’is teeth and eating ’em. +’E threw a ’andful of shells at me, and making the +most awful faces at me, started off gibbering softly to +himself.”</p> +<p>“All play, I suppose? No real vice?” +commented the interested Mr. Clodd.</p> +<p>“It will go on for a week, that will,” continued +Mrs. Postwhistle—“’e fancying ’imself a +monkey. Last week he was a tortoise, and was crawling about +on his stomach with a tea-tray tied on to ’is back. +’E’s as sensible as most men, if that’s saying +much, the moment ’e’s outside the front door; but in +the ’ouse—well, I suppose the fact is that +’e’s a lunatic.”</p> +<p>“Don’t seem no hiding anything from you,” +Mrs. Postwhistle remarked Mr. Clodd in tones of admiration. +“Does he ever get violent?”</p> +<p>“Don’t know what ’e would be like if +’e ’appened to fancy ’imself something really +dangerous,” answered Mrs. Postwhistle. “I am a +bit nervous of this new monkey game, I don’t mind +confessing to you—the things that they do according to the +picture-books. Up to now, except for imagining +’imself a mole, and taking all his meals underneath the +carpet, it’s been mostly birds and cats and ’armless +sort o’ things I ’aven’t seemed to mind so +much.”</p> +<p>“How did you get hold of him?” demanded Mr. +Clodd. “Have much trouble in finding him, or did +somebody come and tell you about him?”</p> +<p>“Old Gladman, of Chancery Lane, the law stationer, +brought ’im ’ere one evening about two months +ago—said ’e was a sort of distant relative of +’is, a bit soft in the ’ead, but perfectly +’armless—wanted to put ’im with someone who +wouldn’t impose on ’im. Well, what between +’aving been empty for over five weeks, the poor old gaby +’imself looking as gentle as a lamb, and the figure being +reasonable, I rather jumped at the idea; and old Gladman, +explaining as ’ow ’e wanted the thing settled and +done with, got me to sign a letter.”</p> +<p>“Kept a copy of it?” asked the business-like +Clodd.</p> +<p>“No. But I can remember what it was. Gladman +’ad it all ready. So long as the money was paid +punctual and ’e didn’t make no disturbance and +didn’t fall sick, I was to go on boarding and lodging +’im for seventeen-and-sixpence a week. It +didn’t strike me as anything to be objected to at the time; +but ’e payin’ regular, as I’ve explained to +you, and be’aving, so far as disturbance is concerned, more +like a Christian martyr than a man, well, it looks to me as if +I’d got to live and die with ’im.”</p> +<p>“Give him rope, and possibly he’ll have a week at +being a howling hyæna, or a laughing jackass, or something +of that sort that will lead to a disturbance,” thought Mr. +Clodd, “in which case, of course, you would have your +remedy.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle, “and +possibly also ’e may take it into what ’e calls is +’ead to be a tiger or a bull, and then perhaps before +’e’s through with it I’ll be beyond the reach +of remedies.”</p> +<p>“Leave it to me,” said Mr. Clodd, rising and +searching for his hat. “I know old Gladman; +I’ll have a talk with him.”</p> +<p>“You might get a look at that letter if you can,” +suggested Mrs. Postwhistle, “and tell me what you think +about it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days +in a lunatic asylum of my own if I can ’elp it.”</p> +<p>“You leave it to me,” was Mr. Clodd’s +parting assurance.</p> +<p>The July moon had thrown a silver veil over the grimness of +Rolls Court when, five hours later, Mr. Clodd’s nailed +boots echoed again upon its uneven pavement; but Mr. Clodd had no +eye for moon or stars or such-like; always he had things more +important to think of.</p> +<p>“Seen the old ’umbug?” asked Mrs. +Postwhistle, who was partial to the air, leading the way into the +parlour.</p> +<p>“First and foremost commenced,” Mr. Clodd, as he +laid aside his hat, “it is quite understood that you really +do want to get rid of him? What’s that?” +demanded Mr. Clodd, a heavy thud upon the floor above having +caused him to start out of his chair.</p> +<p>“’E came in an hour after you’d gone,” +explained Mrs. Postwhistle, “bringing with him a curtain +pole as ’e’d picked up for a shilling in Clare +Market. ’E’s rested one end upon the +mantelpiece and tied the other to the back of the +easy-chair—’is idea is to twine ’imself round +it and go to sleep upon it. Yes, you’ve got it quite +right without a single blunder. I do want to get rid of +’im.”</p> +<p>“Then,” said Mr. Clodd, reseating himself, +“it can be done.”</p> +<p>“Thank God for that!” was Mrs. Postwhistle’s +pious ejaculation.</p> +<p>“It is just as I thought,” continued Mr. +Clodd. “The old innocent—he’s +Gladman’s brother-in-law, by the way—has got a small +annuity. I couldn’t get the actual figure, but I +guess it’s about sufficient to pay for his keep and leave +old Gladman, who is running him, a very decent profit. They +don’t want to send him to an asylum. They can’t +say he’s a pauper, and to put him into a private +establishment would swallow up, most likely, the whole of his +income. On the other hand, they don’t want the bother +of looking after him themselves. I talked pretty straight +to the old man—let him see I understood the business; +and—well, to cut a long story short, I’m willing to +take on the job, provided you really want to have done with it, +and Gladman is willing in that case to let you off your +contract.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle went to the cupboard to get Mr. Clodd a +drink. Another thud upon the floor above—one +suggestive of exceptional velocity—arrived at the precise +moment when Mrs. Postwhistle, the tumbler level with her eye, was +in the act of measuring.</p> +<p>“I call this making a disturbance,” said Mrs. +Postwhistle, regarding the broken fragments.</p> +<p>“It’s only for another night,” comforted her +Mr. Clodd. “I’ll take him away some time +to-morrow. Meanwhile, if I were you, I should spread a +mattress underneath that perch of his before I went to bed. +I should like him handed over to me in reasonable +repair.”</p> +<p>“It will deaden the sound a bit, any’ow,” +agreed Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“Success to temperance,” drank Mr. Clodd, and rose +to go.</p> +<p>“I take it you’ve fixed things up all right for +yourself,” said Mrs. Postwhistle; “and nobody can +blame you if you ’ave. ’Eaven bless you, is +what I say.”</p> +<p>“We shall get on together,” prophesied Mr. +Clodd. “I’m fond of animals.”</p> +<p>Early the next morning a four-wheeled cab drew up at the +entrance to Rolls Court, and in it and upon it went away Clodd +and Clodd’s Lunatic (as afterwards he came to be known), +together with all the belongings of Clodd’s Lunatic, the +curtain-pole included; and there appeared again behind the +fanlight of the little grocer’s shop the intimation: +“Lodgings for a Single Man,” which caught the eye a +few days later of a weird-looking, lanky, rawboned laddie, whose +language Mrs. Postwhistle found difficulty for a time in +comprehending; and that is why one sometimes meets to-day +worshippers of Kail Yard literature wandering disconsolately +about St. Dunstan-in-the-West, seeking Rolls Court, discomforted +because it is no more. But that is the history of the +“Wee Laddie,” and this of the beginnings of William +Clodd, now Sir William Clodd, Bart., M.P., proprietor of a +quarter of a hundred newspapers, magazines, and journals: +“Truthful Billy” we called him then.</p> +<p>No one can say of Clodd that he did not deserve whatever +profit his unlicensed lunatic asylum may have brought him. +A kindly man was William Clodd when indulgence in sentiment did +not interfere with business.</p> +<p>“There’s no harm in him,” asserted Mr. +Clodd, talking the matter over with one Mr. Peter Hope, +journalist, of Gough Square. “He’s just a bit +dotty, same as you or I might get with nothing to do and all day +long to do it in. Kid’s play, that’s all it +is. The best plan, I find, is to treat it as a game and +take a hand in it. Last week he wanted to be a lion. +I could see that was going to be awkward, he roaring for raw meat +and thinking to prowl about the house at night. Well, I +didn’t nag him—that’s no good. I just got +a gun and shot him. He’s a duck now, and I’m +trying to keep him one: sits for an hour beside his bath on three +china eggs I’ve bought him. Wish some of the sane +ones were as little trouble.”</p> +<p>The summer came again. Clodd and his Lunatic, a +mild-looking little old gentleman of somewhat clerical cut, one +often met with arm-in-arm, bustling about the streets and courts +that were the scene of Clodd’s rent-collecting +labours. Their evident attachment to one another was +curiously displayed; Clodd, the young and red-haired, treating +his white-haired, withered companion with fatherly indulgence; +the other glancing up from time to time into Clodd’s face +with a winning expression of infantile affection.</p> +<p>“We are getting much better,” explained Clodd, the +pair meeting Peter Hope one day at the corner of Newcastle +Street. “The more we are out in the open air, and the +more we have to do and think about, the better for +us—eh?”</p> +<p>The mild-looking little old gentleman hanging on Clodd’s +arm smiled and nodded.</p> +<p>“Between ourselves,” added Mr. Clodd, sinking his +voice, “we are not half as foolish as folks think we +are.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope went his way down the Strand.</p> +<p>“Clodd’s a good sort—a good sort,” +said Peter Hope, who, having in his time lived much alone, had +fallen into the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud; “but +he’s not the man to waste his time. I +wonder.”</p> +<p>With the winter Clodd’s Lunatic fell ill.</p> +<p>Clodd bustled round to Chancery Lane.</p> +<p>“To tell you the truth,” confessed Mr. Gladman, +“we never thought he would live so long as he +has.”</p> +<p>“There’s the annuity you’ve got to think +of,” said Clodd, whom his admirers of to-day (and they are +many, for he must be a millionaire by this time) are fond of +alluding to as “that frank, outspoken +Englishman.” “Wouldn’t it be worth your +while to try what taking him away from the fogs might do for +him?”</p> +<p>Old Gladman seemed inclined to consider the question, but Mrs. +Gladman, a brisk, cheerful little woman, had made up her +mind.</p> +<p>“We’ve had what there is to have,” said Mrs. +Gladman. “He’s seventy-three. +What’s the sense of risking good money? Be +content.”</p> +<p>No one could say—no one ever did say—that Clodd, +under the circumstances, did not do his best. Perhaps, +after all, nothing could have helped. The little old +gentleman, at Clodd’s suggestion, played at being a +dormouse and lay very still. If he grew restless, thereby +bringing on his cough, Clodd, as a terrible black cat, was +watching to pounce upon him. Only by keeping very quiet and +artfully pretending to be asleep could he hope to escape the +ruthless Clodd.</p> +<p>Doctor William Smith (né Wilhelm Schmidt) shrugged his +fat shoulders. “We can do noding. Dese fogs of +ours: id is de one ting dat enables the foreigner to crow over +us. Keep him quiet. De dormouse—id is a goot +idea.”</p> +<p>That evening William Clodd mounted to the second floor of 16, +Gough Square, where dwelt his friend, Peter Hope, and knocked +briskly at the door.</p> +<p>“Come in,” said a decided voice, which was not +Peter Hope’s.</p> +<p>Mr. William Clodd’s ambition was, and always had been, +to be the owner or part-owner of a paper. To-day, as I have +said, he owns a quarter of a hundred, and is in negotiation, so +rumour goes, for seven more. But twenty years ago +“Clodd and Co., Limited,” was but in embryo. +And Peter Hope, journalist, had likewise and for many a long year +cherished the ambition to be, before he died, the owner or +part-owner of a paper. Peter Hope to-day owns nothing, +except perhaps the knowledge, if such things be permitted, that +whenever and wherever his name is mentioned, kind thoughts arise +unbidden—that someone of the party will surely say: +“Dear old Peter! What a good fellow he +was!” Which also may be in its way a valuable +possession: who knows? But twenty years ago Peter’s +horizon was limited by Fleet Street.</p> +<p>Peter Hope was forty-seven, so he said, a dreamer and a +scholar. William Clodd was three-and-twenty, a born +hustler, very wide awake. Meeting one day by accident upon +an omnibus, when Clodd lent Peter, who had come out without his +purse, threepence to pay his fare with; drifting into +acquaintanceship, each had come to acquire a liking and respect +for the other. The dreamer thought with wonder of +Clodd’s shrewd practicability; the cute young man of +business was lost in admiration of what seemed to him his old +friend’s marvellous learning. Both had arrived at the +conclusion that a weekly journal with Peter Hope as editor, and +William Clodd as manager, would be bound to be successful.</p> +<p>“If only we could scrape together a thousand +pounds!” had sighed Peter.</p> +<p>“The moment we lay our hands upon the coin, we’ll +start that paper. Remember, it’s a bargain,” +had answered William Clodd.</p> +<p>Mr. William Clodd turned the handle and walked in. With +the door still in his hand he paused to look round the +room. It was the first time he had seen it. His +meetings hitherto with Peter Hope had been chance +<i>rencontres</i> in street or restaurant. Always had he +been curious to view the sanctuary of so much erudition.</p> +<p>A large, oak-panelled room, its three high windows, each with +a low, cushioned seat beneath it, giving on to Gough +Square. Thirty-five years before, Peter Hope, then a young +dandy with side whiskers close-cropped and terminating just below +the ear; with wavy, brown hair, giving to his fresh-complexioned +face an appearance almost girlish; in cut-away blue coat, +flowered waistcoat, black silk cravat secured by two gold pins +chained together, and tightly strapped grey trouserings, had, +aided and abetted by a fragile little lady in crinoline and +much-flounced skirt, and bodice somewhat low, with corkscrew +curls each movement of her head set ringing, planned and +furnished it in accordance with the sober canons then in vogue, +spending thereupon more than they should, as is to be expected +from the young to whom the future promises all things. The +fine Brussels carpet! A little too bright, had thought the +shaking curls. “The colours will tone down, +miss—ma’am.” The shopman knew. Only +by the help of the round island underneath the massive Empire +table, by excursions into untrodden corners, could Peter +recollect the rainbow floor his feet had pressed when he was +twenty-one. The noble bookcase, surmounted by +Minerva’s bust. Really it was too expensive. +But the nodding curls had been so obstinate. Peter’s +silly books and papers must be put away in order; the curls did +not intend to permit any excuse for untidiness. So, too, +the handsome, brass-bound desk; it must be worthy of the +beautiful thoughts Peter would pen upon it. The great +sideboard, supported by two such angry-looking mahogany lions; it +must be strong to support the weight of silver clever Peter would +one day purchase to place upon it. The few oil paintings in +their heavy frames. A solidly furnished, sober apartment; +about it that subtle atmosphere of dignity one finds but in old +rooms long undisturbed, where one seems to read upon the walls: +“I, Joy and Sorrow, twain in one, have dwelt +here.” One item only there was that seemed out of +place among its grave surroundings—a guitar, hanging from +the wall, ornamented with a ridiculous blue bow, somewhat +faded.</p> +<p>“Mr. William Clodd?” demanded the decided +voice.</p> +<p>Clodd started and closed the door.</p> +<p>“Guessed it in once,” admitted Mr. Clodd.</p> +<p>“I thought so,” said the decided voice. +“We got your note this afternoon. Mr. Hope will be +back at eight. Will you kindly hang up your hat and coat in +the hall? You will find a box of cigars on the +mantelpiece. Excuse my being busy. I must finish +this, then I’ll talk to you.”</p> +<p>The owner of the decided voice went on writing. Clodd, +having done as he was bid, sat himself in the easy-chair before +the fire and smoked. Of the person behind the desk Mr. +Clodd could see but the head and shoulders. It had black, +curly hair, cut short. It’s only garment visible +below the white collar and red tie might have been a boy’s +jacket designed more like a girl’s, or a girl’s +designed more like a boy’s; partaking of the genius of +English statesmanship, it appeared to be a compromise. Mr. +Clodd remarked the long, drooping lashes over the bright, black +eyes.</p> +<p>“It’s a girl,” said Mr. Clodd to himself; +“rather a pretty girl.”</p> +<p>Mr. Clodd, continuing downward, arrived at the nose.</p> +<p>“No,” said Mr. Clodd to himself, “it’s +a boy—a cheeky young beggar, I should say.”</p> +<p>The person at the desk, giving a grunt of satisfaction, +gathered together sheets of manuscript and arranged them; then, +resting its elbows on the desk and taking its head between its +hands, regarded Mr. Clodd.</p> +<p>“Don’t you hurry yourself,” said Mr. Clodd; +“but when you really have finished, tell me what you think +of me.”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” apologised the person at the +desk. “I have got into a habit of staring at +people. I know it’s rude. I’m trying to +break myself of it.”</p> +<p>“Tell me your name,” suggested Mr. Clodd, +“and I’ll forgive you.”</p> +<p>“Tommy,” was the answer—“I mean +Jane.”</p> +<p>“Make up your mind,” advised Mr. Clodd; +“don’t let me influence you. I only want the +truth.”</p> +<p>“You see,” explained the person at the desk, +“everybody calls me Tommy, because that used to be my +name. But now it’s Jane.”</p> +<p>“I see,” said Mr. Clodd. “And which am +I to call you?”</p> +<p>The person at the desk pondered. “Well, if this +scheme you and Mr. Hope have been talking about really comes to +anything, we shall be a good deal thrown together, you see, and +then I expect you’ll call me Tommy—most people +do.”</p> +<p>“You’ve heard about the scheme? Mr. Hope has +told you?”</p> +<p>“Why, of course,” replied Tommy. +“I’m Mr. Hope’s devil.”</p> +<p>For the moment Clodd doubted whether his old friend had not +started a rival establishment to his own.</p> +<p>“I help him in his work,” Tommy relieved his mind +by explaining. “In journalistic circles we call it +devilling.”</p> +<p>“I understand,” said Mr. Clodd. “And +what do you think, Tommy, of the scheme? I may as well +start calling you Tommy, because, between you and me, I think the +idea will come to something.”</p> +<p>Tommy fixed her black eyes upon him. She seemed to be +looking him right through.</p> +<p>“You are staring again, Tommy,” Clodd reminded +her. “You’ll have trouble breaking yourself of +that habit, I can see.”</p> +<p>“I was trying to make up my mind about you. +Everything depends upon the business man.”</p> +<p>“Glad to hear you say so,” replied the +self-satisfied Clodd.</p> +<p>“If you are very clever—Do you mind coming nearer +to the lamp? I can’t quite see you over +there.”</p> +<p>Clodd never could understand why he did it—never could +understand why, from first to last, he always did what Tommy +wished him to do; his only consolation being that other folks +seemed just as helpless. He rose and, crossing the long +room, stood at attention before the large desk, nervousness, to +which he was somewhat of a stranger, taking possession of +him.</p> +<p>“You don’t <i>look</i> very clever.”</p> +<p>Clodd experienced another new sensation—that of falling +in his own estimation.</p> +<p>“And yet one can see that you <i>are</i> +clever.”</p> +<p>The mercury of Clodd’s conceit shot upward to a point +that in the case of anyone less physically robust might have been +dangerous to health.</p> +<p>Clodd held out his hand. “We’ll pull it +through, Tommy. The Guv’nor shall find the +literature; you and I will make it go. I like +you.”</p> +<p>And Peter Hope, entering at the moment, caught a spark from +the light that shone in the eyes of William Clodd and Tommy, +whose other name was Jane, as, gripping hands, they stood with +the desk between them, laughing they knew not why. And the +years fell from old Peter, and, again a boy, he also laughed he +knew not why. He had sipped from the wine-cup of youth.</p> +<p>“It’s all settled, Guv’nor!” cried +Clodd. “Tommy and I have fixed things up. +We’ll start with the New Year.”</p> +<p>“You’ve got the money?”</p> +<p>“I’m reckoning on it. I don’t see very +well how I can miss it.”</p> +<p>“Sufficient?”</p> +<p>“Just about. You get to work.”</p> +<p>“I’ve saved a little,” began Peter. +“It ought to have been more, but somehow it +isn’t.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps we shall want it,” Clodd replied; +“perhaps we shan’t. You are supplying the +brains.”</p> +<p>The three for a few moments remained silent.</p> +<p>“I think, Tommy,” said Peter, “I think a +bottle of the old Madeira—”</p> +<p>“Not to-night,” said Clodd; “next +time.”</p> +<p>“To drink success,” urged Peter.</p> +<p>“One man’s success generally means some other poor +devil’s misfortune,” answered Clodd.</p> +<p>“Can’t be helped, of course, but don’t want +to think about it to-night. Must be getting back to my +dormouse. Good night.”</p> +<p>Clodd shook hands and bustled out.</p> +<p>“I thought as much,” mused Peter aloud.</p> +<p>“What an odd mixture the man is! Kind—no one +could have been kinder to the poor old fellow. Yet all the +while—We are an odd mixture, Tommy,” said Peter Hope, +“an odd mixture, we men and women.” Peter was a +philosopher.</p> +<p>The white-whiskered old dormouse soon coughed himself to sleep +for ever.</p> +<p>“I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, +Gladman,” said Mr. Clodd, as he swung into the +stationer’s shop; “and bring Pincer with you. +I’m writing to him.”</p> +<p>“Don’t see what good we can do,” demurred +Gladman.</p> +<p>“Well, you three are his only relatives; it’s only +decent you should be present,” urged Clodd. +“Besides, there’s the will to be read. You may +care to hear it.”</p> +<p>The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes.</p> +<p>“His will! Why, what had he got to leave? +There was nothing but the annuity.”</p> +<p>“You turn up at the funeral,” Clodd told him, +“and you’ll learn all about it. Bonner’s +clerk will be there and will bring it with him. Everything +is going to be done <i>comme il faut</i>, as the French +say.”</p> +<p>“I ought to have known of this,” began Mr. +Gladman.</p> +<p>“Glad to find you taking so much interest in the old +chap,” said Clodd. “Pity he’s dead and +can’t thank you.”</p> +<p>“I warn you,” shouted old Gladman, whose voice was +rising to a scream, “he was a helpless imbecile, incapable +of acting for himself! If any undue +influence—”</p> +<p>“See you on Friday,” broke in Clodd, who was +busy.</p> +<p>Friday’s ceremony was not a sociable affair. Mrs. +Gladman spoke occasionally in a shrill whisper to Mr. Gladman, +who replied with grunts. Both employed the remainder of +their time in scowling at Clodd. Mr. Pincer, a stout, heavy +gentleman connected with the House of Commons, maintained a +ministerial reserve. The undertaker’s foreman +expressed himself as thankful when it was over. He +criticised it as the humpiest funeral he had ever known; for a +time he had serious thoughts of changing his profession.</p> +<p>The solicitor’s clerk was waiting for the party on its +return from Kensal Green. Clodd again offered +hospitality. Mr. Pincer this time allowed himself a glass +of weak whisky-and-water, and sipped it with an air of doing so +without prejudice. The clerk had one a little stronger, +Mrs. Gladman, dispensing with consultation, declined shrilly for +self and partner. Clodd, explaining that he always followed +legal precedent, mixed himself one also and drank “To our +next happy meeting.” Then the clerk read.</p> +<p>It was a short and simple will, dated the previous +August. It appeared that the old gentleman, unknown to his +relatives, had died possessed of shares in a silver mine, once +despaired of, now prospering. Taking them at present value, +they would produce a sum well over two thousand pounds. The +old gentleman had bequeathed five hundred pounds to his +brother-in-law, Mr. Gladman; five hundred pounds to his only +other living relative, his first cousin, Mr. Pincer; the residue +to his friend, William Clodd, as a return for the many kindnesses +that gentleman had shown him.</p> +<p>Mr. Gladman rose, more amused than angry.</p> +<p>“And you think you are going to pocket that one thousand +to twelve hundred pounds. You really do?” he asked +Mr. Clodd, who, with legs stretched out before him, sat with his +hands deep in his trousers pockets.</p> +<p>“That’s the idea,” admitted Mr. Clodd.</p> +<p>Mr. Gladman laughed, but without much lightening the +atmosphere. “Upon my word, Clodd, you amuse +me—you quite amuse me,” repeated Mr. Gladman.</p> +<p>“You always had a sense of humour,” commented Mr. +Clodd.</p> +<p>“You villain! You double-dyed villain!” +screamed Mr. Gladman, suddenly changing his tone. +“You think the law is going to allow you to swindle honest +men! You think we are going to sit still for you to rob +us! That will—” Mr. Gladman pointed a +lank forefinger dramatically towards the table.</p> +<p>“You mean to dispute it?” inquired Mr. Clodd.</p> +<p>For a moment Mr. Gladman stood aghast at the other’s +coolness, but soon found his voice again.</p> +<p>“Dispute it!” he shrieked. “Do you +dispute that you influenced him?—dictated it to him word +for word, made the poor old helpless idiot sign it, he utterly +incapable of even understanding—”</p> +<p>“Don’t chatter so much,” interrupted Mr. +Clodd. “It’s not a pretty voice, yours. +What I asked you was, do you intend to dispute it?”</p> +<p>“If you will kindly excuse us,” struck in Mrs. +Gladman, addressing Mr. Clodd with an air of much politeness, +“we shall just have time, if we go now, to catch our +solicitor before he leaves his office.”</p> +<p>Mr. Gladman took up his hat from underneath his chair.</p> +<p>“One moment,” suggested Mr. Clodd. “I +did influence him to make that will. If you don’t +like it, there’s an end of it.”</p> +<p>“Of course,” commenced Mr. Gladman in a mollified +tone.</p> +<p>“Sit down,” suggested Mr. Clodd. +“Let’s try another one.” Mr. Clodd turned +to the clerk. “The previous one, Mr. Wright, if you +please; the one dated June the 10th.”</p> +<p>An equally short and simple document, it bequeathed three +hundred pounds to Mr. William Clodd in acknowledgment of +kindnesses received, the residue to the Royal Zoological Society +of London, the deceased having been always interested in and fond +of animals. The relatives, “Who have never shown me +the slightest affection or given themselves the slightest trouble +concerning me, and who have already received considerable sums +out of my income,” being by name excluded.</p> +<p>“I may mention,” observed Mr. Clodd, no one else +appearing inclined to break the silence, “that in +suggesting the Royal Zoological Society to my poor old friend as +a fitting object for his benevolence, I had in mind a very +similar case that occurred five years ago. A bequest to +them was disputed on the grounds that the testator was of unsound +mind. They had to take their case to the House of Lords +before they finally won it.”</p> +<p>“Anyhow,” remarked Mr. Gladman, licking his lips, +which were dry, “you won’t get anything, Mr. +Clodd—no, not even your three-hundred pounds, clever as you +think yourself. My brother-in-law’s money will go to +the lawyers.”</p> +<p>Then Mr. Pincer rose and spoke slowly and clearly. +“If there must be a lunatic connected with our family, +which I don’t see why there should be, it seems to me to be +you, Nathaniel Gladman.”</p> +<p>Mr. Gladman stared back with open mouth. Mr. Pincer went +on impressively.</p> +<p>“As for my poor old cousin Joe, he had his +eccentricities, but that was all. I for one am prepared to +swear that he was of sound mind in August last and quite capable +of making his own will. It seems to me that the other +thing, dated in June, is just waste paper.”</p> +<p>Mr. Pincer having delivered himself, sat down again. Mr. +Gladman showed signs of returning language.</p> +<p>“Oh! what’s the use of quarrelling?” chirped +in cheery Mrs. Gladman. “It’s five hundred +pounds we never expected. Live and let live is what I +always say.”</p> +<p>“It’s the damned artfulness of the thing,” +said Mr. Gladman, still very white about the gills.</p> +<p>“Oh, you have a little something to thaw your +face,” suggested his wife.</p> +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Gladman, on the strength of the five hundred +pounds, went home in a cab. Mr. Pincer stayed behind and +made a night of it with Mr. Clodd and Bonner’s clerk, at +Clodd’s expense.</p> +<p>The residue worked out at eleven hundred and sixty-nine pounds +and a few shillings. The capital of the new company, +“established for the purpose of carrying on the business of +newspaper publishers and distributors, printers, advertising +agents, and any other trade and enterprise affiliated to the +same,” was one thousand pounds in one pound shares, fully +paid up; of which William Clodd, Esquire, was registered +proprietor of four hundred and sixty-three; Peter Hope, M.A., of +16, Gough Square, of also four hundred and sixty-three; Miss Jane +Hope, adopted daughter of said Peter Hope (her real name nobody, +herself included, ever having known), and generally called Tommy, +of three, paid for by herself after a battle royal with William +Clodd; Mrs. Postwhistle, of Rolls Court, of ten, presented by the +promoter; Mr. Pincer, of the House of Commons, also of ten (still +owing for); Dr. Smith (né Schmidt) of fifty; James Douglas +Alexander Calder McTear (otherwise the “Wee Laddie”), +residing then in Mrs. Postwhistle’s first floor front, of +one, paid for by poem published in the first number: “The +Song of the Pen.”</p> +<p>Choosing a title for the paper cost much thought. Driven +to despair, they called it <i>Good Humour</i>.</p> +<h2>STORY THE THIRD—Grindley Junior drops into the Position +of Publisher</h2> +<p>Few are the ways of the West Central district that have +changed less within the last half-century than Nevill’s +Court, leading from Great New Street into Fetter Lane. Its +north side still consists of the same quaint row of small low +shops that stood there—doing perhaps a little brisker +business—when George the Fourth was King; its southern side +of the same three substantial houses each behind a strip of +garden, pleasant by contrast with surrounding grimness, built +long ago—some say before Queen Anne was dead.</p> +<p>Out of the largest of these, passing through the garden, then +well cared for, came one sunny Sunday morning, some fifteen years +before the commencement proper of this story, one Solomon +Appleyard, pushing in front of him a perambulator. At the +brick wall surmounted by wooden railings that divides the garden +from the court, Solomon paused, hearing behind him the voice of +Mrs. Appleyard speaking from the doorstep.</p> +<p>“If I don’t see you again until dinner-time, +I’ll try and get on without you, understand. +Don’t think of nothing but your pipe and forget the +child. And be careful of the crossings.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Appleyard retired into the darkness. Solomon, +steering the perambulator carefully, emerged from Nevill’s +Court without accident. The quiet streets drew Solomon +westward. A vacant seat beneath the shade overlooking the +Long Water in Kensington Gardens invited to rest.</p> +<p>“Piper?” suggested a small boy to Solomon. +“<i>Sunday Times</i>, <i>’Server</i>?”</p> +<p>“My boy,” said Mr. Appleyard, speaking slowly, +“when you’ve been mewed up with newspapers eighteen +hours a day for six days a week, you can do without ’em for +a morning. Take ’em away. I want to forget the +smell of ’em.”</p> +<p>Solomon, having assured himself that the party in the +perambulator was still breathing, crossed his legs and lit his +pipe.</p> +<p>“Hezekiah!”</p> +<p>The exclamation had been wrung from Solomon Appleyard by the +approach of a stout, short man clad in a remarkably ill-fitting +broad-cloth suit.</p> +<p>“What, Sol, my boy?”</p> +<p>“It looked like you,” said Solomon. +“And then I said to myself: ‘No; surely it +can’t be Hezekiah; he’ll be at +chapel.’”</p> +<p>“You run about,” said Hezekiah, addressing a youth +of some four summers he had been leading by the hand. +“Don’t you go out of my sight; and whatever you do, +don’t you do injury to those new clothes of yours, or +you’ll wish you’d never been put into them. The +truth is,” continued Hezekiah to his friend, his sole +surviving son and heir being out of earshot, “the morning +tempted me. ’Tain’t often I get a bit of fresh +air.”</p> +<p>“Doing well?”</p> +<p>“The business,” replied Hezekiah, “is going +up by leaps and bounds—leaps and bounds. But, of +course, all that means harder work for me. It’s from +six in the morning till twelve o’clock at night.”</p> +<p>“There’s nothing I know of,” returned +Solomon, who was something of a pessimist, “that’s +given away free gratis for nothing except misfortune.”</p> +<p>“Keeping yourself up to the mark ain’t too +easy,” continued Hezekiah; “and when it comes to +other folks! play’s all they think of. Talk religion +to them—why, they laugh at you! What the +world’s coming to, I don’t know. How’s +the printing business doing?”</p> +<p>“The printing business,” responded the other, +removing his pipe and speaking somewhat sadly, “the +printing business looks like being a big thing. Capital, of +course, is what hampers me—or, rather, the want of +it. But Janet, she’s careful; she don’t waste +much, Janet don’t.”</p> +<p>“Now, with Anne,” replied Hezekiah, +“it’s all the other way—pleasure, gaiety, a day +at Rosherville or the Crystal Palace—anything to waste +money.”</p> +<p>“Ah! she was always fond of her bit of fun,” +remembered Solomon.</p> +<p>“Fun!” retorted Hezekiah. “I like a +bit of fun myself. But not if you’ve got to pay for +it. Where’s the fun in that?”</p> +<p>“What I ask myself sometimes,” said Solomon, +looking straight in front of him, “is what do we do it +for?”</p> +<p>“What do we do what for?”</p> +<p>“Work like blessed slaves, depriving ourselves of all +enjoyments. What’s the sense of it? +What—”</p> +<p>A voice from the perambulator beside him broke the thread of +Solomon Appleyard’s discourse. The sole surviving son +of Hezekiah Grindley, seeking distraction and finding none, had +crept back unperceived. A perambulator! A thing his +experience told him out of which excitement in some form or +another could generally be obtained. You worried it and +took your chance. Either it howled, in which case you had +to run for your life, followed—and, unfortunately, +overtaken nine times out of ten—by a whirlwind of +vengeance; or it gurgled: in which case the heavens smiled and +halos descended on your head. In either event you escaped +the deadly ennui that is the result of continuous virtue. +Master Grindley, his star having pointed out to him a +peacock’s feather lying on the ground, had, with one eye +upon his unobservant parent, removed the complicated coverings +sheltering Miss Helvetia Appleyard from the world, and +anticipating by a quarter of a century the prime enjoyment of +British youth, had set to work to tickle that lady on the +nose. Miss Helvetia Appleyard awakened, did precisely what +the tickled British maiden of to-day may be relied upon to do +under corresponding circumstances: she first of all took swift +and comprehensive survey of the male thing behind the +feather. Had he been displeasing in her eyes, she would, +one may rely upon it, have anteceded the behaviour in similar +case of her descendant of to-day—that is to say, have +expressed resentment in no uncertain terms. Master +Nathaniel Grindley proving, however, to her taste, that which +might have been considered impertinence became accepted as a fit +and proper form of introduction. Miss Appleyard smiled +graciously—nay, further, intimated desire for more.</p> +<p>“That your only one?” asked the paternal +Grindley.</p> +<p>“She’s the only one,” replied Solomon, +speaking in tones less pessimistic.</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard had with the help of Grindley junior wriggled +herself into a sitting posture. Grindley junior continued +his attentions, the lady indicating by signs the various points +at which she was most susceptible.</p> +<p>“Pretty picture they make together, eh?” suggested +Hezekiah in a whisper to his friend.</p> +<p>“Never saw her take to anyone like that before,” +returned Solomon, likewise in a whisper.</p> +<p>A neighbouring church clock chimed twelve. Solomon +Appleyard, knocking the ashes from his pipe, arose.</p> +<p>“Don’t know any reason myself why we +shouldn’t see a little more of one another than we +do,” suggested Grindley senior, shaking hands.</p> +<p>“Give us a look-up one Sunday afternoon,” +suggested Solomon. “Bring the youngster with +you.”</p> +<p>Solomon Appleyard and Hezekiah Grindley had started life +within a few months of one another some five-and-thirty years +before. Likewise within a few hundred yards of one another, +Solomon at his father’s bookselling and printing +establishment on the east side of the High Street of a small +Yorkshire town; Hezekiah at his father’s grocery shop upon +the west side, opposite. Both had married farmers’ +daughters. Solomon’s natural bent towards gaiety Fate +had corrected by directing his affections to a partner instinct +with Yorkshire shrewdness; and with shrewdness go other qualities +that make for success rather than for happiness. Hezekiah, +had circumstances been equal, might have been his friend’s +rival for Janet’s capable and saving hand, had not +sweet-tempered, laughing Annie Glossop—directed by +Providence to her moral welfare, one must presume—fallen in +love with him. Between Jane’s virtues and +Annie’s three hundred golden sovereigns Hezekiah had not +hesitated a moment. Golden sovereigns were solid facts; +wifely virtues, by a serious-minded and strong-willed husband, +could be instilled—at all events, light-heartedness +suppressed. The two men, Hezekiah urged by his own +ambition, Solomon by his wife’s, had arrived in London +within a year of one another: Hezekiah to open a grocer’s +shop in Kensington, which those who should have known assured him +was a hopeless neighbourhood. But Hezekiah had the instinct +of the money-maker. Solomon, after looking about him, had +fixed upon the roomy, substantial house in Nevill’s Court +as a promising foundation for a printer’s business.</p> +<p>That was ten years ago. The two friends, scorning +delights, living laborious days, had seen but little of one +another. Light-hearted Annie had borne to her dour partner +two children who had died. Nathaniel George, with the luck +supposed to wait on number three, had lived on, and, inheriting +fortunately the temperament of his mother, had brought sunshine +into the gloomy rooms above the shop in High Street, +Kensington. Mrs. Grindley, grown weak and fretful, had +rested from her labours.</p> +<p>Mrs. Appleyard’s guardian angel, prudent like his +protégé, had waited till Solomon’s business +was well established before despatching the stork to +Nevill’s Court, with a little girl. Later had sent a +boy, who, not finding the close air of St. Dunstan to his liking, +had found his way back again; thus passing out of this story and +all others. And there remained to carry on the legend of +the Grindleys and the Appleyards only Nathaniel George, now aged +five, and Janet Helvetia, quite a beginner, who took lift +seriously.</p> +<p>There are no such things as facts. Narrow-minded +folk—surveyors, auctioneers, and such like—would have +insisted that the garden between the old Georgian house and +Nevill’s Court was a strip of land one hundred and eighteen +feet by ninety-two, containing a laburnum tree, six laurel +bushes, and a dwarf deodora. To Nathaniel George and Janet +Helvetia it was the land of Thule, “the furthest boundaries +of which no man has reached.” On rainy Sunday +afternoons they played in the great, gloomy pressroom, where +silent ogres, standing motionless, stretched out iron arms to +seize them as they ran. Then just when Nathaniel George was +eight, and Janet Helvetia four and a half, Hezekiah launched the +celebrated “Grindley’s Sauce.” It added a +relish to chops and steaks, transformed cold mutton into a +luxury, and swelled the head of Hezekiah Grindley—which was +big enough in all conscience as it was—and shrivelled up +his little hard heart. The Grindleys and the Appleyards +visited no more. As a sensible fellow ought to have seen +for himself, so thought Hezekiah, the Sauce had altered all +things. The possibility of a marriage between their +children, things having remained equal, might have been a pretty +fancy; but the son of the great Grindley, whose name in +three-foot letters faced the world from every hoarding, would +have to look higher than a printer’s daughter. +Solomon, a sudden and vehement convert to the principles of +mediæval feudalism, would rather see his only child, +granddaughter of the author of <i>The History of Kettlewell</i> +and other works, dead and buried than married to a grocer’s +son, even though he might inherit a fortune made out of poisoning +the public with a mixture of mustard and sour beer. It was +many years before Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia met one +another again, and when they did they had forgotten one +another.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Hezekiah S. Grindley, a short, stout, and pompous gentleman, +sat under a palm in the gorgeously furnished drawing-room of his +big house at Notting Hill. Mrs. Grindley, a thin, faded +woman, the despair of her dressmaker, sat as near to the fire as +its massive and imposing copper outworks would permit, and +shivered. Grindley junior, a fair-haired, well-shaped +youth, with eyes that the other sex found attractive, leant with +his hands in his pockets against a scrupulously robed statue of +Diana, and appeared uncomfortable.</p> +<p>“I’m making the money—making it hand over +fist. All you’ll have to do will be to spend +it,” Grindley senior was explaining to his son and +heir.</p> +<p>“I’ll do that all right, dad.”</p> +<p>“I’m not so sure of it,” was his +father’s opinion. “You’ve got to prove +yourself worthy to spend it. Don’t you think I shall +be content to have slaved all these years merely to provide a +brainless young idiot with the means of self-indulgence. I +leave my money to somebody worthy of me. Understand, +sir?—somebody worthy of me.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Grindley commenced a sentence; Mr. Grindley turned his +small eyes upon her. The sentence remained unfinished.</p> +<p>“You were about to say something,” her husband +reminded her.</p> +<p>Mrs. Grindley said it was nothing.</p> +<p>“If it is anything worth hearing—if it is anything +that will assist the discussion, let’s have +it.” Mr. Grindley waited. “If not, if you +yourself do not consider it worth finishing, why have begun +it?”</p> +<p>Mr. Grindley returned to his son and heir. “You +haven’t done too well at school—in fact, your school +career has disappointed me.”</p> +<p>“I know I’m not clever,” Grindley junior +offered as an excuse.</p> +<p>“Why not? Why aren’t you clever?”</p> +<p>His son and heir was unable to explain.</p> +<p>“You are my son—why aren’t you clever? +It’s laziness, sir; sheer laziness!”</p> +<p>“I’ll try and do better at Oxford, +sir—honour bright I will!”</p> +<p>“You had better,” advised him his father; +“because I warn you, your whole future depends upon +it. You know me. You’ve got to be a credit to +me, to be worthy of the name of Grindley—or the name, my +boy, is all you’ll have.”</p> +<p>Old Grindley meant it, and his son knew that he meant +it. The old Puritan principles and instincts were strong in +the old gentleman—formed, perhaps, the better part of +him. Idleness was an abomination to him; devotion to +pleasure, other than the pleasure of money-making, a grievous sin +in his eyes. Grindley junior fully intended to do well at +Oxford, and might have succeeded. In accusing himself of +lack of cleverness, he did himself an injustice. He had +brains, he had energy, he had character. Our virtues can be +our stumbling-blocks as well as our vices. Young Grindley +had one admirable virtue that needs, above all others, careful +controlling: he was amiability itself. Before the charm and +sweetness of it, Oxford snobbishness went down. The Sauce, +against the earnest counsel of its own advertisement, was +forgotten; the pickles passed by. To escape the natural +result of his popularity would have needed a stronger will than +young Grindley possessed. For a time the true state of +affairs was hidden from the eye of Grindley senior. To +“slack” it this term, with the full determination of +“swotting” it the next, is always easy; the +difficulty beginning only with the new term. Possibly with +luck young Grindley might have retrieved his position and covered +up the traces of his folly, but for an unfortunate +accident. Returning to college with some other choice +spirits at two o’clock in the morning, it occurred to young +Grindley that trouble might be saved all round by cutting out a +pane of glass with a diamond ring and entering his rooms, which +were on the ground-floor, by the window. That, in mistake +for his own, he should have selected the bedroom of the College +Rector was a misfortune that might have occurred to anyone who +had commenced the evening on champagne and finished it on +whisky. Young Grindley, having been warned already twice +before, was “sent down.” And then, of course, +the whole history of the three wasted years came out. Old +Grindley in his study chair having talked for half an hour at the +top of his voice, chose, partly by reason of physical necessity, +partly by reason of dormant dramatic instinct, to speak quietly +and slowly.</p> +<p>“I’ll give you one chance more, my boy, and one +only. I’ve tried you as a gentleman—perhaps +that was my mistake. Now I’ll try you as a +grocer.”</p> +<p>“As a what?”</p> +<p>“As a grocer, sir—g-r-o-c-e-r—grocer, a man +who stands behind a counter in a white apron and his +shirt-sleeves; who sells tea and sugar and candied peel and +such-like things to customers—old ladies, little girls; who +rises at six in the morning, takes down the shutters, sweeps out +the shop, cleans the windows; who has half an hour for his dinner +of corned beef and bread; who puts up the shutters at ten +o’clock at night, tidies up the shop, has his supper, and +goes to bed, feeling his day has not been wasted. I meant +to spare you. I was wrong. You shall go through the +mill as I went through it. If at the end of two years +you’ve done well with your time, learned +something—learned to be a man, at all events—you can +come to me and thank me.”</p> +<p>“I’m afraid, sir,” suggested Grindley +junior, whose handsome face during the last few minutes had grown +very white, “I might not make a very satisfactory +grocer. You see, sir, I’ve had no +experience.”</p> +<p>“I am glad you have some sense,” returned his +father drily. “You are quite right. Even a +grocer’s business requires learning. It will cost me +a little money; but it will be the last I shall ever spend upon +you. For the first year you will have to be apprenticed, +and I shall allow you something to live on. It shall be +more than I had at your age—we’ll say a pound a +week. After that I shall expect you to keep +yourself.”</p> +<p>Grindley senior rose. “You need not give me your +answer till the evening. You are of age. I have no +control over you unless you are willing to agree. You can +go my way, or you can go your own.”</p> +<p>Young Grindley, who had inherited a good deal of his +father’s grit, felt very much inclined to go his own; but, +hampered on the other hand by the sweetness of disposition he had +inherited from his mother, was unable to withstand the argument +of that lady’s tears, so that evening accepted old +Grindley’s terms, asking only as a favour that the scene of +his probation might be in some out-of-the-way neighbourhood where +there would be little chance of his being met by old friends.</p> +<p>“I have thought of all that,” answered his +father. “My object isn’t to humiliate you more +than is necessary for your good. The shop I have already +selected, on the assumption that you would submit, is as quiet +and out-of-the-way as you could wish. It is in a turning +off Fetter Lane, where you’ll see few other people than +printers and caretakers. You’ll lodge with a woman, a +Mrs. Postwhistle, who seems a very sensible person. +She’ll board you and lodge you, and every Saturday +you’ll receive a post-office order for six shillings, out +of which you’ll find yourself in clothes. You can +take with you sufficient to last you for the first six months, +but no more. At the end of the year you can change if you +like and go to another shop, or make your own arrangements with +Mrs. Postwhistle. If all is settled, you go there +to-morrow. You go out of this house to-morrow in any +event.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle was a large, placid lady of philosophic +temperament. Hitherto the little grocer’s shop in +Rolls Court, Fetter Lane, had been easy of management by her own +unaided efforts; but the neighbourhood was rapidly +changing. Other grocers’ shops were disappearing one +by one, making way for huge blocks of buildings, where hundreds +of iron presses, singing day and night, spread to the earth the +song of the Mighty Pen. There were hours when the little +shop could hardly accommodate its crowd of customers. Mrs. +Postwhistle, of a bulk not to be moved quickly, had, after mature +consideration, conquering a natural disinclination to change, +decided to seek assistance.</p> +<p>Young Grindley, alighting from a four-wheeled cab in Fetter +Lane, marched up the court, followed by a weak-kneed wastrel +staggering under the weight of a small box. In the doorway +of the little shop, young Grindley paused and raised his hat.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Postwhistle?”</p> +<p>The lady, from her chair behind the counter, rose slowly.</p> +<p>“I am Mr. Nathaniel Grindley, the new +assistant.”</p> +<p>The weak-kneed wastrel let fall the box with a thud upon the +floor. Mrs. Postwhistle looked her new assistant up and +down.</p> +<p>“Oh!” said Mrs. Postwhistle. “Well, I +shouldn’t ’ave felt instinctively it must be you, not +if I’d ’ad to pick you out of a crowd. But if +you tell me so, why, I suppose you are. Come in.”</p> +<p>The weak-kneed wastrel, receiving to his astonishment a +shilling, departed.</p> +<p>Grindley senior had selected wisely. Mrs. +Postwhistle’s theory was that although very few people in +this world understood their own business, they understood it +better than anyone else could understand it for them. If +handsome, well-educated young gentlemen, who gave shillings to +wastrels, felt they wanted to become smart and capable +grocers’ assistants, that was their affair. Her +business was to teach them their work, and, for her own sake, to +see that they did it. A month went by. Mrs. +Postwhistle found her new assistant hard-working, willing, +somewhat clumsy, but with a smile and a laugh that transformed +mistakes, for which another would have been soundly rated, into +welcome variations of the day’s monotony.</p> +<p>“If you were the sort of woman that cared to make your +fortune,” said one William Clodd, an old friend of Mrs. +Postwhistle’s, young Grindley having descended into the +cellar to grind coffee, “I’d tell you what to +do. Take a bun-shop somewhere in the neighbourhood of a +girls’ school, and put that assistant of yours in the +window. You’d do a roaring business.”</p> +<p>“There’s a mystery about ’im,” said +Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“Know what it is?”</p> +<p>“If I knew what it was, I shouldn’t be calling it +a mystery,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle, who was a stylist in +her way.</p> +<p>“How did you get him? Win him in a +raffle?”</p> +<p>“Jones, the agent, sent ’im to me all in a +’urry. An assistant is what I really wanted, not an +apprentice; but the premium was good, and the references +everything one could desire.”</p> +<p>“Grindley, Grindley,” murmured Clodd. +“Any relation to the Sauce, I wonder?”</p> +<p>“A bit more wholesome, I should say, from the look of +him,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>The question of a post office to meet its growing need had +long been under discussion by the neighbourhood. Mrs. +Postwhistle was approached upon the subject. Grindley +junior, eager for anything that might bring variety into his new, +cramped existence, undertook to qualify himself.</p> +<p>Within two months the arrangements were complete. +Grindley junior divided his time between dispensing groceries and +despatching telegrams and letters, and was grateful for the +change.</p> +<p>Grindley junior’s mind was fixed upon the fashioning of +a cornucopia to receive a quarter of a pound of moist. The +customer, an extremely young lady, was seeking to hasten his +operations by tapping incessantly with a penny on the +counter. It did not hurry him; it only worried him. +Grindley junior had not acquired facility in the fashioning of +cornucopias—the vertex would invariably become unrolled at +the last moment, allowing the contents to dribble out on to the +floor or counter. Grindley junior was sweet-tempered as a +rule, but when engaged upon the fashioning of a cornucopia, was +irritable.</p> +<p>“Hurry up, old man!” urged the extremely young +lady. “I’ve got another appointment in less +than half an hour.”</p> +<p>“Oh, damn the thing!” said Grindley junior, as the +paper for the fourth time reverted to its original shape.</p> +<p>An older lady, standing behind the extremely young lady and +holding a telegram-form in her hand, looked indignant.</p> +<p>“Temper, temper,” remarked the extremely young +lady in reproving tone.</p> +<p>The fifth time was more successful. The extremely young +lady went out, commenting upon the waste of time always resulting +when boys were employed to do the work of men. The older +lady, a haughty person, handed across her telegram with the +request that it should be sent off at once.</p> +<p>Grindley junior took his pencil from his pocket and commenced +to count.</p> +<p>“<i>Digniori</i>, not <i>digniorus</i>,” commented +Grindley junior, correcting the word, “<i>datur +digniori</i>, dative singular.” Grindley junior, +still irritable from the struggle with the cornucopia, spoke +sharply.</p> +<p>The haughty lady withdrew her eyes from a spot some ten miles +beyond the back of the shop, where hitherto they had been +resting, and fixed them for the first time upon Grindley +junior.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said the haughty lady.</p> +<p>Grindley junior looked up and immediately, to his annoyance, +felt that he was blushing. Grindley junior blushed +easily—it annoyed him very much.</p> +<p>The haughty young lady also blushed. She did not often +blush; when she did, she felt angry with herself.</p> +<p>“A shilling and a penny,” demanded Grindley +junior.</p> +<p>The haughty young lady counted out the money and +departed. Grindley junior, peeping from behind a tin of +Abernethy biscuits, noticed that as she passed the window she +turned and looked back. She was a very pretty, haughty +lady. Grindley junior rather admired dark, level brows and +finely cut, tremulous lips, especially when combined with a mass +of soft, brown hair, and a rich olive complexion that flushed and +paled as one looked at it.</p> +<p>“Might send that telegram off if you’ve nothing +else to do, and there’s no particular reason for keeping it +back,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“It’s only just been handed in,” explained +Grindley junior, somewhat hurt.</p> +<p>“You’ve been looking at it for the last five +minutes by the clock,” said Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>Grindley junior sat down to the machine. The name and +address of the sender was Helvetia Appleyard, Nevill’s +Court.</p> +<p>Three days passed—singularly empty days they appeared to +Grindley junior. On the fourth, Helvetia Appleyard had +occasion to despatch another telegram—this time entirely in +English.</p> +<p>“One-and-fourpence,” sighed Grindley junior.</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard drew forth her purse. The shop was +empty.</p> +<p>“How did you come to know Latin?” inquired Miss +Appleyard in quite a casual tone.</p> +<p>“I picked up a little at school. It was a phrase I +happened to remember,” confessed Grindley junior, wondering +why he should be feeling ashamed of himself.</p> +<p>“I am always sorry,” said Miss Appleyard, +“when I see anyone content with the lower life whose +talents might, perhaps, fit him for the higher.” +Something about the tone and manner of Miss Appleyard reminded +Grindley junior of his former Rector. Each seemed to have +arrived by different roads at the same philosophical aloofness +from the world, tempered by chastened interest in human +phenomena. “Would you like to try to raise +yourself—to improve yourself—to educate +yourself?”</p> +<p>An unseen little rogue, who was enjoying himself immensely, +whispered to Grindley junior to say nothing but +“Yes,” he should.</p> +<p>“Will you let me help you?” asked Miss +Appleyard. And the simple and heartfelt gratitude with +which Grindley junior closed upon the offer proved to Miss +Appleyard how true it is that to do good to others is the highest +joy.</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard had come prepared for possible +acceptance. “You had better begin with this,” +thought Miss Appleyard. “I have marked the passages +that you should learn by heart. Make a note of anything you +do not understand, and I will explain it to you when—when +next I happen to be passing.”</p> +<p>Grindley junior took the book—<i>Bell’s +Introduction to the Study of the Classics</i>, <i>for Use of +Beginners</i>—and held it between both hands. Its +price was ninepence, but Grindley junior appeared to regard it as +a volume of great value.</p> +<p>“It will be hard work at first,” Miss Appleyard +warned him; “but you must persevere. I have taken an +interest in you; you must try not to disappoint me.”</p> +<p>And Miss Appleyard, feeling all the sensations of a Hypatia, +departed, taking light with her and forgetting to pay for the +telegram. Miss Appleyard belonged to the class that young +ladies who pride themselves on being tiresomely ignorant and +foolish sneer at as “blue-stockings”; that is to say, +possessing brains, she had felt the necessity of using +them. Solomon Appleyard, widower, a sensible old gentleman, +prospering in the printing business, and seeing no necessity for +a woman regarding herself as nothing but a doll, a somewhat +uninteresting plaything the newness once worn off, thankfully +encouraged her. Miss Appleyard had returned from Girton +wise in many things, but not in knowledge of the world, which +knowledge, too early acquired, does not always make for good in +young man or woman. A serious little virgin, Miss +Appleyard’s ambition was to help the human race. What +more useful work could have come to her hand than the raising of +this poor but intelligent young grocer’s assistant unto the +knowledge and the love of higher things. That Grindley +junior happened to be an exceedingly good-looking and charming +young grocer’s assistant had nothing to do with the matter, +so Miss Appleyard would have informed you. In her own +reasoning she was convinced that her interest in him would have +been the same had he been the least attractive of his sex. +That there could be danger in such relationship never occurred to +her.</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard, a convinced Radical, could not conceive the +possibility of a grocer’s assistant regarding the daughter +of a well-to-do printer in any other light than that of a +graciously condescending patron. That there could be danger +to herself! you would have been sorry you had suggested the +idea. The expression of lofty scorn would have made you +feel yourself contemptible.</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard’s judgment of mankind was justified; no +more promising pupil could have been selected. It was +really marvellous the progress made by Grindley junior, under the +tutelage of Helvetia Appleyard. His earnestness, his +enthusiasm, it quite touched the heart of Helvetia +Appleyard. There were many points, it is true, that puzzled +Grindley junior. Each time the list of them grew +longer. But when Helvetia Appleyard explained them, all +became clear. She marvelled herself at her own wisdom, that +in a moment made darkness luminous to this young man; his rapt +attention while she talked, it was most encouraging. The +boy must surely be a genius. To think that but for her +intuition he might have remained wasted in a grocer’s +shop! To rescue such a gem from oblivion, to polish it, was +surely the duty of a conscientious Hypatia. Two +visits—three visits a week to the little shop in Rolls +Court were quite inadequate, so many passages there were +requiring elucidation. London in early morning became their +classroom: the great, wide, empty, silent streets; the +mist-curtained parks, the silence broken only by the +blackbirds’ amorous whistle, the thrushes’ invitation +to delight; the old gardens, hidden behind narrow ways. +Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia would rest upon a seat, no +living creature within sight, save perhaps a passing policeman or +some dissipated cat. Janet Helvetia would expound. +Nathaniel George, his fine eyes fixed on hers, seemed never to +tire of drinking in her wisdom.</p> +<p>There were times when Janet Helvetia, to reassure herself as +to the maidenly correctness of her behaviour, had to recall quite +forcibly the fact that she was the daughter of Solomon Appleyard, +owner of the big printing establishment; and he a simple +grocer. One day, raised a little in the social scale, +thanks to her, Nathaniel George would marry someone in his own +rank of life. Reflecting upon the future of Nathaniel +George, Janet Helvetia could not escape a shade of sadness. +It was difficult to imagine precisely the wife she would have +chosen for Nathaniel George. She hoped he would do nothing +foolish. Rising young men so often marry wives that hamper +rather than help them.</p> +<p>One Sunday morning in late autumn, they walked and talked in +the shady garden of Lincoln’s Inn. Greek they thought +it was they had been talking; as a matter of fact, a much older +language. A young gardener was watering flowers, and as +they passed him he grinned. It was not an offensive grin, +rather a sympathetic grin; but Miss Appleyard didn’t like +being grinned at. What was there to grin at? Her +personal appearance? some <i>gaucherie</i> in her dress? +Impossible. No lady in all St. Dunstan was ever more +precise. She glanced at her companion: a clean-looking, +well-groomed, well-dressed youth. Suddenly it occurred to +Miss Appleyard that she and Grindley junior were holding each +other’s hand. Miss Appleyard was justly +indignant.</p> +<p>“How dare you!” said Miss Appleyard. +“I am exceedingly angry with you. How dare +you!”</p> +<p>The olive skin was scarlet. There were tears in the +hazel eyes.</p> +<p>“Leave me this minute!” commanded Miss +Appleyard.</p> +<p>Instead of which, Grindley junior seized both her hands.</p> +<p>“I love you! I adore you! I worship +you!” poured forth young Grindley, forgetful of all Miss +Appleyard had ever told him concerning the folly of +tautology.</p> +<p>“You had no right,” said Miss Appleyard.</p> +<p>“I couldn’t help it,” pleaded young +Grindley. “And that isn’t the worst.”</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard paled visibly. For a grocer’s +assistant to dare to fall in love with her, especially after all +the trouble she had taken with him! What could be +worse?</p> +<p>“I’m not a grocer,” continued young +Grindley, deeply conscious of crime. “I mean, not a +real grocer.”</p> +<p>And Grindley junior then and there made a clean breast of the +whole sad, terrible tale of shameless deceit, practised by the +greatest villain the world had ever produced, upon the noblest +and most beautiful maiden that ever turned grim London town into +a fairy city of enchanted ways.</p> +<p>Not at first could Miss Appleyard entirely grasp it; not till +hours later, when she sat alone in her own room, where, +fortunately for himself, Grindley junior was not, did the whole +force and meaning of the thing come home to her. It was a +large room, taking up half of the top story of the big Georgian +house in Nevill’s Court; but even as it was, Miss Appleyard +felt cramped.</p> +<p>“For a year—for nearly a whole year,” said +Miss Appleyard, addressing the bust of William Shakespeare, +“have I been slaving my life out, teaching him elementary +Latin and the first five books of Euclid!”</p> +<p>As it has been remarked, it was fortunate for Grindley junior +he was out of reach. The bust of William Shakespeare +maintained its irritating aspect of benign philosophy.</p> +<p>“I suppose I should,” mused Miss Appleyard, +“if he had told me at first—as he ought to have told +me—of course I should naturally have had nothing more to do +with him. I suppose,” mused Miss Appleyard, “a +man in love, if he is really in love, doesn’t quite know +what he’s doing. I suppose one ought to make +allowances. But, oh! when I think of it—”</p> +<p>And then Grindley junior’s guardian angel must surely +have slipped into the room, for Miss Appleyard, irritated beyond +endurance at the philosophical indifference of the bust of +William Shakespeare, turned away from it, and as she did so, +caught sight of herself in the looking-glass. Miss +Appleyard approached the glass a little nearer. A +woman’s hair is never quite as it should be. Miss +Appleyard, standing before the glass, began, she knew not why, to +find reasons excusing Grindley junior. After all, was not +forgiveness an excellent thing in woman? None of us are +quite perfect. The guardian angel of Grindley junior seized +the opportunity.</p> +<p>That evening Solomon Appleyard sat upright in his chair, +feeling confused. So far as he could understand it, a +certain young man, a grocer’s assistant, but not a +grocer’s assistant—but that, of course, was not his +fault, his father being an old brute—had behaved most +abominably; but not, on reflection, as badly as he might have +done, and had acted on the whole very honourably, taking into +consideration the fact that one supposed he could hardly help +it. Helvetia was, of course, very indignant with him, but +on the other hand, did not quite see what else she could have +done, she being not at all sure whether she really cared for him +or whether she didn’t; that everything had been quite +proper and would not have happened if she had known it; that +everything was her fault, except most things, which +weren’t; but that of the two she blamed herself entirely, +seeing that she could not have guessed anything of the +kind. And did he, Solomon Appleyard, think that she ought +to be very angry and never marry anybody else, or was she +justified in overlooking it and engaging herself to the only man +she felt she could ever love?</p> +<p>“You mustn’t think, Dad, that I meant to deceive +you. I should have told you at the beginning—you know +I would—if it hadn’t all happened so +suddenly.”</p> +<p>“Let me see,” said Solomon Appleyard, “did +you tell me his name, or didn’t you?”</p> +<p>“Nathaniel,” said Miss Appleyard. +“Didn’t I mention it?”</p> +<p>“Don’t happen to know his surname, do you,” +inquired her father.</p> +<p>“Grindley,” explained Miss +Appleyard—“the son of Grindley, the Sauce +man.”</p> +<p>Miss Appleyard experienced one of the surprises of her +life. Never before to her recollection had her father +thwarted a single wish of her life. A widower for the last +twelve years, his chief delight had been to humour her. His +voice, as he passionately swore that never with his consent +should his daughter marry the son of Hezekiah Grindley, sounded +strange to her. Pleadings, even tears, for the first time +in her life proved fruitless.</p> +<p>Here was a pretty kettle of fish! That Grindley junior +should defy his own parent, risk possibly the loss of his +inheritance, had seemed to both a not improper proceeding. +When Nathaniel George had said with fine enthusiasm: “Let +him keep his money if he will; I’ll make my own way; there +isn’t enough money in the world to pay for losing +you!” Janet Helvetia, though she had expressed +disapproval of such unfilial attitude, had in secret +sympathised. But for her to disregard the wishes of her own +doting father was not to be thought of. What was to be +done?</p> +<p>Perhaps one Peter Hope, residing in Gough Square hard by, +might help young folks in sore dilemma with wise counsel. +Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor of <i>Good Humour</i>, one +penny weekly, was much esteemed by Solomon Appleyard, printer and +publisher of aforesaid paper.</p> +<p>“A good fellow, old Hope,” Solomon would often +impress upon his managing clerk. “Don’t worry +him more than you can help; things will improve. We can +trust him.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope sat at his desk, facing Miss Appleyard. +Grindley junior sat on the cushioned seat beneath the middle +window. <i>Good Humour’s</i> sub-editor stood before +the fire, her hands behind her back.</p> +<p>The case appeared to Peter Hope to be one of exceeding +difficulty.</p> +<p>“Of course,” explained Miss Appleyard, “I +shall never marry without my father’s consent.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope thought the resolution most proper.</p> +<p>“On the other hand,” continued Miss Appleyard, +“nothing shall induce me to marry a man I do not +love.” Miss Appleyard thought the probabilities were +that she would end by becoming a female missionary.</p> +<p>Peter Hope’s experience had led him to the conclusion +that young people sometimes changed their mind.</p> +<p>The opinion of the House, clearly though silently expressed, +was that Peter Hope’s experience, as regarded this +particular case, counted for nothing.</p> +<p>“I shall go straight to the Governor,” explained +Grindley junior, “and tell him that I consider myself +engaged for life to Miss Appleyard. I know what will +happen—I know the sort of idea he has got into his +head. He will disown me, and I shall go off to +Africa.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope was unable to see how Grindley junior’s +disappearance into the wilds of Africa was going to assist the +matter under discussion.</p> +<p>Grindley junior’s view was that the wilds of Africa +would afford a fitting background to the passing away of a +blighted existence.</p> +<p>Peter Hope had a suspicion that Grindley junior had for the +moment parted company with that sweet reasonableness that +otherwise, so Peter Hope felt sure, was Grindley junior’s +guiding star.</p> +<p>“I mean it, sir,” reasserted Grindley +junior. “I am—” Grindley junior was about +to add “well educated”; but divining that education +was a topic not pleasing at the moment to the ears of Helvetia +Appleyard, had tact enough to substitute “not a fool. +I can earn my own living; and I should like to get +away.”</p> +<p>“It seems to me—” said the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“Now, Tommy—I mean Jane,” warned her Peter +Hope. He always called her Jane in company, unless he was +excited. “I know what you are going to say. I +won’t have it.”</p> +<p>“I was only going to say—” urged the +sub-editor in tone of one suffering injustice.</p> +<p>“I quite know what you were going to say,” +retorted Peter hotly. “I can see it by your +chin. You are going to take their part—and suggest +their acting undutifully towards their parents.”</p> +<p>“I wasn’t,” returned the sub-editor. +“I was only—”</p> +<p>“You were,” persisted Peter. “I ought +not to have allowed you to be present. I might have known +you would interfere.”</p> +<p>“—going to say we are in want of some help in the +office. You know we are. And that if Mr. Grindley +would be content with a small salary—”</p> +<p>“Small salary be hanged!” snarled Peter.</p> +<p>“—there would be no need for his going to +Africa.”</p> +<p>“And how would that help us?” demanded +Peter. “Even if the boy were so—so headstrong, +so unfilial as to defy his father, who has worked for him all +these years, how would that remove the obstacle of Mr. +Appleyard’s refusal?”</p> +<p>“Why, don’t you see—” explained the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>“No, I don’t,” snapped Peter.</p> +<p>“If, on his declaring to his father that nothing will +ever induce him to marry any other woman but Miss Appleyard, his +father disowns him, as he thinks it likely—”</p> +<p>“A dead cert!” was Grindley junior’s +conviction.</p> +<p>“Very well; he is no longer old Grindley’s son, +and what possible objection can Mr. Appleyard have to him +then?”</p> +<p>Peter Hope arose and expounded at length and in suitable +language the folly and uselessness of the scheme.</p> +<p>But what chance had ever the wisdom of Age against the +enthusiasm of Youth, reaching for its object. Poor Peter, +expostulating, was swept into the conspiracy. Grindley +junior the next morning stood before his father in the private +office in High Holborn.</p> +<p>“I am sorry, sir,” said Grindley junior, “if +I have proved a disappointment to you.”</p> +<p>“Damn your sympathy!” said Grindley senior. +“Keep it till you are asked for it.”</p> +<p>“I hope we part friends, sir,” said Grindley +junior, holding out his hand.</p> +<p>“Why do you irate me?” asked Grindley +senior. “I have thought of nothing but you these +five-and-twenty years.”</p> +<p>“I don’t, sir,” answered Grindley +junior. “I can’t say I love you. It did +not seem to me you—you wanted it. But I like you, +sir, and I respect you. And—and I’m sorry to +have to hurt you, sir.”</p> +<p>“And you are determined to give up all your prospects, +all the money, for the sake of this—this girl?”</p> +<p>“It doesn’t seem like giving up anything, +sir,” replied Grindley junior, simply.</p> +<p>“It isn’t so much as I thought it was going to +be,” said the old man, after a pause. “Perhaps +it is for the best. I might have been more obstinate if +things had been going all right. The Lord has chastened +me.”</p> +<p>“Isn’t the business doing well, Dad?” asked +the young man, with sorrow in his voice.</p> +<p>“What’s it got to do with you?” snapped his +father. “You’ve cut yourself adrift from +it. You leave me now I am going down.”</p> +<p>Grindley junior, not knowing what to say, put his arms round +the little old man.</p> +<p>And in this way Tommy’s brilliant scheme fell through +and came to naught. Instead, old Grindley visited once +again the big house in Nevill’s Court, and remained long +closeted with old Solomon in the office on the second +floor. It was late in the evening when Solomon opened the +door and called upstairs to Janet Helvetia to come down.</p> +<p>“I used to know you long ago,” said Hezekiah +Grindley, rising. “You were quite a little girl +then.”</p> +<p>Later, the troublesome Sauce disappeared entirely, cut out by +newer flavours. Grindley junior studied the printing +business. It almost seemed as if old Appleyard had been +waiting but for this. Some six months later they found him +dead in his counting-house. Grindley junior became the +printer and publisher of <i>Good Humour</i>.</p> +<h2>STORY THE FOURTH—Miss Ramsbotham gives her +Services</h2> +<p>To regard Miss Ramsbotham as a marriageable quantity would +have occurred to few men. Endowed by Nature with every +feminine quality calculated to inspire liking, she had, on the +other hand, been disinherited of every attribute calculated to +excite passion. An ugly woman has for some men an +attraction; the proof is ever present to our eyes. Miss +Ramsbotham was plain but pleasant looking. Large, healthy +in mind and body, capable, self-reliant, and cheerful, blessed +with a happy disposition together with a keen sense of humour, +there was about her absolutely nothing for tenderness to lay hold +of. An ideal wife, she was an impossible sweetheart. +Every man was her friend. The suggestion that any man could +be her lover she herself would have greeted with a clear, ringing +laugh.</p> +<p>Not that she held love in despite; for such folly she was +possessed of far too much sound sense. “To have +somebody in love with you—somebody strong and good,” +so she would confess to her few close intimates, a dreamy +expression clouding for an instant her broad, sunny face, +“why, it must be just lovely!” For Miss +Ramsbotham was prone to American phraseology, and had even been +at some pains, during a six months’ journey through the +States (whither she had been commissioned by a conscientious +trade journal seeking reliable information concerning the +condition of female textile workers) to acquire a slight but +decided American accent. It was her one affectation, but +assumed, as one might feel certain, for a practical and +legitimate object.</p> +<p>“You can have no conception,” she would explain, +laughing, “what a help I find it. ‘I’m +‘Muriken’ is the ‘Civis Romanus sum’ of +the modern woman’s world. It opens every door to +us. If I ring the bell and say, ‘Oh, if you please, I +have come to interview Mr. So-and-So for such-and-such a +paper,’ the footman looks through me at the opposite side +of the street, and tells me to wait in the hall while he inquires +if Mr. So-and-So will see me or not. But if I say, +‘That’s my keerd, young man. You tell your +master Miss Ramsbotham is waiting for him in the showroom, and +will take it real kind if he’ll just bustle himself,’ +the poor fellow walks backwards till he stumbles against the +bottom stair, and my gentleman comes down with profuse apologies +for having kept me waiting three minutes and a half.</p> +<p>“’And to be in love with someone,” she would +continue, “someone great that one could look up to and +honour and worship—someone that would fill one’s +whole life, make it beautiful, make every day worth living, I +think that would be better still. To work merely for +one’s self, to think merely for one’s self, it is so +much less interesting.”</p> +<p>Then, at some such point of the argument, Miss Ramsbotham +would jump up from her chair and shake herself indignantly.</p> +<p>“Why, what nonsense I’m talking,” she would +tell herself, and her listeners. “I make a very fair +income, have a host of friends, and enjoy every hour of my +life. I should like to have been pretty or handsome, of +course; but no one can have all the good things of this world, +and I have my brains. At one time, perhaps, yes; but +now—no, honestly I would not change myself.”</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham was sorry that no man had ever fallen in love +with her, but that she could understand.</p> +<p>“It is quite clear to me.” So she had once +unburdened herself to her bosom friend. “Man for the +purposes of the race has been given two kinds of love, between +which, according to his opportunities and temperament, he is free +to choose: he can fall down upon his knees and adore physical +beauty (for Nature ignores entirely our mental side), or he can +take delight in circling with his protecting arm the weak and +helpless. Now, I make no appeal to either instinct. I +possess neither the charm nor beauty to attract—”</p> +<p>“Beauty,” reminded her the bosom friend, +consolingly, “dwells in the beholder’s +eye.”</p> +<p>“My dear,” cheerfully replied Miss Ramsbotham, +“it would have to be an eye of the range and capacity Sam +Weller frankly owned up to not possessing—a patent +double-million magnifying, capable of seeing through a deal board +and round the corner sort of eye—to detect any beauty in +me. And I am much too big and sensible for any man not a +fool ever to think of wanting to take care of me.</p> +<p>“I believe,” remembered Miss Ramsbotham, “if +it does not sound like idle boasting, I might have had a husband, +of a kind, if Fate had not compelled me to save his life. I +met him one year at Huyst, a small, quiet watering-place on the +Dutch coast. He would walk always half a step behind me, +regarding me out of the corner of his eye quite approvingly at +times. He was a widower—a good little man, devoted to +his three charming children. They took an immense fancy to +me, and I really think I could have got on with him. I am +very adaptable, as you know. But it was not to be. He +got out of his depth one morning, and unfortunately there was no +one within distance but myself who could swim. I knew what +the result would be. You remember Labiche’s comedy, +<i>Les Voyage de Monsieur Perrichon</i>? Of course, every +man hates having had his life saved, after it is over; and you +can imagine how he must hate having it saved by a woman. +But what was I to do? In either case he would be lost to +me, whether I let him drown or whether I rescued him. So, +as it really made no difference, I rescued him. He was very +grateful, and left the next morning.</p> +<p>“It is my destiny. No man has ever fallen in love +with me, and no man ever will. I used to worry myself about +it when I was younger. As a child I hugged to my bosom for +years an observation I had overheard an aunt of mine whisper to +my mother one afternoon as they sat knitting and talking, not +thinking I was listening. ‘You never can tell,’ +murmured my aunt, keeping her eyes carefully fixed upon her +needles; ‘children change so. I have known the +plainest girls grow up into quite beautiful women. I should +not worry about it if I were you—not yet +awhile.’ My mother was not at all a bad-looking +woman, and my father was decidedly handsome; so there seemed no +reason why I should not hope. I pictured myself the ugly +duckling of Andersen’s fairy-tale, and every morning on +waking I would run straight to my glass and try to persuade +myself that the feathers of the swan were beginning at last to +show themselves.” Miss Ramsbotham laughed, a genuine +laugh of amusement, for of self-pity not a trace was now +remaining to her.</p> +<p>“Later I plucked hope again,” continued Miss +Ramsbotham her confession, “from the reading of a certain +school of fiction more popular twenty years ago than now. +In these romances the heroine was never what you would call +beautiful, unless in common with the hero you happened to possess +exceptional powers of observation. But she was better than +that, she was good. I do not regard as time wasted the +hours I spent studying this quaint literature. It helped +me, I am sure, to form habits that have since been of service to +me. I made a point, when any young man visitor happened to +be staying with us, of rising exceptionally early in the morning, +so that I always appeared at the breakfast-table fresh, cheerful, +and carefully dressed, with, when possible, a dew-besprinkled +flower in my hair to prove that I had already been out in the +garden. The effort, as far as the young man visitor was +concerned, was always thrown away; as a general rule, he came +down late himself, and generally too drowsy to notice anything +much. But it was excellent practice for me. I wake +now at seven o’clock as a matter of course, whatever time I +go to bed. I made my own dresses and most of our cakes, and +took care to let everybody know it. Though I say it who +should not, I play and sing rather well. I certainly was +never a fool. I had no little brothers and sisters to whom +to be exceptionally devoted, but I had my cousins about the house +as much as possible, and damaged their characters, if anything, +by over-indulgence. My dear, it never caught even a +curate! I am not one of those women to run down men; I +think them delightful creatures, and in a general way I find them +very intelligent. But where their hearts are concerned it +is the girl with the frizzy hair, who wants two people to help +her over the stile, that is their idea of an angel. No man +could fall in love with me; he couldn’t if he tried. +That I can understand; but”—Miss Ramsbotham sunk her +voice to a more confidential tone—“what I cannot +understand is that I have never fallen in love with any man, +because I like them all.”</p> +<p>“You have given the explanation yourself,” +suggested the bosom friend—one Susan Fossett, the +“Aunt Emma” of <i>The Ladies’ Journal</i>, a +nice woman, but talkative. “You are too +sensible.”</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham shook her head, “I should just love to +fall in love. When I think about it, I feel quite ashamed +of myself for not having done so.”</p> +<p>Whether it was this idea, namely, that it was her duty, or +whether it was that passion came to her, unsought, somewhat late +in life, and therefore all the stronger, she herself would +perhaps have been unable to declare. Certain only it is +that at over thirty years of age this clever, sensible, +clear-seeing woman fell to sighing and blushing, starting and +stammering at the sounding of a name, as though for all the world +she had been a love-sick girl in her teens.</p> +<p>Susan Fossett, her bosom friend, brought the strange tidings +to Bohemia one foggy November afternoon, her opportunity being a +tea-party given by Peter Hope to commemorate the birthday of his +adopted daughter and sub-editor, Jane Helen, commonly called +Tommy. The actual date of Tommy’s birthday was known +only to the gods; but out of the London mist to wifeless, +childless Peter she had come the evening of a certain November +the eighteenth, and therefore by Peter and his friends November +the eighteenth had been marked upon the calendar as a day on +which they should rejoice together.</p> +<p>“It is bound to leak out sooner or later,” Susan +Fossett was convinced, “so I may as well tell you: that +gaby Mary Ramsbotham has got herself engaged.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense!” was Peter Hope’s involuntary +ejaculation.</p> +<p>“Precisely what I mean to tell her the very next time I +see her,” added Susan.</p> +<p>“Who to?” demanded Tommy.</p> +<p>“You mean ‘to whom.’ The preeposition +governs the objective case,” corrected her James Douglas +McTear, commonly called “The Wee Laddie,” who himself +wrote English better than he spoke it.</p> +<p>“I meant ‘to whom,’” explained +Tommy.</p> +<p>“Ye didna say it,” persisted the Wee Laddie.</p> +<p>“I don’t know to whom,” replied Miss +Ramsbotham’s bosom friend, sipping tea and breathing +indignation. “To something idiotic and incongruous +that will make her life a misery to her.”</p> +<p>Somerville, the briefless, held that in the absence of all +data such conclusion was unjustifiable.</p> +<p>“If it had been to anything sensible,” was Miss +Fossett’s opinion, “she would not have kept me in the +dark about it, to spring it upon me like a bombshell. +I’ve never had so much as a hint from her until I received +this absurd scrawl an hour ago.”</p> +<p>Miss Fossett produced from her bag a letter written in +pencil.</p> +<p>“There can be no harm in your hearing it,” was +Miss Fossett’s excuse; “it will give you an idea of +the state of the poor thing’s mind.”</p> +<p>The tea-drinkers left their cups and gathered round her. +“Dear Susan,” read Miss Fossett, “I shall not +be able to be with you to-morrow. Please get me out of it +nicely. I can’t remember at the moment what it +is. You’ll be surprised to hear that I’m +<i>engaged</i>—to be married, I mean, I can hardly +<i>realise</i> it. I hardly seem to know where I am. +Have just made up my mind to run down to Yorkshire and see +grandmamma. I must do <i>something</i>. I must +<i>talk</i> to <i>somebody</i> and—forgive me, +dear—but you <i>are</i> so sensible, and just +now—well I don’t <i>feel</i> sensible. Will +tell you all about it when I see you—next week, +perhaps. You must <i>try</i> to like him. He is +<i>so</i> handsome and <i>really</i> clever—in his own +way. Don’t scold me. I never thought it +possible that <i>anyone</i> could be so happy. It’s +quite a different sort of happiness to <i>any</i> other sort of +happiness. I don’t know how to describe it. +Please ask Burcot to let me off the antequarian congress. I +feel I should do it badly. I am so thankful he has +<i>no</i> relatives—in England. I should have been so +<i>terribly</i> nervous. Twelve hours ago I could not have +<i>dreamt</i> of it, and now I walk on tiptoe for fear of waking +up. Did I leave my chinchilla at your rooms? +Don’t be angry with me. I should have told you if I +had known. In haste. Yours, Mary.”</p> +<p>“It’s dated from Marylebone Road, and yesterday +afternoon she did leave her chinchilla in my rooms, which makes +me think it really must be from Mary Ramsbotham. Otherwise +I should have my doubts,” added Miss Fossett, as she folded +up the letter and replaced it in her bag.</p> +<p>“Id is love!” was the explanation of Dr. William +Smith, his round, red face illuminated with poetic ecstasy. +“Love has gone to her—has dransformed her once again +into the leedle maid.”</p> +<p>“Love,” retorted Susan Fossett, +“doesn’t transform an intelligent, educated woman +into a person who writes a letter all in jerks, underlines every +other word, spells antiquarian with an ’e,’ and +Burcott’s name, whom she has known for the last eight +years, with only one ’t.’ The woman has gone +stark, staring mad!”</p> +<p>“We must wait until we have seen him,” was +Peter’s judicious view. “I should be so glad to +think that the dear lady was happy.”</p> +<p>“So should I,” added Miss Fossett drily.</p> +<p>“One of the most sensible women I have ever met,” +commented William Clodd. “Lucky man, whoever he +is. Half wish I’d thought of it myself.”</p> +<p>“I am not saying that he isn’t,” retorted +Miss Fossett. “It isn’t him I’m worrying +about.”</p> +<p>“I preesume you mean ‘he,’” suggested +the Wee Laddie. “The verb ‘to +be’—”</p> +<p>“For goodness’ sake,” suggested Miss Fossett +to Tommy, “give that man something to eat or drink. +That’s the worst of people who take up grammar late in +life. Like all converts, they become fanatical.”</p> +<p>“She’s a ripping good sort, is Mary +Ramsbotham,” exclaimed Grindley junior, printer and +publisher of <i>Good Humour</i>. “The marvel to me is +that no man hitherto has ever had the sense to want +her.”</p> +<p>“Oh, you men!” cried Miss Fossett. “A +pretty face and an empty head is all you want.”</p> +<p>“Must they always go together?” laughed Mrs. +Grindley junior, <i>née</i> Helvetia Appleyard.</p> +<p>“Exceptions prove the rule,” grunted Miss +Fossett.</p> +<p>“What a happy saying that is,” smiled Mrs. +Grindley junior. “I wonder sometimes how conversation +was ever carried on before it was invented.”</p> +<p>“De man who would fall in love wid our dear frent +Mary,” thought Dr. Smith, “he must be quite +egsceptional.”</p> +<p>“You needn’t talk about her as if she was a +monster—I mean were,” corrected herself Miss Fossett, +with a hasty glance towards the Wee Laddie. “There +isn’t a man I know that’s worthy of her.”</p> +<p>“I mean,” explained the doctor, “dat he must +be a man of character—of brain. Id is de noble man +dat is attracted by de noble woman.”</p> +<p>“By the chorus-girl more often,” suggested Miss +Fossett.</p> +<p>“We must hope for the best,” counselled +Peter. “I cannot believe that a clever, capable woman +like Mary Ramsbotham would make a fool of herself.”</p> +<p>“From what I have seen,” replied Miss Fossett, +“it’s just the clever people—as regards this +particular matter—who do make fools of +themselves.”</p> +<p>Unfortunately Miss Fossett’s judgment proved to be +correct. On being introduced a fortnight later to Miss +Ramsbotham’s fiancé, the impulse of Bohemia was to +exclaim, “Great Scott! Whatever in the name +of—” Then on catching sight of Miss +Ramsbotham’s transfigured face and trembling hands Bohemia +recollected itself in time to murmur instead: “Delighted, +I’m sure!” and to offer mechanical +congratulations. Reginald Peters was a pretty but +remarkably foolish-looking lad of about two-and-twenty, with +curly hair and receding chin; but to Miss Ramsbotham evidently a +promising Apollo. Her first meeting with him had taken +place at one of the many political debating societies then in +fashion, attendance at which Miss Ramsbotham found useful for +purposes of journalistic “copy.” Miss +Ramsbotham, hitherto a Radical of pronounced views, he had +succeeded under three months in converting into a strong +supporter of the Gentlemanly Party. His feeble political +platitudes, which a little while before she would have seized +upon merrily to ridicule, she now sat drinking in, her plain face +suffused with admiration. Away from him and in connection +with those subjects—somewhat numerous—about which he +knew little and cared less, she retained her sense and humour; +but in his presence she remained comparatively speechless, gazing +up into his somewhat watery eyes with the grateful expression of +one learning wisdom from a master.</p> +<p>Her absurd adoration—irritating beyond measure to her +friends, and which even to her lover, had he possessed a grain of +sense, would have appeared ridiculous—to Master Peters was +evidently a gratification. Of selfish, exacting nature, he +must have found the services of this brilliant woman of the world +of much practical advantage. Knowing all the most +interesting people in London, it was her pride and pleasure to +introduce him everywhere. Her friends put up with him for +her sake; to please her made him welcome, did their best to like +him, and disguised their failure. The free entry to a +places of amusement saved his limited purse. Her influence, +he had instinct enough to perceive, could not fail to be of use +to him in his profession: that of a barrister. She praised +him to prominent solicitors, took him to tea with judges’ +wives, interested examiners on his behalf. In return he +overlooked her many disadvantages, and did not fail to let her +know it. Miss Ramsbotham’s gratitude was +boundless.</p> +<p>“I do so wish I were younger and better looking,” +she sighed to the bosom friend. “For myself, I +don’t mind; I have got used to it. But it is so hard +on Reggie. He feels it, I know he does, though he never +openly complains.”</p> +<p>“He would be a cad if he did,” answered Susan +Fossett, who having tried conscientiously for a month to tolerate +the fellow, had in the end declared her inability even to do more +than avoid open expression of cordial dislike. “Added +to which I don’t quite see of what use it would be. +You never told him you were young and pretty, did you?”</p> +<p>“I told him, my dear,” replied Miss Ramsbotham, +“the actual truth. I don’t want to take any +credit for doing so; it seemed the best course. You see, +unfortunately, I look my age. With most men it would have +made a difference. You have no idea how good he is. +He assured me he had engaged himself to me with his eyes open, +and that there was no need to dwell upon unpleasant topics. +It is so wonderful to me that he should care for me—he who +could have half the women in London at his feet.”</p> +<p>“Yes, he’s the type that would attract them, I +daresay,” agreed Susan Fossett. “But are you +quite sure that he does?—care for you, I mean.”</p> +<p>“My dear,” returned Miss Ramsbotham, “you +remember Rochefoucauld’s definition. ‘One +loves, the other consents to be loved.’ If he will +only let me do that I shall be content. It is more than I +had any right to expect.”</p> +<p>“Oh, you are a fool,” told her bluntly her bosom +friend.</p> +<p>“I know I am,” admitted Miss Ramsbotham; +“but I had no idea that being a fool was so +delightful.”</p> +<p>Bohemia grew day by day more indignant and amazed. Young +Peters was not even a gentleman. All the little offices of +courtship he left to her. It was she who helped him on with +his coat, and afterwards adjusted her own cloak; she who carried +the parcel, she who followed into and out of the +restaurant. Only when he thought anyone was watching would +he make any attempt to behave to her with even ordinary +courtesy. He bullied her, contradicted her in public, +ignored her openly. Bohemia fumed with impotent rage, yet +was bound to confess that so far as Miss Ramsbotham herself was +concerned he had done more to make her happy than had ever all +Bohemia put together. A tender light took up its dwelling +in her eyes, which for the first time it was noticed were +singularly deep and expressive. The blood, of which she +possessed if anything too much, now came and went, so that her +cheeks, in place of their insistent red, took on a varied pink +and white. Life had entered her thick dark hair, giving to +it shade and shadow.</p> +<p>The woman began to grow younger. She put on flesh. +Sex, hitherto dormant, began to show itself; femininities peeped +out. New tones, suggesting possibilities, crept into her +voice. Bohemia congratulated itself that the affair, after +all, might turn out well.</p> +<p>Then Master Peters spoiled everything by showing a better side +to his nature, and, careless of all worldly considerations, +falling in love himself, honestly, with a girl at the bun +shop. He did the best thing under the circumstances that he +could have done: told Miss Ramsbotham the plain truth, and left +the decision in her hands.</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham acted as anyone who knew her would have +foretold. Possibly, in the silence of her delightful little +four-roomed flat over the tailor’s shop in Marylebone Road, +her sober, worthy maid dismissed for a holiday, she may have shed +some tears; but, if so, no trace of them was allowed to mar the +peace of mind of Mr. Peters. She merely thanked him for +being frank with her, and by a little present pain saving them +both a future of disaster. It was quite understandable; she +knew he had never really been in love with her. She had +thought him the type of man that never does fall in love, as the +word is generally understood—Miss Ramsbotham did not add, +with anyone except himself—and had that been the case, and +he content merely to be loved, they might have been happy +together. As it was—well, it was fortunate he had +found out the truth before it was too late. Now, would he +take her advice?</p> +<p>Mr. Peters was genuinely grateful, as well he might be, and +would consent to any suggestion that Miss Ramsbotham might make; +felt he had behaved shabbily, was very much ashamed of himself, +would be guided in all things by Miss Ramsbotham, whom he should +always regard as the truest of friends, and so on.</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham’s suggestion was this: Mr. Peters, no +more robust of body than of mind, had been speaking for some time +past of travel. Having nothing to do now but to wait for +briefs, why not take this opportunity of visiting his only +well-to-do relative, a Canadian farmer. Meanwhile, let Miss +Peggy leave the bun shop and take up her residence in Miss +Ramsbotham’s flat. Let there be no +engagement—merely an understanding. The girl was +pretty, charming, good, Miss Ramsbotham felt sure; +but—well, a little education, a little training in manners +and behaviour would not be amiss, would it? If, on +returning at the end of six months or a year, Mr. Peters was +still of the same mind, and Peggy also wishful, the affair would +be easier, would it not?</p> +<p>There followed further expressions of eternal gratitude. +Miss Ramsbotham swept all such aside. It would be pleasant +to have a bright young girl to live with her; teaching, moulding +such an one would be a pleasant occupation.</p> +<p>And thus it came to pass that Mr. Reginald Peters disappeared +for a while from Bohemia, to the regret of but few, and there +entered into it one Peggy Nutcombe, as pretty a child as ever +gladdened the eye of man. She had wavy, flaxen hair, a +complexion that might have been manufactured from the essence of +wild roses, the nose that Tennyson bestows upon his +miller’s daughter, and a mouth worthy of the Lowther Arcade +in its days of glory. Add to this the quick grace of a +kitten, with the appealing helplessness of a baby in its first +short frock, and you will be able to forgive Mr. Reginald Peters +his faithlessness. Bohemia looked from one to the +other—from the fairy to the woman—and ceased to +blame. That the fairy was as stupid as a camel, as selfish +as a pig, and as lazy as a nigger Bohemia did not know; +nor—so long as her figure and complexion remained what it +was—would its judgment have been influenced, even if it +had. I speak of the Bohemian male.</p> +<p>But that is just what her figure and complexion did not +do. Mr. Reginald Peters, finding his uncle old, feeble, and +inclined to be fond, deemed it to his advantage to stay longer +than he had intended. Twelve months went by. Miss +Peggy was losing her kittenish grace, was becoming lumpy. A +couple of pimples—one near the right-hand corner of her +rosebud mouth, and another on the left-hand side of her +tip-tilted nose—marred her baby face. At the end of +another six months the men called her plump, and the women +fat. Her walk was degenerating into a waddle; stairs caused +her to grunt. She took to breathing with her mouth, and +Bohemia noticed that her teeth were small, badly coloured, and +uneven. The pimples grew in size and number. The +cream and white of her complexion was merging into a general +yellow. A certain greasiness of skin was manifesting +itself. Babyish ways in connection with a woman who must +have weighed about eleven stone struck Bohemia as +incongruous. Her manners, judged alone, had improved. +But they had not improved her. They did not belong to her; +they did not fit her. They sat on her as Sunday broadcloth +on a yokel. She had learned to employ her +“h’s” correctly, and to speak good +grammar. This gave to her conversation a painfully +artificial air. The little learning she had absorbed was +sufficient to bestow upon her an angry consciousness of her own +invincible ignorance.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Miss Ramsbotham had continued upon her course of +rejuvenation. At twenty-nine she had looked thirty-five; at +thirty-two she looked not a day older than five-and-twenty. +Bohemia felt that should she retrograde further at the same rate +she would soon have to shorten her frocks and let down her +hair. A nervous excitability had taken possession of her +that was playing strange freaks not only with her body, but with +her mind. What it gave to the one it seemed to take from +the other. Old friends, accustomed to enjoy with her the +luxury of plain speech, wondered in vain what they had done to +offend her. Her desire was now towards new friends, new +faces. Her sense of humour appeared to be departing from +her; it became unsafe to jest with her. On the other hand, +she showed herself greedy for admiration and flattery. Her +former chums stepped back astonished to watch brainless young +fops making their way with her by complimenting her upon her +blouse, or whispering to her some trite nonsense about her +eyelashes. From her work she took a good percentage of her +brain power to bestow it on her clothes. Of course, she was +successful. Her dresses suited her, showed her to the best +advantage. Beautiful she could never be, and had sense +enough to know it; but a charming, distinguished-looking woman +she had already become. Also, she was on the high road to +becoming a vain, egotistical, commonplace woman.</p> +<p>It was during the process of this, her metamorphosis, that +Peter Hope one evening received a note from her announcing her +intention of visiting him the next morning at the editorial +office of <i>Good Humour</i>. She added in a postscript +that she would prefer the interview to be private.</p> +<p>Punctually to the time appointed Miss Ramsbotham +arrived. Miss Ramsbotham, contrary to her custom, opened +conversation with the weather. Miss Ramsbotham was of +opinion that there was every possibility of rain. Peter +Hope’s experience was that there was always possibility of +rain.</p> +<p>“How is the Paper doing?” demanded Miss +Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>The Paper—for a paper not yet two years old—was +doing well. “We expect very shortly—very +shortly indeed,” explained Peter Hope, “to turn the +corner.”</p> +<p>“Ah! that ‘corner,’” sympathised Miss +Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>“I confess,” smiled Peter Hope, “it +doesn’t seem to be exactly a right-angled corner. One +reaches it as one thinks. But it takes some getting +round—what I should describe as a cornery +corner.”</p> +<p>“What you want,” thought Miss Ramsbotham, +“are one or two popular features.”</p> +<p>“Popular features,” agreed Peter guardedly, +scenting temptation, “are not to be despised, provided one +steers clear of the vulgar and the commonplace.”</p> +<p>“A Ladies’ Page!” suggested Miss +Ramsbotham—“a page that should make the woman buy +it. The women, believe me, are going to be of more and more +importance to the weekly press.”</p> +<p>“But why should she want a special page to +herself?” demanded Peter Hope. “Why should not +the paper as a whole appeal to her?”</p> +<p>“It doesn’t,” was all Miss Ramsbotham could +offer in explanation.</p> +<p>“We give her literature and the drama, poetry, fiction, +the higher politics, the—”</p> +<p>“I know, I know,” interrupted Miss Ramsbotham, who +of late, among other failings new to her, had developed a +tendency towards impatience; “but she gets all that in half +a dozen other papers. I have thought it out.” +Miss Ramsbotham leaned further across the editorial desk and sunk +her voice unconsciously to a confidential whisper. +“Tell her the coming fashions. Discuss the question +whether hat or bonnet makes you look the younger. Tell her +whether red hair or black is to be the new colour, what size +waist is being worn by the best people. Oh, come!” +laughed Miss Ramsbotham in answer to Peter’s shocked +expression; “one cannot reform the world and human nature +all at once. You must appeal to people’s folly in +order to get them to listen to your wisdom. Make your paper +a success first. You can make it a power +afterwards.”</p> +<p>“But,” argued Peter, “there are already such +papers—papers devoted to—to that sort of thing, and +to nothing else.”</p> +<p>“At sixpence!” replied the practical Miss +Ramsbotham. “I am thinking of the lower middle-class +woman who has twenty pounds a year to spend on dress, and who +takes twelve hours a day to think about it, poor creature. +My dear friend, there is a fortune in it. Think of the +advertisements.”</p> +<p>Poor Peter groaned—old Peter, the dreamer of +dreams. But for thought of Tommy! one day to be left alone +to battle with a stony-eyed, deaf world, Peter most assuredly +would have risen in his wrath, would have said to his +distinguished-looking temptress, “Get thee behind me, Miss +Ramsbotham. My journalistic instinct whispers to me that +your scheme, judged by the mammon of unrighteousness, is +good. It is a new departure. Ten years hence half the +London journals will have adopted it. There is money in +it. But what of that? Shall I for mere dross sell my +editorial soul, turn the temple of the Mighty Pen into a den +of—of milliners! Good morning, Miss Ramsbotham. +I grieve for you. I grieve for you as for a fellow-worker +once inspired by devotion to a noble calling, who has fallen from +her high estate. Good morning, madam.”</p> +<p>So Peter thought as he sat tattooing with his finger-tips upon +the desk; but only said—</p> +<p>“It would have to be well done.”</p> +<p>“Everything would depend upon how it was done,” +agreed Miss Ramsbotham. “Badly done, the idea would +be wasted. You would be merely giving it away to some other +paper.”</p> +<p>“Do you know of anyone?” queried Peter.</p> +<p>“I was thinking of myself,” answered Miss +Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>“I am sorry,” said Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“Why?” demanded Miss Ramsbotham. +“Don’t you think I could do it?”</p> +<p>“I think,” said Peter, “no one could do it +better. I am sorry you should wish to do it—that is +all.”</p> +<p>“I want to do it,” replied Miss Ramsbotham, a note +of doggedness in her voice.</p> +<p>“How much do you propose to charge me?” Peter +smiled.</p> +<p>“Nothing.”</p> +<p>“My dear lady—”</p> +<p>“I could not in conscience,” explained Miss +Ramsbotham, “take payment from both sides. I am going +to make a good deal out of it. I am going to make out of it +at least three hundred a year, and they will be glad to pay +it.”</p> +<p>“Who will?”</p> +<p>“The dressmakers. I shall be one of the most +stylish women in London,” laughed Miss Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>“You used to be a sensible woman,” Peter reminded +her.</p> +<p>“I want to live.”</p> +<p>“Can’t you manage to do it without—without +being a fool, my dear.”</p> +<p>“No,” answered Miss Ramsbotham, “a woman +can’t. I’ve tried it.”</p> +<p>“Very well,” agreed Peter, “be it +so.”</p> +<p>Peter had risen. He laid his shapely, white old hand +upon the woman’s shoulder. “Tell me when you +want to give it up. I shall be glad.”</p> +<p>Thus it was arranged. <i>Good Humour</i> gained +circulation and—of more importance +yet—advertisements; and Miss Ramsbotham, as she had +predicted, the reputation of being one of the best-dressed women +in London. Her reason for desiring such reputation Peter +Hope had shrewdly guessed. Two months later his suspicions +were confirmed. Mr. Reginald Peters, his uncle being dead, +was on his way back to England.</p> +<p>His return was awaited with impatience only by the occupants +of the little flat in the Marylebone Road; and between these two +the difference of symptom was marked. Mistress Peggy, too +stupid to comprehend the change that had been taking place in +her, looked forward to her lover’s arrival with +delight. Mr. Reginald Peters, independently of his +profession, was in consequence of his uncle’s death a man +of means. Miss Ramsbotham’s tutelage, which had +always been distasteful to her, would now be at an end. She +would be a “lady” in the true sense of the +word—according to Miss Peggy’s definition, a woman +with nothing to do but eat and drink, and nothing to think of but +dress. Miss Ramsbotham, on the other hand, who might have +anticipated the home-coming of her quondam admirer with hope, +exhibited a strange condition of alarmed misery, which increased +from day to day as the date drew nearer.</p> +<p>The meeting—whether by design or accident was never +known—took place at an evening party given by the +proprietors of a new journal. The circumstance was +certainly unfortunate for poor Peggy, whom Bohemia began to +pity. Mr. Peters, knowing both women would be there and so +on the look-out, saw in the distance among the crowd of +notabilities a superbly millinered, tall, graceful woman, whose +face recalled sensations he could not for the moment place. +Chiefly noticeable about her were her exquisite neck and arms, +and the air of perfect breeding with which she moved, talking and +laughing, through the distinguished, fashionable throng. +Beside her strutted, nervously aggressive, a vulgar, fat, pimply, +shapeless young woman, attracting universal attention by the +incongruity of her presence in the room. On being greeted +by the graceful lady of the neck and arms, the conviction forced +itself upon him that this could be no other than the once Miss +Ramsbotham, plain of face and indifferent of dress, whose very +appearance he had almost forgotten. On being greeted +gushingly as “Reggie” by the sallow-complexioned, +over-dressed young woman he bowed with evident astonishment, and +apologised for a memory that, so he assured the lady, had always +been to him a source of despair.</p> +<p>Of course, he thanked his stars—and Miss +Ramsbotham—that the engagement had never been formal. +So far as Mr. Peters was concerned, there was an end to Mistress +Peggy’s dream of an existence of everlasting breakfasts in +bed. Leaving the Ramsbotham flat, she returned to the +maternal roof, and there a course of hard work and plain living +tended greatly to improve her figure and complexion; so that in +course of time, the gods smiling again upon her, she married a +foreman printer, and passes out of this story.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Mr. Reginald Peters—older, and the possessor, +perhaps, of more sense—looked at Miss Ramsbotham with new +eyes, and now not tolerated but desired her. Bohemia waited +to assist at the happy termination of a pretty and somewhat novel +romance. Miss Ramsbotham had shown no sign of being +attracted elsewhere. Flattery, compliment, she continued to +welcome; but merely, so it seemed, as favourable criticism. +Suitors more fit and proper were now not lacking, for Miss +Ramsbotham, though a woman less desirable when won, came readily +to the thought of wooing. But to all such she turned a +laughing face.</p> +<p>“I like her for it,” declared Susan Fossett; +“and he has improved—there was room for +it—though I wish it could have been some other. There +was Jack Herring—it would have been so much more +suitable. Or even Joe, in spite of his size. But +it’s her wedding, not ours; and she will never care for +anyone else.”</p> +<p>And Bohemia bought its presents, and had them ready, but never +gave them. A few months later Mr. Reginald Peters returned +to Canada, a bachelor. Miss Ramsbotham expressed her desire +for another private interview with Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“I may as well keep on the Letter to Clorinda,” +thought Miss Ramsbotham. “I have got into the knack +of it. But I will get you to pay me for it in the ordinary +way.”</p> +<p>“I would rather have done so from the beginning,” +explained Peter.</p> +<p>“I know. I could not in conscience, as I told you, +take from both sides. For the future—well, they have +said nothing; but I expect they are beginning to get tired of +it.”</p> +<p>“And you!” questioned Peter.</p> +<p>“Yes. I am tired of it myself,” laughed Miss +Ramsbotham. “Life isn’t long enough to be a +well-dressed woman.”</p> +<p>“You have done with all that?”</p> +<p>“I hope so,” answered Miss Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>“And don’t want to talk any more about it?” +suggested Peter.</p> +<p>“Not just at present. I should find it so +difficult to explain.”</p> +<p>By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts +were made to solve the mystery. Miss Ramsbotham took +enjoyment in cleverly evading these tormentors. Thwarted at +every point, the gossips turned to other themes. Miss +Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branches of +her calling; became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, +‘good sort’ that Bohemia had known, liked, +respected—everything but loved.</p> +<p>Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and +through Susan Fossett, a nice enough woman but talkative, those +few still interested learned the explanation.</p> +<p>“Love,” said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, +“is not regulated by reason. As you say, there were +many men I might have married with much more hope of +happiness. But I never cared for any other man. He +was not intellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough +selfish. The man should always be older than the woman; he +was younger, and he was a weak character. Yet I loved +him.”</p> +<p>“I am glad you didn’t marry him,” said the +bosom friend.</p> +<p>“So am I,” agreed Miss Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>“If you can’t trust me,” had said the bosom +friend at this point, “don’t.”</p> +<p>“I meant to do right,” said Miss Ramsbotham, +“upon my word of honour I did, in the beginning.”</p> +<p>“I don’t understand,” said the bosom +friend.</p> +<p>“If she had been my own child,” continued Miss +Ramsbotham, “I could not have done more—in the +beginning. I tried to teach her, to put some sense into +her. Lord! the hours I wasted on that little idiot! I +marvel at my own patience. She was nothing but an +animal. An animal! she had only an animal’s +vices. To eat and drink and sleep was her idea of +happiness; her one ambition male admiration, and she hadn’t +character enough to put sufficient curb upon her stomach to +retain it. I reasoned with her, I pleaded with her, I +bullied her. Had I persisted I might have succeeded by +sheer physical and mental strength in restraining her from +ruining herself. I was winning. I had made her +frightened of me. Had I gone on, I might have won. By +dragging her out of bed in the morning, by insisting upon her +taking exercise, by regulating every particle of food and drink +she put into her mouth, I kept the little beast in good condition +for nearly three months. Then, I had to go away into the +country for a few days; she swore she would obey my +instructions. When I came back I found she had been in bed +most of the time, and had been living chiefly on chocolate and +cakes. She was curled up asleep in an easy-chair, snoring +with her mouth wide open, when I opened the door. And at +sight of that picture the devil came to me and tempted me. +Why should I waste my time, wear myself out in mind and body, +that the man I loved should marry a pig because it looked like an +angel? ‘Six months’ wallowing according to its +own desires would reveal it in its true shape. So from that +day I left it to itself. No, worse than that—I +don’t want to spare myself—I encouraged her. I +let her have a fire in her bedroom, and half her meals in +bed. I let her have chocolate with tablespoonfuls of cream +floating on the top: she loved it. She was never really +happy except when eating. I let her order her own +meals. I took a fiendish delight watching the dainty limbs +turning to shapeless fat, the pink-and-white complexion growing +blotchy. It is flesh that man loves; brain and mind and +heart and soul! he never thinks of them. This little +pink-and-white sow could have cut me out with Solomon +himself. Why should such creatures have the world arranged +for them, and we not be allowed to use our brains in our own +defence? But for my looking-glass I might have resisted the +temptation, but I always had something of the man in me: the +sport of the thing appealed to me. I suppose it was the +nervous excitement under which I was living that was changing +me. All my sap was going into my body. Given +sufficient time, I might meet her with her own weapons, animal +against animal. Well, you know the result: I won. +There was no doubt about his being in love with me. His +eyes would follow me round the room, feasting on me. I had +become a fine animal. Men desired me, Do you know why I +refused him? He was in every way a better man than the +silly boy I had fallen in love with; but he came back with a +couple of false teeth: I saw the gold setting one day when he +opened his mouth to laugh. I don’t say for a moment, +my dear, there is no such thing as love—love pure, +ennobling, worthy of men and women, its roots in the heart and +nowhere else. But that love I had missed; and the +other! I saw it in its true light. I had fallen in +love with him because he was a pretty, curly-headed boy. He +had fallen in love with Peggy when she was pink-and-white and +slim. I shall always see the look that came into his eyes +when she spoke to him at the hotel, the look of disgust and +loathing. The girl was the same; it was only her body that +had grown older. I could see his eyes fixed upon my arms +and neck. I had got to grow old in time, brown skinned, and +wrinkled. I thought of him, growing bald, +fat—”</p> +<p>“If you had fallen in love with the right man,” +had said Susan Fossett, “those ideas would not have come to +you.”</p> +<p>“I know,” said Miss Ramsbotham. “He +will have to like me thin and in these clothes, just because I am +nice, and good company, and helpful. That is the man I am +waiting for.”</p> +<p>He never came along. A charming, bright-eyed, +white-haired lady occupies alone a little flat in the Marylebone +Road, looks in occasionally at the Writers’ Club. She +is still Miss Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>Bald-headed gentlemen feel young again talking to her: she is +so sympathetic, so big-minded, so understanding. Then, +hearing the clock strike, tear themselves from her with a sigh, +and return home—some of them—to stupid shrewish +wives.</p> +<h2>STORY THE FIFTH—Joey Loveredge agrees—on certain +terms—to join the Company</h2> +<p>The most popular member of the Autolycus Club was undoubtedly +Joseph Loveredge. Small, chubby, clean-shaven, his somewhat +longish, soft, brown hair parted in the middle, strangers fell +into the error of assuming him to be younger than he really +was. It is on record that a leading lady +novelist—accepting her at her own estimate—irritated +by his polite but firm refusal to allow her entrance into his own +editorial office without appointment, had once boxed his ears, +under the impression that he was his own office-boy. Guests +to the Autolycus Club, on being introduced to him, would give to +him kind messages to take home to his father, with whom they +remembered having been at school together. This sort of +thing might have annoyed anyone with less sense of humour. +Joseph Loveredge would tell such stories himself, keenly enjoying +the jest—was even suspected of inventing some of the more +improbable. Another fact tending to the popularity of +Joseph Loveredge among all classes, over and above his +amiability, his wit, his genuine kindliness, and his +never-failing fund of good stories, was that by care and +inclination he had succeeded in remaining a bachelor. Many +had been the attempts to capture him; nor with the passing of the +years had interest in the sport shown any sign of +diminution. Well over the frailties and distempers so +dangerous to youth, of staid and sober habits, with an +ever-increasing capital invested in sound securities, together +with an ever-increasing income from his pen, with a tastefully +furnished house overlooking Regent’s Park, an excellent and +devoted cook and house-keeper, and relatives mostly settled in +the Colonies, Joseph Loveredge, though inexperienced girls might +pass him by with a contemptuous sniff, was recognised by ladies +of maturer judgment as a prize not too often dangled before the +eyes of spinsterhood. Old foxes—so we are assured by +kind-hearted country gentlemen—rather enjoy than otherwise +a day with the hounds. However that may be, certain it is +that Joseph Loveredge, confident of himself, one presumes, showed +no particular disinclination to the chase. Perhaps on the +whole he preferred the society of his own sex, with whom he could +laugh and jest with more freedom, to whom he could tell his +stories as they came to him without the trouble of having to turn +them over first in his own mind; but, on the other hand, Joey +made no attempt to avoid female company whenever it came his way; +and then no cavalier could render himself more agreeable, more +unobtrusively attentive. Younger men stood by, in envious +admiration of the ease with which in five minutes he would +establish himself on terms of cosy friendship with the brilliant +beauty before whose gracious coldness they had stood shivering +for months; the daring with which he would tuck under his arm, so +to speak, the prettiest girl in the room, smooth down as if by +magic her hundred prickles, and tease her out of her overwhelming +sense of her own self-importance. The secret of his success +was, probably, that he was not afraid of them. Desiring +nothing from them beyond companionableness, a reasonable amount +of appreciation for his jokes—which without being +exceptionally stupid they would have found it difficult to +withhold—with just sufficient information and intelligence +to make conversation interesting, there was nothing about him by +which they could lay hold of him. Of course, that rendered +them particularly anxious to lay hold of him. +Joseph’s lady friends might, roughly speaking, be divided +into two groups: the unmarried, who wanted to marry him to +themselves; and the married, who wanted to marry him to somebody +else. It would be a social disaster, the latter had agreed +among themselves, if Joseph Loveredge should never wed.</p> +<p>“He would make such an excellent husband for poor +Bridget.”</p> +<p>“Or Gladys. I wonder how old Gladys really +is?”</p> +<p>“Such a nice, kind little man.”</p> +<p>“And when one thinks of the sort of men that <i>are</i> +married, it does seem such a pity!”</p> +<p>“I wonder why he never has married, because he’s +just the sort of man you’d think <i>would</i> have +married.”</p> +<p>“I wonder if he ever was in love.”</p> +<p>“Oh, my dear, you don’t mean to tell me that a man +has reached the age of forty without ever being in +love!”</p> +<p>The ladies would sigh.</p> +<p>“I do hope if ever he does marry, it will be somebody +nice. Men are so easily deceived.”</p> +<p>“I shouldn’t be surprised myself a bit if +something came of it with Bridget. She’s a dear girl, +Bridget—so genuine.”</p> +<p>“Well, I think myself, dear, if it’s anyone, +it’s Gladys. I should be so glad to see poor dear +Gladys settled.”</p> +<p>The unmarried kept their thoughts more to themselves. +Each one, upon reflection, saw ground for thinking that Joseph +Loveredge had given proof of feeling preference for +herself. The irritating thing was that, on further +reflection, it was equally clear that Joseph Loveredge had shown +signs of preferring most of the others.</p> +<p>Meanwhile Joseph Loveredge went undisturbed upon his +way. At eight o’clock in the morning Joseph’s +housekeeper entered the room with a cup of tea and a dry +biscuit. At eight-fifteen Joseph Loveredge arose and +performed complicated exercises on an indiarubber pulley, +warranted, if persevered in, to bestow grace upon the figure and +elasticity upon the limbs. Joseph Loveredge persevered +steadily, and had done so for years, and was himself contented +with the result, which, seeing it concerned nobody else, was all +that could be desired. At half-past eight on Mondays, +Wednesdays, and Fridays, Joseph Loveredge breakfasted on one cup +of tea, brewed by himself; one egg, boiled by himself; and two +pieces of toast, the first one spread with marmalade, the second +with butter. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Joseph +Loveredge discarded eggs and ate a rasher of bacon. On +Sundays Joseph Loveredge had both eggs and bacon, but then +allowed himself half an hour longer for reading the paper. +At nine-thirty Joseph Loveredge left the house for the office of +the old-established journal of which he was the incorruptible and +honoured City editor. At one-forty-five, having left his +office at one-thirty, Joseph Loveredge entered the Autolycus Club +and sat down to lunch. Everything else in Joseph’s +life was arranged with similar preciseness, so far as was +possible with the duties of a City editor. Monday evening +Joseph spent with musical friends at Brixton. Friday was +Joseph’s theatre night. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he +was open to receive invitations out to dinner; on Wednesdays and +Saturdays he invited four friends to dine with him at +Regent’s Park. On Sundays, whatever the season, +Joseph Loveredge took an excursion into the country. He had +his regular hours for reading, his regular hours for +thinking. Whether in Fleet Street, or the Tyrol, on the +Thames, or in the Vatican, you might recognise him from afar by +his grey frock-coat, his patent-leather boots, his brown felt +hat, his lavender tie. The man was a born bachelor. +When the news of his engagement crept through the smoky portals +of the Autolycus Club nobody believed it.</p> +<p>“Impossible!” asserted Jack Herring. +“I’ve known Joey’s life for fifteen +years. Every five minutes is arranged for. He could +never have found the time to do it.”</p> +<p>“He doesn’t like women, not in that way; +I’ve heard him say so,” explained Alexander the +Poet. “His opinion is that women are the artists of +Society—delightful as entertainers, but troublesome to live +with.”</p> +<p>“I call to mind,” said the Wee Laddie, “a +story he told me in this verra room, barely three months agone: +Some half a dozen of them were gong home together from the +Devonshire. They had had a joyous evening, and one of +them—Joey did not notice which—suggested their +dropping in at his place just for a final whisky. They were +laughing and talking in the dining-room, when their hostess +suddenly appeared upon the scene in a costume—so Joey +described it—the charm of which was its variety. She +was a nice-looking woman, Joey said, but talked too much; and +when the first lull occurred, Joey turned to the man sitting +nighest to him, and who looked bored, and suggested in a whisper +that it was about time they went.</p> +<p>“‘Perhaps you had better go,’ assented the +bored-looking man. ‘Wish I could come with you; but, +you see, I live here.’”</p> +<p>“I don’t believe it,” said Somerville the +Briefless. “He’s been cracking his jokes, and +some silly woman has taken him seriously.”</p> +<p>But the rumour grew into report, developed detail, lost all +charm, expanded into plain recital of fact. Joey had not +been seen within the Club for more than a week—in itself a +deadly confirmation. The question became: Who was +she—what was she like?</p> +<p>“It’s none of our set, or we should have heard +something from her side before now,” argued acutely +Somerville the Briefless.</p> +<p>“Some beastly kid who will invite us to dances and +forget the supper,” feared Johnny Bulstrode, commonly +called the Babe. “Old men always fall in love with +young girls.”</p> +<p>“Forty,” explained severely Peter Hope, editor and +part proprietor of <i>Good Humour</i>, “is not +old.”</p> +<p>“Well, it isn’t young,” persisted +Johnny.</p> +<p>“Good thing for you, Johnny, if it is a girl,” +thought Jack Herring. “Somebody for you to play +with. I often feel sorry for you, having nobody but +grown-up people to talk to.”</p> +<p>“They do get a bit stodgy after a certain age,” +agreed the Babe.</p> +<p>“I am hoping,” said Peter, “it will be some +sensible, pleasant woman, a little over thirty. He is a +dear fellow, Loveredge; and forty is a very good age for a man to +marry.”</p> +<p>“Well, if I’m not married before I’m +forty—” said the Babe.</p> +<p>“Oh, don’t you fret,” Jack Herring +interrupted him—“a pretty boy like you! We will +give a ball next season, and bring you out, if you’re +good—get you off our hands in no time.”</p> +<p>It was August. Joey went away for his holiday without +again entering the Club. The lady’s name was +Henrietta Elizabeth Doone. It was said by the <i>Morning +Post</i> that she was connected with the Doones of +Gloucestershire.</p> +<p>Doones of Gloucestershire—Doones of Gloucestershire +mused Miss Ramsbotham, Society journalist, who wrote the weekly +Letter to Clorinda, discussing the matter with Peter Hope in the +editorial office of <i>Good Humour</i>. “Knew a Doon +who kept a big second-hand store in Euston Road and called +himself an auctioneer. He bought a small place in +Gloucestershire and added an ‘e’ to his name. +Wonder if it’s the same?”</p> +<p>“I had a cat called Elizabeth once,” said Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“I don’t see what that’s got to do with +it.”</p> +<p>“No, of course not,” agreed Peter. +“But I was rather fond of it. It was a quaint sort of +animal, considered as a cat—would never speak to another +cat, and hated being out after ten o’clock at +night.”</p> +<p>“What happened to it?” demanded Miss +Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>“Fell off a roof,” sighed Peter Hope. +“Wasn’t used to them.”</p> +<p>The marriage took place abroad, at the English Church at +Montreux. Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge returned at the end of +September. The Autolycus Club subscribed to send a present +of a punch-bowl, left cards, and waited with curiosity to see the +bride. But no invitation arrived. Nor for a month was +Joey himself seen within the Club. Then, one foggy +afternoon, waking after a doze, with a cold cigar in his mouth, +Jack Herring noticed he was not the only occupant of the +smoking-room. In a far corner, near a window, sat Joseph +Loveredge reading a magazine. Jack Herring rubbed his eyes, +then rose and crossed the room.</p> +<p>“I thought at first,” explained Jack Herring, +recounting the incident later in the evening, “that I must +be dreaming. There he sat, drinking his five o’clock +whisky-and-soda, the same Joey Loveredge I had known for fifteen +years; yet not the same. Not a feature altered, not a hair +on his head changed, yet the whole face was different; the same +body, the same clothes, but another man. We talked for half +an hour; he remembered everything that Joey Loveredge had +known. I couldn’t understand it. Then, as the +clock struck, and he rose, saying he must be home at half-past +five, the explanation suddenly occurred to me: <i>Joey Loveredge +was dead</i>; <i>this was a married man</i>.”</p> +<p>“We don’t want your feeble efforts at +psychological romance,” told him Somerville the +Briefless. “We want to know what you talked +about. Dead or married, the man who can drink +whisky-and-soda must be held responsible for his actions. +What’s the little beggar mean by cutting us all in this +way? Did he ask after any of us? Did he leave any +message for any of us? Did he invite any of us to come an +see him?”</p> +<p>“Yes, he did ask after nearly everybody; I was coming to +that. But he didn’t leave any message. I +didn’t gather that he was pining for old relationships with +any of us.”</p> +<p>“Well, I shall go round to the office to-morrow +morning,” said Somerville the Briefless, “and force +my way in if necessary. This is getting +mysterious.”</p> +<p>But Somerville returned only to puzzle the Autolycus Club +still further. Joey had talked about the weather, the state +of political parties, had received with unfeigned interest all +gossip concerning his old friends; but about himself, his wife, +nothing had been gleaned. Mrs. Loveredge was well; Mrs. +Loveredge’s relations were also well. But at present +Mrs. Loveredge was not receiving.</p> +<p>Members of the Autolycus Club with time upon their hands took +up the business of private detectives. Mrs. Loveredge +turned out to be a handsome, well-dressed lady of about thirty, +as Peter Hope had desired. At eleven in the morning, Mrs. +Loveredge shopped in the neighbourhood of the Hampstead +Road. In the afternoon, Mrs. Loveredge, in a hired +carriage, would slowly promenade the Park, looking, it was +noticed, with intense interest at the occupants of other +carriages as they passed, but evidently having no acquaintances +among them. The carriage, as a general rule, would call at +Joey’s office at five, and Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge would +drive home. Jack Herring, as the oldest friend, urged by +the other members, took the bull by the horns and called +boldly. On neither occasion was Mrs. Loveredge at home.</p> +<p>“I’m damned if I go again!” said Jack. +“She was in the second time, I know. I watched her +into the house. Confound the stuck-up pair of +them!”</p> +<p>Bewilderment gave place to indignation. Now and again +Joey would creep, a mental shadow of his former self, into the +Club where once every member would have risen with a smile to +greet him. They gave him curt answers and turned away from +him. Peter Hope one afternoon found him there alone, +standing with his hands in his pockets looking out of +window. Peter was fifty, so he said, maybe a little older; +men of forty were to him mere boys. So Peter, who hated +mysteries, stepped forward with a determined air and clapped Joey +on the shoulder.</p> +<p>“I want to know, Joey,” said Peter, “I want +to know whether I am to go on liking you, or whether I’ve +got to think poorly of you. Out with it.”</p> +<p>Joey turned to him a face so full of misery that Peter’s +heart was touched. “You can’t tell how wretched +it makes me,” said Joey. “I didn’t know +it was possible to feel so uncomfortable as I have felt during +these last three months.”</p> +<p>“It’s the wife, I suppose?” suggested +Peter.</p> +<p>“She’s a dear girl. She only has one +fault.”</p> +<p>“It’s a pretty big one,” returned +Peter. “I should try and break her of it if I were +you.”</p> +<p>“Break her of it!” cried the little man. +“You might as well advise me to break a brick wall with my +head. I had no idea what they were like. I never +dreamt it.”</p> +<p>“But what is her objection to us? We are clean, we +are fairly intelligent—”</p> +<p>“My dear Peter, do you think I haven’t said all +that, and a hundred things more? A woman! she gets an idea +into her head, and every argument against it hammers it in +further. She has gained her notion of what she calls +Bohemia from the comic journals. It’s our own fault, +we have done it ourselves. There’s no persuading her +that it’s a libel.”</p> +<p>“Won’t she see a few of us—judge for +herself? There’s Porson—why Porson might have +been a bishop. Or Somerville—Somerville’s +Oxford accent is wasted here. It has no chance.”</p> +<p>“It isn’t only that,” explained Joey; +“she has ambitions, social ambitions. She thinks that +if we begin with the wrong set, we’ll never get into the +right. We have three friends at present, and, so far as I +can see, are never likely to have any more. My dear boy, +you’d never believe there could exist such bores. +There’s a man and his wife named Holyoake. They dine +with us on Thursdays, and we dine with them on Tuesdays. +Their only title to existence consists in their having a cousin +in the House of Lords; they claim no other right +themselves. He is a widower, getting on for eighty. +Apparently he’s the only relative they have, and when he +dies, they talk of retiring into the country. There’s +a fellow named Cutler, who visited once at Marlborough House in +connection with a charity. You’d think to listen to +him that he had designs upon the throne. The most tiresome +of them all is a noisy woman who, as far as I can make out, +hasn’t any name at all. ‘Miss Montgomery’ +is on her cards, but that is only what she calls herself. +Who she really is! It would shake the foundations of +European society if known. We sit and talk about the +aristocracy; we don’t seem to know anybody else. I +tried on one occasion a little sarcasm as a +corrective—recounted conversations between myself and the +Prince of Wales, in which I invariably addressed him as +‘Teddy.’ It sounds tall, I know, but those +people took it in. I was too astonished to undeceive them +at the time, the consequence is I am a sort of little god to +them. They come round me and ask for more. What am I +to do? I am helpless among them. I’ve never had +anything to do before with the really first-prize idiot; the +usual type, of course, one knows, but these, if you haven’t +met them, are inconceivable. I try insulting them; they +don’t even know I am insulting them. Short of +dragging them out of their chairs and kicking them round the +room, I don’t see how to make them understand +it.”</p> +<p>“And Mrs. Loveredge?” asked the sympathetic Peter, +“is she—”</p> +<p>“Between ourselves,” said Joey, sinking his voice +to a needless whisper, seeing he and Peter were the sole +occupants of the smoking-room—“I couldn’t, of +course, say it to a younger man—but between ourselves, my +wife is a charming woman. You don’t know +her.”</p> +<p>“Doesn’t seem much chance of my ever doing +so,” laughed Peter.</p> +<p>“So graceful, so dignified, so—so queenly,” +continued the little man, with rising enthusiasm. +“She has only one fault—she has no sense of +humour.”</p> +<p>To Peter, as it has been said, men of forty were mere +boys.</p> +<p>“My dear fellow, whatever could have induced +you—”</p> +<p>“I know—I know all that,” interrupted the +mere boy. “Nature arranges it on purpose. Tall +and solemn prigs marry little women with turned-up noses. +Cheerful little fellows like myself—we marry serious, +stately women. If it were otherwise, the human race would +be split up into species.”</p> +<p>“Of course, if you were actuated by a sense of public +duty—”</p> +<p>“Don’t be a fool, Peter Hope,” returned the +little man. “I’m in love with my wife just as +she is, and always shall be. I know the woman with a sense +of humour, and of the two I prefer the one without. The +Juno type is my ideal. I must take the rough with the +smooth. One can’t have a jolly, chirpy Juno, and +wouldn’t care for her if one could.”</p> +<p>“Then are you going to give up all your old +friends?”</p> +<p>“Don’t suggest it,” pleaded the little +man. “You don’t know how miserable it makes +me—the mere idea. Tell them to be patient. The +secret of dealing with women, I have found, is to do nothing +rashly.” The clock struck five. “I must +go now,” said Joey. “Don’t misjudge her, +Peter, and don’t let the others. She’s a dear +girl. You’ll like her, all of you, when you know +her. A dear girl! She only has that one +fault.”</p> +<p>Joey went out.</p> +<p>Peter did his best that evening to explain the true position +of affairs without imputing snobbery to Mrs. Loveredge. It +was a difficult task, and Peter cannot be said to have +accomplished it successfully. Anger and indignation against +Joey gave place to pity. The members of the Autolycus Club +also experienced a little irritation on their own account.</p> +<p>“What does the woman take us for?” demanded +Somerville the Briefless. “Doesn’t she know +that we lunch with real actors and actresses, that once a year we +are invited to dine at the Mansion House?”</p> +<p>“Has she never heard of the aristocracy of +genius?” demanded Alexander the Poet.</p> +<p>“The explanation may be that possibly she has seen +it,” feared the Wee Laddie.</p> +<p>“One of us ought to waylay the woman,” argued the +Babe—“insist upon her talking to him for ten +minutes. I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”</p> +<p>Jack Herring said nothing—seemed thoughtful.</p> +<p>The next morning Jack Herring, still thoughtful, called at the +editorial offices of <i>Good Humour</i>, in Crane Court, and +borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett. Three days later +Jack Herring informed the Club casually that he had dined the +night before with Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge. The Club gave +Jack Herring politely to understand that they regarded him as a +liar, and proceeded to demand particulars.</p> +<p>“If I wasn’t there,” explained Jack Herring, +with unanswerable logic, “how can I tell you anything about +it?”</p> +<p>This annoyed the Club, whose curiosity had been whetted. +Three members, acting in the interests of the whole, solemnly +undertook to believe whatever he might tell them. But Jack +Herring’s feelings had been wounded.</p> +<p>“When gentlemen cast a doubt upon another +gentleman’s veracity—”</p> +<p>“We didn’t cast a doubt,” explained +Somerville the Briefless. “We merely said that we +personally did not believe you. We didn’t say we +couldn’t believe you; it is a case for individual +effort. If you give us particulars bearing the impress of +reality, supported by details that do not unduly contradict each +other, we are prepared to put aside our natural suspicions and +face the possibility of your statement being correct.”</p> +<p>“It was foolish of me,” said Jack Herring. +“I thought perhaps it would amuse you to hear what sort of +a woman Mrs. Loveredge was like—some description of Mrs. +Loveredge’s uncle. Miss Montgomery, friend of Mrs. +Loveredge, is certainly one of the most remarkable women I have +ever met. Of course, that isn’t her real name. +But, as I have said, it was foolish of me. These +people—you will never meet them, you will never see them; +of what interest can they be to you?”</p> +<p>“They had forgotten to draw down the blinds, and he +climbed up a lamp-post and looked through the window,” was +the solution of the problem put forward by the Wee Laddie.</p> +<p>“I’m dining there again on Saturday,” +volunteered Jack Herring. “If any of you will promise +not to make a disturbance, you can hang about on the Park side, +underneath the shadow of the fence, and watch me go in. My +hansom will draw up at the door within a few minutes of +eight.”</p> +<p>The Babe and the Poet agreed to undertake the test.</p> +<p>“You won’t mind our hanging round a little while, +in case you’re thrown out again?” asked the Babe.</p> +<p>“Not in the least, so far as I am concerned,” +replied Jack Herring. “Don’t leave it too late +and make your mother anxious.”</p> +<p>“It’s true enough,” the Babe recounted +afterwards. “The door was opened by a manservant and +he went straight in. We walked up and down for half an +hour, and unless they put him out the back way, he’s +telling the truth.”</p> +<p>“Did you hear him give his name?” asked +Somerville, who was stroking his moustache.</p> +<p>“No, we were too far off,” explained the +Babe. “But—I’ll swear it was +Jack—there couldn’t be any mistake about +that.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps not,” agreed Somerville the +Briefless.</p> +<p>Somerville the Briefless called at the offices of <i>Good +Humour</i>, in Crane Court, the following morning, and he also +borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett.</p> +<p>“What’s the meaning of it?” demanded the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>“Meaning of what?”</p> +<p>“This sudden interest of all you fellows in the British +Peerage.”</p> +<p>“All of us?”</p> +<p>“Well, Herring was here last week, poring over that book +for half an hour, with the <i>Morning Post</i> spread out before +him. Now you’re doing the same thing.”</p> +<p>“Ah! Jack Herring, was he? I thought as +much. Don’t talk about it, Tommy. I’ll +tell you later on.”</p> +<p>On the following Monday, the Briefless one announced to the +Club that he had received an invitation to dine at the +Loveredges’ on the following Wednesday. On Tuesday, +the Briefless one entered the Club with a slow and stately +step. Halting opposite old Goslin the porter, who had +emerged from his box with the idea of discussing the Oxford and +Cambridge boat race, Somerville, removing his hat with a sweep of +the arm, held it out in silence. Old Goslin, much +astonished, took it mechanically, whereupon the Briefless one, +shaking himself free from his Inverness cape, flung it lightly +after the hat, and strolled on, not noticing that old Goslin, +unaccustomed to coats lightly and elegantly thrown at him, +dropping the hat, had caught it on his head, and had been, in the +language of the prompt-book, “left struggling.” +The Briefless one, entering the smoking-room, lifted a chair and +let it fall again with a crash, and sitting down upon it, crossed +his legs and rang the bell.</p> +<p>“Ye’re doing it verra weel,” remarked +approvingly the Wee Laddie. “Ye’re just fitted +for it by nature.”</p> +<p>“Fitted for what?” demanded the Briefless one, +waking up apparently from a dream.</p> +<p>“For an Adelphi guest at eighteenpence the night,” +assured him the Wee Laddie. “Ye’re just +splendid at it.”</p> +<p>The Briefless one, muttering that the worst of mixing with +journalists was that if you did not watch yourself, you fell into +their ways, drank his whisky in silence. Later, the Babe +swore on a copy of <i>Sell’s Advertising Guide</i> that, +crossing the Park, he had seen the Briefless one leaning over the +railings of Rotten Row, clad in a pair of new kid gloves, +swinging a silver-headed cane.</p> +<p>One morning towards the end of the week, Joseph Loveredge, +looking twenty years younger than when Peter had last seen him, +dropped in at the editorial office of <i>Good Humour</i> and +demanded of Peter Hope how he felt and what he thought of the +present price of Emma Mines.</p> +<p>Peter Hope’s fear was that the gambling fever was +spreading to all classes of society.</p> +<p>“I want you to dine with us on Sunday,” said +Joseph Loveredge. “Jack Herring will be there. +You might bring Tommy with you.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope gulped down his astonishment and said he should be +delighted; he thought that Tommy also was disengaged. +“Mrs. Loveredge out of town, I presume?” questioned +Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“On the contrary,” replied Joseph Loveredge, +“I want you to meet her.”</p> +<p>Joseph Loveredge removed a pile of books from one chair and +placed them carefully upon another, after which he went and stood +before the fire.</p> +<p>“Don’t if you don’t like,” said Joseph +Loveredge; “but if you don’t mind, you might call +yourself, just for the evening—say, the Duke of +Warrington.”</p> +<p>“Say the what?” demanded Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“The Duke of Warrington,” repeated Joey. +“We are rather short of dukes. Tommy can be the Lady +Adelaide, your daughter.”</p> +<p>“Don’t be an ass!” said Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“I’m not an ass,” assured him Joseph +Loveredge. “He is wintering in Egypt. You have +run back for a week to attend to business. There is no Lady +Adelaide, so that’s quite simple.”</p> +<p>“But what in the name of—” began Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“Don’t you see what I’m driving at?” +persisted Joey. “It was Jack’s idea at the +beginning. I was frightened myself at first, but it is +working to perfection. She sees you, and sees that you are +a gentleman. When the truth comes out—as, of course, +it must later on—the laugh will be against her.”</p> +<p>“You think—you think that’ll comfort +her?” suggested Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“It’s the only way, and it is really wonderfully +simple. We never mention the aristocracy now—it would +be like talking shop. We just enjoy ourselves. You, +by the way, I met in connection with the movement for rational +dress. You are a bit of a crank, fond of frequenting +Bohemian circles.”</p> +<p>“I am risking something, I know,” continued Joey; +“but it’s worth it. I couldn’t have +existed much longer. We go slowly, and are very +careful. Jack is Lord Mount-Primrose, who has taken up with +anti-vaccination and who never goes out into Society. +Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, the great authority on +centipedes. The Wee Laddie is coming next week as Lord +Garrick, who married that dancing-girl, Prissy Something, and +started a furniture shop in Bond Street. I had some +difficulty at first. She wanted to send out paragraphs, but +I explained that was only done by vulgar persons—that when +the nobility came to you as friends, it was considered bad +taste. She is a dear girl, as I have always told you, with +only one fault. A woman easier to deceive one could not +wish for. I don’t myself see why the truth ever need +come out—provided we keep our heads.”</p> +<p>“Seems to me you’ve lost them already,” +commented Peter; “you’re overdoing it.”</p> +<p>“The more of us the better,” explained Joey; +“we help each other. Besides, I particularly want you +in it. There’s a sort of superior Pickwickian +atmosphere surrounding you that disarms suspicion.”</p> +<p>“You leave me out of it,” growled Peter.</p> +<p>“See here,” laughed Joey; “you come as the +Duke of Warrington, and bring Tommy with you, and I’ll +write your City article.”</p> +<p>“For how long?” snapped Peter. Incorruptible +City editors are not easily picked up.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, for as long as you like.”</p> +<p>“On that understanding,” agreed Peter, +“I’m willing to make a fool of myself in your +company.”</p> +<p>“You’ll soon get used to it,” Joey told him; +“eight o’clock, then, on Sunday; plain evening +dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon in your +buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans’, in +Covent Garden.”</p> +<p>“And Tommy is the Lady—”</p> +<p>“Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, +then she needn’t wear gloves. I know she hates +them.” Joey turned to go.</p> +<p>“Am I married?” asked Peter.</p> +<p>Joey paused. “I should avoid all reference to your +matrimonial affairs if I were you,” was Joey’s +advice. “You didn’t come out of that business +too well.”</p> +<p>“Oh! as bad as that, was I? You don’t think +Mrs. Loveredge will object to me?”</p> +<p>“I have asked her that. She’s a dear, +broad-minded girl. I’ve promised not to leave you +alone with Miss Montgomery, and Willis has had instructions not +to let you mix your drinks.”</p> +<p>“I’d have liked to have been someone a trifle more +respectable,” grumbled Peter.</p> +<p>“We rather wanted a duke,” explained Joey, +“and he was the only one that fitted in all +round.”</p> +<p>The dinner a was a complete success. Tommy, entering +into the spirit of the thing, bought a new pair of open-work +stockings and assumed a languid drawl. Peter, who was +growing forgetful, introduced her as the Lady Alexandra; it did +not seem to matter, both beginning with an A. She greeted +Lord Mount-Primrose as “Billy,” and asked +affectionately after his mother. Joey told his raciest +stories. The Duke of Warrington called everybody by their +Christian names, and seemed well acquainted with Bohemian +society—a more amiable nobleman it would have been +impossible to discover. The lady whose real name was not +Miss Montgomery sat in speechless admiration. The hostess +was the personification of gracious devotion.</p> +<p>Other little dinners, equally successful, followed. +Joey’s acquaintanceship appeared to be confined exclusively +to the higher circles of the British aristocracy—with one +exception: that of a German baron, a short, stout gentleman, who +talked English well, but with an accent, and who, when he desired +to be impressive, laid his right forefinger on the right side of +his nose and thrust his whole face forward. Mrs. Loveredge +wondered why her husband had not introduced them sooner, but was +too blissful to be suspicious. The Autolycus Club was +gradually changing its tone. Friends could no longer +recognise one another by the voice. Every corner had its +solitary student practising high-class intonation. Members +dropped into the habit of addressing one another as “dear +chappie,” and, discarding pipes, took to cheap +cigars. Many of the older <i>habitués</i> +resigned.</p> +<p>All might have gone well to the end of time if only Mrs. +Loveredge had left all social arrangements in the hands of her +husband—had not sought to aid his efforts. To a +certain political garden-party, one day in the height of the +season, were invited Joseph Loveredge and Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, +his wife. Mr. Joseph Loveredge at the last moment found +himself unable to attend. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge went alone, +met there various members of the British aristocracy. Mrs. +Joseph Loveredge, accustomed to friendship with the aristocracy, +felt at her ease and was natural and agreeable. The wife of +an eminent peer talked to her and liked her. It occurred to +Mrs. Joseph Loveredge that this lady might be induced to visit +her house in Regent’s Park, there to mingle with those of +her own class.</p> +<p>“Lord Mount-Primrose, the Duke of Warrington, and a few +others will be dining with us on Sunday next,” suggested +Mrs. Loveredge. “Will not you do us the honour of +coming? We are, of course, only simple folk ourselves, but +somehow people seem to like us.”</p> +<p>The wife of the eminent peer looked at Mrs. Loveredge, looked +round the grounds, looked at Mrs. Loveredge again, and said she +would like to come. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge intended at first +to tell her husband of her success, but a little devil entering +into her head and whispering to her that it would be amusing, she +resolved to keep it as a surprise, to be sprung upon him at eight +o’clock on Sunday. The surprise proved all she could +have hoped for.</p> +<p>The Duke of Warrington, having journalistic matters to discuss +with Joseph Loveredge, arrived at half-past seven, wearing on his +shirt-front a silver star, purchased in Eagle Street the day +before for eight-and-six. There accompanied him the Lady +Alexandra, wearing the identical ruby necklace that every night +for the past six months, and twice on Saturdays, “John +Strongheart” had been falsely accused of stealing. +Lord Garrick, having picked up his wife (Miss Ramsbotham) outside +the Mother Redcap, arrived with her on foot at a quarter to +eight. Lord Mount-Primrose, together with Sir Francis +Baldwin, dashed up in a hansom at seven-fifty. His +Lordship, having lost the toss, paid the fare. The Hon. +Harry Sykes (commonly called “the Babe”) was ushered +in five minutes later. The noble company assembled in the +drawing-room chatted blithely while waiting for dinner to be +announced. The Duke of Warrington was telling an anecdote +about a cat, which nobody appeared to believe. Lord +Mount-Primrose desired to know whether by any chance it might be +the same animal that every night at half-past nine had been in +the habit of climbing up his Grace’s railings and knocking +at his Grace’s door. The Honourable Harry was saying +that, speaking of cats, he once had a sort of terrier—when +the door was thrown open and Willis announced the Lady Mary +Sutton.</p> +<p>Mr. Joseph Loveredge, who was sitting near the fire, rose +up. Lord Mount-Primrose, who was standing near the piano, +sat down. The Lady Mary Sutton paused in the doorway. +Mrs. Loveredge crossed the room to greet her.</p> +<p>“Let me introduce you to my husband,” said Mrs. +Loveredge. “Joey, my dear, the Lady Mary +Sutton. I met the Lady Mary at the O’Meyers’ +the other day, and she was good enough to accept my +invitation. I forgot to tell you.”</p> +<p>Mr. Loveredge said he was delighted; after which, although as +a rule a chatty man, he seemed to have nothing else to say. +And a silence fell.</p> +<p>Somerville the Briefless—till then. That evening +has always been reckoned the starting-point of his career. +Up till then nobody thought he had much in him—walked up +and held out his hand.</p> +<p>“You don’t remember me, Lady Mary,” said the +Briefless one. “I met you some years ago; we had a +most interesting conversation—Sir Francis +Baldwin.”</p> +<p>The Lady Mary stood for a moment trying apparently to +recollect. She was a handsome, fresh-complexioned woman of +about forty, with frank, agreeable eyes. The Lady Mary +glanced at Lord Garrick, who was talking rapidly to Lord +Mount-Primrose, who was not listening, and who could not have +understood even if he had been, Lord Garrick, without being aware +of it, having dropped into broad Scotch. From him the Lady +Mary glanced at her hostess, and from her hostess to her +host.</p> +<p>The Lady Mary took the hand held out to her. “Of +course,” said the Lady Mary; “how stupid of me! +It was the day of my own wedding, too. You really must +forgive me. We talked of quite a lot of things. I +remember now.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Loveredge, who prided herself upon maintaining +old-fashioned courtesies, proceeded to introduce the Lady Mary to +her fellow-guests, a little surprised that her ladyship appeared +to know so few of them. Her ladyship’s greeting of +the Duke of Warrington was accompanied, it was remarked, by a +somewhat curious smile. To the Duke of Warrington’s +daughter alone did the Lady Mary address remark.</p> +<p>“My dear,” said the Lady Mary, “how you have +grown since last we met!”</p> +<p>The announcement of dinner, as everybody felt, came none too +soon.</p> +<p>It was not a merry feast. Joey told but one story; he +told it three times, and twice left out the point. Lord +Mount-Primrose took sifted sugar with <i>pâtè de +foie gras</i> and ate it with a spoon. Lord Garrick, +talking a mixture of Scotch and English, urged his wife to give +up housekeeping and take a flat in Gower Street, which, as he +pointed out, was central. She could have her meals sent in +to her and so avoid all trouble. The Lady Alexandra’s +behaviour appeared to Mrs. Loveredge not altogether +well-bred. An eccentric young noblewoman Mrs. Loveredge had +always found her, but wished on this occasion that she had been a +little less eccentric. Every few minutes the Lady Alexandra +buried her face in her serviette, and shook and rocked, emitting +stifled sounds, apparently those of acute physical pain. +Mrs. Loveredge hoped she was not feeling ill, but the Lady +Alexandra appeared incapable of coherent reply. Twice +during the meal the Duke of Warrington rose from the table and +began wandering round the room; on each occasion, asked what he +wanted, had replied meekly that he was merely looking for his +snuff-box, and had sat down again. The only person who +seemed to enjoy the dinner was the Lady Mary Sutton.</p> +<p>The ladies retired upstairs into the drawing-room. Mrs. +Loveredge, breaking a long silence, remarked it as unusual that +no sound of merriment reached them from the dining-room. +The explanation was that the entire male portion of the party, on +being left to themselves, had immediately and in a body crept on +tiptoe into Joey’s study, which, fortunately, happened to +be on the ground floor. Joey, unlocking the bookcase, had +taken out his Debrett, but appeared incapable of understanding +it. Sir Francis Baldwin had taken it from his unresisting +hands; the remaining aristocracy huddled themselves into a corner +and waited in silence.</p> +<p>“I think I’ve got it all clearly,” announced +Sir Francis Baldwin, after five minutes, which to the others had +been an hour. “Yes, I don’t think I’m +making any mistake. She’s the daughter of the Duke of +Truro, married in ’53 the Duke of Warrington, at St. +Peter’s, Eaton Square; gave birth in ’55 to a +daughter, the Lady Grace Alexandra Warberton Sutton, which makes +the child just thirteen. In ’63 divorced the Duke of +Warrington. Lord Mount-Primrose, so far as I can make out, +must be her second cousin. I appear to have married her in +’66 at Hastings. It doesn’t seem to me that we +could have got together a homelier little party to meet her even +if we had wanted to.”</p> +<p>Nobody spoke; nobody had anything particularly worth +saying. The door opened, and the Lady Alexandra (otherwise +Tommy) entered the room.</p> +<p>“Isn’t it time,” suggested the Lady +Alexandra, “that some of you came upstairs?”</p> +<p>“I was thinking myself,” explained Joey, the host, +with a grim smile, “it was about time that I went out and +drowned myself. The canal is handy.”</p> +<p>“Put it off till to-morrow,” Tommy advised +him. “I have asked her ladyship to give me a lift +home, and she has promised to do so. She is evidently a +woman with a sense of humour. Wait till after I have had a +talk with her.”</p> +<p>Six men, whispering at the same time, were prepared with +advice; but Tommy was not taking advice.</p> +<p>“Come upstairs, all of you,” insisted Tommy, +“and make yourselves agreeable. She’s going in +a quarter of an hour.”</p> +<p>Six silent men, the host leading, the two husbands bringing up +the rear, ascended the stairs, each with the sensation of being +twice his usual weight. Six silent men entered the +drawing-room and sat down on chairs. Six silent men tried +to think of something interesting to say.</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham—it was that or hysterics, as she +afterwards explained—stifling a sob, opened the +piano. But the only thing she could remember was +“Champagne Charlie is my Name,” a song then popular +in the halls. Five men, when she had finished, begged her +to go on. Miss Ramsbotham, speaking in a shrill falsetto, +explained it was the only tune she knew. Four of them +begged her to play it again. Miss Ramsbotham played it a +second time with involuntary variations.</p> +<p>The Lady Mary’s carriage was announced by the +imperturbable Willis. The party, with the exception of the +Lady Mary and the hostess, suppressed with difficulty an +inclination to burst into a cheer. The Lady Mary thanked +Mrs. Loveredge for a most interesting evening, and beckoned Tommy +to accompany her. With her disappearance, a wild hilarity, +uncanny in its suddenness, took possession of the remaining +guests.</p> +<p>A few days later, the Lady Mary’s carriage again drew up +before the little house in Regent’s Park. Mrs. +Loveredge, fortunately, was at home. The carriage remained +waiting for quite a long time. Mrs. Loveredge, after it was +gone, locked herself in her own room. The under-housemaid +reported to the kitchen that, passing the door, she had detected +sounds indicative of strong emotion.</p> +<p>Through what ordeal Joseph Loveredge passed was never +known. For a few weeks the Autolycus Club missed him. +Then gradually, as aided by Time they have a habit of doing, +things righted themselves. Joseph Loveredge received his +old friends; his friends received Joseph Loveredge. Mrs. +Loveredge, as a hostess, came to have only one failing—a +marked coldness of demeanour towards all people with titles, +whenever introduced to her.</p> +<h2>STORY THE SIXTH—“The Babe” applies for +Shares</h2> +<p>People said of the new journal, <i>Good +Humour</i>—people of taste and judgment, that it was the +brightest, the cleverest, the most literary penny weekly that +ever had been offered to the public. This made Peter Hope, +editor and part-proprietor, very happy. William Clodd, +business manager, and also part-proprietor, it left less +elated.</p> +<p>“Must be careful,” said William Clodd, “that +we don’t make it too clever. Happy medium, +that’s the ideal.”</p> +<p>People said—people of taste and judgment, that <i>Good +Humour</i> was more worthy of support than all the other penny +weeklies put together. People of taste and judgment even +went so far, some of them, as to buy it. Peter Hope, +looking forward, saw fame and fortune coming to him.</p> +<p>William Clodd, looking round about him, said—</p> +<p>“Doesn’t it occur to you, Guv’nor, that +we’re getting this thing just a trifle too high +class?”</p> +<p>“What makes you think that?” demanded Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“Our circulation, for one thing,” explained +Clodd. “The returns for last month—”</p> +<p>“I’d rather you didn’t mention them, if you +don’t mind,” interrupted Peter Hope; “somehow, +hearing the actual figures always depresses me.”</p> +<p>“Can’t say I feel inspired by them myself,” +admitted Clodd.</p> +<p>“It will come,” said Peter Hope, “it will +come in time. We must educate the public up to our +level.”</p> +<p>“If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed,” +said William Clodd, “that the public are inclined to pay +less for than another, it is for being educated.”</p> +<p>“What are we to do?” asked Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“What you want,” answered William Clodd, “is +an office-boy.”</p> +<p>“How will our having an office-boy increase our +circulation?” demanded Peter Hope. “Besides, it +was agreed that we could do without one for the first year. +Why suggest more expense?”</p> +<p>“I don’t mean an ordinary office-boy,” +explained Clodd. “I mean the sort of boy that I rode +with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday.”</p> +<p>“What was there remarkable about him?”</p> +<p>“Nothing. He was reading the current number of the +<i>Penny Novelist</i>. Over two hundred thousand people buy +it. He is one of them. He told me so. When he +had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the +<i>Halfpenny Joker</i>—they guarantee a circulation of +seventy thousand. He sat and chuckled over it until we got +to Bow.”</p> +<p>“But—”</p> +<p>“You wait a minute. I’m coming to the +explanation. That boy represents the reading public. +I talked to him. The papers he likes best are the papers +that have the largest sales. He never made a single +mistake. The others—those of them he had +seen—he dismissed as ‘rot.’ What he likes +is what the great mass of the journal-buying public likes. +Please him—I took his name and address, and he is willing +to come to us for eight shillings a week—and you please the +people that buy. Not the people that glance through a paper +when it is lying on the smoking-room table, and tell you it is +damned good, but the people that plank down their penny. +That’s the sort we want.”</p> +<p>Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was +shocked—indignant. William Clodd, business man, +without ideals, talked figures.</p> +<p>“There’s the advertiser to be thought of,” +persisted Clodd. “I don’t pretend to be a +George Washington, but what’s the use of telling lies that +sound like lies, even to one’s self while one’s +telling them? Give me a genuine sale of twenty thousand, +and I’ll undertake, without committing myself, to convey an +impression of forty. But when the actual figures are under +eight thousand—well, it hampers you, if you happen to have +a conscience.</p> +<p>“Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound +literature,” continued Clodd insinuatingly, “but wrap +it up in twenty-four columns of jam. It’s the only +way they’ll take it, and you will be doing them +good—educating them without their knowing it. All +powder and no jam! Well, they don’t open their +mouths, that’s all.”</p> +<p>Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. +Flipp—spelled Philip—Tweetel arrived in due course of +time at 23, Crane Court, ostensibly to take up the position of +<i>Good Humour’s</i> office-boy; in reality, and without +his being aware of it, to act as its literary taster. +Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted. Peter +groaned, but contented himself with correcting only their grosser +grammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all good +faith. Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. +Peter tried to ease his conscience by increasing his subscription +to the fund for destitute compositors, but only partially +succeeded. Poetry that brought a tear to the eye of Flipp +was given leaded type. People of taste and judgment said +<i>Good Humour</i> had disappointed them. Its circulation, +slowly but steadily, increased.</p> +<p>“See!” cried the delighted Clodd; “told you +so!”</p> +<p>“It’s sad to think—” began Peter.</p> +<p>“Always is,” interrupted Clodd cheerfully. +“Moral—don’t think too much.”</p> +<p>“Tell you what we’ll do,” added Clodd. +“We’ll make a fortune out of this paper. Then +when we can afford to lose a little money, we’ll launch a +paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the +public. Meanwhile—”</p> +<p>A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the +desk, arrested Clodd’s attention.</p> +<p>“When did this come?” asked Clodd.</p> +<p>“About an hour ago,” Peter told him.</p> +<p>“Any order with it?”</p> +<p>“I think so.” Peter searched for and found a +letter addressed to “William Clodd, Esq., Advertising +Manager, <i>Good Humour</i>.” Clodd tore it open, +hastily devoured it.</p> +<p>“Not closed up yet, are you?”</p> +<p>“No, not till eight o’clock.”</p> +<p>“Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it +now, then you won’t forget it. For the ‘Walnuts +and Wine’ column.”</p> +<p>Peter sat down, headed a sheet of paper: ‘For W. and W. +Col.’</p> +<p>“What is it?” questioned +Peter—“something to drink?”</p> +<p>“It’s a sort of port,” explained Clodd, +“that doesn’t get into your head.”</p> +<p>“You consider that an advantage?” queried +Peter.</p> +<p>“Of course. You can drink more of it.”</p> +<p>Peter continued to write: ‘Possesses all the qualities +of an old vintage port, without those deleterious +properties—’ “I haven’t tasted it, +Clodd,” hinted Peter.</p> +<p>“That’s all right—I have.”</p> +<p>“And was it good?”</p> +<p>“Splendid stuff. Say it’s ‘delicious +and invigorating.’ They’ll be sure to quote +that.”</p> +<p>Peter wrote on: ‘Personally I have found it delicious +and—’ Peter left off writing. “I really +think, Clodd, I ought to taste it. You see, I am personally +recommending it.”</p> +<p>“Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to +the printers. Then put the bottle in your pocket. +Take it home and make a night of it.”</p> +<p>Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made +Peter only the more suspicious. The bottle was close to his +hand. Clodd tried to intercept him, but was not quick +enough.</p> +<p>“You’re not used to temperance drinks,” +urged Clodd. “Your palate is not accustomed to +them.”</p> +<p>“I can tell whether it’s ‘delicious’ +or not, surely?” pleaded Peter, who had pulled out the +cork.</p> +<p>“It’s a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen +weeks. Put it down and don’t be a fool!” urged +Clodd.</p> +<p>“I’m going to put it down,” laughed Peter, +who was fond of his joke. Peter poured out half a +tumblerful, and drank—some of it.</p> +<p>“Like it?” demanded Clodd, with a savage grin.</p> +<p>“You are sure—you are sure it was the right +bottle?” gasped Peter.</p> +<p>“Bottle’s all right,” Clodd assured +him. “Try some more. Judge it +fairly.”</p> +<p>Peter ventured on another sip. “You don’t +think they would be satisfied if I recommended it as a +medicine?” insinuated Peter—“something to have +about the house in case of accidental poisoning?”</p> +<p>“Better go round and suggest the idea to them +yourself. I’ve done with it.” Clodd took +up his hat.</p> +<p>“I’m sorry—I’m very sorry,” +sighed Peter. “But I couldn’t +conscientiously—”</p> +<p>Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. “Oh! +confound that conscience of yours! Don’t it ever +think of your creditors? What’s the use of my working +out my lungs for you, when all you do is to hamper me at every +step?”</p> +<p>“Wouldn’t it be better policy,” urged Peter, +“to go for the better class of advertiser, who +doesn’t ask you for this sort of thing?”</p> +<p>“Go for him!” snorted Clodd. “Do you +think I don’t go for him? They are just sheep. +Get one, you get the lot. Until you’ve got the one, +the others won’t listen to you.”</p> +<p>“That’s true,” mused Peter. “I +spoke to Wilkinson, of Kingsley’s, myself. He advised +me to try and get Landor’s. He thought that if I +could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his +people to give us theirs.”</p> +<p>“And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised +you theirs provided you got Kingsley’s.”</p> +<p>“They will come,” thought hopeful Peter. +“We are going up steadily. They will come with a +rush.”</p> +<p>“They had better come soon,” thought Clodd. +“The only things coming with a rush just now are +bills.”</p> +<p>“Those articles of young McTear’s attracted a good +deal of attention,” expounded Peter. “He has +promised to write me another series.”</p> +<p>“Jowett is the one to get hold of,” mused +Clodd. “Jowett, all the others follow like a flock of +geese waddling after the old gander. If only we could get +hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy.”</p> +<p>Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. +Jowett spent on advertising every year a quarter of a million, it +was said. Jowett was the stay and prop of periodical +literature. New papers that secured the Marble Soap +advertisement lived and prospered; the new paper to which it was +denied languished and died. Jowett, and how to get hold of +him; Jowett, and how to get round him, formed the chief topic of +discussion at the council-board of most new papers, <i>Good +Humour</i> amongst the number.</p> +<p>“I have heard,” said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote +the Letter to Clorinda that filled each week the last two pages +of <i>Good Humour</i>, and that told Clorinda, who lived secluded +in the country, the daily history of the highest class society, +among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; +who they were, and what they wore, the wise and otherwise things +they did—“I have heard,” said Miss Ramsbotham +one morning, Jowett being as usual the subject under debate, +“that the old man is susceptible to female +influence.”</p> +<p>“What I have always thought,” said Clodd. +“A lady advertising-agent might do well. At all +events, they couldn’t kick her out.”</p> +<p>“They might in the end,” thought Peter. +“Female door-porters would become a profession for muscular +ladies if ever the idea took root.”</p> +<p>“The first one would get a good start, anyhow,” +thought Clodd.</p> +<p>The sub-editor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a +time, long ago, the sub-editor had succeeded, when all other +London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a +certain great statesman. The sub-editor had never forgotten +this—nor allowed anyone else to forget it.</p> +<p>“I believe I could get it for you,” said the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>The editor and the business-manager both spoke together. +They spoke with decision and with emphasis.</p> +<p>“Why not?” said the sub-editor. “When +nobody else could get at him, it was I who interviewed +Prince—”</p> +<p>“We’ve heard all about that,” interrupted +the business-manager. “If I had been your father at +the time, you would never have done it.”</p> +<p>“How could I have stopped her?” retorted Peter +Hope. “She never said a word to me.”</p> +<p>“You could have kept an eye on her.”</p> +<p>“Kept an eye on her! When you’ve got a girl +of your own, you’ll know more about them.”</p> +<p>“When I have,” asserted Clodd, “I’ll +manage her.”</p> +<p>“We know all about bachelor’s children,” +sneered Peter Hope, the editor.</p> +<p>“You leave it to me. I’ll have it for you +before the end of the week,” crowed the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“If you do get it,” returned Clodd, “I shall +throw it out, that’s all.”</p> +<p>“You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a +good idea,” the sub-editor reminded him.</p> +<p>“So she might be,” returned Clodd; “but she +isn’t going to be you.”</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“Because she isn’t, that’s why.”</p> +<p>“But if—”</p> +<p>“See you at the printer’s at twelve,” said +Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly.</p> +<p>“Well, I think he’s an idiot,” said the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>“I do not often,” said the editor, “but on +this point I agree with him. Cadging for advertisements +isn’t a woman’s work.”</p> +<p>“But what is the difference between—”</p> +<p>“All the difference in the world,” thought the +editor.</p> +<p>“You don’t know what I was going to say,” +returned his sub.</p> +<p>“I know the drift of it,” asserted the editor.</p> +<p>“But you let me—”</p> +<p>“I know I do—a good deal too much. I’m +going to turn over a new leaf.”</p> +<p>“All I propose to do—”</p> +<p>“Whatever it is, you’re not going to do it,” +declared the chief. “Shall be back at half-past +twelve, if anybody comes.”</p> +<p>“It seems to me—” But Peter was +gone.</p> +<p>“Just like them all,” wailed the sub-editor. +“They can’t argue; when you explain things to them, +they go out. It does make me so mad!”</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham laughed. “You are a downtrodden +little girl, Tommy.”</p> +<p>“As if I couldn’t take care of +myself!” Tommy’s chin was high up in the +air.</p> +<p>“Cheer up,” suggested Miss Ramsbotham. +“Nobody ever tells me not to do anything. I would +change with you if I could.”</p> +<p>“I’d have walked into that office and have had +that advertisement out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I +would,” bragged Tommy. “I can always get on +with old men.”</p> +<p>“Only with the old ones?” queried Miss +Ramsbotham.</p> +<p>The door opened. “Anybody in?” asked the +face of Johnny Bulstrode, appearing in the jar.</p> +<p>“Can’t you see they are?” snapped Tommy.</p> +<p>“Figure of speech,” explained Johnny Bulstrode, +commonly called “the Babe,” entering and closing the +door behind him.</p> +<p>“What do you want?” demanded the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“Nothing in particular,” replied the Babe.</p> +<p>“Wrong time of the day to come for it, half-past eleven +in the morning,” explained the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with you?” asked the +Babe.</p> +<p>“Feeling very cross,” confessed the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>The childlike face of the Babe expressed sympathetic +inquiry.</p> +<p>“We are very indignant,” explained Miss +Ramsbotham, “because we are not allowed to rush off to +Cannon Street and coax an advertisement out of old Jowett, the +soap man. We feel sure that if we only put on our best hat, +he couldn’t possibly refuse us.”</p> +<p>“No coaxing required,” thought the +sub-editor. “Once get in to see the old fellow and +put the actual figures before him, he would clamour to come +in.”</p> +<p>“Won’t he see Clodd?” asked the Babe.</p> +<p>“Won’t see anybody on behalf of anything new just +at present, apparently,” answered Miss Ramsbotham. +“It was my fault. I was foolish enough to repeat that +I had heard he was susceptible to female charm. They say it +was Mrs. Sarkitt that got the advertisement for <i>The Lamp</i> +out of him. But, of course, it may not be true.”</p> +<p>“Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to +give away,” sighed the Babe.</p> +<p>“Wish you were,” agreed the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“You should have them all, Tommy.”</p> +<p>“My name,” corrected him the sub-editor, “is +Miss Hope.”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the Babe. “I +don’t know how it is, but one gets into the way of calling +you Tommy.”</p> +<p>“I will thank you,” said the sub-editor, “to +get out of it.”</p> +<p>“I am sorry,” said the Babe.</p> +<p>“Don’t let it occur again,” said the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but +nothing seemed to come of it. “Well,” said the +Babe, “I just looked in, that’s all. Nothing I +can do for you?”</p> +<p>“Nothing,” thanked him the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“Good morning,” said the Babe.</p> +<p>“Good morning,” said the sub-editor.</p> +<p>The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as +it slowly descended the stairs. Most of the members of the +Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do +anything for Tommy. Some of them had luck. Only the +day before, Porson—a heavy, most uninteresting +man—had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire +after the wounded hand of a machine-boy. Young Alexander, +whose poetry some people could not even understand, had been +commissioned to search London for a second-hand edition of +Maitland’s <i>Architecture</i>. Since a fortnight +nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that +would not go, Johnny had been given nothing.</p> +<p>Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with +his lot. A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against him.</p> +<p>“Beg yer pardon—” the small boy looked up +into Johnny’s face, “miss,” added the small +boy, dodging the blow and disappearing into the crowd.</p> +<p>The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to +insults of this character, but to-day it especially irritated +him. Why at twenty-two could he not grow even a +moustache? Why was he only five feet five and a half? +Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white complexion, so that +the members of his own club had nicknamed him “the +Babe,” while street-boys as they passed pleaded with him +for a kiss? Why was his very voice, a flute-like alto, more +suitable—Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his +brain. The idea grew. Passing a barber’s shop, +Johnny went in.</p> +<p>“’Air cut, sir?” remarked the barber, +fitting a sheet round Johnny’s neck.</p> +<p>“No, shave,” corrected Johnny.</p> +<p>“Beg pardon,” said the barber, substituting a +towel for the sheet. “Do you shave up, sir?” +later demanded the barber.</p> +<p>“Yes,” answered Johnny.</p> +<p>“Pleasant weather we are having,” said the +barber.</p> +<p>“Very,” assented Johnny.</p> +<p>From the barber’s, Johnny went to Stinchcombe’s, +the costumier’s, in Drury Lane.</p> +<p>“I am playing in a burlesque,” explained the +Babe. “I want you to rig me out completely as a +modern girl.”</p> +<p>“Peeth o’ luck!” said the shopman. +“Goth the very bundle for you. Juth come +in.”</p> +<p>“I shall want everything,” explained the Babe, +“from the boots to the hat; stays, petticoats—the +whole bag of tricks.”</p> +<p>“Regular troutheau there,” said the shopman, +emptying out the canvas bag upon the counter. “Thry +’em on.”</p> +<p>The Babe contented himself with trying on the costume and the +boots.</p> +<p>“Juth made for you!” said the shopman.</p> +<p>A little loose about the chest, suggested the Babe.</p> +<p>“Thath’s all right,” said the shopman. +“Couple o’ thmall towelths, all thath’s +wanted.”</p> +<p>“You don’t think it too showy?” queried the +Babe.</p> +<p>“Thowy? Sthylish, thath’s all.”</p> +<p>“You are sure everything’s here?”</p> +<p>“Everythinkth there. ‘Thept the bit o’ +meat inthide,” assured him the shopman.</p> +<p>The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address. +The shopman promised the things should be sent round within an +hour. The Babe, who had entered into the spirit of the +thing, bought a pair of gloves and a small reticule, and made his +way to Bow Street.</p> +<p>“I want a woman’s light brown wig,” said the +Babe to Mr. Cox, the perruquier.</p> +<p>Mr. Cox tried on two. The deceptive appearance of the +second Mr. Cox pronounced as perfect.</p> +<p>“Looks more natural on you than your own hair, blessed +if it doesn’t!” said Mr. Cox.</p> +<p>The wig also was promised within the hour. The spirit of +completeness descended upon the Babe. On his way back to +his lodgings in Great Queen Street, he purchased a ladylike +umbrella and a veil.</p> +<p>Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his +exit by the door of Mr. Stinchcombe’s shop, one, Harry +Bennett, actor and member of the Autolycus Club, pushed it open +and entered. The shop was empty. Harry Bennett +hammered with his stick and waited. A piled-up bundle of +clothes lay upon the counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and +address scrawled across it, rested on the bundle. Harry +Bennett, given to idle curiosity, approached and read the +same. Harry Bennett, with his stick, poked the bundle, +scattering its items over the counter.</p> +<p>“Donth do thath!” said the shopman, coming +up. “Juth been putting ’em together.”</p> +<p>“What the devil,” said Harry Bennett, “is +Johnny Bulstrode going to do with that rig-out?”</p> +<p>“How thoud I know?” answered the shopman. +“Private theathricals, I suppoth. Friend o’ +yourth?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied Harry Bennett. “By +Jove! he ought to make a good girl. Should like to see +it!”</p> +<p>“Well arthk him for a ticket. Donth make ’em +dirty,” suggested the shopman.</p> +<p>“I must,” said Harry Bennett, and talked about his +own affairs.</p> +<p>The rig-out and the wig did not arrive at Johnny’s +lodgings within the hour as promised, but arrived there within +three hours, which was as much as Johnny had expected. It +took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but at last he stood before +the plate-glass panel of the wardrobe transformed. Johnny +had reason to be pleased with the result. A tall, handsome +girl looked back at him out of the glass—a little showily +dressed, perhaps, but decidedly <i>chic</i>.</p> +<p>“Wonder if I ought to have a cloak,” mused Johnny, +as a ray of sunshine, streaming through the window, fell upon the +image in the glass. “Well, anyhow, I +haven’t,” thought Johnny, as the sunlight died away +again, “so it’s no good thinking about it.”</p> +<p>Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened +cautiously the door. Outside all was silent. Johnny +stealthily descended; in the passage paused again. Voices +sounded from the basement. Feeling like an escaped burglar, +Johnny slipped the latch of the big door and peeped out. A +policeman, pasting, turned and looked at him. Johnny +hastily drew back and closed the door again. Somebody was +ascending from the kitchen. Johnny, caught between two +terrors, nearer to the front door than to the stairs, having no +time, chose the street. It seemed to Johnny that the street +was making for him. A woman came hurriedly towards +him. What was she going to say to him? What should he +answer her? To his surprise she passed him, hardly noticing +him. Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few +steps forward. A couple of young clerks coming up from +behind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering +stare of angry alarm, appeared confused and went their way. +It began to dawn upon him that mankind was less discerning than +he had feared. Gaining courage as he proceeded, he reached +Holborn. Here the larger crowd swept around him +indifferent.</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Johnny, coming into +collision with a stout gentleman.</p> +<p>“My fault,” replied the stout gentleman, as, +smiling, he picked up his damaged hat.</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” repeated Johnny again two +minutes later, colliding with a tall young lady.</p> +<p>“Should advise you to take something for that squint of +yours,” remarked the tall young lady with severity.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with me?” thought +Johnny. “Seems to be a sort of +mist—” The explanation flashed across +him. “Of course,” said Johnny to himself, +“it’s this confounded veil!”</p> +<p>Johnny decided to walk to the Marble Soap offices. +“I’ll be more used to the hang of things by the time +I get there if I walk,” thought Johnny. “Hope +the old beggar’s in.”</p> +<p>In Newgate Street, Johnny paused and pressed his hands against +his chest. “Funny sort of pain I’ve got,” +thought Johnny. “Wonder if I should shock them if I +went in somewhere for a drop of brandy?”</p> +<p>“It don’t get any better,” reflected Johnny, +with some alarm, on reaching the corner of Cheapside. +“Hope I’m not going to be ill. +Whatever—” The explanation came to him. +“Of course, it’s these damned stays! No wonder +girls are short-tempered, at times.”</p> +<p>At the offices of the Marble Soap, Johnny was treated with +marked courtesy. Mr. Jowett was out, was not expected back +till five o’clock. Would the lady wait, or would she +call again? The lady decided, now she was there, to +wait. Would the lady take the easy-chair? Would the +lady have the window open or would she have it shut? Had +the lady seen <i>The Times</i>?</p> +<p>“Or the <i>Ha’penny Joker</i>?” suggested a +junior clerk, who thereupon was promptly sent back to his +work.</p> +<p>Many of the senior clerks had occasion to pass through the +waiting-room. Two of the senior clerks held views about the +weather which they appeared wishful to express at length. +Johnny began to enjoy himself. This thing was going to be +good fun. By the time the slamming of doors and the +hurrying of feet announced the advent of the chief, Johnny was +looking forward to his interview.</p> +<p>It was briefer and less satisfactory than he had +anticipated. Mr. Jowett was very busy—did not as a +rule see anybody in the afternoon; but of course, a +lady—“Would Miss—”</p> +<p>“Montgomery.”</p> +<p>“Would Miss Montgomery inform Mr. Jowett what it was he +might have the pleasure of doing for her?”</p> +<p>Miss Montgomery explained.</p> +<p>Mr. Jowett seemed half angry, half amused.</p> +<p>“Really,” said Mr. Jowett, “this is hardly +playing the game. Against our fellow-men we can protect +ourselves, but if the ladies are going to attack us—really +it isn’t fair.”</p> +<p>Miss Montgomery pleaded.</p> +<p>“I’ll think it over,” was all that Mr. +Jowett could be made to promise. “Look me up +again.”</p> +<p>“When?” asked Miss Montgomery.</p> +<p>“What’s to-day?—Thursday. Say +Monday.” Mr. Jowett rang the bell. “Take +my advice,” said the old gentleman, laying a fatherly hand +on Johnny’s shoulder, “leave business to us +men. You are a handsome girl. You can do better for +yourself than this.”</p> +<p>A clerk entered, Johnny rose.</p> +<p>“On Monday next, then,” Johnny reminded him.</p> +<p>“At four o’clock,” agreed Mr. Jowett. +“Good afternoon.”</p> +<p>Johnny went out feeling disappointed, and yet, as he told +himself, he hadn’t done so badly. Anyhow, there was +nothing for it but to wait till Monday. Now he would go +home, change his clothes, and get some dinner. He hailed a +hansom.</p> +<p>“Number twenty-eight—no. Stop at the +Queen’s Street corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” +Johnny directed the man.</p> +<p>“Quite right, miss,” commented the cabman +pleasantly. “Corner’s best—saves all +talk.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” demanded Johnny.</p> +<p>“No offence, miss,” answered the man. +“We was all young once.”</p> +<p>Johnny climbed in. At the corner of Queen Street and +Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Johnny got out. Johnny, who had +been pondering other matters, put his hand instinctively to +where, speaking generally, his pocket should have been; then +recollected himself.</p> +<p>“Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, +or did I not?” mused Johnny, as he stood upon the kerb.</p> +<p>“Look in the ridicule, miss,” suggested the +cabman.</p> +<p>Johnny looked. It was empty.</p> +<p>“Perhaps I put it in my pocket,” thought +Johnny.</p> +<p>The cabman hitched his reins to the whip-socket and leant +back.</p> +<p>“It’s somewhere about here, I know, I saw +it,” Johnny told himself. “Sorry to keep you +waiting,” Johnny added aloud to the cabman.</p> +<p>“Don’t you worry about that, miss,” replied +the cabman civilly; “we are used to it. A shilling a +quarter of an hour is what we charge.”</p> +<p>“Of all the damned silly tricks!” muttered Johnny +to himself.</p> +<p>Two small boys and a girl carrying a baby paused, +interested.</p> +<p>“Go away,” told them the cabman. +“You’ll have troubles of your own one day.”</p> +<p>The urchins moved a few steps further, then halted again and +were joined by a slatternly woman and another boy.</p> +<p>“Got it!” cried Johnny, unable to suppress his +delight as his hand slipped through a fold. The lady with +the baby, without precisely knowing why, set up a shrill +cheer. Johnny’s delight died away; it wasn’t +the pocket-hole. Short of taking the skirt off and turning +it inside out, it didn’t seem to Johnny that he ever would +find that pocket.</p> +<p>Then in that moment of despair he came across it +accidentally. It was as empty as the reticule!</p> +<p>“I am sorry,” said Johnny to the cabman, +“but I appear to have come out without my purse.”</p> +<p>The cabman said he had heard that tale before, and was making +preparations to descend. The crowd, now numbering eleven, +looked hopeful. It occurred to Johnny later that he might +have offered his umbrella to the cabman; at least it would have +fetched the eighteenpence. One thinks of these things +afterwards. The only idea that occurred to him at the +moment was that of getting home.</p> +<p>“’Ere, ’old my ’orse a minute, one of +yer,” shouted the cabman.</p> +<p>Half a dozen willing hands seized the dozing steed and roused +it into madness.</p> +<p>“Hi! stop ’er!” roared the cabman.</p> +<p>“She’s down!” shouted the excited crowd.</p> +<p>“Tripped over ’er skirt,” explained the +slatternly woman. “They do ’amper +you.”</p> +<p>“No, she’s not. She’s up again!” +vociferated a delighted plumber, with a sounding slap on his own +leg. “Gor blimy, if she ain’t a good +’un!”</p> +<p>Fortunately the Square was tolerably clear and Johnny a good +runner. Holding now his skirt and petticoat high in his +left hand, Johnny moved across the Square at the rate of fifteen +miles an hour. A butcher’s boy sprang in front of him +with arms held out to stop him. The thing that for the next +three months annoyed that butcher boy most was hearing shouted +out after him “Yah! who was knocked down and run over by a +lidy?” By the time Johnny reached the Strand, +<i>viâ</i> Clement’s Inn, the hue and cry was far +behind. Johnny dropped his skirts and assumed a more +girlish pace. Through Bow Street and Long Acre he reached +Great Queen Street in safety. Upon his own doorstep he +began to laugh. His afternoon’s experience had been +amusing; still, on the whole, he wasn’t sorry it was +over. One can have too much even of the best of +jokes. Johnny rang the bell.</p> +<p>The door opened. Johnny would have walked in had not a +big, raw-boned woman barred his progress.</p> +<p>“What do you want?” demanded the raw-boned +woman.</p> +<p>“Want to come in,” explained Johnny.</p> +<p>“What do you want to come in for?”</p> +<p>This appeared to Johnny a foolish question. On +reflection he saw the sense of it. This raw-boned woman was +not Mrs. Pegg, his landlady. Some friend of hers, he +supposed.</p> +<p>“It’s all right,” said Johnny, “I live +here. Left my latchkey at home, that’s +all.”</p> +<p>“There’s no females lodging here,” declared +the raw-boned lady. “And what’s more, +there’s going to be none.”</p> +<p>All this was very vexing. Johnny, in his joy at reaching +his own doorstep, had not foreseen these complications. Now +it would be necessary to explain things. He only hoped the +story would not get round to the fellows at the club.</p> +<p>“Ask Mrs. Pegg to step up for a minute,” requested +Johnny.</p> +<p>“Not at ’ome,” explained the raw-boned +lady.</p> +<p>“Not—not at home?”</p> +<p>“Gone to Romford, if you wish to know, to see her +mother.”</p> +<p>“Gone to Romford?”</p> +<p>“I said Romford, didn’t I?” retorted the +raw-boned lady, tartly.</p> +<p>“What—what time do you expect her in?”</p> +<p>“Sunday evening, six o’clock,” replied the +raw-boned lady.</p> +<p>Johnny looked at the raw-boned lady, imagined himself telling +the raw-boned lady the simple, unvarnished truth, and the +raw-boned lady’s utter disbelief of every word of it. +An inspiration came to his aid.</p> +<p>“I am Mr. Bulstrode’s sister,” said Johnny +meekly; “he’s expecting me.”</p> +<p>“Thought you said you lived here?” reminded him +the raw-boned lady.</p> +<p>“I meant that he lived here,” replied poor Johnny +still more meekly. “He has the second floor, you +know.”</p> +<p>“I know,” replied the raw-boned lady. +“Not in just at present.”</p> +<p>“Not in?”</p> +<p>“Went out at three o’clock.”</p> +<p>“I’ll go up to his room and wait for him,” +said Johnny.</p> +<p>“No, you won’t,” said the raw-boned +lady.</p> +<p>For an instant it occurred to Johnny to make a dash for it, +but the raw-boned lady looked both formidable and +determined. There would be a big disturbance—perhaps +the police called in. Johnny had often wanted to see his +name in print: in connection with this affair he somehow felt he +didn’t.</p> +<p>“Do let me in,” Johnny pleaded; “I have +nowhere else to go.”</p> +<p>“You have a walk and cool yourself,” suggested the +raw-boned lady. “Don’t expect he will be +long.”</p> +<p>“But, you see—”</p> +<p>The raw-boned lady slammed the door.</p> +<p>Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which +proceeded savoury odours, Johnny paused and tried to think.</p> +<p>“What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had +it—no, I didn’t. Must have dropped it, I +suppose, when that silly ass tried to stop me. By Jove! I +am having luck!”</p> +<p>Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused +again. “How am I to live till Sunday night? +Where am I to sleep? If I telegraph home—damn it! how +can I telegraph? I haven’t got a penny. This is +funny,” said Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; +“upon my word, this is funny! Oh! you go +to—.”</p> +<p>Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errand-boy +whose intention had been to offer sympathy.</p> +<p>“Well, I never!” commented a passing +flower-girl. “Calls ’erself a lidy, I +suppose.”</p> +<p>“Nowadays,” observed the stud and button merchant +at the corner of Exeter Street, “they make ’em out of +anything.”</p> +<p>Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned +his steps up Bedford Street. “Why not?” mused +Johnny. “Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. +Why should they? I’ll never hear the last of it if +they find me out. But why should they find me out? +Well, something’s got to be done.”</p> +<p>Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus +Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his courage in both +hands and plunged through the swing doors.</p> +<p>“Is Mr. Herring—Mr. Jack +Herring—here?”</p> +<p>“Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode,” +answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.</p> +<p>“Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a +moment?”</p> +<p>Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, +put them on again.</p> +<p>“Please say Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode’s +sister.”</p> +<p>Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest +argument on Hamlet—was he really mad?</p> +<p>“A lady to see you, Mr. Herring,” announced old +Goslin.</p> +<p>“A what?”</p> +<p>“Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode’s +sister. She’s waiting in the hall.”</p> +<p>“Never knew he had a sister,” said Jack Herring, +rising.</p> +<p>“Wait a minute,” said Harry Bennett. +“Shut that door. Don’t go.” This to +old Goslin, who closed the door and returned. “Lady +in a heliotrope dress with a lace collar, three flounces on the +skirt?”</p> +<p>“That’s right, Mr. Bennett,” agreed old +Goslin.</p> +<p>“It’s the Babe himself!” asserted Harry +Bennett.</p> +<p>The question of Hamlet’s madness was forgotten.</p> +<p>“Was in at Stinchcombe’s this morning,” +explained Harry Bennett; “saw the clothes on the counter +addressed to him. That’s the identical frock. +This is just a ‘try on’—thinks he’s going +to have a lark with us.”</p> +<p>The Autolycus Club looked round at itself.</p> +<p>“I can see verra promising possibilities in this, +provided the thing is properly managed,” said the Wee +Laddie, after a pause.</p> +<p>“So can I,” agreed Jack Herring. “Keep +where you are, all of you. ’Twould be a pity to fool +it.”</p> +<p>The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the +room.</p> +<p>“One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my +life,” explained Jack Herring in a whisper. +“Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her +brother; found him out—hasn’t been seen at his +lodgings since three o’clock; fears something may have +happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her +mother; strange woman in charge, won’t let her in to wait +for him.”</p> +<p>“How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and +helpless!” murmured Somerville the Briefless.</p> +<p>“That’s not the worst of it,” continued +Jack. “The dear girl has been robbed of everything +she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn’t got a +<i>sou</i>; hasn’t had any dinner, and doesn’t know +where to sleep.”</p> +<p>“Sounds a bit elaborate,” thought Porson.</p> +<p>“I think I can understand it,” said the Briefless +one. “What has happened is this. He’s +dressed up thinking to have a bit of fun with us, and has come +out, forgetting to put any money or his latchkey in his +pocket. His landlady may have gone to Romford or may +not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and +enter into explanations. What does he suggest—the +loan of a sovereign?”</p> +<p>“The loan of two,” replied Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don’t you +do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our +duty is to show him the folly of indulging in senseless +escapades.”</p> +<p>“I think we might give him a dinner,” thought the +stout and sympathetic Porson.</p> +<p>“What I propose to do,” grinned Jack, “is to +take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle’s. She’s +under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who got her the +post office. We’ll leave him there for a night, with +instructions to Mrs. P. to keep a motherly eye on him. +To-morrow he shall have his ‘bit of fun,’ and I guess +he’ll be the first to get tired of the joke.”</p> +<p>It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the +Autolycus Club gallantly undertook to accompany “Miss +Bulstrode” to her lodgings. Jack Herring excited +jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying her +reticule. “Miss Bulstrode” was given to +understand that anything any of the seven could do for her, each +and every would be delighted to do, if only for the sake of her +brother, one of the dearest boys that ever breathed—a bit +of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. +“Miss Bulstrode” was not as grateful as perhaps she +should have been. Her idea still was that if one of them +would lend her a couple of sovereigns, the rest need not worry +themselves further. This, purely in her own interests, they +declined to do. She had suffered one extensive robbery that +day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of +danger to the young and inexperienced. Far better that they +should watch over her and provide for her simple wants. +Painful as it was to refuse a lady, a beloved companion’s +sister’s welfare was yet dearer to them. “Miss +Bulstrode’s” only desire was not to waste their +time. Jack Herring’s opinion was that there existed +no true Englishman who would grudge time spent upon succouring a +beautiful maiden in distress.</p> +<p>Arrived at the little grocer’s shop in Rolls Court, Jack +Herring drew Mrs. Postwhistle aside.</p> +<p>“She’s the sister of a very dear friend of +ours,” explained Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“A fine-looking girl,” commented Mrs. +Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“I shall be round again in the morning. +Don’t let her out of your sight, and, above all, +don’t lend her any money,” directed Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“I understand,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“Miss Bulstrode” having despatched an excellent +supper of cold mutton and bottled beer, leant back in her chair +and crossed her legs.</p> +<p>“I have often wondered,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, +her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, “what a cigarette would +taste like.”</p> +<p>“Taste nasty, I should say, the first time,” +thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting.</p> +<p>“Some girls, so I have heard,” remarked Miss +Bulstrode, “smoke cigarettes.”</p> +<p>“Not nice girls,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“One of the nicest girls I ever knew,” remarked +Miss Bulstrode, “always smoked a cigarette after +supper. Said it soothed her nerves.”</p> +<p>“Wouldn’t ’ave thought so if I’d +’ad charge of ’er,” said Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“I think,” said Miss Bulstrode, who seemed +restless, “I think I shall go for a little walk before +turning in.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps it would do us good,” agreed Mrs. +Postwhistle, laying down her knitting.</p> +<p>“Don’t you trouble to come,” urged the +thoughtful Miss Bulstrode. “You look +tired.”</p> +<p>“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle. +“Feel I should like it.”</p> +<p>In some respects Mrs. Postwhistle proved an admirable +companion. She asked no questions, and only spoke when +spoken to, which, during that walk, was not often. At the +end of half an hour, Miss Bulstrode pleaded a headache and +thought she would return home and go to bed. Mrs. +Postwhistle thought it a reasonable idea.</p> +<p>“Well, it’s better than tramping the +streets,” muttered Johnny, as the bedroom door was closed +behind him, “and that’s all one can say for it. +Must get hold of a smoke to-morrow, if I have to rob the +till. What’s that?” Johnny stole across +on, tiptoe. “Confound it!” said Johnny, +“if she hasn’t locked the door!”</p> +<p>Johnny sat down upon the bed and took stock of his +position. “It doesn’t seem to me,” +thought Johnny, “that I’m ever going to get out of +this mess.” Johnny, still muttering, unfastened his +stays. “Thank God, that’s off!” +ejaculated Johnny piously, as he watched his form slowly +expanding. “Suppose I’ll be used to them before +I’ve finished with them.”</p> +<p>Johnny had a night of dreams.</p> +<p>For the whole of next day, which was Friday, Johnny remained +“Miss Bulstrode,” hoping against hope to find an +opportunity to escape from his predicament without +confession. The entire Autolycus Club appeared to have +fallen in love with him.</p> +<p>“Thought I was a bit of a fool myself,” mused +Johnny, “where a petticoat was concerned. Don’t +believe these blithering idiots have ever seen a girl +before.”</p> +<p>They came in ones, they came in little parties, and tendered +him devotion. Even Mrs. Postwhistle, accustomed to regard +human phenomena without comment, remarked upon it.</p> +<p>“When you are all tired of it,” said Mrs. +Postwhistle to Jack Herring, “let me know.”</p> +<p>“The moment we find her brother,” explained Jack +Herring, “of course we shall take her to him.”</p> +<p>“Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing +when you’ve finished looking in the others,” observed +Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” demanded Jack.</p> +<p>“Just what I say,” answered Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. +Postwhistle’s face was not of the expressive order.</p> +<p>“Post office still going strong?” asked Jack +Herring.</p> +<p>“The post office ’as been a great ’elp to +me,” admitted Mrs. Postwhistle; “and I’m not +forgetting that I owe it to you.”</p> +<p>“Don’t mention it,” murmured Jack +Herring.</p> +<p>They brought her presents—nothing very expensive, more +as tokens of regard: dainty packets of sweets, nosegays of simple +flowers, bottles of scent. To Somerville “Miss +Bulstrode” hinted that if he really did desire to please +her, and wasn’t merely talking through his hat—Miss +Bulstrode apologised for the slang, which, she feared, she must +have picked up from her brother—he might give her a box of +Messani’s cigarettes, size No. 2. The suggestion +pained him. Somerville the Briefless was perhaps +old-fashioned. Miss Bulstrode cut him short by agreeing +that he was, and seemed disinclined for further conversation.</p> +<p>They took her to Madame Tussaud’s. They took her +up the Monument. They took her to the Tower of +London. In the evening they took her to the Polytechnic to +see Pepper’s Ghost. They made a merry party wherever +they went.</p> +<p>“Seem to be enjoying themselves!” remarked other +sightseers, surprised and envious.</p> +<p>“Girl seems to be a bit out of it,” remarked +others, more observant.</p> +<p>“Sulky-looking bit o’ goods, I call her,” +remarked some of the ladies.</p> +<p>The fortitude with which Miss Bulstrode bore the mysterious +disappearance of her brother excited admiration.</p> +<p>“Hadn’t we better telegraph to your people in +Derbyshire?” suggested Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“Don’t do it,” vehemently protested the +thoughtful Miss Bulstrode; “it might alarm them. The +best plan is for you to lend me a couple of sovereigns and let me +return home quietly.”</p> +<p>“You might be robbed again,” feared Jack +Herring. “I’ll go down with you.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps he’ll turn up to-morrow,” thought +Miss Bulstrode. “Expect he’s gone on a +visit.”</p> +<p>“He ought not to have done it,” thought Jack +Herring, “knowing you were coming.”</p> +<p>“Oh! he’s like that,” explained Miss +Bulstrode.</p> +<p>“If I had a young and beautiful sister—” +said Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“Oh! let’s talk of something else,” +suggested Miss Bulstrode. “You make me +tired.”</p> +<p>With Jack Herring, in particular, Johnny was beginning to lose +patience. That “Miss Bulstrode’s” charms +had evidently struck Jack Herring all of a heap, as the saying +is, had in the beginning amused Master Johnny. +Indeed—as in the seclusion of his bedchamber over the +little grocer’s shop he told himself with bitter +self-reproach—he had undoubtedly encouraged the man. +From admiration Jack had rapidly passed to infatuation, from +infatuation to apparent imbecility. Had Johnny’s mind +been less intent upon his own troubles, he might have been +suspicious. As it was, and after all that had happened, +nothing now could astonish Johnny. “Thank +Heaven,” murmured Johnny, as he blew out the light, +“this Mrs. Postwhistle appears to be a reliable +woman.”</p> +<p>Now, about the same time that Johnny’s head was falling +thus upon his pillow, the Autolycus Club sat discussing plans for +their next day’s entertainment.</p> +<p>“I think,” said Jack Herring, “the Crystal +Palace in the morning when it’s nice and quiet.”</p> +<p>“To be followed by Greenwich Hospital in the +afternoon,” suggested Somerville.</p> +<p>“Winding up with the Moore and Burgess Minstrels in the +evening,” thought Porson.</p> +<p>“Hardly the place for the young person,” feared +Jack Herring. “Some of the jokes—”</p> +<p>“Mr. Brandram gives a reading of <i>Julius +Cæsar</i> at St. George’s Hall,” the Wee Laddie +informed them for their guidance.</p> +<p>“Hallo!” said Alexander the Poet, entering at the +moment. “What are you all talking about?”</p> +<p>“We were discussing where to take Miss Bulstrode +to-morrow evening,” informed him Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“Miss Bulstrode,” repeated the Poet in a tone of +some surprise. “Do you mean Johnny Bulstrode’s +sister?”</p> +<p>“That’s the lady,” answered Jack. +“But how do you come to know about her? Thought you +were in Yorkshire.”</p> +<p>“Came up yesterday,” explained the Poet. +“Travelled up with her.”</p> +<p>“Travelled up with her?”</p> +<p>“From Matlock Bath. What’s the matter with +you all?” demanded the Poet. “You all of you +look—”</p> +<p>“Sit down,” said the Briefless one to the +Poet. “Let’s talk this matter over +quietly.”</p> +<p>Alexander the Poet, mystified, sat down.</p> +<p>“You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss +Bulstrode. You are sure it was Miss Bulstrode?”</p> +<p>“Sure!” retorted the Poet. “Why, +I’ve known her ever since she was a baby.”</p> +<p>“About what time did you reach London?”</p> +<p>“Three-thirty.”</p> +<p>“And what became of her? Where did she say she was +going?”</p> +<p>“I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was +getting into a cab. I had an appointment myself, and +was—I say, what’s the matter with Herring?”</p> +<p>Herring had risen and was walking about with his head between +his hands.</p> +<p>“Never mind him. Miss Bulstrode is a lady of +about—how old?”</p> +<p>“Eighteen—no, nineteen last birthday.”</p> +<p>“A tall, handsome sort of girl?”</p> +<p>“Yes. I say, has anything happened to +her?”</p> +<p>“Nothing has happened to her,” assured him +Somerville. “<i>She’s</i> all right. Been +having rather a good time, on the whole.”</p> +<p>The Poet was relieved to hear it.</p> +<p>“I asked her an hour ago,” said Jack Herring, who +was still holding his head between his hands as if to make sure +it was there, “if she thought she could ever learn to love +me. Would you say that could be construed into an offer of +marriage?”</p> +<p>The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, +practically speaking, it was a proposal.</p> +<p>“I don’t see it,” argued Jack Herring. +“It was merely in the nature of a remark.”</p> +<p>The Club was of opinion that such quibbling was unworthy of a +gentleman.</p> +<p>It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring +sat down and then and there began a letter to Miss Bulstrode, +care of Mrs. Postwhistle.</p> +<p>“But what I don’t understand—” said +Alexander the Poet.</p> +<p>“Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, +someone,” moaned Jack Herring. “How can I think +with all this chatter going on?”</p> +<p>“But why did Bennett—” whispered Porson.</p> +<p>“Where is Bennett?” demanded half a dozen fierce +voices.</p> +<p>Harry Bennett had not been seen all day.</p> +<p>Jack’s letter was delivered to “Miss +Bulstrode” the next morning at breakfast-time. Having +perused it, Miss Bulstrode rose and requested of Mrs. Postwhistle +the loan of half a crown.</p> +<p>“Mr. Herring’s particular instructions +were,” explained Mrs. Postwhistle, “that, above all +things, I was not to lend you any money.”</p> +<p>“When you have read that,” replied Miss Bulstrode, +handing her the letter, “perhaps you will agree with me +that Herring is—an ass.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Postwhistle read the letter and produced the +half-crown.</p> +<p>“Better get a shave with part of it,” suggested +Mrs. Postwhistle. “That is, if you are going to play +the fool much longer.”</p> +<p>“Miss Bulstrode” opened his eyes. Mrs. +Postwhistle went on with her breakfast.</p> +<p>“Don’t tell them,” said Johnny; “not +just for a little while, at all events.”</p> +<p>“Nothing to do with me,” replied Mrs. +Postwhistle.</p> +<p>Twenty minutes later, the real Miss Bulstrode, on a visit to +her aunt in Kensington, was surprised at receiving, enclosed in +an envelope, the following hastily scrawled note:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Want to speak to you at +once—<i>alone</i>. Don’t yell when you see +me. It’s all right. Can explain in two +ticks.—Your loving brother, <span +class="smcap">Johnny</span>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It took longer than two ticks; but at last the Babe came to an +end of it.</p> +<p>“When you have done laughing,” said the Babe.</p> +<p>“But you look so ridiculous,” said his sister.</p> +<p>“<i>They</i> didn’t think so,” retorted the +Babe. “I took them in all right. Guess +you’ve never had as much attention, all in one +day.”</p> +<p>“Are you sure you took them in?” queried his +sister.</p> +<p>“If you will come to the Club at eight o’clock +this evening,” said the Babe, “I’ll prove it to +you. Perhaps I’ll take you on to a theatre +afterwards—if you’re good.”</p> +<p>The Babe himself walked into the Autolycus Club a few minutes +before eight and encountered an atmosphere of restraint.</p> +<p>“Thought you were lost,” remarked Somerville +coldly.</p> +<p>“Called away suddenly—very important +business,” explained the Babe. “Awfully much +obliged to all you fellows for all you have been doing for my +sister. She’s just been telling me.”</p> +<p>“Don’t mention it,” said two or three.</p> +<p>“Awfully good of you, I’m sure,” persisted +the Babe. “Don’t know what she would have done +without you.”</p> +<p>A mere nothing, the Club assured him. The blushing +modesty of the Autolycus Club at hearing of their own good deeds +was touching. Left to themselves, they would have talked of +quite other things. As a matter of fact, they tried to.</p> +<p>“Never heard her speak so enthusiastically of anyone as +she does of you, Jack,” said the Babe, turning to Jack +Herring.</p> +<p>“Of course, you know, dear boy,” explained Jack +Herring, “anything I could do for a sister of +yours—”</p> +<p>“I know, dear boy,” replied the Babe; “I +always felt it.”</p> +<p>“Say no more about it,” urged Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“She couldn’t quite make out that letter of yours +this morning,” continued the Babe, ignoring Jack’s +request. “She’s afraid you think her +ungrateful.”</p> +<p>“It seemed to me, on reflection,” explained Jack +Herring, “that on one or two little matters she may have +misunderstood me. As I wrote her, there are days when I +don’t seem altogether to quite know what I’m +doing.”</p> +<p>“Rather awkward,” thought the Babe.</p> +<p>“It is,” agreed Jack Herring. +“Yesterday was one of them.”</p> +<p>“She tells me you were most kind to her,” the Babe +reassured him. “She thought at first it was a little +uncivil, your refusing to lend her any money. But as I put +it to her—”</p> +<p>“It was silly of me,” interrupted Jack. +“I see that now. I went round this morning meaning to +make it all right. But she was gone, and Mrs. Postwhistle +seemed to think I had better leave things as they were. I +blame myself exceedingly.”</p> +<p>“My dear boy, don’t blame yourself for +anything. You acted nobly,” the Babe told him. +“She’s coming here to call for me this evening on +purpose to thank you.”</p> +<p>“I’d rather not,” said Jack Herring.</p> +<p>“Nonsense,” said the Babe.</p> +<p>“You must excuse me,” insisted Jack Herring. +“I don’t mean it rudely, but really I’d rather +not see her.”</p> +<p>“But here she is,” said the Babe, taking at that +moment the card from old Goslin’s hand. “She +will think it so strange.”</p> +<p>“I’d really rather not,” repeated poor +Jack.</p> +<p>“It seems discourteous,” suggested Somerville.</p> +<p>“You go,” suggested Jack.</p> +<p>“She doesn’t want to see me,” explained +Somerville.</p> +<p>“Yes she does,” corrected him the Babe.</p> +<p>“I’d forgotten, she wants to see you +both.”</p> +<p>“If I go,” said Jack, “I shall tell her the +plain truth.”</p> +<p>“Do you know,” said Somerville, “I’m +thinking that will be the shortest way.”</p> +<p>Miss Bulstrode was seated in the hall. Jack Herring and +Somerville both thought her present quieter style of dress suited +her much better.</p> +<p>“Here he is,” announced the Babe, in +triumph. “Here’s Jack Herring and here’s +Somerville. Do you know, I could hardly persuade them to +come out and see you. Dear old Jack, he always was so +shy.”</p> +<p>Miss Bulstrode rose. She said she could never thank them +sufficiently for all their goodness to her. Miss Bulstrode +seemed quite overcome. Her voice trembled with emotion.</p> +<p>“Before we go further, Miss Bulstrode,” said Jack +Herring, “it will be best to tell you that all along we +thought you were your brother, dressed up as a girl.”</p> +<p>“Oh!” said the Babe, “so that’s the +explanation, is it? If I had only known—” +Then the Babe stopped, and wished he hadn’t spoken.</p> +<p>Somerville seized him by the shoulders and, with a sudden +jerk, stood him beside his sister under the gas-jet.</p> +<p>“You little brute!” said Somerville. +“It was you all along.” And the Babe, seeing +the game was up, and glad that the joke had not been entirely on +one side, confessed.</p> +<p>Jack Herring and Somerville the Briefless went that night with +Johnny and his sister to the theatre—and on other +nights. Miss Bulstrode thought Jack Herring very nice, and +told her brother so. But she thought Somerville the +Briefless even nicer, and later, under cross-examination, when +Somerville was no longer briefless, told Somerville so +himself.</p> +<p>But that has nothing to do with this particular story, the end +of which is that Miss Bulstrode kept the appointment made for +Monday afternoon between “Miss Montgomery” and Mr. +Jowett, and secured thereby the Marble Soap advertisement for the +back page of <i>Good Humour</i> for six months, at twenty-five +pounds a week.</p> +<h2>STORY THE SEVENTH—Dick Danvers presents his +Petition</h2> +<p>William Clodd, mopping his brow, laid down the screwdriver, +and stepping back, regarded the result of his labours with +evident satisfaction.</p> +<p>“It looks like a bookcase,” said William +Clodd. “You might sit in the room for half an hour +and never know it wasn’t a bookcase.”</p> +<p>What William Clodd had accomplished was this: he had had +prepared, after his own design, what appeared to be four shelves +laden with works suggestive of thought and erudition. As a +matter of fact, it was not a bookcase, but merely a flat board, +the books merely the backs of volumes that had long since found +their way into the paper-mill. This artful deception +William Clodd had screwed upon a cottage piano standing in the +corner of the editorial office of <i>Good Humour</i>. Half +a dozen real volumes piled upon the top of the piano completed +the illusion. As William Clodd had proudly remarked, a +casual visitor might easily have been deceived.</p> +<p>“If you had to sit in the room while she was practising +mixed scales, you’d be quickly undeceived,” said the +editor of <i>Good Humour</i>, one Peter Hope. He spoke +bitterly.</p> +<p>“You are not always in,” explained Clodd. +“There must be hours when she is here alone, with nothing +else to do. Besides, you will get used to it after a +while.”</p> +<p>“You, I notice, don’t try to get used to +it,” snarled Peter Hope. “You always go out the +moment she commences.”</p> +<p>“A friend of mine,” continued William Clodd, +“worked in an office over a piano-shop for seven years, and +when the shop closed, it nearly ruined his business; +couldn’t settle down to work for want of it.”</p> +<p>“Why doesn’t he come here?” asked Peter +Hope. “The floor above is vacant.”</p> +<p>“Can’t,” explained William Clodd. +“He’s dead.”</p> +<p>“I can quite believe it,” commented Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“It was a shop where people came and practised, paying +sixpence an hour, and he had got to like it—said it made a +cheerful background to his thoughts. Wonderful what you can +get accustomed to.”</p> +<p>“What’s the good of it?” demanded Peter +Hope.</p> +<p>“What’s the good of it!” retorted William +Clodd indignantly. “Every girl ought to know how to +play the piano. A nice thing if when her lover asks her to +play something to him—”</p> +<p>“I wonder you don’t start a matrimonial +agency,” sneered Peter Hope. “Love and +marriage—you think of nothing else.”</p> +<p>“When you are bringing up a young girl—” +argued Clodd.</p> +<p>“But you’re not,” interrupted Peter; +“that’s just what I’m trying to get out of your +head. It is I who am bringing her up. And between +ourselves, I wish you wouldn’t interfere so +much.”</p> +<p>“You are not fit to bring up a girl.”</p> +<p>“I’ve brought her up for seven years without your +help. She’s my adopted daughter, not yours. I +do wish people would learn to mind their own business.”</p> +<p>“You’ve done very well—”</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said Peter Hope sarcastically. +“It’s very kind of you. Perhaps when +you’ve time, you’ll write me out a +testimonial.”</p> +<p>“—up till now,” concluded the imperturbable +Clodd. “A girl of eighteen wants to know something +else besides mathematics and the classics. You don’t +understand them.”</p> +<p>“I do understand them,” asserted Peter Hope. +“What do you know about them? You’re not a +father.”</p> +<p>“You’ve done your best,” admitted William +Clodd in a tone of patronage that irritated Peter greatly; +“but you’re a dreamer; you don’t know the +world. The time is coming when the girl will have to think +of a husband.”</p> +<p>“There’s no need for her to think of a husband, +not for years,” retorted Peter Hope. “And even +when she does, is strumming on the piano going to help +her?”</p> +<p>“I tink—I tink,” said Dr. Smith, who had +hitherto remained a silent listener, “our young frent Clodd +is right. You haf never quite got over your idea dat she +was going to be a boy. You haf taught her de tings a boy +should know.”</p> +<p>“You cut her hair,” added Clodd.</p> +<p>“I don’t,” snapped Peter.</p> +<p>“You let her have it cut—it’s the same +thing. At eighteen she knows more about the ancient Greeks +and Romans than she does about her own frocks.”</p> +<p>“De young girl,” argued the doctor, “what is +she? De flower dat makes bright for us de garden of life, +de gurgling brook dat murmurs by de dusty highway, de cheerful +fire—”</p> +<p>“She can’t be all of them,” snapped Peter, +who was a stickler for style. “Do keep to one simile +at a time.”</p> +<p>“Now you listen to plain sense,” said William +Clodd. “You want—we all want—the girl to +be a success all round.”</p> +<p>“I want her—” Peter Hope was rummaging +among the litter on the desk. It certainly was not +there. Peter pulled out a drawer-two drawers. +“I wish,” said Peter Hope, “I wish sometimes +she wasn’t quite so clever.”</p> +<p>The old doctor rummaged among dusty files of papers in a +corner. Clodd found it on the mantelpiece concealed beneath +the hollow foot of a big brass candlestick, and handed it to +Peter.</p> +<p>Peter had one vice—the taking in increasing quantities +of snuff, which was harmful for him, as he himself +admitted. Tommy, sympathetic to most masculine frailties, +was severe, however, upon this one.</p> +<p>“You spill it upon your shirt and on your coat,” +had argued Tommy. “I like to see you always +neat. Besides, it isn’t a nice habit. I do +wish, dad, you’d give it up.”</p> +<p>“I must,” Peter had agreed. +“I’ll break myself of it. But not all at +once—it would be a wrench; by degrees, Tommy, by +degrees.”</p> +<p>So a compromise had been compounded. Tommy was to hide +the snuff-box. It was to be somewhere in the room and to be +accessible, but that was all. Peter, when self-control had +reached the breaking-point, might try and find it. +Occasionally, luck helping Peter, he would find it early in the +day, when he would earn his own bitter self-reproaches by +indulging in quite an orgie. But more often Tommy’s +artfulness was such that he would be compelled, by want of time, +to abandon the search. Tommy always knew when he had failed +by the air of indignant resignation with which he would greet her +on her return. Then perhaps towards evening, Peter, looking +up, would see the box open before his nose, above it, a pair of +reproving black eyes, their severity counterbalanced by a pair of +full red lips trying not to smile. And Peter, knowing that +only one pinch would be permitted, would dip deeply.</p> +<p>“I want her,” said Peter Hope, feeling with his +snuff-box in his hand more confidence in his own judgment, +“to be a sensible, clever woman, capable of earning her own +living and of being independent; not a mere helpless doll, crying +for some man to come and take care of her.”</p> +<p>“A woman’s business,” asserted Clodd, +“is to be taken care of.”</p> +<p>“Some women, perhaps,” admitted Peter; “but +Tommy, you know very well, is not going to be the ordinary type +of woman. She has brains; she will make her way in the +world.”</p> +<p>“It doesn’t depend upon brains,” said +Clodd. “She hasn’t got the elbows.”</p> +<p>“The elbows?”</p> +<p>“They are not sharp enough. The last ’bus +home on a wet night tells you whether a woman is capable of +pushing her own way in the world. Tommy’s the sort to +get left on the kerb.”</p> +<p>“She’s the sort,” retorted Peter, “to +make a name for herself and to be able to afford a cab. +Don’t you bully me!” Peter sniffed +self-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger.</p> +<p>“Yes, I shall,” Clodd told him, “on this +particular point. The poor girl’s got no +mother.”</p> +<p>Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the +moment to admit the subject of discussion.</p> +<p>“Got that <i>Daisy Blossom</i> advertisement out of old +Blatchley,” announced Tommy, waving triumphantly a piece of +paper over her head.</p> +<p>“No!” exclaimed Peter. “How did you +manage it?”</p> +<p>“Asked him for it,” was Tommy’s +explanation.</p> +<p>“Very odd,” mused Peter; “asked the old +idiot for it myself only last week. He refused it +point-blank.”</p> +<p>Clodd snorted reproof. “You know I don’t +like your doing that sort of thing. It isn’t proper +for a young girl—”</p> +<p>“It’s all right,” assured him Tommy; +“he’s bald!”</p> +<p>“That makes no difference,” was Clodd’s +opinion.</p> +<p>“Yes it does,” was Tommy’s. “I +like them bald.”</p> +<p>Tommy took Peter’s head between her hands and kissed it, +and in doing so noticed the tell-tale specks of snuff.</p> +<p>“Just a pinch, my dear,” explained Peter, +“the merest pinch.”</p> +<p>Tommy took up the snuff-box from the desk. +“I’ll show you where I’m going to put it this +time.” She put it in her pocket. Peter’s +face fell.</p> +<p>“What do you think of it?” said Clodd. He +led her to the corner. “Good idea, ain’t +it?”</p> +<p>“Why, where’s the piano?” demanded +Tommy.</p> +<p>Clodd turned in delighted triumph to the others.</p> +<p>“Humbug!” growled Peter.</p> +<p>“It isn’t humbug,” cried Clodd +indignantly. “She thought it was a +bookcase—anybody would. You’ll be able to sit +there and practise by the hour,” explained Clodd to +Tommy. “When you hear anybody coming up the stairs, +you can leave off.”</p> +<p>“How can she hear anything when she—” +A bright idea occurred to Peter. “Don’t you +think, Clodd, as a practical man,” suggested Peter +insinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, “that if we +got her one of those dummy pianos—you know what I mean; +it’s just like an ordinary piano, only you don’t hear +it?”</p> +<p>Clodd shook his head. “No good at all. +Can’t tell the effect she is producing.”</p> +<p>“Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, +don’t you think that hearing the effect they are producing +may sometimes discourage the beginner?”</p> +<p>Clodd’s opinion was that such discouragement was a thing +to be battled with.</p> +<p>Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary +motion.</p> +<p>“Well, I’m going across to the printer’s +now,” explained Clodd, taking up his hat. “Got +an appointment with young Grindley at three. You stick to +it. A spare half-hour now and then that you never miss does +wonders. You’ve got it in you.” With +these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodd disappeared.</p> +<p>“Easy for him,” muttered Peter bitterly. +“Always does have an appointment outside the moment she +begins.”</p> +<p>Tommy appeared to be throwing her very soul into the +performance. Passers-by in Crane Court paused, regarded the +first-floor windows of the publishing and editorial offices of +<i>Good Humour</i> with troubled looks, then hurried on.</p> +<p>“She has—remarkably firm douch!” shouted the +doctor into Peter’s ear. “Will see +you—evening. Someting—say to you.”</p> +<p>The fat little doctor took his hat and departed. Tommy, +ceasing suddenly, came over and seated herself on the arm of +Peter’s chair.</p> +<p>“Feeling grumpy?” asked Tommy.</p> +<p>“It isn’t,” explained Peter, “that I +mind the noise. I’d put up with that if I could see +the good of it.”</p> +<p>“It’s going to help me to get a husband, +dad. Seems to me an odd way of doing it; but Billy says so, +and Billy knows all about everything.”</p> +<p>“I can’t understand you, a sensible girl, +listening to such nonsense,” said Peter. +“It’s that that troubles me.”</p> +<p>“Dad, where are your wits?” demanded Tommy. +“Isn’t Billy acting like a brick? Why, he could +go into Fleet Street to half a dozen other papers and make five +hundred a year as advertising-agent—you know he +could. But he doesn’t. He sticks to us. +If my making myself ridiculous with that tin pot they persuaded +him was a piano is going to please him, isn’t it common +sense and sound business, to say nothing of good nature and +gratitude, for me to do it? Dad, I’ve got a surprise +for him. Listen.” And Tommy, springing from the +arm of Peter’s chair, returned to the piano.</p> +<p>“What was it?” questioned Tommy, having +finished. “Could you recognise it?”</p> +<p>“I think,” said Peter, “it sounded +like—It wasn’t ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ was +it?”</p> +<p>Tommy clapped her hands. “Yes, it was. +You’ll end by liking it yourself, dad. We’ll +have musical ‘At Homes.’”</p> +<p>“Tommy, have I brought you up properly, do you +think?”</p> +<p>“No dad, you haven’t. You have let me have +my own way too much. You know the proverb: ‘Good +mothers make bad daughters.’ Clodd’s right; +you’ve spoilt me, dad. Do you remember, dad, when I +first came to you, seven years ago, a ragged little brat out of +the streets, that didn’t know itself whether ’twas a +boy or a girl? Do you know what I thought to myself the +moment I set eyes on you? ‘Here’s a soft old +juggins; I’ll be all right if I can get in +here!’ It makes you smart, knocking about in the +gutters and being knocked about; you read faces +quickly.”</p> +<p>“Do you remember your cooking, Tommy? You +‘had an aptitude for it,’ according to your own +idea.”</p> +<p>Tommy laughed. “I wonder how you stood +it.”</p> +<p>“You were so obstinate. You came to me as +‘cook and housekeeper,’ and as cook and housekeeper, +and as nothing else, would you remain. If I suggested any +change, up would go your chin into the air. I dared not +even dine out too often, you were such a little tyrant. The +only thing you were always ready to do, if I wasn’t +satisfied, was to march out of the house and leave me. +Wherever did you get that savage independence of +yours?”</p> +<p>“I don’t know. I think it must have been +from a woman—perhaps she was my mother; I don’t +know—who used to sit up in the bed and cough, all night it +seemed to me. People would come to see us—ladies in +fine clothes, and gentlemen with oily hair. I think they +wanted to help us. Many of them had kind voices. But +always a hard look would come into her face, and she would tell +them what even then I knew to be untrue—it was one of the +first things I can recollect—that we had everything we +wanted, that we needed no help from anyone. They would go +away, shrugging their shoulders. I grew up with the feeling +that seemed to have been burnt into my brain, that to take from +anybody anything you had not earned was shameful. I +don’t think I could do it even now, not even from +you. I am useful to you, dad—I do help +you?”</p> +<p>There had crept a terror into Tommy’s voice. Peter +felt the little hands upon his arm trembling.</p> +<p>“Help me? Why, you work like a nigger—like a +nigger is supposed to work, but doesn’t. No +one—whatever we paid him—would do half as much. +I don’t want to make your head more swollen than it is, +young woman, but you have talent; I am not sure it is not +genius.” Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his +arm.</p> +<p>“I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I +strum upon the piano to please Clodd. Is it +humbug?”</p> +<p>“I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that +helps this whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly. +Too much of it cloys: we drop it very gently.”</p> +<p>“But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?” +It was Peter’s voice into which fear had entered now. +“It is not that you think he understands you better than I +do—would do more for you?”</p> +<p>“You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that +isn’t good for you, dad—not too often. It would +be you who would have swelled head then.”</p> +<p>“I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes +near you. Life is a tragedy for us old folks. We know +there must come a day when you will leave the nest, leave us +voiceless, ridiculous, flitting among bare branches. You +will understand later, when you have children of your own. +This foolish talk about a husband! It is worse for a man +than it is for the woman. The mother lives again in her +child: the man is robbed of all.”</p> +<p>“Dad, do you know how old I am?—that you are +talking terrible nonsense?”</p> +<p>“He will come, little girl.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” answered Tommy, “I suppose he will; +but not for a long while—oh, not for a very long +while. Don’t. It frightens me.”</p> +<p>“You? Why should it frighten you?”</p> +<p>“The pain. It makes me feel a coward. I want +it to come; I want to taste life, to drain the whole cup, to +understand, to feel. But that is the boy in me. I am +more than half a boy, I always have been. But the woman in +me: it shrinks from the ordeal.”</p> +<p>“You talk, Tommy, as if love were something +terrible.”</p> +<p>“There are all things in it; I feel it, dad. It is +life in a single draught. It frightens me.”</p> +<p>The child was standing with her face hidden behind her +hands. Old Peter, always very bad at lying, stood silent, +not knowing what consolation to concoct. The shadow passed, +and Tommy’s laughing eyes looked out again.</p> +<p>“Haven’t you anything to do, dad—outside, I +mean?”</p> +<p>“You want to get rid of me?”</p> +<p>“Well, I’ve nothing else to occupy me till the +proofs come in. I’m going to practise, +hard.”</p> +<p>“I think I’ll turn over my article on the +Embankment,” said Peter.</p> +<p>“There’s one thing you all of you ought to be +grateful to me for,” laughed Tommy, as she seated herself +at the piano. “I do induce you all to take more fresh +air than otherwise you would.”</p> +<p>Tommy, left alone, set herself to her task with the energy and +thoroughness that were characteristic of her. Struggling +with complicated scales, Tommy bent her eyes closer and closer +over the pages of <i>Czerny’s Exercises</i>. Glancing +up to turn a page, Tommy, to her surprise, met the eyes of a +stranger. They were brown eyes, their expression +sympathetic. Below them, looking golden with the sunlight +falling on it, was a moustache and beard cut short in Vandyke +fashion, not altogether hiding a pleasant mouth, about the +corners of which lurked a smile.</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger. +“I knocked three times. Perhaps you did not hear +me?”</p> +<p>“No, I didn’t,” confessed Tommy, closing the +book of <i>Czerny’s Exercises</i>, and rising with chin at +an angle that, to anyone acquainted with the chart of +Tommy’s temperament, might have suggested the advisability +of seeking shelter.</p> +<p>“This is the editorial office of <i>Good Humour</i>, is +it not?” inquired the stranger.</p> +<p>“It is.”</p> +<p>“Is the editor in?”</p> +<p>“The editor is out.”</p> +<p>“The sub-editor?” suggested the stranger.</p> +<p>“I am the sub-editor.”</p> +<p>The stranger raised his eyebrows. Tommy, on the +contrary, lowered hers.</p> +<p>“Would you mind glancing through that?” The +stranger drew from his pocket a folded manuscript. +“It will not take you a moment. I ought, of course, +to have sent it through the post; but I am so tired of sending +things through the post.”</p> +<p>The stranger’s manner was compounded of dignified +impudence combined with pathetic humility. His eyes both +challenged and pleaded. Tommy held out her hand for the +paper and retired with it behind the protection of the big +editorial desk that, flanked on one side by a screen and on the +other by a formidable revolving bookcase, stretched fortress-like +across the narrow room. The stranger remained standing.</p> +<p>“Yes. It’s pretty,” criticised the +sub-editor. “Worth printing, perhaps, not worth +paying for.”</p> +<p>“Not merely a—a nominal sum, sufficient to +distinguish it from the work of the amateur?”</p> +<p>Tommy pursed her lips. “Poetry is quite a drug in +the market. We can get as much as we want of it for +nothing.”</p> +<p>“Say half a crown,” suggested the stranger.</p> +<p>Tommy shot a swift glance across the desk, and for the first +time saw the whole of him. He was clad in a threadbare, +long, brown ulster—long, that is, it would have been upon +an ordinary man, but the stranger happening to be remarkably +tall, it appeared on him ridiculously short, reaching only to his +knees. Round his neck and tucked into his waistcoat, thus +completely hiding the shirt and collar he may have been wearing +or may not, was carefully arranged a blue silk muffler. His +hands, which were bare, looked blue and cold. Yet the black +frock-coat and waistcoat and French grey trousers bore the +unmistakable cut of a first-class tailor and fitted him to +perfection. His hat, which he had rested on the desk, shone +resplendent, and the handle of his silk umbrella was an +eagle’s head in gold, with two small rubies for the +eyes.</p> +<p>“You can leave it if you like,” consented +Tommy. “I’ll speak to the editor about it when +he returns.”</p> +<p>“You won’t forget it?” urged the +stranger.</p> +<p>“No,” answered Tommy. “I shall not +forget it.”</p> +<p>Her black eyes were fixed upon the stranger without her being +aware of it. She had dropped unconsciously into her +“stocktaking” attitude.</p> +<p>“Thank you very much,” said the stranger. +“I will call again to-morrow.”</p> +<p>The stranger, moving backward to the door, went out.</p> +<p>Tommy sat with her face between her hands. +<i>Czerny’s Exercises</i> lay neglected.</p> +<p>“Anybody called?” asked Peter Hope.</p> +<p>“No,” answered Tommy. “Oh, just a +man. Left this—not bad.”</p> +<p>“The old story,” mused Peter, as he unfolded the +manuscript. “We all of us begin with poetry. +Then we take to prose romances; poetry doesn’t pay. +Finally, we write articles: ‘How to be Happy though +Married,’ ‘What shall we do with our +Daughters?’ It is life summarised. What is it +all about?”</p> +<p>“Oh, the usual sort of thing,” explained +Tommy. “He wants half a crown for it.”</p> +<p>“Poor devil! Let him have it.”</p> +<p>“That’s not business,” growled Tommy.</p> +<p>“Nobody will ever know,” said Peter. +“We’ll enter it as +‘telegrams.’”</p> +<p>The stranger called early the next day, pocketed his +half-crown, and left another manuscript—an essay. +Also he left behind him his gold-handled umbrella, taking away +with him instead an old alpaca thing Clodd kept in reserve for +exceptionally dirty weather. Peter pronounced the essay +usable.</p> +<p>“He has a style,” said Peter; “he writes +with distinction. Make an appointment for me with +him.”</p> +<p>Clodd, on missing his umbrella, was indignant.</p> +<p>“What’s the good of this thing to me?” +commented Clodd. “Sort of thing for a dude in a +pantomime! The fellow must be a blithering ass!”</p> +<p>Tommy gave to the stranger messages from both when next he +called. He appeared more grieved than surprised concerning +the umbrellas.</p> +<p>“You don’t think Mr. Clodd would like to keep this +umbrella in exchange for his own?” he suggested.</p> +<p>“Hardly his style,” explained Tommy.</p> +<p>“It’s very peculiar,” said the stranger, +with a smile. “I have been trying to get rid of this +umbrella for the last three weeks. Once upon a time, when I +preferred to keep my own umbrella, people used to take it by +mistake, leaving all kinds of shabby things behind them in +exchange. Now, when I’d really like to get quit of +it, nobody will have it.”</p> +<p>“Why do you want to get rid of it?” asked +Tommy. “It looks a very good umbrella.”</p> +<p>“You don’t know how it hampers me,” said the +stranger. “I have to live up to it. It requires +a certain amount of resolution to enter a cheap restaurant +accompanied by that umbrella. When I do, the waiters draw +my attention to the most expensive dishes and recommend me +special brands of their so-called champagne. They seem +quite surprised if I only want a chop and a glass of beer. +I haven’t always got the courage to disappoint them. +It is really becoming quite a curse to me. If I use it to +stop a ’bus, three or four hansoms dash up and quarrel over +me. I can’t do anything I want to do. I want to +live simply and inexpensively: it will not let me.”</p> +<p>Tommy laughed. “Can’t you lose +it?”</p> +<p>The stranger laughed also. “Lose it! You +have no idea how honest people are. I hadn’t +myself. The whole world has gone up in my estimation within +the last few weeks. People run after me for quite long +distances and force it into my hand—people on rainy days +who haven’t got umbrellas of their own. It is the +same with this hat.” The stranger sighed as he took +it up. “I am always trying to get <i>off</i> with +something reasonably shabby in exchange for it. I am always +found out and stopped.”</p> +<p>“Why don’t you pawn them?” suggested the +practicable Tommy.</p> +<p>The stranger regarded her with admiration.</p> +<p>“Do you know, I never thought of that,” said the +stranger. “Of course. What a good idea! +Thank you so much.”</p> +<p>The stranger departed, evidently much relieved.</p> +<p>“Silly fellow,” mused Tommy. “They +won’t give him a quarter of the value, and he will say: +‘Thank you so much,’ and be quite +contented.” It worried Tommy a good deal that day, +the thought of that stranger’s helplessness.</p> +<p>The stranger’s name was Richard Danvers. He lived +the other side of Holborn, in Featherstone Buildings, but much of +his time came to be spent in the offices of <i>Good +Humour</i>.</p> +<p>Peter liked him. “Full of promise,” was +Peter’s opinion. “His criticism of that article +of mine on ‘The Education of Woman’ showed both sense +and feeling. A scholar and a thinker.”</p> +<p>Flipp, the office-boy (spelt Philip), liked him; and +Flipp’s attitude, in general, was censorial. +“He’s all right,” pronounced Flipp; +“nothing stuck-up about him. He’s got plenty of +sense, lying hidden away.”</p> +<p>Miss Ramsbotham liked him. “The men—the men +we think about at all,” explained Miss +Ramsbotham—“may be divided into two classes: the men +we ought to like, but don’t; and the men there is no +particular reason for our liking, but that we do. +Personally I could get very fond of your friend Dick. There +is nothing whatever attractive about him except +himself.”</p> +<p>Even Tommy liked him in her way, though at times she was +severe with him.</p> +<p>“If you mean a big street,” grumbled Tommy, who +was going over proofs, “why not say a big street? Why +must you always call it a ‘main artery’?”</p> +<p>“I am sorry,” apologised Danvers. “It +is not my own idea. You told me to study the higher-class +journals.”</p> +<p>“I didn’t tell you to select and follow all their +faults. Here it is again. Your crowd is always a +‘hydra-headed monster’; your tea ‘the cup that +cheers but not inebriates.’”</p> +<p>“I am afraid I am a deal of trouble to you,” +suggested the staff.</p> +<p>“I am afraid you are,” agreed the sub-editor.</p> +<p>“Don’t give me up,” pleaded the staff. +“I misunderstood you, that is all. I will write +English for the future.”</p> +<p>“Shall be glad if you will,” growled the +sub-editor.</p> +<p>Dick Danvers rose. “I am so anxious not to get +what you call ‘the sack’ from here.”</p> +<p>The sub-editor, mollified, thought the staff need be under no +apprehension, provided it showed itself teachable.</p> +<p>“I have been rather a worthless fellow, Miss +Hope,” confessed Dick Danvers. “I was beginning +to despair of myself till I came across you and your +father. The atmosphere here—I don’t mean the +material atmosphere of Crane Court—is so invigorating: its +simplicity, its sincerity. I used to have ideals. I +tried to stifle them. There is a set that sneers at all +that sort of thing. Now I see that they are good. You +will help me?”</p> +<p>Every woman is a mother. Tommy felt for the moment that +she wanted to take this big boy on her knee and talk to him for +his good. He was only an overgrown lad. But so +exceedingly overgrown! Tommy had to content herself with +holding out her hand. Dick Danvers grasped it tightly.</p> +<p>Clodd was the only one who did not approve of him.</p> +<p>“How did you get hold of him?” asked Clodd one +afternoon, he and Peter alone in the office.</p> +<p>“He came. He came in the usual way,” +explained Peter.</p> +<p>“What do you know about him?”</p> +<p>“Nothing. What is there to know? One +doesn’t ask for a character with a journalist.”</p> +<p>“No, I suppose that wouldn’t work. Found out +anything about him since?”</p> +<p>“Nothing against him. Why so suspicious of +everybody?”</p> +<p>“Because you are just a woolly lamb and want a dog to +look after you. Who is he? On a first night he gives +away his stall and sneaks into the pit. When you send him +to a picture-gallery, he dodges the private view and goes on the +first shilling day. If an invitation comes to a public +dinner, he asks me to go and eat it for him and tell him what +it’s all about. That doesn’t suggest the frank +and honest journalist, does it?”</p> +<p>“It is unusual, it certainly is unusual,” Peter +was bound to admit.</p> +<p>“I distrust the man,” said Clodd. +“He’s not our class. What is he doing +here?”</p> +<p>“I will ask him, Clodd; I will ask him straight +out.”</p> +<p>“And believe whatever he tells you.”</p> +<p>“No, I shan’t.”</p> +<p>“Then what’s the good of asking him?”</p> +<p>“Well, what am I to do?” demanded the bewildered +Peter.</p> +<p>“Get rid of him,” suggested Clodd.</p> +<p>“Get rid of him?”</p> +<p>“Get him away! Don’t have him in and out of +the office all day long-looking at her with those collie-dog eyes +of his, arguing art and poetry with her in that cushat-dove voice +of his. Get him clean away—if it isn’t too late +already.”</p> +<p>“Nonsense,” said Peter, who had turned white, +however. “She’s not that sort of +girl.”</p> +<p>“Not that sort of girl!” Clodd had no +patience with Peter Hope, and told him so. “Why are +there never inkstains on her fingers now? There used to +be. Why does she always keep a lemon in her drawer? +When did she last have her hair cut? I’ll tell you if +you care to know—the week before he came, five months +ago. She used to have it cut once a fortnight: said it +tickled her neck. Why does she jump on people when they +call her Tommy and tell them that her name is Jane? It +never used to be Jane. Maybe when you’re a bit older +you’ll begin to notice things for yourself.”</p> +<p>Clodd jammed his hat on his head and flung himself down the +stairs.</p> +<p>Peter, slipping out a minute later, bought himself an ounce of +snuff.</p> +<p>“Fiddle-de-dee!” said Peter as he helped himself +to his thirteenth pinch. “Don’t believe +it. I’ll sound her. I shan’t say a +word—I’ll just sound her.”</p> +<p>Peter stood with his back to the fire. Tommy sat at her +desk, correcting proofs of a fanciful story: <i>The Man Without a +Past</i>.</p> +<p>“I shall miss him,” said Peter; “I know I +shall.”</p> +<p>“Miss whom?” demanded Tommy.</p> +<p>“Danvers,” sighed Peter. “It always +happens so. You get friendly with a man; then he goes +away—abroad, back to America, Lord knows where. You +never see him again.”</p> +<p>Tommy looked up. There was trouble in her face.</p> +<p>“How do you spell ‘harassed’?” +questioned Tommy! “two r’s or one.”</p> +<p>“One r,” Peter informed her, “two +s’s.”</p> +<p>“I thought so.” The trouble passed from +Tommy’s face.</p> +<p>“You don’t ask when he’s going, you +don’t ask where he’s going,” complained +Peter. “You don’t seem to be interested in the +least.”</p> +<p>“I was going to ask, so soon as I had finished +correcting this sheet,” explained Tommy. “What +reason does he give?”</p> +<p>Peter had crossed over and was standing where he could see her +face illumined by the lamplight.</p> +<p>“It doesn’t upset you—the thought of his +going away, of your never seeing him again?”</p> +<p>“Why should it?” Tommy answered his +searching gaze with a slightly puzzled look. “Of +course, I’m sorry. He was becoming useful. But +we couldn’t expect him to stop with us always, could +we?”</p> +<p>Peter, rubbing his hands, broke into a chuckle. “I +told him ’twas all fiddlesticks. Clodd, he would have +it you were growing to care for the fellow.”</p> +<p>“For Dick Danvers?” Tommy laughed. +“Whatever put that into his head?”</p> +<p>“Oh, well, there were one or two little things that we +had noticed.”</p> +<p>“We?”</p> +<p>“I mean that Clodd had noticed.”</p> +<p>I’m glad it was Clodd that noticed them, not you, dad, +thought Tommy to herself. They’d have been pretty +obvious if you had noticed them.</p> +<p>“It naturally made me anxious,” confessed +Peter. “You see, we know absolutely nothing of the +fellow.”</p> +<p>“Absolutely nothing,” agreed Tommy.</p> +<p>“He may be a man of the highest integrity. +Personally, I think he is. I like him. On the other +hand, he may be a thorough-paced scoundrel. I don’t +believe for a moment that he is, but he may be. Impossible +to say.”</p> +<p>“Quite impossible,” agreed Tommy.</p> +<p>“Considered merely as a journalist, it doesn’t +matter. He writes well. He has brains. +There’s an end of it.”</p> +<p>“He is very painstaking,” agreed Tommy.</p> +<p>“Personally,” added Peter, “I like the +fellow.” Tommy had returned to her work.</p> +<p>Of what use was Peter in a crisis of this kind? Peter +couldn’t scold. Peter couldn’t bully. The +only person to talk to Tommy as Tommy knew she needed to be +talked to was one Jane, a young woman of dignity with sense of +the proprieties.</p> +<p>“I do hope that at least you are feeling ashamed of +yourself,” remarked Jane to Tommy that same night, as the +twain sat together in their little bedroom.</p> +<p>“Done nothing to be ashamed of,” growled +Tommy.</p> +<p>“Making a fool of yourself openly, for everybody to +notice.”</p> +<p>“Clodd ain’t everybody. He’s got eyes +at the back of his head. Sees things before they +happen.”</p> +<p>“Where’s your woman’s pride: falling in love +with a man who has never spoken to you, except in terms of the +most ordinary courtesy.”</p> +<p>“I’m not in love with him.”</p> +<p>“A man about whom you know absolutely +nothing.”</p> +<p>“Not in love with him.”</p> +<p>“Where does he come from? Who is he?”</p> +<p>“I don’t know, don’t care; nothing to do +with me.”</p> +<p>“Just because of his soft eyes, and his wheedling voice, +and that half-caressing, half-devotional manner of his. Do +you imagine he keeps it specially for you? I gave you +credit for more sense.”</p> +<p>“I’m not in love with him, I tell you. +He’s down on his luck, and I’m sorry for him, +that’s all.”</p> +<p>“And if he is, whose fault was it, do you +think?”</p> +<p>“It doesn’t matter. We are none of us +saints. He’s trying to pull himself together, and I +respect him for it. It’s our duty to be charitable +and kind to one another in this world!”</p> +<p>“Oh, well, I’ll tell you how you can be kind to +him: by pointing out to him that he is wasting his time. +With his talents, now that he knows his business, he could be on +the staff of some big paper, earning a good income. Put it +nicely to him, but be firm. Insist on his going. That +will be showing true kindness to him—and to yourself, too, +I’m thinking, my dear.”</p> +<p>And Tommy understood and appreciated the sound good sense +underlying Jane’s advice, and the very next day but one, +seizing the first opportunity, acted upon it; and all would have +gone as contemplated if only Dick Danvers had sat still and +listened, as it had been arranged in Tommy’s programme that +he should.</p> +<p>“But I don’t want to go,” said Dick.</p> +<p>“But you ought to want to go. Staying here with us +you are doing yourself no good.”</p> +<p>He rose and came to where she stood with one foot upon the +fender, looking down into the fire. His doing this +disconcerted her. So long as he remained seated at the +other end of the room, she was the sub-editor, counselling the +staff for its own good. Now that she could not raise her +eyes without encountering his, she felt painfully conscious of +being nothing more important than a little woman who was +trembling.</p> +<p>“It is doing me all the good in the world,” he +told her, “being near to you.”</p> +<p>“Oh, please do sit down again,” she urged +him. “I can talk to you so much better when +you’re sitting down.”</p> +<p>But he would not do anything he should have done that +day. Instead he took her hands in his, and would not let +them go; and the reason and the will went out of her, leaving her +helpless.</p> +<p>“Let me be with you always,” he pleaded. +“It means the difference between light and darkness to +me. You have done so much for me. Will you not finish +your work? Will you not trust me? It is no hot +passion that can pass away, my love for you. It springs +from all that is best in me—from the part of me that is +wholesome and joyous and strong, the part of me that belongs to +you.”</p> +<p>Releasing her, he turned away.</p> +<p>“The other part of me—the blackguard—it is +dead, dear,—dead and buried. I did not know I was a +blackguard, I thought myself a fine fellow, till one day it came +home to me. Suddenly I saw myself as I really was. +And the sight of the thing frightened me and I ran away from +it. I said to myself I would begin life afresh, in a new +country, free of every tie that could bind me to the past. +It would mean poverty—privation, maybe, in the +beginning. What of that? The struggle would brace +me. It would be good sport. Ah, well, you can guess +the result: the awakening to the cold facts, the reaction of +feeling. In what way was I worse than other men? Who +was I, to play the prig in a world where others were laughing and +dining? I had tramped your city till my boots were worn +into holes. I had but to abandon my quixotic +ideals—return to where shame lay waiting for me, to be +welcomed with the fatted calf. It would have ended so had I +not chanced to pass by your door that afternoon and hear you +strumming on the piano.”</p> +<p>So Billy was right, after all, thought Tommy to herself, the +piano does help.</p> +<p>“It was so incongruous—a piano in Crane +Court—I looked to see where the noise came from. I +read the name of the paper on the doorpost. ‘It will +be my last chance,’ I said to myself. ‘This +shall decide it.’”</p> +<p>He came back to her. She had not moved. “I +am not afraid to tell you all this. You are so big-hearted, +so human; you will understand, you can forgive. It is all +past. Loving you tells a man that he has done with +evil. Will you not trust me?”</p> +<p>She put her hands in his. “I am trusting +you,” she said, “with all my life. Don’t +make a muddle of it, dear, if you can help it.”</p> +<p>It was an odd wooing, as Tommy laughingly told herself when +she came to think it over in her room that night. But that +is how it shaped itself.</p> +<p>What troubled her most was that he had not been quite frank +with Peter, so that Peter had to defend her against herself.</p> +<p>“I attacked you so suddenly,” explained Peter, +“you had not time to think. You acted from +instinct. A woman seeks to hide her love even from +herself.”</p> +<p>“I expect, after all, I am more of a girl than a +boy,” feared Tommy: “I seem to have so many womanish +failings.”</p> +<p>Peter took himself into quite places and trained himself to +face the fact that another would be more to her than he had ever +been, and Clodd went about his work like a bear with a sore head; +but they neither of them need have troubled themselves so +much. The marriage did not take place till nearly fifteen +years had passed away, and much water had to flow beneath old +London Bridge before that day.</p> +<p>The past is not easily got rid of. A tale was once +written of a woman who killed her babe and buried it in a lonely +wood, and later stole back in the night and saw there, white in +the moonlight, a child’s hand calling through the earth, +and buried it again and yet again; but always that white baby +hand called upwards through the earth, trample it down as she +would. Tommy read the story one evening in an old +miscellany, and sat long before the dead fire, the book open on +her lap, and shivered; for now she knew the fear that had been +haunting her.</p> +<p>Tommy lived expecting her. She came one night when Tommy +was alone, working late in the office. Tommy knew her the +moment she entered the door, a handsome woman, with snake-like, +rustling skirts. She closed the door behind her, and +drawing forward a chair, seated herself the other side of the +desk, and the two looked long and anxiously at one another.</p> +<p>“They told me I should find you here alone,” said +the woman. “It is better, is it not?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Tommy, “it is better.”</p> +<p>“Tell me,” said the woman, “are you very +much in love with him?”</p> +<p>“Why should I tell you?”</p> +<p>“Because, if not—if you have merely accepted him +thinking him a good catch—which he isn’t, my dear; +hasn’t a penny to bless himself with, and never will if he +marries you—why, then the matter is soon settled. +They tell me you are a business-like young lady, and I am +prepared to make a business-like proposition.”</p> +<p>There was no answer. The woman shrugged her +shoulders.</p> +<p>“If, on the other hand, you are that absurd creature, a +young girl in love—why, then, I suppose we shall have to +fight for him.”</p> +<p>“It would be more sporting, would it not?” +suggested Tommy.</p> +<p>“Let me explain before you decide,” continued the +woman. “Dick Danvers left me six months ago, and has +kept from me ever since, because he loved me.”</p> +<p>“It sounds a curious reason.”</p> +<p>“I was a married woman when Dick Danvers and I first +met. Since he left me—for my sake and his own—I +have received information of my husband’s death.”</p> +<p>“And does Dick—does he know?” asked the +girl.</p> +<p>“Not yet. I have only lately learnt the news +myself.”</p> +<p>“Then if it is as you say, when he knows he will go back +to you.”</p> +<p>“There are difficulties in the way.”</p> +<p>“What difficulties?”</p> +<p>“My dear, this. To try and forget me, he has been +making love to you. Men do these things. I merely ask +you to convince yourself of the truth. Go away for six +months—disappear entirely. Leave him +free—uninfluenced. If he loves you—if it be not +merely a sense of honour that binds him—you will find him +here on your return. If not—if in the interval I have +succeeded in running off with him, well, is not the two or three +thousand pounds I am prepared to put into this paper of yours a +fair price for such a lover?”</p> +<p>Tommy rose with a laugh of genuine amusement. She could +never altogether put aside her sense of humour, let Fate come +with what terrifying face it would.</p> +<p>“You may have him for nothing—if he is that +man,” the girl told her; “he shall be free to choose +between us.”</p> +<p>“You mean you will release him from his +engagement?”</p> +<p>“That is what I mean.”</p> +<p>“Why not take my offer? You know the money is +needed. It will save your father years of anxiety and +struggle. Go away—travel, for a couple of months, if +you’re afraid of the six. Write him that you must be +alone, to think things over.”</p> +<p>The girl turned upon her.</p> +<p>“And leave you a free field to lie and trick?”</p> +<p>The woman, too, had risen. “Do you think he really +cares for you? At the moment you interest him. At +nineteen every woman is a mystery. When the mood is +past—and do you know how long a man’s mood lasts, you +poor chit? Till he has caught what he is running after, and +has tasted it—then he will think not of what he has won, +but of what he has lost: of the society from which he has cut +himself adrift; of all the old pleasures and pursuits he can no +longer enjoy; of the luxuries—necessities to a man of his +stamp—that marriage with you has deprived him of. +Then your face will be a perpetual reminder to him of what he has +paid for it, and he will curse it every time he sees +it.”</p> +<p>“You don’t know him,” the girl cried. +“You know just a part of him—the part you would +know. All the rest of him is a good man, that would rather +his self-respect than all the luxuries you mention—you +included.”</p> +<p>“It seems to resolve itself into what manner of man he +is,” laughed the woman.</p> +<p>The girl looked at her watch. “He will be here +shortly; he shall tell us himself.”</p> +<p>“How do you mean?”</p> +<p>“That here, between the two of us, he shall +decide—this very night.” She showed her white +face to the woman. “Do you think I could live through +a second day like to this?”</p> +<p>“The scene would be ridiculous.”</p> +<p>“There will be none here to enjoy the humour of +it.”</p> +<p>“He will not understand.”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes, he will,” the girl laughed. +“Come, you have all the advantages; you are rich, you are +clever; you belong to his class. If he elects to stop with +me, it will be because he is my man—mine. Are you +afraid?”</p> +<p>The woman shivered. She wrapped her fur cloak about her +closer and sat down again, and Tommy returned to her +proofs. It was press-night, and there was much to be +done.</p> +<p>He came a little later, though how long the time may have +seemed to the two women one cannot say. They heard his +footstep on the stair. The woman rose and went forward, so +that when he opened the door she was the first he saw. But +he made no sign. Possibly he had been schooling himself for +this moment, knowing that sooner or later it must come. The +woman held out her hand to him with a smile.</p> +<p>“I have not the honour,” he said.</p> +<p>The smile died from her face. “I do not +understand,” she said.</p> +<p>“I have not the honour,” he repeated. +“I do not know you.”</p> +<p>The girl was leaning with her back against the desk in a +somewhat mannish attitude. He stood between them. It +will always remain Life’s chief comic success: the man +between two women. The situation has amused the world for +so many years. Yet, somehow, he contrived to maintain a +certain dignity.</p> +<p>“Maybe,” he continued, “you are confounding +me with a Dick Danvers who lived in New York up to a few months +ago. I knew him well—a worthless scamp you had done +better never to have met.”</p> +<p>“You bear a wonderful resemblance to him,” laughed +the woman.</p> +<p>“The poor fool is dead,” he answered. +“And he left for you, my dear lady, this dying message: +that, from the bottom of his soul, he was sorry for the wrong he +had done you. He asked you to forgive him—and forget +him.”</p> +<p>“The year appears to be opening unfortunately for +me,” said the woman. “First my lover, then my +husband.”</p> +<p>He had nerved himself to fight the living. This was a +blow from the dead. The man had been his friend.</p> +<p>“Dead?”</p> +<p>“He was killed, it appears, in that last expedition in +July,” answered the woman. “I received the news +from the Foreign Office only a fortnight ago.”</p> +<p>An ugly look came into his eyes—the look of a cornered +creature fighting for its life. “Why have you +followed me here? Why do I find you here alone with +her? What have you told her?”</p> +<p>The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Only the +truth.”</p> +<p>“All the truth?” he +demanded—“all? Ah! be just. Tell her it +was not all my fault. Tell her all the truth.”</p> +<p>“What would you have me tell her? That I played +Potiphar’s wife to your Joseph?”</p> +<p>“Ah, no! The truth—only the truth. +That you and I were a pair of idle fools with the devil dancing +round us. That we played a fool’s game, and that it +is over.”</p> +<p>“Is it over? Dick, is it over?” She +flung her arms towards him; but he threw her from him almost +brutally. “The man is dead, I tell you. His +folly and his sin lie dead with him. I have nothing to do +with you, nor you with me.”</p> +<p>“Dick!” she whispered. “Dick, cannot +you understand? I must speak with you alone.”</p> +<p>But they did not understand, neither the man nor the +child.</p> +<p>“Dick, are you really dead?” she cried. +“Have you no pity for me? Do you think that I have +followed you here to grovel at your feet for mere whim? Am +I acting like a woman sane and sound? Don’t you see +that I am mad, and why I am mad? Must I tell you before +her? Dick—” She staggered towards him, +and the fine cloak slipped from her shoulders; and then it was +that Tommy changed from a child into a woman, and raised the +other woman from the ground with crooning words of encouragement +such as mothers use, and led her to the inner room. +“Do not go,” she said, turning to Dick; “I +shall be back in a few minutes.”</p> +<p>He crossed to one of the windows against which beat the +City’s roar, and it seemed to him as the throb of passing +footsteps beating down through the darkness to where he lay in +his grave.</p> +<p>She re-entered, closing the door softly behind her. +“It is true?” she asked.</p> +<p>“It can be. I had not thought of it.”</p> +<p>They spoke in low, matter-of-fact tones, as people do who have +grown weary of their own emotions.</p> +<p>“When did he go away—her husband?”</p> +<p>“About—it is February now, is it not? About +eighteen months ago.”</p> +<p>“And died just eight months ago. Rather +conveniently, poor fellow.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I’m glad he is dead—poor +Lawrence.”</p> +<p>“What is the shortest time in which a marriage can be +arranged?”</p> +<p>“I do not know,” he answered listlessly. +“I do not intend to marry her.”</p> +<p>“You would leave her to bear it alone?”</p> +<p>“It is not as if she were a poor woman. You can do +anything with money.”</p> +<p>“It will not mend reputation. Her position in +society is everything to that class of woman.”</p> +<p>“My marrying her now,” he pointed out, +“would not save her.”</p> +<p>“Practically speaking it would,” the girl +pleaded. “The world does not go out of its way to +find out things it does not want to know. Marry her as +quietly as possible and travel for a year or two.”</p> +<p>“Why should I? Ah! it is easy enough to call a man +a coward for defending himself against a woman. What is he +to do when he is fighting for his life? Men do not sin with +good women.”</p> +<p>“There is the child to be considered,” she +urged—“your child. You see, dear, we all do +wrong sometimes. We must not let others suffer for our +fault more—more than we can help.”</p> +<p>He turned to her for the first time. “And +you?”</p> +<p>“I? Oh, I shall cry for a little while, but later +on I shall laugh, as often. Life is not all love. I +have my work.”</p> +<p>He knew her well by this time. And also it came to him +that it would be a finer thing to be worthy of her than even to +possess her.</p> +<p>So he did her bidding and went out with the other woman. +Tommy was glad it was press-night. She would not be able to +think for hours to come, and then, perhaps, she would be feeling +too tired. Work can be very kind.</p> +<p>Were this an artistic story, here, of course, one would write +“Finis.” But in the workaday world one never +knows the ending till it comes. Had it been otherwise, I +doubt I could have found courage to tell you this story of +Tommy. It is not all true—at least, I do not suppose +so. One drifts unconsciously a little way into dream-land +when one sits oneself down to recall the happenings of long ago; +while Fancy, with a sly wink, whispers ever and again to Memory: +“Let me tell this incident—picture that scene: I can +make it so much more interesting than you would.” But +Tommy—how can I put it without saying too much: there is +someone I think of when I speak of her? To remember only +her dear wounds, and not the healing of them, would have been a +task too painful. I love to dwell on their next +meeting. Flipp, passing him on the steps, did not know him, +the tall, sunburnt gentleman with the sweet, grave-faced little +girl.</p> +<p>“Seen that face somewhere before,” mused Flipp, as +at the corner of Bedford Street he climbed into a hansom, +“seen it somewhere on a thinner man.”</p> +<p>For Dick Danvers, that he did not recognise Flipp, there was +more excuse. A very old young man had Flipp become at +thirty. Flipp no longer enjoyed popular journalism. +He produced it.</p> +<p>The gold-bound doorkeeper feared the mighty Clodd would be +unable to see so insignificant an atom as an unappointed +stranger, but would let the card of Mr. Richard Danvers plead for +itself. To the gold-bound keeper’s surprise came down +the message that Mr. Danvers was to be at once shown up.</p> +<p>“I thought, somehow, you would come to me first,” +said the portly Clodd, advancing with out-stretched hand. +“And this is—?”</p> +<p>“My little girl, Honor. We have been travelling +for the last few months.”</p> +<p>Clodd took the grave, small face between his big, rough +hands:</p> +<p>“Yes. She is like you. But looks as if she +were going to have more sense. Forgive me, I knew your +father my dear,” laughed Clodd; “when he was +younger.”</p> +<p>They lit their cigars and talked.</p> +<p>“Well, not exactly dead; we amalgamated it,” +winked Clodd in answer to Danvers’ inquiry. “It +was just a trifle <i>too</i> high-class. Besides, the old +gentleman was not getting younger. It hurt him a little at +first. But then came Tommy’s great success, and that +has reconciled him to all things. Do they know you are in +England?”</p> +<p>“No,” explained Danvers; “we arrived only +last night.”</p> +<p>Clodd called directions down the speaking-tube.</p> +<p>“You will find hardly any change in her. One still +has to keep one’s eye upon her chin. She has not even +lost her old habit of taking stock of people. You +remember.” Clodd laughed.</p> +<p>They talked a little longer, till there came a whistle, and +Clodd put his ear to the tube.</p> +<p>“I have to see her on business,” said Clodd, +rising; “you may as well come with me. They are still +in the old place, Gough Square.”</p> +<p>Tommy was out, but Peter was expecting her every minute.</p> +<p>Peter did not know Dick, but would not admit it. +Forgetfulness was a sign of age, and Peter still felt young.</p> +<p>“I know your face quite well,” said Peter; +“can’t put a name to it, that’s all.”</p> +<p>Clodd whispered it to him, together with information bringing +history up to date. And then light fell upon the old lined +face. He came towards Dick, meaning to take him by both +hands, but, perhaps because he had become somewhat feeble, he +seemed glad when the younger man put his arms around him and held +him for a moment. It was un-English, and both of them felt +a little ashamed of themselves afterwards.</p> +<p>“What we want,” said Clodd, addressing Peter, +“we three—you, I, and Miss Danvers—is tea and +cakes, with cream in them; and I know a shop where they sell +them. We will call back for your father in half an +hour.” Clodd explained to Miss Danvers; “he has +to talk over a matter of business with Miss Hope.”</p> +<p>“I know,” answered the grave-faced little +person. She drew Dick’s face down to hers and kissed +it. And then the three went out together, leaving Dick +standing by the window.</p> +<p>“Couldn’t we hide somewhere till she comes?” +suggested Miss Danvers. “I want to see +her.”</p> +<p>So they waited in the open doorway of a near printing-house +till Tommy drove up. Both Peter and Clodd watched the +child’s face with some anxiety. She nodded gravely to +herself three times, then slipped her hand into +Peter’s.</p> +<p>Tommy opened the door with her latchkey and passed in.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOMMY AND CO.***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2356-h.htm or 2356-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/5/2356 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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