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diff --git a/78481-0.txt b/78481-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..29bf3d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/78481-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9232 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78481 *** + + + + + MISS BRACEGIRDLE + AND OTHERS + + + + + _Books by Stacy Aumonier_ + + + FRIENDS AND OTHER STORIES + HEARTBEAT + JUST OUTSIDE + MISS BRACEGIRDLE AND OTHERS + OLGA BARDEL + ONE AFTER ANOTHER + QUERRILS + THE GOLDEN WINDMILL AND OTHER STORIES + + + + + MISS BRACEGIRDLE + AND OTHERS + + BY + STACY AUMONIER + + [Illustration: colophon] + + GARDEN CITY NEW YORK + DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY + 1923 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1916, 1921, 1922, 1923, BY + STACY AUMONIER + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION + INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES + AT + THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. + + _First Edition_ + + + + + ACKNOWLEDGMENT + + +Thanks are due to _The Pictorial Review Company_, _The Century +Company_, and _The Curtis Publishing Company_, for permission to +reprint the stories in this volume. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY 1 + + WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? 27 + + THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY 52 + + THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY 82 + + THE BEAUTIFUL, MERCILESS LADY 108 + + THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME 128 + + “OLD FAGS” 158 + + THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT 194 + + THE MATCH 221 + + MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS 238 + + A MAN OF LETTERS 251 + + “FACE” 269 + + THE BROWN WALLET 304 + + + + + MISS BRACEGIRDLE + AND OTHERS + + + + + Miss Bracegirdle and Others + + + MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY + + +“This is the room, madame.” + +“Ah, thank you ... thank you.” + +“Does it appear satisfactory to madame?” + +“Oh, yes, thank you ... quite.” + +“Does madame require anything further?” + +“Er--if not too late, may I have a hot bath?” + +“_Parfaitement_, madame. The bathroom is at the end of the passage on +the left. I will go and prepare it for madame.” + +“There is one thing more.... I have had a very long journey. I am +very tired. Will you please see that I am not disturbed in the +morning until I ring.” + +“Certainly, madame.” + +Millicent Bracegirdle was speaking the truth--she _was_ tired. In +the sleepy cathedral town of Easingstoke, from which she came, it +was customary for everyone to speak the truth. It was customary, +moreover, for everyone to lead simple, self-denying lives--to give +up their time to good works and elevating thoughts. One had only to +glance at little Miss Bracegirdle to see that in her was epitomized +all the virtues and ideals of Easingstoke. Indeed, it was the +pursuit of duty which had brought her to the Hotel de l’Oest at +Bordeaux on this summer’s night. She had travelled from Easingstoke +to London, then without a break to Dover, crossed that horrid stretch +of sea to Calais, entrained for Paris, where she of necessity had to +spend four hours--a terrifying experience--and then had come on to +Bordeaux, arriving at midnight. The reason of this journey being that +some one had to come to Bordeaux to meet her young sister-in-law, +who was arriving the next day from South America. The sister-in-law +was married to a missionary in Paraguay, but the climate not +agreeing with her, she was returning to England. Her dear brother, +the dean, would have come himself, but the claims on his time were +so extensive, the parishioners would miss him so ... it was clearly +Millicent’s duty to go. + +She had never been out of England before, and she had a horror of +travel, and an ingrained distrust of foreigners. She spoke a little +French--sufficient for the purposes of travel and for obtaining any +modest necessities, but not sufficient for carrying on any kind of +conversation. She did not deplore this latter fact, for she was of +opinion that French people were not the kind of people that one would +naturally want to have conversation with; broadly speaking, they were +not quite “nice,” in spite of their ingratiating manners. + +The dear dean had given her endless advice, warning her earnestly not +to enter into conversation with strangers, to obtain all information +from the police, railway officials--in fact, any one in an official +uniform. He deeply regretted to say that he was afraid that France +was not a country for a woman to travel about in _alone_. There +were loose, bad people about, always on the lookout.... He really +thought perhaps he ought not to let her go. It was only by the +utmost persuasion, in which she rather exaggerated her knowledge of +the French language and character, her courage, and indifference to +discomfort, that she managed to carry the day. + +She unpacked her valise, placed her things about the room, tried to +thrust back the little stabs of homesickness as she visualized her +darling room at the deanery. How strange and hard and unfriendly +seemed these foreign hotel bedrooms--heavy and depressing, no chintz +and lavender and photographs of ... all the dear family, the dean, +the nephews and nieces, the interior of the cathedral during harvest +festival, no samplers and needlework or coloured reproductions of the +paintings by Marcus Stone. Oh dear, how foolish she was! What did she +expect? + +She disrobed and donned a dressing-gown; then, armed with a +sponge-bag and towel, she crept timidly down the passage to the +bathroom, after closing her bedroom door and turning out the light. +The gay bathroom cheered her. She wallowed luxuriously in the hot +water, regarding her slim legs with quiet satisfaction. And for the +first time since leaving home there came to her a pleasant moment--a +sense of enjoyment in her adventure. After all, it _was_ rather an +adventure, and her life had been peculiarly devoid of it. What queer +lives some people must live, travelling about, having experiences! +How old was she? Not really old--not by any means. Forty-two? +Forty-three? She had shut herself up so. She hardly ever regarded the +potentialities of age. As the world went, she was a well-preserved +woman for her age. A life of self-abnegation, simple living, healthy +walking and fresh air, had kept her younger than these hurrying, +pampered city people. + +Love? yes, once when she was a young girl ... he was a schoolmaster, +a most estimable kind gentleman. They were never engaged--not +actually, but it was a kind of understood thing. For three years +it went on, this pleasant understanding and friendship. He was so +gentle, so distinguished and considerate. She would have been happy +to have continued in this strain for ever. But there was something +lacking. Stephen had curious restless lapses. From the physical +aspect of marriage she shrunk--yea, even with Stephen, who was +gentleness and kindness itself. And then one day ... one day he went +away--vanished, and never returned. They told her he had married +one of the country girls--a girl who used to work in Mrs. Forbes’s +dairy--not a very nice girl, she feared, one of these fast, pretty, +foolish women. Heigho! well, she had lived that down, destructive as +the blow appeared at the time. One lives everything down in time. +There is always work, living for others, faith, duty.... At the same +time she could sympathize with people who found satisfaction in +unusual experiences. + +There would be lots to tell the dear dean when she wrote to him on +the morrow--nearly losing her spectacles on the restaurant car; the +amusing remarks of an American child on the train to Paris; the +curious food everywhere, nothing simple and plain; the two English +ladies at the hotel in Paris who told her about the death of their +uncle--the poor man being taken ill on Friday and dying on Sunday +afternoon, just before tea-time; the kindness of the hotel proprietor +who had sat up for her; the prettiness of the chambermaid. Oh, yes, +everyone was really very kind. The French people, after all, were +very nice. She had seen nothing--nothing but was quite nice and +decorous. There would be lots to tell the dean to-morrow. + +Her body glowed with the friction of the towel. She again donned her +night attire and her thick, woollen dressing-gown. She tidied up +the bathroom carefully in exactly the same way she was accustomed +to do at home, then once more gripping her sponge-bag and towel, +and turning out the light, she crept down the passage to her room. +Entering the room she switched on the light and shut the door +quickly. Then one of those ridiculous things happened--just the kind +of thing you would expect to happen in a foreign hotel. The handle +of the door came off in her hand. + +She ejaculated a quiet “Bother!” and sought to replace it with one +hand, the other being occupied with the towel and sponge-bag. In +doing this she behaved foolishly, for thrusting the knob carelessly +against the steel pin--without properly securing it--she only +succeeded in pushing the pin farther into the door and the knob +was not adjusted. She uttered another little “Bother” and put her +sponge-bag and towel down on the floor. She then tried to recover the +pin with her left hand but it had gone in too far. + +“How very foolish!” she thought, “I shall have to ring for the +chambermaid--and perhaps the poor girl has gone to bed.” + +She turned and faced the room, and suddenly the awful horror was upon +her. _There was a man asleep in her bed!_ + +The sight of that swarthy face on the pillow, with its black tousled +hair and heavy moustache, produced in her the most terrible moment +of her life. Her heart nearly stopped. For some seconds she could +neither think nor scream, and her first thought was: “I mustn’t +scream!” + +She stood there like one paralyzed, staring at the man’s head and the +great curved hunch of his body under the clothes. When she began to +think she thought very quickly, and all her thoughts worked together. +The first vivid realization was that it wasn’t the man’s fault; it +was _her_ fault. _She was in the wrong room._ It was the Man’s room. +The rooms were identical, but there were all his things about, his +clothes thrown carelessly over chairs, his collar and tie on the +wardrobe, his great heavy boots and the strange yellow trunk. She +must get out somehow, anyhow. + +She clutched once more at the door, feverishly driving her +finger-nails into the hole where the elusive pin had vanished. She +tried to force her fingers in the crack and open the door that way, +but it was of no avail. She was to all intents and purposes locked +in--locked in a bedroom in a strange hotel alone with a man ... a +foreigner ... _a Frenchman_! She must think. She must think.... She +switched off the light. If the light was off he might not wake up. +It might give her time to think how to act. It was surprising that +he had not awakened. If he _did_ wake up what would he do? How could +she explain herself? He wouldn’t believe her. No one would believe +her. In an English hotel it would be difficult enough, but here where +she wasn’t known, where they were all foreigners and consequently +antagonistic ... merciful heavens! + +She _must_ get out. Should she wake the man? No, she couldn’t do +that. He might murder her. He might.... Oh, it was too awful to +contemplate! Should she scream? ring for the chambermaid? But no, it +would be the same thing. People would come rushing. They would find +her there in the strange man’s bedroom after midnight--she, Millicent +Bracegirdle, sister of the Dean of Easingstoke! Easingstoke! + +Visions of Easingstoke flashed through her alarmed mind. Visions +of the news arriving, women whispering around tea-tables: “Have +you heard, my dear?... Really no one would have imagined! Her poor +brother! He will of course have to resign, you know, my dear. Have a +little more cream, my love.” + +Would they put her in prison? She might be in the room for the +purpose of stealing or.... She might be in the room for the +purpose of breaking every one of the ten commandments. There +was no explaining it away. She was a ruined woman, suddenly and +irretrievably, unless she could open the door. The chimney? Should +she climb up the chimney? But where would that lead to? And then she +visualized the man pulling her down by her legs when she was already +smothered in soot. Any moment he might wake up.... + +She thought she heard the chambermaid going along the passage. If +she had wanted to scream, she ought to have screamed before. The +maid would know she had left the bathroom some minutes ago. Was she +going to her room? Suddenly she remembered that she had told the +chambermaid that she was not to be disturbed until she rang the next +morning. That was something. Nobody would be going to her room to +find out that she was not there. + +An abrupt and desperate plan formed in her mind. It was already +getting on for one o’clock. The man was probably a quite harmless +commercial traveller or business man. He would probably get up about +seven or eight o’clock, dress quickly and go out. She would hide +under his bed until he went. Only a matter of a few hours. Men don’t +look under their beds, although she made a religious practice of +doing so herself. When he went he would be sure to open the door +all right. The handle would be lying on the floor as though it had +dropped off in the night. He would probably ring for the chambermaid +or open it with a penknife. Men were so clever at those things. When +he had gone she would creep out and steal back to her room, and then +there would be no necessity to give any explanation to any one. But +heavens! What an experience! Once under the white frill of that bed +she would be safe till the morning. In daylight nothing seemed so +terrifying. + +With feline precaution she went down on her hands and knees and crept +toward the bed. What a lucky thing there was that broad white frill! +She lifted it at the foot of the bed and crept under. There was just +sufficient depth to take her slim body. The floor was fortunately +carpeted all over, but it seemed very close and dusty. Suppose she +coughed or sneezed! Anything might happen. Of course ... it would +be much more difficult to explain her presence under the bed than +to explain her presence just inside the door. She held her breath +in suspense. No sound came from above, but under this frill it +was difficult to hear anything. It was almost more nerve-racking +than hearing everything ... listening for signs and portents. This +temporary escape in any case would give her time to regard the +predicament detachedly. Up to the present she had not been able to +visualize the full significance of her action. She had in truth lost +her head. She had been like a wild animal, consumed with the sole +idea of escape ... a mouse or a cat would do this kind of thing--take +cover and lie low. If only it hadn’t all happened _abroad_! She tried +to frame sentences of explanation in French, but French escaped her. +And then--they talked so rapidly, these people. They didn’t listen. +The situation was intolerable. Would she be able to endure a night of +it? + +At present she was not altogether uncomfortable, only stuffy and ... +very, very frightened. But she had to face six or seven or eight +hours of it--perhaps even then discovery in the end! The minutes +flashed by as she turned the matter over and over in her head. There +was no solution. She began to wish she had screamed or awakened +the man. She saw now that that would have been the wisest and most +politic thing to do; but she had allowed ten minutes or a quarter of +an hour to elapse from the moment when the chambermaid would know +that she had left the bathroom. They would want an explanation of +what she had been doing in the man’s bedroom all that time. Why +hadn’t she screamed before? + +She lifted the frill an inch or two and listened. She thought she +heard the man breathing but she couldn’t be sure. In any case it gave +her more air. She became a little bolder, and thrust her face partly +through the frill so that she could breathe freely. She tried to +steady her nerves by concentrating on the fact that--well, there it +was. She had done it. She must make the best of it. Perhaps it would +be all right after all. + +“Of course I shan’t sleep,” she kept on thinking, “I shan’t be able +to. In any case it will be safer not to sleep. I must be on the +watch.” + +She set her teeth and waited grimly. Now that she had made up her +mind to see the thing through in this manner she felt a little +calmer. She almost smiled as she reflected that there would certainly +be something to tell the dear Dean when she wrote to him to-morrow. +How would he take it? Of course he would believe it--he had never +doubted a single word that she had uttered in her life, but the +story would sound so ... preposterous. In Easingstoke it would be +almost impossible to envisage such an experience. She, Millicent +Bracegirdle, spending a night under a strange man’s bed in a foreign +hotel! What would those women think? Fanny Shields and that garrulous +old Mrs. Rusbridger? Perhaps ... yes, perhaps it would be advisable +to tell the dear Dean to let the story go no further. One could +hardly expect Mrs. Rushbridger to ... not make implications ... +exaggerate. + +Oh dear! What were they all doing now? They would all be asleep, +everyone in Easingstoke. Her dear brother always retired at +ten-fifteen. He would be sleeping calmly and placidly, the sleep of +the just ... breathing the clear sweet air of Sussex, not this--Oh, +it _was_ stuffy! She felt a great desire to cough. She mustn’t do +that. Yes, at nine-thirty all the servants summoned to the library--a +short service--never more than fifteen minutes, her brother didn’t +believe in a great deal of ritual--then at ten o’clock cocoa for +everyone. At ten-fifteen bed for everyone. The dear sweet bedroom +with the narrow white bed, by the side of which she had knelt every +night as long as she could remember--even in her dear mother’s +day--and said her prayers. + +Prayers! Yes, that was a curious thing. This was the first night in +her life’s experience that she had not said her prayers on retiring. +The situation was certainly very peculiar ... exceptional, one might +call it. God would understand and forgive such a lapse. And yet after +all, why ... what was to prevent her saying her prayers? Of course +she couldn’t kneel in the proper devotional attitude, that would be +a physical impossibility, nevertheless, perhaps her prayers might +be just as efficacious ... if they came from the heart. So little +Miss Bracegirdle curved her body and placed her hands in a devout +attitude in front of her face and quite inaudibly murmured her +prayers under the strange man’s bed. + +“Our Father which art in heaven; hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom +come; Thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven; Give us this +day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses....” + +Trespasses! Yes, surely she was trespassing on this occasion, but +God would understand. She had not wanted to trespass. She was an +unwitting sinner. Without uttering a sound she went through her usual +prayers in her heart. At the end she added fervently: + +“Please God protect me from the dangers and perils of this night.” + +Then she lay silent and inert, strangely soothed by the effort of +praying. “After all,” she thought, “it isn’t the attitude which +matters--it is that which occurs deep down in us.” + +For the first time she began to meditate--almost to question--church +forms and dogma. If an attitude was not indispensable why--a +building, a ritual, a church at all? Of course her dear brother +couldn’t be wrong, the church was so old, so very old, its root deep +buried in the story of human life, it was only that ... well, outward +forms _could_ be misleading. Her own present position for instance. +In the eyes of the world she had, by one silly careless little +action, convicted herself of being the breaker of every single one +of the ten commandments. + +She tried to think of one of which she could not be accused. But +no--even to dishonouring her father and mother, bearing false +witness, stealing, coveting her neighbour’s ... husband! That was the +worst thing of all. Poor man! He might be a very pleasant honourable +married gentleman with children and she--she was in a position to +compromise him! Why hadn’t she screamed! Too late! Too late! + +It began to get very uncomfortable, stuffy, but at the same time +draughty, and the floor was getting harder every minute. She changed +her position stealthily and controlled her desire to cough. Her +heart was beating rapidly. Over and over again recurred the vivid +impression of every little incident and argument that had occurred to +her from the moment she left the bathroom. This must, of course, be +the room next to her own. So confusing with perhaps twenty bedrooms +all exactly alike on one side of a passage--how was one to remember +whether one’s number was 115 or 116? + +Her mind began to wander idly off into her schooldays. She was always +very bad at figures. She disliked Euclid and all those subjects +about angles and equations--so unimportant, not leading anywhere. +History she liked, and botany, and reading about strange foreign +lands, although she had always been too timid to visit them. And the +lives of great people, _most_ fascinating--Oliver Cromwell, Lord +Beaconsfield, Lincoln, Grace Darling--_there_ was a heroine for +you--General Booth, a great good man, even if a little vulgar. She +remembered dear old Miss Trimming talking about him one afternoon at +the vicar of St. Bride’s garden party. She was _so_ amusing. She.... +_Good heavens!_ + +_Almost unwittingly, Millicent Bracegirdle had emitted a violent +sneeze!_ + +It was finished! For the second time that night she was conscious of +her heart nearly stopping. For the second time that night she was +so paralyzed with fear that her mentality went to pieces. Now she +would hear the man get out of bed. He would walk across to the door, +switch on the light, and then lift up the frill. She could almost see +that fierce moustached face glaring at her and growling something in +French. Then he would thrust out an arm and drag her out. And then? O +God in heaven! What then?... + +“I shall scream before he does it. Perhaps I had better scream now. +If he drags me out he will clap his hand over my mouth. Perhaps +chloroform....” + +But somehow she could not scream. She was too frightened even for +that. She lifted the frill and listened. Was he moving stealthily +across the carpet? She thought--no, she couldn’t be sure. Anything +might be happening. He might strike her from above--with one of those +heavy boots perhaps. Nothing seemed to be happening, but the suspense +was intolerable. She realized now that she hadn’t the power to +endure a night of it. Anything would be better than this--disgrace, +imprisonment, even death. She would crawl out, wake the man, and try +and explain as best she could. + +She would switch on the light, cough, and say: “_Monsieur!_” + +Then he would start up and stare at her. + +Then she would say--what should she say? + +“_Pardon, monsieur, mais je_----” What on earth was the French for “I +have made a mistake”? + +“_J’ai tort. C’est la chambre_--er--incorrect. _Voulezvous_--er----” + +What was the French for “door-knob,” “let me go”? + +It didn’t matter. She would turn on the light, cough and trust to +luck. If he got out of bed, and came toward her, she would scream the +hotel down.... + +The resolution formed, she crawled deliberately out at the foot of +the bed. She scrambled hastily toward the door--a perilous journey. +In a few seconds the room was flooded with light. She turned toward +the bed, coughed, and cried out boldly: + +“_Monsieur!_” + +Then, for the third time that night, little Miss Bracegirdle’s +heart all but stopped. In this case the climax of the horror took +longer to develop, but when it was reached, it clouded the other two +experiences into insignificance. + +_The man on the bed was dead!_ + +She had never beheld death before, but one does not mistake death. + +She stared at him bewildered, and repeated almost in a whisper: + +“_Monsieur!... Monsieur!_” + +Then she tip-toed toward the bed. The hair and moustache looked +extraordinarily black in that gray wax-like setting. The mouth was +slightly open, and the face, which in life might have been vicious +and sensual, looked incredibly peaceful and far away. + +It was as though she were regarding the features of a man across some +vast passage of time, a being who had always been completely remote +from mundane preoccupations. + +When the full truth came home to her, little Miss Bracegirdle buried +her face in her hands and murmured: + +“Poor fellow ... poor fellow!” + +For the moment her own position seemed an affair of small +consequence. She was in the presence of something greater and more +all-pervading. Almost instinctively she knelt by the bed and prayed. + +For a few moments she seemed to be possessed by an extraordinary +calmness and detachment. The burden of her hotel predicament was a +gossamer trouble--a silly, trivial, almost comic episode, something +that could be explained away. + +But this man--he had lived his life, whatever it was like, and now he +was in the presence of his Maker. What kind of man had he been? + +Her meditations were broken by an abrupt sound. It was that of a pair +of heavy boots being thrown down by the door outside. She started, +thinking at first it was someone knocking or trying to get in. She +heard the “boots,” however, stamping away down the corridor, and +the realization stabbed her with the truth of her own position. She +mustn’t stop there. The necessity to get out was even more urgent. + +To be found in a strange man’s bedroom in the night is bad enough, +but to be found in a dead man’s bedroom was even worse. They would +accuse her of murder, perhaps. Yes, that would be it--how could she +possibly explain to these foreigners? Good God! they would hang +her. No, guillotine her, that’s what they do in France. They would +chop her head off with a great steel knife. Merciful heavens! She +envisaged herself standing blindfold by a priest and an executioner +in a red cap, like that man in the Dickens’s story--what was his +name?... Sydney Carton, that was it, and before he went on the +scaffold he said: + +“It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done.” + +But no, she couldn’t say that. It would be a far, far worse thing +that she did. What about the dear Dean? Her sister-in-law arriving +alone from Paraguay to-morrow? All her dear people and friends in +Easingstoke? Her darling Tony, the large gray tabby cat? It was +her duty not to have her head chopped off if it could possibly be +avoided. She could do no good in the room. She could not recall the +dead to life. Her only mission was to escape. Any minute people might +arrive. The chambermaid, the boots, the manager, the gendarmes.... +Visions of gendarmes arriving armed with swords and note-books +vitalized her almost exhausted energies. She was a desperate woman. +Fortunately now she had not to worry about the light. She sprang once +more at the door and tried to force it open with her fingers. The +result hurt her and gave her pause. If she was to escape she must +_think_, and think intensely. She mustn’t do anything rash and silly, +she must just think and plan calmly. + +She examined the lock carefully. There was no keyhole, but there +was a slip-bolt, so that the hotel guest could lock the door on the +inside, but it couldn’t be locked on the outside. Oh, why didn’t this +poor dear dead man lock his door last night? Then this trouble could +not have happened. She could see the end of the steel pin. It was +about half an inch down the hole. If any one was passing they must +surely notice the handle sticking out too far the other side! She +drew a hairpin out of her hair and tried to coax the pin back, but +she only succeeded in pushing it a little farther in. She felt the +colour leaving her face, and a strange feeling of faintness come over +her. + +She was fighting for her life; she mustn’t give way. She darted round +the room like an animal in a trap, her mind alert for the slightest +crevice of escape. The window had no balcony and there was a drop +of five stories to the street below. Dawn was breaking. Soon the +activities of the hotel and the city would begin. The thing must be +accomplished before then. + +She went back once more and stared at the lock. She stared at the +dead man’s property, his razors, and brushes, and writing materials. +He appeared to have a lot of writing materials, pens and pencils and +rubber and sealing-wax.... Sealing-wax! + +Necessity is truly the mother of invention. It is in any case quite +certain that Millicent Bracegirdle, who had never invented a thing in +her life, would never have evolved the ingenious little device she +did, had she not believed that her position was utterly desperate. +For in the end this is what she did. She got together a box of +matches, a candle, a bar of sealing-wax, and a hairpin. She made a +little pool of hot sealing-wax, into which she dipped the end of +the hairpin. Collecting a small blob on the end of it she thrust it +into the hole, and let it adhere to the end of the steel pin. At the +seventh attempt she got the thing to move. It took her just an hour +and ten minutes to get that steel pin back into the room, and when +at length it came far enough through for her to grip it with her +finger-nails, she burst into tears through the sheer physical tension +of the strain. Very, very carefully she pulled it through and holding +it firmly with her left hand she fixed the knob with her right, then +slowly turned it. The door opened! + +The temptation to dash out into the corridor and scream with relief +was almost irresistible, but she forbore. She listened; she peeped +out. No one was about. With beating heart, she went out, closing the +door inaudibly. She crept like a little mouse to the room next door, +stole in and flung herself on her bed. Immediately she did so it +flashed through her mind that _she had left her sponge-bag and towel +in the dead man’s room_! + +In looking back upon her experience she always considered that that +second expedition was the worst of all. She might have left the +sponge-bag and towel there, only that the towel--she never used hotel +towels--had neatly inscribed in the corner “M.B.” + +With furtive caution she managed to retrace her steps. She reëntered +the dead man’s room, reclaimed her property and returned to her own. +When this mission was accomplished she was indeed well-nigh spent. +She lay on her bed and groaned feebly. At last she fell into a +fevered sleep.... + +It was eleven o’clock when she awoke and no one had been to disturb +her. The sun was shining, and the experiences of the night appeared a +dubious nightmare. Surely she had dreamt it all? + +With dread still burning in her heart she rang the bell. After a +short interval of time the chambermaid appeared. The girl’s eyes were +bright with some uncontrollable excitement. No, she had not been +dreaming. This girl had heard something. + +“Will you bring me some tea, please?” + +“Certainly, madame.” + +The maid drew back the curtains and fussed about the room. She was +under a pledge of secrecy but she could contain herself no longer. +Suddenly she approached the bed and whispered excitedly: + +“Oh, madame, I have promised not to tell ... but a terrible thing +has happened. A man, a dead man, has been found in room 117--a +guest. Please not to say I tell you. But they have all been here, +the gendarmes, the doctors, the inspectors. Oh, it is terrible ... +terrible.” + +The little lady in the bed said nothing. There was indeed nothing to +say. But Marie Louise Laucrat was too full of emotional excitement to +spare her. + +“But the terrible thing is.... Do you know who he was, madame? They +say it is Boldhu, the man wanted for the murder of Jean Carreton +in the barn at Vincennes. They say he strangled her, and then cut +her up in pieces and hid her in two barrels which he threw into the +river.... Oh, but he was a bad man, madame, a terrible bad man ... +and he died in the room next door ... suicide they think or was it an +attack of the heart?... Remorse, some shock perhaps.... Did you say a +_café complêt_, madame?” + +“No, thank you, my dear ... just a cup of tea ... strong tea....” + +“_Parfaitement_, madame.” + +The girl retired, and a little later a waiter entered the room with +a tray of tea. She could never get over her surprise in this. It +seemed so--well, indecorous for a man--although only a waiter--to +enter a lady’s bedroom. There was no doubt a great deal in what the +dear Dean said. They were certainly very peculiar, these French +people--they had most peculiar notions. It was not the way they +behaved at Easingstoke. She got farther under the sheets, but the +waiter appeared quite indifferent to the situation. He put the tray +down and retired. + +When he had gone she sat up and sipped her tea, which gradually +warmed her. She was glad the sun was shining. She would have to get +up soon. They said that her sister-in-law’s boat was due to berth at +one o’clock. That would give her time to dress comfortably, write +to her brother, and then go down to the docks. Poor man! So he had +been a murderer, a man who cut up the bodies of his victims ... +and she had spent the night in his bedroom! They were certainly a +most--how could she describe it?--people. Nevertheless she felt a +little glad that at the end she had been there to kneel and pray by +his bedside. Probably nobody else had ever done that. It was very +difficult to judge people.... Something at some time might have gone +wrong. He might not have murdered the woman after all. People were +often wrongly convicted. She herself.... If the police had found her +in that room at three o’clock that morning.... It is that which takes +place in the heart which counts. One learns and learns. Had she not +learnt that one can pray just as effectively lying under a bed as +kneeling beside it?... Poor man! + +She washed and dressed herself and walked calmly down to the +writing-room. There was no evidence of excitement among the other +hotel guests. Probably none of them knew about the tragedy except +herself. She went to a writing table, and after profound meditation +wrote as follows: + + MY DEAR BROTHER,-- + + I arrived late last night after a very pleasant journey. + Everyone was very kind and attentive, the manager was sitting + up for me. I nearly lost my spectacle case in the restaurant + car! But a kind old gentleman found it and returned it to me. + There was a most amusing American child on the train. I will + tell you about her on my return. The people are very pleasant, + but the food is peculiar, nothing _plain and wholesome_. I am + going down to meet Annie at one o’clock. How have you been + keeping, my dear? I hope you have not had any further return + of the bronchial attacks. + + Please tell Lizzie that I remembered in the train on the + way here that that large stone jar of marmalade that Mrs. + Hunt made is behind those empty tins in the top shelf of the + cupboard next to the coach house. I wonder whether Mrs. Butler + was able to come to evensong after all? This is a nice hotel, + but I think Annie and I will stay at the “Grand” to-night, as + the bedrooms here are rather noisy. Well, my dear, nothing + more till I return. Do take care of yourself.--Your loving + sister, + + MILLICENT. + +Yes, she couldn’t tell Peter about it, neither in the letter nor +when she went back to him. It was her duty not to tell him. It +would only distress him; she felt convinced of it. In this curious +foreign atmosphere the thing appeared possible, but in Easingstoke +the mere recounting of the fantastic situations would be positively +... indelicate. There was no escaping that broad general fact--she +had spent a night in a strange man’s bedroom. Whether he was a +gentleman or a criminal, even whether he was dead or alive, did not +seem to mitigate the jar upon her sensibilities, or rather it would +not mitigate the jar upon the peculiarly sensitive relationship +between her brother and herself. To say that she had been to the +bathroom, the knob of the door-handle came off in her hand, she +was too frightened to awaken the sleeper or scream, she got under +the bed--well, it was all perfectly true. Peter would believe her, +but--one simply could not conceive such a situation in Easingstoke +deanery. It would create a curious little barrier between them, +as though she had been dipped in some mysterious solution which +alienated her. It was her duty not to tell. + +She put on her hat, and went out to post the letter. She distrusted +an hotel letter-box. One never knew who handled these letters. It was +not a proper official way of treating them. She walked to the head +post office in Bordeaux. + +The sun was shining. It was very pleasant walking about amongst +these queer excitable people, so foreign and different-looking--and +the cafés already crowded with chattering men and women, and the +flower stalls, and the strange odour of--what was it? Salt? Brine? +Charcoal?... A military band was playing in the square ... very gay +and moving. It was all life, and movement, and bustle ... thrilling +rather. + +“I spent a night in a strange man’s bedroom.” + +Little Miss Bracegirdle hunched her shoulders, murmured to herself +and walked faster. She reached the post office and found the large +metal plate with the slot for letters and “R.F.” stamped above it. +Something official at last! Her face was a little flushed--was it +the warmth of the day or the contact of movement and life?--as she +put her letter into the slot. After posting it she put her hand into +the slot and flicked it round to see that there were no foreign +contraptions to impede its safe delivery. No, the letter had dropped +safely in. She sighed contentedly and walked off in the direction of +the docks to meet her sister-in-law from Paraguay. + + + + + WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? + + +In the public bar of the “Wagtail,” in Wapping, four men and a woman +were drinking beer and discussing diseases. It was not a pretty +subject, and the company was certainly not a handsome one. It was a +dark November evening, and the dingy lighting of the bar seemed but +to emphasize the bleak exterior. Drifts of fog and damp from without +mingled with the smoke of shag. The sanded floor was kicked into a +muddy morass not unlike the surface of the pavement. An old lady down +the street had died from pneumonia the previous evening, and the +event supplied a fruitful topic of conversation. The things that one +could get! Everywhere were germs eager to destroy one. At any minute +the symptoms might break out. And so--one foregathered in a cheerful +spot amidst friends and drank forgetfulness. + +Prominent in this little group was Baldwin Meadows, a sallow-faced +villain with battered features and prominent cheek-bones, his +face cut and scarred by a hundred fights. Ex-seaman, ex-boxer, +ex-fish-porter--indeed, to everyone’s knowledge, ex-everything. No +one knew how he lived. By his side lurched an enormous coloured man +who went by the name of Harry Jones. Grinning above a tankard sat +a pimply faced young man who was known as “the Agent.” Silver rings +adorned his fingers. He had no other name, and most emphatically no +address, but he “arranged things” for people, and appeared to thrive +upon it in a scrambling, fugitive manner. The other two people were +Mr. and Mrs. Dawes. Mr. Dawes was an entirely negative person, but +Mrs. Dawes shone by virtue of a high, whining, insistent voice, keyed +to within half a note of hysteria. + +Then, at one point, the conversation suddenly took a peculiar turn. +It came about through Mrs. Dawes mentioning that her aunt, who died +from eating tinned lobster, used to work in a corset shop in Wych +Street. When she said that, “the Agent,” whose right eye appeared to +survey the ceiling, whilst his left eye looked over the other side of +his tankard, remarked: + +“Where was Wych Street, ma?” + +“Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Dawes. “Don’t you know, dearie? You must be a +young ’un, you must. Why, when I was a gal everyone knew Wych Street. +It was just down there where they built the Kingsway, like.” + +Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat and said: + +“Wych Street used to be a turnin’ runnin’ from Long Acre into +Wellington Street.” + +“Oh, no, old boy,” chipped in Mr. Dawes, who always treated the +ex-man with great deference. “If you’ll excuse me, Wych Street was a +narrow lane at the back of the old Globe Theatre, that used to pass +by the church.” + +“I know what I’m talkin’ about,” growled Meadows. + +Mrs. Dawes’s high nasal whine broke in: + +“Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. Where was Wych +Street?” + +Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up. “Wych +Street? Yus, of course I knoo Wych Street. Used to go there with some +of the boys when I was Covent Garden way. It was at right angles to +the Strand, just east of Wellington Street.” + +“No, it warn’t. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to +Wellington Street.” + +The coloured man took no part in the discussion, one street and +one city being alike to him, provided he could obtain the material +comforts dear to his heart; but the others carried it on with a +certain amount of acerbity. + +Before any agreement had been arrived at three other men entered +the bar. The quick eye of Meadows recognized them at once as three +of what was known at that time as “The Gallows Ring.” Every member +of “The Gallows Ring” had done time, but they still carried on a +lucrative industry devoted to blackmail, intimidation, shop-lifting, +and some of the clumsier recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had +served seven years for bashing a Chinaman down at Rotherhithe. + +“The Gallows Ring” was not popular in Wapping, for the reason that +many of their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class. +When Meadows and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little +wild prancing they took the trouble to go up into the West End. They +considered “The Gallows Ring” an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless, +they always treated them with a certain external deference--an +unpleasant crowd to quarrel with. + +Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against +the bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently +miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the +general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said: + +“Ben, you’re a hot old devil, you are. We was just ’aving a +discussion like. Where was Wych Street?” + +Ben scowled at her, and she continued: + +“Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I _know_ where +it was, ’cors my aunt what died from blood p’ison, after eatin’ +tinned lobster, used to work at a corset shop....” + +“Yus,” barked Ben, emphatically. “I know where Wych Street was--it +was just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station.” + +It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no +part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene. + +“Nope. You’s all wrong, cap’n. Wych Street were alongside de church, +way over where de Strand takes a side line up west.” + +Ben turned on him fiercely. + +“What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I’ve told yer +where Wych Street was.” + +“Yus, and I know where it was,” interposed Meadows. “Yer both wrong. +Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into Wellington +Street.” + +“I didn’t ask yer what _you_ thought,” growled Ben. + +“Well, I suppose I’ve a right to an opinion?” + +“You always think you know everything, you do.” + +“You can just keep yer mouth shut.” + +“It ’ud take more’n you to shut it.” + +Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the +bar: + +“Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling--please.” + +The affair might have subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes. Her +emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so +stirred that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much +gin. She suddenly screamed out: + +“Don’t you take no lip from ’im, Mr. Medders. The dirty, thieving +devil, ’e always thinks ’e’s goin’ to come it over everyone.” + +She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben’s supporters gave her a +gentle push backward. In three minutes the bar was in a complete +state of pandemonium. The three members of “The Gallows Ring” fought +two men and a woman, for Mr. Dawes merely stood in a corner and +screamed out: + +“Don’t! Don’t!” + +Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man, who had pushed her, through the wrist +with a hatpin. Meadows and Ben Orming closed on each other and fought +savagely with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the encounter +sent Meadows reeling against the wall, with blood streaming down his +temple. Then the coloured man hurled a pewter tankard straight at Ben +and it hit him on the knuckles. The pain maddened him to a frenzy. +His other supporter had immediately got to grips with Harry Jones, +and picked up one of the high stools and, seizing an opportunity, +brought it down crash on to the coloured man’s skull. + +The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. Booth was bawling +out in the street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all +directions. + +“Beat it! Beat it, for God’s sake!” called the man who had been +stabbed through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was +obviously about to faint. + +Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, dashed to the door. +On the pavement there was a confused scramble. Blows were struck +indiscriminately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid _hors de +combat_ by a kick on the knee-cap from Toller. The two men fled +into the darkness, followed by a hue-and-cry. Born and bred in the +locality, they took every advantage of their knowledge. They tacked +through alleys and raced down dark mews, and clambered over walls. +Fortunately for them, the people they passed, who might have tripped +them up or aided in the pursuit, merely fled indoors. The people in +Wapping are not always on the side of the pursuer. But the police +held on. At last Ben and Toller slipped through the door of a house +in Aztec Street barely ten yards ahead of their nearest pursuer. +Blows rained on the door, but they slipped the bolts, and then fell +panting to the floor. When Ben could speak, he said: + +“If they cop us, it means swinging.” + +“Was the nigger done in?” + +“I think so. But even if ’e wasn’t, there was that other affair the +night before last. The game’s up.” + +The ground floor rooms were shuttered and bolted, but they knew that +the police would probably force the front door. At the back there was +no escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns were already +flashing. The roof only extended thirty yards either way, and the +police would probably take possession of it. They made a round of +the house, which was sketchily furnished. There was a loaf, a small +piece of mutton, and a bottle of pickles, and--the most precious +possession--three bottles of whisky. Each man drank half a glass of +neat whisky, then Ben said: “We’ll be able to keep ’em quiet for a +bit, anyway,” and he went and fetched an old twelve-bore gun and a +case of cartridges. Toller was opposed to this last desperate resort, +but Ben continued to murmur: “It means swinging, anyway.” + + * * * * * + +And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street. It lasted three +days and four nights. You may remember that, on forcing a panel of +the front door Sub-Inspector Wraithe, of the V Division, was shot +through the chest. The police then tried other methods. A hose was +brought into play, without effect. Two policemen were killed and four +wounded. The military was requisitioned. The street was picketed. +Snipers occupied windows of the houses opposite. A distinguished +member of the Cabinet drove down in a motor-car, and directed +operations in a top-hat. It was the introduction of poison gas which +was the ultimate cause of the downfall of the citadel. The body of +Ben Orming was never found, but that of Toller was discovered near +the front door, with a bullet through his heart. + +The medical officer to the court pronounced that the man had been +dead three days, but whether killed by a chance bullet from a sniper +or whether killed deliberately by his fellow-criminal was never +revealed. For when the end came Orming had apparently planned a +final act of venom. It was known that in the basement a considerable +quantity of petrol had been stored. The contents had probably been +carefully distributed over the most inflammable materials in the top +rooms. The fire broke out, as one witness described it, “almost like +an explosion.” Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed up, +and the sparks carried across the yard and started a stack of light +timber in the annex of Messrs. Morrel’s piano factory. The factory +and two blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the ground. The +estimated cost of the destruction was one hundred and eighty thousand +pounds. The casualties amounted to seven killed and fifteen wounded. + + * * * * * + +At the inquiry held under Justice Pengammon, various odd, interesting +facts were revealed. Mr. Lowes-Parlby, the brilliant young K.C., +distinguished himself by his searching cross-examination of many +witnesses. At one point a certain Mrs. Dawes was put in the box. + +“Now,” said Mr. Lowes-Parlby, “I understand that on the evening in +question, Mrs. Dawes, you, and the victims, and these other people +who have been mentioned, were all seated in the public bar of the +‘Wagtail,’ enjoying its no doubt excellent hospitality and indulging +in a friendly discussion. Is that so?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing?” + +“Diseases, sir.” + +“Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?” + +“Pardon?” + +“Was there a serious dispute about diseases?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Well, what was the subject of the dispute?” + +“We was arguin’ as to where Wych Street was, sir.” + +“What’s that?” said his lordship. + +“The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych +Street was.” + +“Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of +what is now the Gaiety Theatre?” + +Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner. + +“Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the same street you +mention, though, if I may be allowed to qualify your lordship’s +description of the locality, may I suggest that it was a little +farther east--at the side of the old Globe Theatre, which was +adjacent to St. Martin’s in the Strand? That is the street you were +all arguing about, isn’t it, Mrs. Dawes?” + +“Well, sir, my aunt, who died from eating tinned lobster, used to +work at a corset shop. I ought to know.” + +His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather +peevishly: + +“Mr. Lowes-Parlby, when I was your age I used to pass through Wych +Street every day of my life. I did so for nearly twelve years. I +think it hardly necessary for you to contradict me.” + +The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dispute with a justice, +although that justice be a hopeless old fool; but another eminent +K.C., an elderly man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the +court, and said: + +“If I may be allowed to interpose, your lordship, I also spent a +great deal of my youth passing through Wych Street. I have gone into +the matter, comparing past and present ordnance survey maps. If I am +not mistaken, the street the witness was referring to began near the +hoarding at the entrance to Kingsway and ended at the back of what is +now the Aldwych Theatre.” + +“Oh, no, Mr. Backer!” exclaimed Lowes-Parlby. + +His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out: + +“The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case.” + +It certainly was, but the brief passage-of-arms left an unpleasant +tang of bitterness behind. It was observed that Mr. Lowes-Parlby +never again quite got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination +that he had shown in his treatment of the earlier witnesses. The +coloured man, Harry Jones, had died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the +proprietor of the “Wagtail,” Baldwin Meadows, Mr. Dawes and the man +who was stabbed in the wrist, all gave evidence of a rather nugatory +character. Lowes-Parlby could do nothing with it. The findings of +this special inquiry do not concern us. It is sufficient to say that +the witnesses already mentioned all returned to Wapping. The man +who had received the thrust of a hatpin through his wrist did not +think it advisable to take any action against Mrs. Dawes. He was +pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required as a witness +of an abortive discussion. + + * * * * * + +In a few weeks’ time the great Aztec Street siege remained only a +romantic memory to the majority of Londoners. To Lowes-Parlby the +little dispute with Justice Pengammon rankled unreasonably. It is +annoying to be publicly snubbed for making a statement which you +know to be absolutely true, and which you have even taken pains to +verify. And Lowes-Parlby was a young man accustomed to score. He made +a point of looking everything up, of being prepared for an adversary +thoroughly. He liked to give the appearance of knowing everything. +The brilliant career just ahead of him at times dazzled him. He was +one of the darlings of the gods. Everything came to Lowes-Parlby. +His father had distinguished himself at the Bar before him, and +had amassed a modest fortune. He was an only son. At Oxford he had +carried off every possible degree. He was already being spoken of for +very high political honours. + +But the most sparkling jewel in the crown of his successes was +Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of Lord Vermeer, the Minister +for Foreign Affairs. She was his _fiancée_, and it was considered +the most brilliant match of the season. She was young and almost +pretty, and Lord Vermeer was immensely wealthy and one of the +most influential men in Great Britain. Such a combination was +irresistible. There seemed to be nothing missing in the life of +Francis Lowes-Parlby, K.C. + + * * * * * + +One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at the Aztec Street +inquiry was old Stephen Garrit. Stephen Garrit held a unique but +quite inconspicuous position in the legal world at that time. He was +a friend of judges, a specialist at various abstruse legal rulings, +a man of remarkable memory, and yet--an amateur. He had never taken +silk, never eaten the requisite dinners, never passed an examination +in his life; but the law of evidence was meat and drink to him. He +passed his life in the Temple, where he had chambers. Some of the +most eminent counsel in the world would take his opinion, or come +to him for advice. He was very old, very silent and very absorbed. +He attended every meeting of the Aztec Street inquiry, but from +beginning to end he never volunteered an opinion. + +After the inquiry was over, he went and visited an old friend at the +London Survey Office. He spent two mornings examining maps. After +that he spent two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway and +Aldwych; then he worked out some careful calculations on a ruled +chart. He entered the particulars in a little book which he kept for +purposes of that kind, and then retired to his chambers to study +other matters. But, before doing so, he entered a little apophthegm +in another book. It was apparently a book in which he intended to +compile a summary of his legal experiences. The sentence ran: + +“The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient +data.” + +Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story at all, except for +the fact that he was present at the dinner at Lord Vermeer’s, where a +rather deplorable incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that in +the circumstances it is useful to have such a valuable and efficient +witness. + +Lord Vermeer was a competent, forceful man, a little quick-tempered +and autocratic. He came from Lancashire, and before entering politics +had made an enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure, and +starch. + +It was a small dinner party, with a motive behind it. His principal +guest was Mr. Sandeman, the London agent of the Ameer of Bakkan. +Lord Vermeer was very anxious to impress Mr. Sandeman and to be very +friendly with him: the reasons will appear later. Mr. Sandeman was a +self-confessed cosmopolitan. He spoke seven languages and professed +to be equally at home in any capital in Europe. London had been +his headquarters for over twenty years. Lord Vermeer also invited +Mr. Arthur Toombs, a colleague in the Cabinet, his prospective +son-in-law, Lowes-Parlby, K.C., James Trolley, a very tame Socialist +M.P., and Sir Henry and Lady Breyd, the two latter being invited, not +because Sir Henry was of any use, but because Lady Breyd was a pretty +and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal guest. The sixth +guest was Stephen Garrit. + +The dinner was a great success. When the succession of courses +eventually came to a stop, and the ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer +conducted his male guests into another room for a ten minutes’ smoke +before rejoining them. It was then that the unfortunate incident +occurred. There was no love lost between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. +Sandeman. It is difficult to ascribe the real reason of their mutual +animosity, but on the several occasions when they had met there had +invariably passed a certain sardonic by-play. They were both clever, +both comparatively young, each a little suspect and jealous of the +other; moreover, it was said in some quarters that Mr. Sandeman had +had intentions himself with regard to Lord Vermeer’s daughter, that +he had been on the point of a proposal when Lowes-Parlby had butted +in and forestalled him. + +Mr. Sandeman had dined well, and he was in the mood to dazzle with +a display of his varied knowledge and experiences. The conversation +drifted from a discussion of the rival claims of great cities to the +slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. There had been a slightly +acrimonious disagreement between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman as +to the claims of Budapest and Lisbon, and Mr. Sandeman had scored +because he extracted from his rival a confession that, though he had +spent two months in Budapest, he had only spent two days in Lisbon. +Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. Lowes-Parlby +changed the subject abruptly. + +“Talking of landmarks,” he said, “we had a queer point arise in +that Aztec Street Inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a +discussion between a crowd of people in a pub. as to where Wych +Street was.” + +“I remember,” said Lord Vermeer. “A perfectly absurd discussion. Why, +I should have thought that any man over forty would remember exactly +where it was.” + +“Where would you say it was, sir?” asked Lowes-Parlby. + +“Why, to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended +at the second turning after the Law Courts, going west.” + +Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat +and said, in his supercilious, oily voice: + +“Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and Vienna, and Lisbon, every +brick and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London +even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of Wych Street. +When I was a student I used to visit there to buy books. It ran +parallel to New Oxford Street on the south side, just between it and +Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” + +There was something about this assertion that infuriated +Lowes-Parlby. In the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so +insufferably asserted. In the second place, he was already smarting +under the indignity of being shown up about Lisbon. And then there +suddenly flashed through his mind the wretched incident when he had +been publicly snubbed by Justice Pengammon about the very same point; +and he knew that he was right each time. Damn Wych Street! He turned +on Mr. Sandeman. + +“Oh, nonsense! You may know something about these--eastern cities; +you certainly know nothing about London if you make a statement +like that. Wych Street was a little farther east of what is now the +Gaiety Theatre. It used to run by the side of the old Globe Theatre, +parallel to the Strand.” + +The dark moustache of Mr. Sandeman shot upward, revealing a narrow +line of yellow teeth. He uttered a sound that was a mingling of +contempt and derision; then he drawled out: + +“Really? How wonderful--to have such comprehensive knowledge!” + +He laughed, and his small eyes fixed his rival. Lowes-Parlby flushed +a deep red. He gulped down half a glass of port and muttered just +above a whisper: “Damned impudence!” Then, in the rudest manner he +could display, he turned his back deliberately on Sandeman and walked +out of the room. + + * * * * * + +In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps. +The whole thing was so absurd--so utterly undignified. As though +_he_ didn’t know! It was the little accumulation of pinpricks all +arising out of that one argument. The result had suddenly goaded +him to--well, being rude, to say the least of it. It wasn’t that +Sandeman mattered. To the devil with Sandeman! But what would his +future father-in-law think? He had never before given way to any +show of ill-temper before him. He forced himself into a mood of +rather fatuous jocularity. Adela was at her best in those moods. +They would have lots of fun together in the days to come. Her almost +pretty, not too clever, face was dimpled with kittenish glee. Life +was a tremendous rag to her. They were expecting Toccata, the famous +opera-singer. She had been engaged at a very high fee to come on from +Covent Garden. Mr. Sandeman was very fond of music. + +Adela was laughing and discussing which was the most honourable +position for the great Sandeman to occupy. There came to Lowes-Parlby +a sudden abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be to him +when they were not just fooling? He immediately dismissed the +curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The splendid proportions of +the room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses quickened +his perceptions. His career.... The door opened. But it was not La +Toccata. It was one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby turned +again to his inamorata. + +“Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in +the library?” + +Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his heart beat quickly. An +incontrollable presage of evil racked his nerve centres. Something +had gone wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In +a crisis--well, he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at +Adela, and said: + +“Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse me, dear.” + +He followed the impressive servant out of the room. His foot had +barely touched the carpet of the library when he realized that his +worst apprehensions were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment +he thought Lord Vermeer was alone, then he observed old Stephen +Garrit, lying in an easy-chair in the corner like a piece of crumpled +parchment. Lord Vermeer did not beat about the bush. When the door +was closed, he bawled out, savagely: + +“What the devil have you done?” + +“Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is it Sandeman...?” + +“Sandeman has gone.” + +“Oh, I’m sorry.” + +“Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him. +My prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!” + +“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realize....” + +“Realize! Sit down, and don’t assume for one moment that you continue +to be my prospective son-in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable +piece of effrontery, not only to him, but to me.” + +“But I....” + +“Listen to me. Do you know that the Government were on the verge of +concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that +the position was just touch-and-go? The concessions we were prepared +to make would have cost the State thirty million pounds, and it +would have been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap! +Bakkan is one of the most vulnerable outposts of the Empire. It is a +terrible danger zone. If certain Powers can usurp our authority--and, +mark you, the whole blamed place is already riddled with this new +pernicious doctrine--you know what I mean--before we know where we +are the whole East will be in a blaze. India! My God! This contract +we were negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And +you, you blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word +the whole thing depends.” + +“I really can’t see, sir, how I should know all this.” + +“You can’t see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way. +You insulted him about the merest quibble--in my house!” + +“He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I +corrected him.” + +“Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in +the moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act +in the way you did. And you--you think of going into politics!” + +The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. +Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled: + +“I’m very sorry.” + +“I don’t want your sorrow. I want something more practical.” + +“What’s that, sir?” + +“You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman’s, find him, and apologize. +Tell him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If +you can’t find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I +give you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered +a handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house +again, you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I +possess will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you +have dishonoured. Now you can go.” + +Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at +Knightsbridge. Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer +had given him till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done +should be done after a night’s reflection. The fundamental purposes +of his being were to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great +crossing. Some deep instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is +it that a point comes when success demands that a man shall sell +his soul? It was all so absurdly trivial--a mere argument about the +position of a street that had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, +what did it matter about Wych Street? + +Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but +would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument +about a street? + +In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting +a pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for +companionship at such a moment--the right companionship. How lovely +it would be to have--a woman, just the right woman, to talk this all +over with; someone who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision +came to him of Adela’s face grinning about the prospective visit +of La Toccata, and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in +his ears. Would Adela be--just the right woman? In very truth, did +he really love Adela? Or was it all--a rag? Was life a rag--a game +played by lawyers, politicians, and people? + +The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind +principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was +past midnight when he suddenly muttered a low “Damn!” and walked to +the bureau. He took up a pen and wrote: + + DEAR MR. SANDEMAN,-- + + I must apologize for acting so rudely to you last night. It + was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since find, on + going into the matter, that you were quite right about the + position of Wych Street. I can’t think how I made the mistake. + Please forgive me. + + Yours cordially, + FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY. + +Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have +imagined at that point that the matter was finished. But there are +certain little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of +stilling, and they kept Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night. +He kept on repeating to himself, “It’s all positively absurd!” But +the little greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they began +to group things into two definite issues. On the one side, the +great appearances; on the other, something at the back of it all, +something deep, fundamental, something that could only be expressed +by one word--truth. If he had _really_ loved Adela--if he weren’t +so absolutely certain that Sandeman was wrong and he was right--why +should he have to say that Wych Street was where it wasn’t? + +“Isn’t there, after all,” said one of the little demons, “something +which makes for greater happiness than success? Confess this, and +we’ll let you sleep.” + +Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons +possess. However full our lives may be, we ever long for moments of +tranquillity. And conscience holds before our eyes the mirror of +an ultimate tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly not himself. +The gay, debonair, and brilliant egoist was tortured, and tortured +almost beyond control; and it had all apparently arisen through the +ridiculous discussion about a street. At a quarter past three in the +morning he arose from his bed with a groan, and, going into the +other room, he tore the letter to Mr. Sandeman to pieces. + + * * * * * + +Three weeks later old Stephen Garrit was lunching with the Lord Chief +Justice. They were old friends, and they never found it incumbent to +be very conversational. The lunch was an excellent, but frugal, meal. +They both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and their drink was water. +It was not till they reached the dessert stage that his lordship +indulged in any very informative comment, and then he recounted to +Stephen the details of a recent case in which he considered that the +presiding judge, by an unprecedented paralogy, misinterpreted the Law +of Evidence. Stephen listened with absorbed attention. He took two +cob-nuts from the silver dish, and turned them over meditatively, +without cracking them. When his lordship had completely stated his +opinion and peeled a pear, Stephen mumbled: + +“I have been impressed, very impressed indeed. Even in my own field +of--limited observation--the opinion of an outsider, you may say--so +often it happens--the trouble caused by an affirmation without +sufficiently established data. I have seen lives lost, ruin brought +about, endless suffering. Only last week, a young man--a brilliant +career--almost shattered. People make statements without----” + +He put the nuts back on the dish and then, in an apparently +irrelevant manner, he said abruptly: + +“Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?” + +The Lord Chief Justice grunted. + +“Wych Street! Of course I do.” + +“Where would you say it was, my lord?” + +“Why, here, of course.” + +His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the +tablecloth. + +“It used to run from there to here.” + +Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the plan. He +took a long time to do this, and when he had finished his hand +instinctively went toward a breast pocket where he kept a notebook +with little squared pages. Then he stopped and sighed. After all, why +argue with the law? The law was like that--an excellent thing, not +infallible, of course (even the plan of the Lord Chief Justice was a +quarter of a mile out), but still an excellent, a wonderful thing. He +examined the bony knuckles of his hands and yawned slightly. + +“Do you remember it?” said the Lord Chief Justice. + +Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way +off: + +“Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street.” + + + + + THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY + + + I + +A tramp came through a cutting by old Jerry Shindle’s nursery, and +crossing the stile, stepped into the glare of the white road. He +was a tall swarthy man with stubbly red whiskers which appeared to +conceal the whole of his face, except a small portion under each eye +about the size of a two shilling piece. His skin showed through the +rents in a filthy old black green garment, and was the same colour as +his face, a livid bronze. His toes protruded from his boots, which +seemed to be homemade contraptions of canvas and string. He carried +an ash stick, and the rest of his worldly belongings in a spotted +red and white handkerchief. His worldly belongings consisted of some +rags, a door-knob, a portion of a foot-rule, a tin mug stolen from a +workhouse, half a dozen date stones, a small piece of very old bread, +a raw onion, the shutter of a camera, and two empty matchboxes. + +He looked up and down the road as though uncertain of his direction. +To the north it curved under the wooded opulence of Crawshay Park. To +the south it stretched like a white ribbon across a bold vista of +shadeless downs. He was hungry and he eyed, critically, the potential +possibilities of a cottage standing back from the road. It was a +shabby little three-roomed affair with fowls running in and out of +the front door, some washing on a line, and the sound of a child +crying within. While he was hesitating, a farm labourer came through +a gate to an adjoining field, and walked toward the cottage. He, +too, carried property tied up in a red handkerchief. His other hand +balanced a steel fork across his left shoulder. He was a thick-set, +rather dour-looking man. As he came up the tramp said: + +“Where does this road lead to, mate?” + +The labourer replied brusquely: + +“Pondhurst.” + +“How far?” + +“Three and a half miles.” + +Without embroidering this information any further he walked stolidly +across the road and entered the garden of the cottage. The tramp +watched him put the fork down by the lintel of the door. He saw +him enter the cottage, and he heard a woman’s voice. He sighed and +muttered into his stubbly red beard: “Lucky devil!” Then, hunching +his shoulders, he set out with long flat-footed strides down the +white road which led across the downs. + + + II + +Having kicked some mud off his boots, the labourer, Martin Crosby, +said to his wife: + +“Dinner ready?” + +Emma Crosby was wringing out some clothes. Her face was shiny with +the steam and the heat of the day. She answered petulantly: + +“No, it isn’t. You’ll have to wait another ten minutes, the ’taters +aren’t cooked. I’ve enough to do this morning I can tell yer, what +with the washing, and Lizzie screaming with her teeth, and the biler +going wrong.” + +“Ugh! There’s allus somethin’.” + +Martin knew there was no appeal against delay. He had been married +four years; he knew his wife’s temper and mode of life sufficiently +well. He went out into the garden and lighted his pipe. The fowls +clucked round his feet and he kicked them away. He, too, was hungry. +However, there would be food of a sort--in time. Some greasy pudding +and potatoes boiled to a liquid mash, a piece of cheese perhaps. +Well, there it was. When you work in the open air all day you can +eat anything. The sun was pleasant on his face, the shag pungent and +comforting. If only old Emma weren’t such a muddler! A good enough +piece of goods when at her best, but always in a muddle, always +behind time, no management, and then resentful because things went +wrong. Lizzie: seven months old and two teeth through already and +another coming. A lovely child, the spit and image of--what her +mother must have been. Next time it would be a boy. Life wasn’t so +bad--really. + +The gate clicked, and the tall figure of Ambrose Baines appeared. +He was dressed in a corduroy coat and knickers, stout brown gaiters +and square thick boots. Tucked under his arm was a gun with its two +barrels pointing at the ground. He was the gamekeeper to Sir Septimus +Letter. He stood just inside the gate and called out: + +“Mornin’, Martin.” + +Martin replied: “Mornin’.” + +“I was just passin’. The missus says you can have a cookin’ or so of +runner beans if you wants ’em. We’ve got more than enough, and I hear +as yours is blighty.” + +“Oh!... ay, thank’ee.” + +“Middlin’ hot to-day.” + +“Ay ... terrible hot.” + +“When’ll you be comin’?” + +“I’ll stroll over now. There’s nowt to do. I’m waitin’ dinner. I +’specks it’ll be a half-hour or so. You know what Emm is.” + +He went inside and fetched a basket. He said nothing to his wife, but +rejoined Baines in the road. They strolled through the cutting and +got into the back of the gamekeeper’s garden just inside the wood. +Martin went along the row and filled his basket. Baines left him and +went into his cottage. He could hear Mrs. Baines singing and washing +up. + +Of course _they_ had had their dinner. It would be like that. Mrs. +Baines was a marvel. On one or two occasions Martin had entered +their cottage. Everything was spick and span, and done on time. The +two children always seemed to be clean and quiet. There were pretty +pink curtains and framed oleographs. Mrs. Baines could cook, and she +led the hymns at church--so they said. Even the garden was neat, and +trim, and fruitful. Of course _their_ runner beans would be prolific +whilst his failed. Mrs. Baines appeared at the door and called out: + +“Mornin’, Mr. Crosby.” + +He replied gruffly: “Mornin’, Mrs. Baines.” + +“Middlin’ hot.” + +“Ay ... terrible hot.” + +She was not what you would call a pretty, attractive woman; but +she was natty, competent, irrepressibly cheerful. She would make a +shilling go as far as Emma would a pound. The cottage had five rooms, +all in a good state of repair. The roof had been newly thatched. All +this was done for him, of course, by his employer. He paid no rent; +Martin had to pay five shillings a week, and then the roof leaked, +and the boiler never worked properly--but perhaps that was Emm’s +fault. He picked up his basket and strolled toward the outer gate. +As he did so, he heard the two children laughing, and Baines’s voice +joining in. + +“Some people do have luck,” Martin murmured, and went back to his +wife. + + + III + + Jack and Jill went up the hill + To fetch a pail of water; + Jack fell down and broke his crown + And Jill came tumbling after! + +It was very pretty--the way Winny Baines sang that, balancing the +smaller boy on her knee, and jerking him skyward on the last word. +Not what the world would call a pretty woman, but pretty enough to +Ambrose, with her clear skin, kind motherly eyes, and thin brown +hair. Her voice had a quality which somehow always expressed her +gentle and unconquerable nature. + +“She’s too good for me,” Ambrose would think at odd moments. “She +didn’t ought to be a gamekeeper’s wife. She ought to be a lady--with +carriages, and comforts, and well-dressed friends.” + +The reflection would stir in him a feeling of sullen resentment, +tempered with pride. She was a wonderful woman. She managed so well; +she never complained. Of course, so far as the material necessities +were concerned, there was enough and to spare. The cottage was +comfortable, and reasonably well furnished--so far as he could +determine. Of food there was abundance; game, rabbits, vegetables, +eggs, fruit. The only thing he had to buy in the way of food was milk +from the farm, and a few groceries from Mr. Meads’s shop. He paid +nothing for the cottage and yet--he would have liked to have made +things better for Winny. His wages were small, and there were clothes +to buy, all kinds of little incidental expenses. There never seemed a +chance to save and soon there would be the boy’s schooling. + +In spite of the small income, Winny always managed to keep herself +and the children neat and smart, and even to help others like the +more unfortunate Crosbys. She did all the work of the cottage, the +care of the children, the mending and washing, and still found time +to make jam, to preserve fruit, to grow flowers, and to sing in the +church choir. She was the daughter of a piano-tuner at Bladestone, +and the glamour of this early connection always hung between Ambrose +and herself. To him a piano-tuner appeared a remote and romantic +figure. It suggested a world of concerts, theatres, and Bohemian +life. He was never quite clear about the precise functions of a +piano-tuner, but he regarded his wife as the daughter of a public +man, coming from a world far removed from the narrow limits of the +life she was forced to lead with him. + +In spite of her repeated professions of happiness, Ambrose always +felt a shade suspicious, not of her, but of his own ability to +satisfy her every demand. Sometimes he would observe her looking +round the little rooms, as though she were visualizing what they +might contain. Perhaps she wanted a grand piano, or some inlaid +chairs, or embroidered coverings. He had not the money to buy these +things, and he knew that she would never ask for them; but still it +was there--that queer gnawing sense of insecurity. At dawn he would +wander through the coppices, drenched in dew, the gun under his arm, +and the dog close to heel. The sunlight would come rippling over the +jewelled leaves, and little clumps of primroses and violets would +reveal themselves. Life would be good then, and yet somehow--it was +not Winny’s life. Only through their children did they seem to know +each other. + + Jack and Jill went up the hill + To fetch a pail of water; + Jack fell down and broke his crown + And Jill came tumbling after! + +“Oo--Ambrose,” the other boy was tugging at his beard, when Winny +spoke. He pretended to scream with pain before he turned to his wife. + +“Yes, my dear?” + +“Will you be passing Mr. Meads’s shop? We have run out of candles.” + +“Oh? Roight be, my love. I’ll be nigh there afore sundown. I have to +order seed from Crumblings.” + +He was later than he expected at Mr. Meads’s shop. He had to wait +whilst several women were being served. The portly owner’s new cash +register went “tap-tapping!” five times before he got a chance to say: + +“Evenin’, Mr. Meads, give us a pound of candles, will ye?” + +Mrs. Meads came in through a parlour at the back, in a rustling black +dress. She was going to a welfare meeting at the vicar’s. She said: + +“Good evening, Mr. Baines, hope you are all nicely.” + +A slightly disturbing sight met the eye of Ambrose. The parlour door +was open, and he could see a maid in a cap and apron clearing away +tea things in the gaily furnished room. The Meads had got a servant! +He knew that Meads was extending his business. He had a cheap +clothing department now, and he was building a shed out at the back +with the intention of supplying petrol to casual motorists, but--a +servant! + +He picked up his packet of candles and muttered gruffly: + +“Good evenin’.” + +Before he had reached the door he heard “Tap-tapping!” _His_ one and +twopence had gone into the box. As he swung down the village street, +he muttered to himself: + +“God! I wish I had his money!” + + + IV + +When Mrs. Meads returned from the welfare meeting at half-past eight, +she found Mr. Meads waiting for her in the parlour, and the supper +laid. There was cold veal and beetroot, apple pie, cheese and stout. + +“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” she said. + +“That’s all right, my love,” replied Mr. Meads, not looking up from +his newspaper. + +“We had a lovely meeting--Mrs. Wonnicott was there, and Mrs. Beal, +and Mrs. Edwin Pillcreak, and Mrs. James, and Ada, and both the +Jamiesons, and the Vicar was perfectly sweet. He made two lovely +speeches.” + +“Oh, that was nice,” said Mr. Meads, trying to listen and read a +piquant paragraph about a divorce case at the same time. + +“I should think you want your supper.” + +“I’m ready when you are, my love.” + +Mr. Meads put down his newspaper, and drawing his chair up to the +table, began to set about the veal. He was distinctly a man for his +victuals. He carved rapidly for her, and less rapidly for himself. +From this you must not imagine that he treated his wife meanly. On +the contrary, he gave her a large helping, but a close observer could +not help detecting that when carving for himself he seemed to take +more interest in his job. Then he rang a little tinkly hand-bell and +the new maid appeared. + +“Go into the shop, my dear,” he said, “and get me a pot of pickled +walnuts from the second shelf on the left before you come to them +bales of calico.” + +The maid went, and Mrs. Meads clucked: + +“Um--being a bit extravagant to-night, John.” + +“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted Mr. Meads sententiously. +He put up a barrage of veal in the forefront of his mouth--he had no +back teeth, but managed to penetrate it with an opaque rumble of +sound. “Besides we had a good day to-day--done a lot of business. +Pass the stout----” + +“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Mrs. Meads. “It’s about time things +began to improve, considerin’ what we’ve been through. Mrs. Wonnicott +was wearin’ her biscuit-coloured taffeta with a new lace yoke. She +looked smart, but a bit stiff for the Welfare to my way of thinkin’.” + +“Ah!” came rumbling through the veal. + +“Oh, and did I tell you Mrs. Mounthead was there, too? She was +wearing her starched ninon--no end of a swell she looked.” + +Mr. Meads’s eyes lighted with a definite interest at last. Mrs. +Mounthead was the wife of James Mounthead, the proprietor of that +handsome hostelry, “The Die is Cast.” When his long day’s work was +over Mr. Meads would not infrequently pop into “The Die is Cast” for +an hour or so before closing time and have a long chat with Mr. James +Mounthead. He swallowed half a glass of stout at a gulp, and helped +himself liberally to the pickled walnuts which the maid had just +brought in. Eyeing the walnuts thoughtfully, he said: + +“Oh, so she’s got into it, too, has she?” + +“Yes, she’s really quite a pleasant body. She told me coming down +the street that her husband has just bought Bolder’s farm over +at Pondhurst. He’s setting up his son there who’s marrying Kate +Steyning. Her people have got a bit of money, too, so they’ll be all +right. By the way, we haven’t heard from Charlie for nearly three +weeks.” + +Mr. Meads sighed. Why were women always like that? There was Edie. +He was trying to tell her that things were improving, going well in +fact. The shed for petrol and motor accessories was nearly finished; +the cheap clothing department was in full swing; he had indulged in +pickled walnuts for supper (her supper, too); and there she must +needs talk about--Charlie! Everybody in the neighbourhood knew that +their son Charlie was up in London, and not doing himself or anybody +else any good. And almost in the same breath she must needs talk +about old Mounthead’s son. Everyone knew that young Mounthead was +a promising, industrious fellow. Oh! and so James had bought him +Bolder’s farm, had he? That cost a pretty penny, he knew. Just bought +a farm, had he? Not put the money into his business; just bought +it in the way that he, Sam Meads, might buy a gramophone, or an +umbrella. Psaugh! + +“I don’t want no tart,” he said, on observing Edie begin to carve it. + +“No tart!” she exclaimed. “Why, what’s wrong?” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Don’t feel like it--working too +hard--bit flatulent. I’ll go out for a stroll after supper.” + +An hour later he was leaning against the bar of “The Die is Cast,” +drinking gin and water, and listening to Mr. Mounthead discourse on +dogs. The bar of “The Die is Cast” was a self-constituted village +club. Other cronies drifted in. They were all friends of both Mr. +Meads and Mr. Mounthead. Mrs. Mounthead seldom appeared in the bar, +but there was a potman and a barmaid named Florrie; and somewhere in +the rear a cook, two housemaids, a scullerymaid, a boy for knives and +boots, and an ostler. Mr. Mounthead had a victoria and a governess +car, as well as a van for business purposes, a brown mare and a pony. +He also had his own farm well stocked with pigs, cattle, and poultry. +While taking his guests’ money in a sleepy leisurely way, he regaled +them with the rich fruits of his opinions and experiences. Later on +he dropped casually that he was engaging an overseer at four hundred +a year to take his son’s place. And Mr. Meads glanced round the bar +and noted the shining glass and pewter, the polished mahogany, the +little pink and green glasses winking at him insolently. + +“He doesn’t know what work is either,” suddenly occurred to him. Mr. +Mounthead’s work consisted mostly in a little bookkeeping, and in +ordering people about. He only served in the shop as a kind of social +relaxation. If he, Sam Meads, didn’t serve in his shop himself all +day from early morning till late evening, goodness knows what would +happen to the business. Besides--the pettiness of it all! Little +bits of cheese, penny tins of mustard, string, weighing out sugar +and biscuits, cutting bacon, measuring off ribbons and calico, and +flannelette. People gossiping all day, and running up little accounts +it was always hard to collect. But here--oh, the snappy quick +profit. Everybody paying on the nail, served in a second, and what a +profit! Enough to buy a farm for a son as though it was--an umbrella. +Walking home, a little dejectedly, later on, he struck the road with +his stick, and muttered: + +“Damn that man!” + + + V + +Mrs. James Mounthead was rather pleased with her starched ninon. She +leant back luxuriously in the easy chair, yawned, and pressed her +hands along the sides of her well-fitting skirt. Gilt bangles round +her wrists rattled pleasantly during this performance. A paste star +glittered on her ample bosom. She heard James moving ponderously on +the landing below; the bar had closed. He came puffily up the stairs +and opened the door. + +“A nightcap, Queenie?” he wheezed through the creaking machinery of +his respiratory organs. + +Mrs. Mounthead smiled brightly. “I think I will to-night, Jim.” + +He went to a cabinet and poured out two mixed drinks. He handed his +wife one, and raising the other to his lips, said: + +“Well, here’s to the boy!” + +“Here’s to James the Second!” she replied, and drank deeply. Her eyes +sparkled. Mrs. Mounthead was excited. The bangles clattered against +the glass as she set it down. + +“Come and give me a kiss, old dear”, she said, leaning back. + +Without making any great show of enthusiasm, James did as he was +bidden. He, too, was a little excited, but his excitement was less +amorous than commercial. He had paid nearly twelve hundred pounds +less for Bolder’s farm than he had expected. The news of his purchase +was all over the neighbourhood. It had impressed everyone. People +looked at him differently. He was becoming a big man, _the_ big man +in those parts. He could buy another farm to-morrow, and it wouldn’t +break him. And the boy--the boy was a good boy; he would do well, too. + +A little drink easily affected Mrs. Mounthead. She became garrulous. + +“I had a good time at the Welfare, though some of the old cats didn’t +like me, I know. Ha, ha, ha, what do I care? We could buy the whole +lot up if we wanted to, except perhaps the Wonnicotts. Mine was the +only frock worth a tinker’s cuss. Lord! You should have seen old +Mrs. Meads! Looked like a washerwoman on a Sunday. The vicar was +ever so nice. He called me madam, and said he ’oped I often come. I +gave a fiver to the fund. Ha, ha, ha, I didn’t tell ’em that I made +it backing ‘Ringcross’ for the Nunhead Stakes yesterday! They’d have +died.” + +During this verbal explosion, James Mounthead thoughtfully regarded +his glass. And he thought to himself: “Um. It’s a pity Queenie gives +herself away sometimes.” He didn’t particularly want to hear about +the Welfare. He wanted to talk about “James the Second” and the plans +for the future. He wanted to indulge in the luxury of talking about +their success, but he didn’t want to boast about wealth in quite that +way. He had queer ambitions not unconnected with the land he lived +on. He had not always been in the licensing trade. His father had +been a small landed proprietor and a stock breeder; a man of stern, +unrelenting principles. From his father he, James Mounthead, had +inherited a kind of reverence for the ordered development of land +and cattle, an innate respect for the sanctity of tradition, caste, +property and fair dealing. His wife had always been in the licensing +trade. She was the daughter of a publican at Pondhurst. As a girl she +had served in the bar. All her relations were licensing people. When +she had a little to drink--she was apt to display her worst side, to +give herself away. James sighed. + +“Did Mrs. Wonnicott say anything about her husband?” he asked, to +change the subject. + +“You bet she did. Tried to put it across us--when I told her about us +buying Bolder’s farm--said her old man had thought of bidding for it, +but he knew it was poor in root crops and the soil was no good for +corn, and that Sturge had neglected the place too long. The old cat! +I said: ‘Yes, and p’raps it wouldn’t be convenient to pay for it just +now, after ’aving bought a lawn mower!’ Ha, ha, ha. He, he, he. O +my!” + +“I shouldn’t have said that,” mumbled Mr. Mounthead, who knew, +however, that anything was better than one of Queenie’s violent +reactions to quarrelsomeness. “Come on, let’s go and turn in, old +girl.” + +An hour later, James Mounthead was tossing restlessly between the +sheets. Queenie’s reference to the Wonnicotts had upset him. He could +read between what she had said sufficiently to envisage a scene, +which he himself deplored. Queenie, of course, had given herself +away again to Mrs. Wonnicott. He knew that both the Wonnicotts +despised her, and through her, him. He had probably as much money +as Lewis Wonnicott, if not more. He certainly had a more fluid +and accumulative way of making it, but there the matter stopped. +Wonnicott was a gentleman; his wife a lady. He, James, might have +been as much a gentleman as Wonnicott if--circumstances had been +different. Queenie could never be a lady in the sense that Mrs. +Wonnicott was a lady. Wonnicott led the kind of life _he_ would like +to live--a gentleman farmer, with hunters, a little house property, +and some sound vested interests; a man with a great knowledge of +land, horses, finance, and politics. + +He loved Queenie in a queer enduring kind of way. She had been loyal +to him, and she satisfied most of his needs. She loved him, but he +knew that he could never attain the goal of his vague ambitions, +with her clinging to his heels. He thought of Lewis Wonnicott +sleeping in his white panelled bedroom with chintz curtains and old +furniture, and his wife in the adjoining room, where the bay window +looked out on to the downs; and the heart of James became bitter with +envy. + + + VI + +“I don’t think I shall attend those Welfare meetings any more,” +remarked Mrs. Lewis Wonnicott with a slight drawl. She gathered up +her letters from the breakfast table and walked to the window. + +In the garden below, Leach, the gardener, was experimenting with a +new mower on the well-clipped lawns. The ramblers on the pergola were +at their best. Her husband in a broad check suit and a white stock, +looked up from _The Times_ and said: + +“Oh, how is that, my dear?” + +“They are getting such awful people in. That dreadful woman, the wife +of Mounthead, the publican, has joined.” + +“Old Mounthead’s all right--not a bad sort. He knows a gelding from a +blood mare.” + +“That may be, but his wife is the limit. I happened to say something +about the new mower, and she was simply rude. An awful vulgar person, +wears spangles, and boasts about the money her husband makes out of +selling whisky.” + +“By gad! I bet he does, too. I wouldn’t mind having a bit in his +pub. Do you see Canadian Pacifics are still stagnant?” + +“Lewis, I sometimes wish you wouldn’t be so material. You think about +nothing but money.” + +“Oh, come, my dear, I’m interested in a crowd of other things--things +which I don’t make money out of, too.” + +“For instance?” + +“The land, the people who work on it, horses, cattle, game, the best +way to do things for everybody. Besides, ain’t I interested in the +children? The two girls’ careers at Bedales? Young Ralph at Rugby and +going up to Cambridge next year?” + +“You know they’re there, but how much interest you take, I couldn’t +say.” + +“What is it you want me to do, my dear?” + +“I think you might bestir yourself to get amongst better people. The +girls will be leaving school soon and coming home. We know no one, no +one at all in the neighbourhood.” + +“No one at all! Jeminy! Why, we know everyone!” + +“You spend all your time among horse-breeders and cattle-dealers, and +people like Mounthead, and occasionally call on the Vicar, but who is +there of any importance that we know?” + +“Lord! What do you want? Do you want me to go and call at Crawshay +Park, and ask Sir Septimus and Lady Letter to come and make up a four +at bridge?” + +“Don’t be absurd! You know quite well that the Letters are entirely +inaccessible. He’s not only an M.P. and owner of half the newspapers +in the country, but a millionaire. They entertain house parties of +ministers and dukes, and even royalty. They can afford to ignore even +the county people themselves. But there are others. We don’t even +know the county.” + +“Who, for instance?” + +“Well, the Burnabys. You met St. John Burnaby at the Constitutional +Club two or three times and yet you have never attempted to follow it +up. They’re very nice people and neighbours. And they have three boys +all in the twenties, and the girl Sheila--she’s just a year younger +than Ralph.” + +“My word! Who’s being material now?” + +“It isn’t material, it’s just--thinking of the children.” + +“Women are wonderful,” muttered Lewis Wonnicott into his white stock, +without raising his head. Mrs. Wonnicott swept to the door. Her thin +lips were drawn in a firm straight line. Her refined hard little face +appeared pinched and petulant. With her hand on the door-handle she +said acidly: + +“If you can spare half an hour from your grooms and pigs, I think you +might at least do this to please me--call on Mrs. Burnaby to-day.” + +And she went out of the room, shutting the door crisply. + +“Oh, Jiminy-Piminy!” muttered Mr. Wonnicott. “Jiminy-Piminy!” + +He stood up and shook himself. Then with feline intentness he +walked quickly to the French window, and opening it walked down the +steps into the garden. All the way to the sunk rose-garden he kept +repeating, “Jiminy-Piminy!” + +Once among the rose-bushes he lighted his pipe. (His wife objected +to smoking in the house.) He blew clouds of tobacco smoke amongst +imaginary green-fly. Occasionally he would glance furtively out at +the view across the downs. Half buried amongst the elms near Basted +Old Church he could just see the five red gables of the Burnabys’s +capacious mansion. + +“I can’t do it,” he thought, “I can’t do it, and I shall have to do +it.” + +It was perfectly true he had been introduced to St. John Burnaby +and had spoken to him once or twice. It was also true that +Burnaby had never given any evidence of wishing to follow up the +acquaintanceship. Bit of a swell, Burnaby, connected with all sorts +of people, member of half a dozen clubs, didn’t race but went in for +golf, and had a shooting box in Scotland. Some said he had political +ambitions, and meant to try for Parliament at the next election. He +didn’t racket round in a check suit and a white stock and mix with +grooms and farm hands; he kept up the flair of the gentleman, the +big man, even in the country. He had two cars, and three acres of +conservatory, and peacocks, and a son in the diplomatic service, +a daughter married to a bishop. His wife, too, came of a poor +but aristocratic family. Over at the “Five Gables” they kept nine +gardeners and twenty odd servants. Everything was done tip-top. + +Lewis Wonnicott turned and regarded his one old man gardener, trying +the new mower, which Mrs. Mounthead had been so rude about to +Dorothy. Poor Dorothy! She was touchy, that’s what it was. Of course +she _did_ think of the children--no getting away from it. She was +ambitious more for them than for herself or himself. She had given +up being ambitious for him. He knew that she looked upon him as a +slacker, a kind of cabbage. Well, perhaps he had been. He hadn’t +accomplished all he ought to. He had loved the land, the feel of +horse-flesh, the smell of wet earth when the morning dews were on it. +He had been a failure ... a failure. He was not up to county people. +He was unworthy of his dear wife’s ambitions. Jiminy-Piminy! It would +be a squeeze to send Ralph up to Cambridge next year! + +He looked across the valley at the five red gables among the elms, +and sighed. + +“Lucky devil!” he murmured. “Damn it all! I suppose I must go.” + + + VII + +“You don’t seem to realize the importance of it,” said Gwendolen +St. John Burnaby as her husband leant forward on his seat on the +terrace, and tickled the ear of Jinks, the Airedale. “A career in +the diplomatic service without influence is about as likely to be +a success as a--as a performance on a violin behind a sound-proof +curtain. There’s Lal, wasting his--his talents and genius at that +wretched little embassy at Oporto, and all you’ve got to do is to +drive three miles to Crawshay Park and put the matter before Sir +Septimus.” + +“These things always seem so simple to women,” answered Sir John, a +little peevishly. + +“Well, isn’t it true? Do you deny that he has the power?” + +“Of course he has power, my dear, but you may not realize the kind +of life a man like that lives. Every minute of the day is filled up, +all kinds of important things crowding each other out. He’s always +been friendly enough to me, and yet every time I meet him I have an +idea he has forgotten who I am. He deals in movements in which men +are only pawns. If I told him about Lal he would say yes, he would +do what he could--make a note of it, and forget about it directly I +turned my back.” + +Mrs. St. John Burnaby stamped her elegant Louis heels. + +“Is nothing ever worth trying?” + +“Don’t be foolish, Gwen, haven’t I tried? Haven’t I ambition?” + +“For yourself, yes. I am thinking of Lal.” + +“Women always think of their sons before their husbands. He knows +I’ve backed his party for all I’m worth. He knows I’m standing for +the constituency next time. When I get elected will be the moment. I +shall then have a tiny atom of power. For a man without even a vote +in Parliament do you think Letter is going to waste his time?” + +“Obstinate!” muttered Mrs. Burnaby with metallic clearness. The +little lines round the eyes and mouth of a face that had once been +beautiful became accentuated in the clear sunlight. The constant +stress of ambitious desires had quickened her vitality, but in the +process had aged her body before its time. She knew that her husband +was ambitious, too, but there was always just that little something +he lacked in the great moments, just that little special effort that +might have landed him among the gods--or in the House of Lords. He +had been successful enough in a way. He had made money--a hundred +thousand or so--in brokerage and dealing indirectly in various +manufactured commodities; but he had not even attained a knighthood +or a seat in Parliament. His heavy dark face betokened power and +courage, but not vision. He was indeed as she had said--obstinate. In +minnow circles he might appear a triton, but living within the same +county as Sir Septimus Letter--Bah! + +About to leave him, her movement was arrested by the approach of a +butler followed by a gentleman in a check suit and a white stock, +looking self-conscious. + +Mrs. St. John Burnaby raised her lorgnette. “One of these local +people,” she reflected. + +On being announced the gentleman in the check suit exclaimed rapidly: + +“Excuse the liberty I take--neighbours, don’t you know. Remember me +at the Constitutional, Mr. Burnaby? Thought I would drop in and pay +my respects.” + +St. John Burnaby nodded. + +“Oh, yes, yes, quite. I remember, Mr.--er--Mr.----” + +“Wonnicott.” + +“Oh yes, of course. How do you do? My wife--Mr. Wonnicott.” + +The wife and the Wonnicott bowed to each other, and there was an +uncomfortable pause. At last Mr. Wonnicott managed to say: + +“We live over at Wimpstone, just across the valley--my wife, the +girls are at school, boy’s up at Rugby.” + +“Oh yes--really?” This was Mrs. Burnaby, who was thinking to herself: + +“The man looks like a dog fancier.” + +“Very good school,” said St. John Burnaby. “Hot to-day, isn’t it!” + +“Yes, it’s exceedingly warm.” + +“Do you golf?” + +“No, I don’t golf. I ride a bit.” + +“You must excuse me,” said Mrs. St. John Burnaby, “I have got to get +a trunk call to London.” + +She fluttered away across the terrace, and into the house. Mr. +Wonnicott chatted away for several minutes, but St. John Burnaby was +preoccupied and monosyllabic. The visitor was relieved to rescue his +hat at last and make his escape. Walking down the drive he thought: + +“It’s no good. He dislikes me.” + +As a matter of fact St. John Burnaby was not thinking about him at +all. He was thinking of Sir Septimus Letter, the big man, the power +he would have liked to have been. He ground his teeth and clenched +his fists: + +“Damn it!” he muttered, “I will not appeal for young Lal. Let him +fight his own battles.” + + + VIII + +On a certain day that summer when the sun was at its highest in the +heavens, Sir Septimus Letter stood by the bureau in his cool library +and conversed with his private secretary. + +Sir Septimus was wearing what appeared to be a ready-made navy +serge suit and a low collar. His hands were thrust into his trouser +pockets. The sallow face was heavily marked, the strangely restless +eyes peered searchingly beneath dark brows which almost met in one +continuous line. The chin was finely modelled, but not too strong. +It was not indeed what is usually known as a strong face. It had +power, but of the kind which has been mellowed by the friction of +every human experience. It had alert intelligence, a penetrating +absorption, above all things it indicated vision. The speech and the +movements were incisive; the short wiry body a compact tissue of +nervous energy. He listened with the watchful intensity of a dog at a +rabbit-hole. Through the door at the end of the room could be heard +the distant click of many typewriters. + +The secretary was saying: + +“The third reading of the Nationalization of Paper Industries Bill +comes on at five-thirty, sir. Boneham will be up, and I do not think +you will be called till seven. You will, of course, however, wish to +hear what he has to say.” + +“I know what he’ll say. You can cut that out, Roberts. Get Libby to +give me a précis at six forty-five.” + +“Very good, sir. Then there will be time after the Associated News +Service Board at four to see the minister with regard to this +question of packing meetings in East Riding. Lord Lampreys said +he would be pleased if I could fix an appointment. He has some +information.” + +“Right. What line are Jennins and Castwell taking over this?” + +“They’re trying to side-track the issue. They have every +un-associated newspaper in the North against you.” + +“H’m, h’m. Well, we’ve fought them before.” + +“Yes, sir. The pressure is going to be greater this time, but +everyone has confidence you will get them down.” + +The little man’s eyes sparkled. “Roberts, get through on the private +wire to--Lambe; no, get through to all of them, and make it quite +clear. This is not to be a party question. They’re to work the +unctious rectitude stuff, you know--liberty of the subject and so on.” + +“Very good, sir. The car comes at one-fifteen. You are lunching +with Cranmer at Shorn Towers, the Canadian paper interests will be +strongly represented there. I will be at Whitehall Court at three +with the despatches. It would be advisable, if possible, to get Loeb +of the finance committee. Oh, by the way, sir, I had to advise you +from Loeb. They have received a cabled report of the expert’s opinion +from Labrador. There are two distinct seams of coal on that land you +bought in ’07. A syndicate from Buffalo have made an offer. They +offer a million and a quarter dollars down.” + +“What did we pay?” + +“One hundred and twenty thousand.” + +“Don’t sell.” + +“Very good, sir.” + +“Have you seen my wife, lately?” + +“I have not seen Lady Letter for some days, sir. I believe she is at +Harrogate.” + +The little man sighed, and drew out a cigarette case, opened it and +offered one to Roberts, who accepted it with an elegant gesture. Then +he snapped it to, and replaced it in his pocket. + +“Damn it, Roberts, Reeves says I mustn’t smoke.” + +“Oh, dear!--only a temporary disability I trust, sir.” + +“Everything is temporary, Roberts.” + +With his hands still in his pockets, he walked abstractedly out of +the room. A little ormolu clock in the outer corridor indicated +twenty minutes to one. The car was due at one-fifteen. Thirty-five +minutes: oh, to escape for only that brief period! Through the glass +doors he could see his sister, talking to two men in golfing clothes, +some of the house party. The house party was a perpetual condition at +Crawshay. He turned sharply to the right, and went through a corridor +leading out to the rear of the garage. He hurried along and escaped +to a path between two tomato houses. In a few moments he was lost to +sight. He passed through a shrubbery, and came to a clearing. Without +slackening his pace, he walked across it, and got amongst some +trees. The trees of Crawshay Park--his trees!... He looked up at the +towering oaks and elms. Were they his trees--because he had bought +them? They were there years before he was born. They would be there +years after his death. He was only passing through them--a fugitive. +“Everything is temporary, Roberts----” Yes, even life itself. Jennins +and Castwell! Of course they wanted to get him down! Were they the +only ones? Does one struggle to the top without hurting others to +get there? Does one get to the top without making enemies? Does one +get to the top without suffering, and bitterness, and remorse? The +park sloped down to a low stone wall, with an opening where one could +obtain a glorious view across the weald of Sussex. The white ribbon +of a road stretched away into infinity. + +As he stood there, he saw a dark swarthy figure clamber down a bank, +and stand hesitating in the middle of the road. He was a tramp with +a stubbly red beard nearly concealing his face, and a filthy black +green suit. In his hand he carried a red handkerchief containing his +worldly belongings--a door-knob, a portion of a foot-rule, a tin mug +stolen from a workhouse, some date stones, an onion, the shutter of a +camera, and two empty match boxes. + +Sir Septimus did not know this fact; he merely regarded the tramp +as an abstraction. He observed him hesitate, exchange a word with a +field labourer, look up at the sky, hunch his shoulders, and suddenly +set out with long swinging strides down the white road. Whither? +There stirred within the breast of the millionaire a curious wistful +longing. Oh, to be free! To be free! To walk across those hills +without a care, without a responsibility. The figure, with its easy +gait, fascinated him. The dark form became smaller and smaller, +swallowed up in the immensity of nature. With a groan, Sir Septimus +Letter buried his face in his hands and murmured: + +“Lucky devil!... lucky devil! O God! If I could die....” + + + + + THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY + + +His round fat little face appeared seraphic in sleep. If only the +hair were not graying at the temples and getting very, very thin +on top, and the lines about the eyes and mouth becoming rather too +accentuated, it might have been the head of one of Donatello’s +_bambini_. It was not until Mrs. Lamb, his ancient housekeeper, +bustled into the room with a can and said: “Your water, Mr. +Basingstoke”--the intrusion causing him to open his eyes--that it +became apparent that he was a man past middle-age. His eyes were +very large--“goose-gog eyes” the children called them. As elderly +people will, it took him some few moments to focus his mentality. +A child will wake up, and carry on from the exact instant it went +to sleep; but it takes a middle-aged man or woman a moment or so to +realize where they are, what day in the week it is, what happened +yesterday, what is going to happen to-day, whether they are happy +or not. Certainly with regard to the latter query there is always +a sub-conscious pressure which warns them. Almost before they +have decided which day in the week it is, a voice is whispering: +“Something occurred yesterday to make you unhappy,” or “Things are +going well. You are happy just now,” and then the true realization +of their affairs, and loves, and passions unfolds itself. They +continue yesterday’s story. + +As to James Jasper Basingstoke, it was not his business to indulge in +the slightest apprehension with regard to his condition of happiness +or unhappiness. He was a funny man. It was his profession, his +mission, his natural gift. From early morning, when his housekeeper +awakened him, till, playing with the children--all the children +adored him--practising, interviewing managers and costumiers, +dropping into the club and exchanging stories with some of the other +“dear old boys,” right on until he had finished his second show at +night it was his mission to leave behind him a long trail of smiles +and laughter. Consequently, he merely sat up in bed, blinked and +called out: + +“I am deeply indebted to your Lambship.” + +“Nibby’s got hiccups,” replied that lady, who was not unused to +this term of address. Nibby was Mrs. Lamb’s grandson. His real name +was Percy Alexander. The granddaughter’s name was Violetta Gladys, +and she was known as Tibby. They lived next door. These names, of +course, had been invented by the Funny Man, who lived in a world of +make-believe, where no one at all was known by their real name. He +himself was known in the theatrical profession as “Willy Nilly.” + +“I am distressed to hear that,” exclaimed Willy Nilly. “Hiccoughs +at nine o’clock in the morning! You don’t say so! I always looked +upon it as a nocturnal disease. The result of too many hic, hæc, hock +cups.” + +“You must have your fun, Mr. Basingstoke, but the pore little feller +has been very bad ever since he woke up.” + +Willy Nilly leapt out of bed and rolled across to the chest of +drawers. He there produced a bottle containing little white capsules, +two of which he handed to Mrs. Lamb. + +“Crunch these up and swallow with a little milk, then lie on his back +and think of emerald green parrots flying above a dark forest, where +monkeys are hanging by their tails. In our profession the distress +of hiccoughs is quite prevalent and we always cure it in this way. A +man who can’t conquer hiccoughs can never expect to top the bill. Now +tell Master Nibby that, dear lady.” + +Mrs. Lamb looked at the white capsules interestedly. + +“Do you really mean that, Mr. Basingstoke?” + +The little fat man struck a dramatic situation. + +“Did you ever find me not a man of my word, Lady Lamb?” + +“You are a ONE,” replied the housekeeper, and retired, holding the +capsules carefully balanced in the centre of her right palm, as +though they contained some secret charm which she was fearful of +dispelling by her contact. + +The little fat man thrust out his arms in the similitude of some +long-forgotten clumsy exercise. Then he regarded himself in the +mirror. + +“Not too thumbs up, old boy, not too thumbs up. It’s going, you know. +All the Apollo beauty--Oh, you little depraved ruffian, go and hold +your head under the tap.” + +No, no, it was not the business of Willy Nilly to be depressed by +these reflections either in the mirror or upon the mind. He seized +the strop suspended from a hook on the architrave of the window and +began to flash his razor backward and forward whilst he sang: + + “Oh, what care I for a new feather bed, + And a sheet turned down so bravely--O.” + +The raggle-taggle gypsies accompanied him intermittently throughout +the whole operation of shaving, including the slight cut just beneath +the lobe of his left ear. The business of washing and dressing was +no perfunctory performance with the Funny Man. He had a personality +to sustain. Moreover, among the programme of activities for the day +included attendance at a wedding. There is nothing at which a funny +man can be so really funny as at a wedding. One funny man at least +is almost essential for the success of this time-honoured ritual. +And this was a very, very special wedding; the wedding of his two +dearest and greatest friends, Katie Easebrook, the pretty comedienne, +and Charlie Derrick, that most brilliant writer of ballads. A swell +affair it was to be in Clapham Parish Church, with afterward a +reception at the Hautboy Hotel--everything to be done “in the best +slap-up style, old boy.” + +No wonder Willy Nilly took an unconscionable time folding his +voluminous black stock, adorned with the heavy gold pin, removing the +bold check trousers from withunder the mattress, tugging at the crisp +white waistcoat till it adapted itself indulgently to the curves of +his figure, and hesitating for fully five minutes between the claims +of seven different kinds of kid gloves. A man who tops the bill at +even a suburban music hall cannot afford to neglect these things. +It was fully three quarters of an hour before he presented himself +in the dining-room below. Mrs. Lamb appeared automatically with the +teapot and his one boiled egg. + +“You’d hardly believe it,” she said, “but Nibby took them white pills +and his hiccups is abated.” + +“Ah! What did you expect, my good woman? Was Willy Nilly likely to +deceive an innocent child? Did he think of emerald green parrots and +a dark forest?” + +“I told him what you said, Mr. Basingstoke. Here’s the letters and +the newspaper.” + +The Funny Man’s correspondence was always rather extensive, +consisting for the most part of letters from unknown people +commencing: “Dear Sir,--I wrote the enclosed words for a comic song +last Sunday afternoon. I should think set to music you would make +them very funny----” or “Dear Sir,--I had a good idea for a funny +stunt for you. Why not sing a song dressed up as a curate called: +‘The higher I aspire I espy her,’ and every time you come to the +word higher, you trip up over a piece of orange peel. I leave it to +you about payment for this idea, but I may say I am in straitened +circumstances, and my wife is expecting another next March.” + +There was a certain surprising orderliness about the Funny Man’s +methods. Receipts were filed, accounts kept together and paid fairly +regularly, suggestions and ideas were carefully considered, begging +letters placed together, with a sigh, “in case anything could be done +a little later on, old boy.” Occasionally would come a chatty letter +from some old friend “on the road,” or from his married sister in +Yorkshire. But for the most part his correspondence was not of an +intimate nature. + +His newspaper this morning remained unopened. The contemplation of +his own programme for the day was too absorbing to fritter away +nervous energy on public affairs. Whilst cracking the egg, he +visualized his time-table. At ten o’clock, Chris Read was coming +to try over new songs and stunts. At eleven-fifteen, he had an +appointment with Albus, the costumier in Long Acre, to set the stamp +of his approval upon the wig and nose for his new song: “I’m one +of the Goo-goo boys.” Kate and Charlie’s was at twelve-thirty and +the wedding breakfast at “the Hautboy” at one-forty-five. In the +meantime, he must write two letters and manage to call on old Mrs. +Labbory, his former landlady, who was very, very ill. Poor old soul! +She’d been a brick to him in the old days, when he was sometimes +“out” for seven months in the year, out and penniless. It was only +fair now that he should help her a bit with the rent, and see that +she had everything she needed. + +Willy Nilly’s life had been passed through an avenue of landladies, +but the position of Mrs. Labbory was unique. He had been with her +fifteen years and she was intimate with all his intimates. + +At three-forty-five was a rehearsal with the Railham Empire +orchestra. He must get that gag right where he bluffs the trombone +player in his song: “Oh, my in-laws, my in-laws, why don’t you leave +me be.” Perhaps a cup of tea somewhere, and then an appointment +at five-fifteen with Welsh, to arrange terms about the renewal of +contract. Knotty and difficult problems--contracts. Everyone trying +to do you down--must have a clear head at five-fifteen. If there’s +time, perhaps pop into the club for half an hour, exchange stories +with Jimmy Landish, or old Blakeney. A chop at six-thirty--giving him +an hour before making-up for the first house. On at eight-twenty. +Three songs and an encore--mustn’t forget to speak to Hignet about +that spotlight, the operator must have been drunk last night. Between +shows interview a local pressman, and a young man who “wants to go +on the stage, but has had no experience.” Dash round for a sandwich +and a refresher. On again at ten-twenty-five. Same three songs, same +encore, same bluff on the trombone player. Ten-fifty, all clear. +Clean up and escape from the theatre if possible. + +A last nightcap at the club, perhaps? Oh, but Bird Craft wanted +him to toddle along to his rooms and hear a new song he had just +acquired, “a real winner,” Bird had said it was, about “The girl and +the empty pram.” Must stand by an old pal. Sometime during the day +he must send two suits to be cleaned, and order some new underlinen. +A beastly boring business, ordering vests and pants. He knew nothing +about the qualities of materials--hosiers surely did him over that. +Really a woman’s business, women knew about these things. Mrs. Lamb! +No, not exactly Mrs. Lamb. He couldn’t ask Mrs. Lamb to go and buy +him vests and pants. A woman’s business, a woman---- + +Heigho! Nearly ten o’clock already. Chris Read might arrive any +minute. The Funny Man dashed downstairs and ran into the house next +door. Tibby had already gone off to school, but Nibby had escaped, +because at the moment of departure his attack of hiccoughs had +reached its apotheosis. Now he was in trouble because it had left +off, and his mother now declared he had been pretending. It took the +Funny Man fifteen minutes to calm this family trouble. Nibby, putting +it on! Nibby, playing the wag! Oh, come! Fie and for shame! Besides, +did Nibby’s mother think that he, Dr. Willy Nilly, the eminent +specialist of Harley Street, was a quack? Were his remedies spurious +remedies? + +“Did you think of emerald green parrots in a dark wood, Nibby?” + +“Yes.” + +“And monkeys hanging by their tails?” + +“Yes.” + +“There, you see, Mrs. Munro! It was a genuine case, and a genuine +cure.” + +“If he really had it, Mr. Basingstoke, I don’t believe it was +thinking about monkeys what cured him; it was them little white +tabloids, and we thank you kindly.” + +“Mrs. Munro, here are two tickets for the Railham Empire for the +first house to-morrow night. Come, and bring your husband, and then +you will see that there are more people cured by thinking of monkeys +hanging by their tails than there are by swallowing tabloids. That +is my business. I am a monkey hanging by its tail, and now I must be +off. Good-bye, Nibby old boy. Why, if this isn’t a sixpence under +the mat. Well, well, this is an age of miracles. No, you keep it, +old boy. Good-bye, Mrs. Munro. Come round and see me after the show +to-morrow. Toot-a-loo, my dear.” + +Chris was waiting on the doorstep, a fresh-complexioned young man +inclined to corpulence. His face glowed with a kind of vacant +geniality. + +“Well, old boy, how goes it?” + +“I’ve got a peach this morning, Willy old boy; I think you’ll like +it.” + +“Good boy, come on in.” + +The Funny Man’s drawing-room was comfortably furnished with imitation +Carolian furniture, a draped ottoman, and an upright Collard piano. +The walls were covered with enlarged photographs of actors and +actresses in gold and walnut frames, the majority of them were +autographed and contained such inscriptions as: “To my dear old +Willy, from yours devotedly, Cora.” “To Uncle Nilly, one of the best, +Jimmy Cotswold (The Blue Girl Company, Aug. 1899),” “To Willy Nilly, +‘my heart’s afire,’ Queenie,” and so on. + +“Now, let’s see what you’ve got, old boy.” + +Chris sat at the piano, and unwrapped a manuscript score. + +“I think this ought to win out, old boy,” he said. “It’s by Bert +Shore. It’s called ‘The Desert Island.’ You see the point is this. +You’re a bit squiffy, old boy. You see, red nose and battered top +hat and your trousers turned up to the knees. You know how when +it’s been raining on a tarred road it looks like water. Well, we +have a set like that. It’s really a street island--in Piccadilly, +or somewhere. You’re on it, and seeing all this shining water, +you think you’re on a desert island and the lamppost’s a palm +tree. You take off your shoes and stockings and there’s some good +business touching the wet road with your bare toes. See, old boy? +There’s a thunderin’ good tune. Listen to this--tum-te-too-te +tum-te-tum, rum-te-too-te-tum-te--works up, you see to a +kind of nautical air--then gets back to the plaintive desert +stuff--rum-tum-tum-rum-te-tum. Then here’s the chorus. Listen to +this, old boy: + + “Lost in the jungle, + Oh, what a bungle, + Eaten by spiders and ants. + Where is my happy home? + Why did they let me roam? + Where are my Sunday pants? + +“Good, eh? What do you think? Make something of it, old boy? Eh?” + +The little man’s eyes glowed with excitement. Oh, yes, this might +assuredly be a winner. It was the kind of song that had made his +reputation. The tune of the chorus was distinctly catchy, and his +mind was already conceiving various business. + +“Let’s have a go at it, old boy,” he said. + +He leant over the other’s shoulder and began to sing. He threw back +his head and thrust out his fat little stomach, his eyes rolled, and +perspiration streamed down his face. He was really enjoying himself. +He had just got to + + Lost in a jungle, + Oh, what a bungle, + Eaten by spiders and ants, + +when there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Lamb thrust her head in +and said: “A telegram for you, Mr. Basingstoke.” + +“Eh? Oh! Well--er, never mind. Yes, thank you, my dear, give it to +me.” + +He opened the telegram absently, his mind still occupied with the +song. When he had read it, he exclaimed: + +“Good God! Poor old Joe! Yes, no, there’s no answer, my dear. I must +go out.” + +Mrs. Lamb retired. + +“Poor old Joe! Stranded, eh?” + +“What is it, old boy?” said Chris. + +“Telegram from Joe Bloom. He says: ‘Can you wire me tenner, very +urgent, stranded at Dundee?’ Poor old Joe! He has no luck. He was out +with ‘The Queen of the Sea’ company. They must have failed. Excuse me +Chris, old boy.” + +The Funny Man hurried out of the room and ran downstairs. He snatched +up his hat and went out. When he got round the corner, he ran. He ran +as fast as he could to the High Street till he came to the London, +City and Midland Bank. He filled up a cheque for fifteen pounds and +cashed it. Then he ran out of the bank and trotted puffily across the +road to the post office. + +“I want to telegraph fifteen pounds, old girl,” he said to the +fair-haired lady behind the wires. Filling up the forms took +an unconscionable time, and there all the while was poor old +Joe stranded in Dundee, perhaps without food! Dundee! Dundee of +all places, a bleak unsympathetic town, hundreds of miles from +civilization. Well, that would help him out, anyway. True, he had +had to do this twice before for Joe, and Joe had not, so far, paid +him back, but Joe was a notoriously unlucky devil, and he, Willy +Nilly, topping the bill at the Railham Empire, couldn’t let a pal in. + +When he got back to his own drawing-room, Chris was stretched at full +length on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and drinking whiskey and soda. + +“Sorry to have kept you, Chris, old boy.” + +“It’s all right. I’ve just helped myself to a tot from the sideboard.” + +“That’s right. That’s right. Now let’s see, it’s a quarter to eleven. +I’ll have to wash out this trial, old boy. I shall be late for Albus. +I like that song. I’d like to have another go at it. Have another +tot, Chris, old boy. I’ll join you, then I must be off.” + +But he didn’t get to Albus that morning, because on leaving the +house he remembered that he hadn’t called on old Mrs. Labbory. He +_must_ just pop in for a few moments. It was only ten minutes’ walk +away. He purchased a fowl and a bottle of Madeira and hurried to 27, +Radnor Street. He found his old landlady propped up on the pillows, +looking gaunt and distant, as though she were already regarding the +manifestations of social life from a long way off and would never +participate in them again. + +“Well, Martha, old girl, how goes it? Merry and bright, eh? Oh, +you’re looking fine. More colour than last week, eh? ... eating +better, old girl?” + +A voice came across the years. + +“I’m not so well, Jim. God bless you for coming.” + +“Of course I come. I come because I’m a selfish old rascal. I come +because I want to, I know where I’m appreciated, eh? Ha, ha, ha, now +don’t you think you’re getting worse. You’re getting on fine. We’ll +soon have you about again, turning out cupboards, hanging wallpapers. +Jemimy! Do you remember hanging that convolvulus wallpaper in my +bedroom in the Gosport Road, eh?” The Funny Man slapped his leg, and +the tears rolled down his cheeks with laughter at the recollection of +the episode. + +“Do you remember how I helped you? And all I did was to step into +a pail of size, nearly broke my leg, and spoilt the only pair of +trousers I had! Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! I had to go to bed for four +hours while you washed them out and aired ’em. O dear!” + +Old Mrs. Labbory began to laugh, too, in a feeble, distant manner. +Then she stopped and looked at him wistfully. + +“You going to Katie Easebrook’s wedding, Jim?” + +“Eh? Oh, yes, I’m going, old girl. I’m going straight on now.” + +He hadn’t meant to mention this. There’s something a little crude +in talking about a wedding to a dying woman. He paused and looked +uncomfortably at his feet. The voice from the past reached him again. + +“You ought to have married Katie Easebrook.” + +“Eh? What’s that? Me? Oh, no, old girl, what are you talking about? +Me marry Katie Easebrook? Why, I wouldn’t have had the face to ask +her. Not when there’s a good fellow like Charlie about.” + +Like some discerning oracle came the reply: + +“Charlie’s a good feller, a good-looking feller, too--but you would +have made her a better husband, Jim.” + +With some curious twist of chivalry and affection the little man +gripped the old woman’s hand and kissed it. + +“You’ve always thought too much of me, Martha, old girl.” + +“I’ve had good cause to, Jim.... Good-bye.” + +He walked a little unsteadily down Radnor Street. A pale October sun +filtered through a light mist, and gave to the meagre front gardens +a certain glamour. Fat spiders hung in glistening webs between the +shrubs and Japanese anemones. Children were playing absorbing games +with chalk and stones upon the pavement. Cats looked down sleepily +from the security of narrow walls. He had to pat a little girl’s head +and arbitrate in a dispute between two girls and a boy regarding the +laws of a game called “Snowball.” + +“Life is a lovely thing,” he thought as he hurried on. “Poor old +Martha!... She’s going out.” + +He was, of course, late for the service in the church. In some way +he did not regret this. He slipped quietly into a seat at the back, +unobserved. A hymn was being sung, or was it a psalm? He didn’t +know. There was something about a church service he didn’t like. It +disturbed him at some uncomfortable level. Charlie was standing by +the altar, looking self-conscious and impatient. Katie was a ghostly +unrecognizable figure, like a fly bound up in a spool in a spider’s +web. Thirty or forty people were scattered on either side of the +central aisle. He could only see their backs. The parson began to +drone the service, slowly enunciating the prescribed purposes of the +married state. Willy Nilly felt a flush of discomfort. It somehow +didn’t seem right that Katie should have to stand there before all +these people and have things put to her quite so straight. + +“Rather detailed, old boy,” he thought. “Perhaps that’s why a bride +wears a veil.” + +When it was over, he walked boldly up the aisle and followed a few +intimates into the vestry. He was conscious of people indicating him +with nudges and whispering: “Look! That’s Willy Nilly!” + +In the vestry, Katie’s mother was weeping, and Katie appeared to be +weeping with one eye and laughing with the other. A few relatives +were shaking hands, kissing and talking excitedly. Someone said: +“Here’s Willy Nilly.” + +Charlie gripped his hand and whispered: + +“Come on Willie, old boy, kiss the bride.” + +The bride looked up at him with her glorious eyes, and held out her +arms. + +“Dear old Willie ... so glad you came, old boy.” + +He kissed the bride all right, and held her from him. + +“God bless you, dear old girl. God bless you. May you ... may all +your dreams come true, old girl.” + +In most weddings there is a streak of pathos, but in theatrical +weddings the note is predominant. It is as though the lookers-on +realize that these people whose life is passed in make-believe are +bound to burn their fingers when they begin to touch reality. Perhaps +their reactions are too violent to be bound within the four walls of +a contract. + +Katie’s wedding certainly contained a large element of sadness. + +“She looks so sweet and fragile. I hope he’ll be good to her,” women +whispered. + +The lunch at the Hautboy Hotel was hilarious to an almost artificial +degree. A great deal of champagne was drunk, and toasts were +prolific. It was here that Willy Nilly came in. The Funny Man +excelled himself. He was among the people who knew him and loved him. +He made goo-goo eyes at the bridesmaids, he told stories, he imitated +all the denizens of a farmyard, he gave a mock conjuring display, and +his speech in proposing the health of the bride’s father and mother +was the hit of the afternoon. (He was not allowed the principal +toast as that had been allocated to Charlie’s father, who was a +stockbroker.) To the waiter who hovered behind chairs with napkined +magnums of champagne, he kept on saying: + +“Not too much, old boy. I’ve a rehearsal at three-forty.” + +Nevertheless, he drained his glass every time it was filled. The +craving to be funny exceeded every other craving. Willy Nilly had +knocked about the world in every kind of company. It took a lot to +go to his head. It was almost impossible to make him drunk. When at +three o’clock it was time for the bride and bridegroom to depart he +was not by any means drunk, certainly not so drunk as Charlie, but +he was in a slightly detached comatose state of mind. He kissed the +bride once more, and to Charlie he said: + +“God bless you, old boy. Be good to her. You’ve got the dearest woman +in the world.” + +And Charlie replied: + +“I know, old boy. You’ve been a brick to us. You oughtn’t to have +sent the cheque as well as all that silver. Good luck, old boy.” + +“O my in-laws, my in-laws, why don’t you leave me be.” It seemed but +a flash from one experience to another, from pressing the girl’s +dainty shoulders in a parting embrace to stamping about on the +draughty stage and calling into the void: + +“Now, Mr. Prescott, I want a little more slowing down of this +passage. Do you see what I mean, old boy? It gives me more time for +the business.” + +The gag with the trombone player was considerably improved. Must +keep going, doing things--a contract to sign at five-fifteen. He was +feeling tired when the rehearsal was over--mustn’t get tired before +the two shows to-night. Perhaps he could get half an hour’s nap after +seeing the agent before it was time to feed. Someone gave him a cup +of tea in the theatre, and a dresser told him a long story +about a disease which his wife’s father got through sitting on a +churchyard wall, waiting for the village pub. to open at six. + +There appeared no interval of time between this and sitting in front +of the suave furtive-looking gentleman named Welsh who “handled” him +on behalf of the United Varieties Agency. He was conscious of not +being at his best with Welsh. He believed that he could have got much +better terms in his new contract, but somehow the matter did not +appear to him to be of great importance. He changed the subject and +told Welsh the story about the sea captain and the Irish stewardess. +Welsh laughed immoderately. After all, quite a good fellow--Welsh. He +was anxious to get away and see some boys at the club. Jimmy would +certainly have a new story ready. He hadn’t seen Jimmy for four days. + +Jimmy was certainly there, and not only Jimmy, but old Barrow, and +Sam Lenning, and a host of others. He had a double Scotch whisky and +proceeded to take a hand in the game of swopping improper stories. +At one time something seemed to jog at his consciousness and say: “Do +you really think much of this kind of thing, old boy?” And another +voice replied: “What does it matter?... They’ve just arrived at +Brighton railway station. In another ten minutes they’ll be at ‘The +Ship.’” + +“I thought you were going to have a chop at six-thirty, Willy,” +someone remarked to him suddenly. + +“So I am, old boy.” + +“It’s seven-fifteen now.” + +Good gracious! So it was! Well, he didn’t particularly want a chop. +He would have a couple of sandwiches and another double Scotch. He +was quite himself again in his dressing room at the theatre. He loved +the smell of grease paint and spirit gum, the contact of fantastic +whiskers and clothes, the rather shabby mirror under a strong light. +His first song was going to be “Old Fags,” the feckless ruffian who +picks up cigarette ends. The dresser, whose name was Flood and who +always called him Mr. Nilly, was ready with his three changes. + +“Number five’s on,” came the message down the corridors. Good! There +was only “Charlemayne,” the equilibrist, between him and “his people.” + +Willy Nilly had got to love “his people” as he mentally designated +them. He knew them, and they knew him--the reward of many years’ +hard work. He loved stumbling down the corridors, through the iron +doors, and groping his way amidst the dim medley of the wings, where +gorgeous unreal women, and men in bowler hats patted him as he +passed and whispered: + +“Hullo, Willy, old boy! Good luck!” + +He loved to wait there and hear his number go up; the roar of welcome +which greeted it was music to his soul. + +“Number seven!” + +The orchestra played the opening bars and then with a queer shuffle +he was before them, a preposterous figure with a bright red nose, a +miniature bowler hat, and a fearful old suit with ferns growing out +of the seams, and a heavy sack slung across his back. + + “Old Fags! Old Fags! + See my collection of fine old fags. + If you want to be happy, + If you want to be gay, + Empty your sack + At the fag-end of the day.” + +Oh, yes, you ought to see Willy Nilly in “Old Fags.” The habitués at +the Railham Empire will tell you all about him. The doleful wheezy +voice, the quaint antics, and then the screamingly funny business +when he empties the sack of cigarette ends all over the stage and, +of course, at the bottom is a bottle of gin and a complete set +of ladies’ undies (apparently new and trimmed in pink). Then the +business of finding innumerable cigarette ends in his unmanageable +beard. + +On that night, Willy Nilly was at his best. A lightning change and +he came on as “The Carpet Salesman” in which he brought on a roll +of carpet, the opportunities concerning which are obvious. Then +followed “The lady who works for the lady next door.” The inevitable +encore--prepared for and expected--followed. A terrible Russian--more +whiskers, red this time--singing: + + “O Mary-vitch, + O Ada-vitch + I don’t know which + Ich lieber ditch; + I told your pa + I’d got the itch; + He promptly hit me + On the snitch.” + +It was difficult for Willy to escape after this valiant satirical +digression. + +He fled perspiring to his dressing-room. + +“Give me a drink, old boy,” he gasped to the lugubrious Flood. + +He had smothered his face in cocoa-butter, when there was a knock on +the door. + +“Mr. Peter Wilberforce, representing the _Railham Mercury_.” + +“Ah, yes, come in, old boy.” + +Mr. Wilberforce was in no hurry to depart. He had a spot--“just a +couple of fingers, old boy” of whisky. He wanted a column of bright +stuff for the next issue of the weekly. “Is Railham behind the other +suburbs in humour? Interview with the famous Willy Nilly--our local +product.” + +“You just give me a lead,” said Mr. Wilberforce, “I’ll fill in the +padding.” + +Willy Nilly found turning out the bright stuff immediately after his +performance the most exhausting experience of the day. He was quite +relieved when, at the end of forty minutes, there was a knock at the +door, and a woman with a lanky son was shown in. This was the young +man who wanted to go on the stage. The pressman departed and the +mother started forth on a long harangue about what people said about +her son’s remarkable genius for acting. Before Willy Nilly knew where +he was, he was listening to the boy giving imitations of Beerbohm +Tree and Henry Ainley. It was quite easy to tell which was meant to +be which, and so Willy grasped the young man’s hand and said: + +“Very good, old boy! Very good.” + +He promised to do what he could, but by the time the mother had gone +all over the same ground three times he found it was too late to pop +round to the club again. It was nearly time to make up for the second +show. He dozed in the chair for a few moments. Suddenly he thought: + +“They’ve had dinner. They’re probably taking a stroll on the front +before turning in.” + +He poured himself out another tot of whisky and picked up his red +nose. + +“O God! How tired I feel!... Not quite the man you were, old boy.” + +He found it a terrible effort to go on that second time. “Old Fags” +seemed flat. He began to be subtly aware that the audience knew that +he knew that the song wasn’t really funny at all. At the end the +applause was mild. “The Carpet Salesman” went even worse. + +“Pull yourself together, old boy,” he muttered as he staggered off. +It wouldn’t do. A man who tops the bill can’t afford not to bring the +house down with every song. He made a superhuman effort with “The +lady who works for the lady next door.” It certainly went better than +the others, just well enough to take an encore rather quickly. On +this occasion he altered his encore. Instead of “Mary-vitch,” he sang +a hilarious song with the refrain: + + “O my! Hold me down! + My wife’s gone away till Monday!” + +At the end of the first verse he felt that he had got them. Success +excited him. He went for it for all he was worth. Willy Nilly +was himself again. The house roared at him. He had the greatest +difficulty in escaping without giving a further encore. As he +stumbled up the stone staircase to his dressing-room, he suddenly +thought: + +“They’ve gone to bed now.” + +The imperturbable Flood followed him, laden with properties. + +“I’ll just have one more spot, Flood, old boy.” + +How tired he was! He cleaned up languidly and got into his normal +clothes. + +“Well, that’s that, old boy,” he said to Flood. “Now I think we’ll +toddle off to our bye-byes.” + +“Excuse me, Mr. Nilly, wasn’t you going round to Mr. Bird Craft’s?” + +Eh? Oh, yes, for sure; he’d forgotten about poor old Bird. Couldn’t +exactly let an old pal in. Well, he would have a cab and hang the +expense--just stay a few minutes--dear old Bird would understand. +But he stayed an hour at Bird Craft’s. He listened to three new comic +songs and a lot of patter. + +“Yes, you’ve got a winner there, old boy,” he remarked at the end of +each song. + +It was nearly one o’clock when he groped his way up the dim staircase +of his own house. The bedroom looked bleak and uninteresting. It had +never struck him before in quite that way. He had always liked his +bedroom with its heavy mahogany furniture and red plush curtains, but +somehow to-night the place seemed forlorn ... as though something was +terribly lacking. + +“You’re tired, old boy.” + +He undressed and threw his clothes carelessly on chairs and tables. +He got into bed and regarded the room, trying with his tired brain, +to think what was wrong. His clothes ought not to have been thrown +about like that, of course. He felt that they and he were out of +place in the large room. A strange feeling of melancholy crept over +him. + +“It’s badly ordered ... it’s all badly ordered, old boy.” + +He had a great desire to cry, so weak he felt. But no, a man mustn’t +do that; a funny man certainly mustn’t. His mind wandered back to his +old mother. He remembered the days when she had taught him to pray. +He would give anything for the relief of prayer. But he couldn’t do +that either. It didn’t seem exactly playing the game. He had put all +that kind of thing by so long ago. He despised those people who led +unvirtuous lives and then in the end turned religious. He wasn’t +going to pretend. He turned out the light, and closed his eyes. He +would neither weep nor pray, but he must express himself somehow. +Perhaps he compromised between these two human frailties. Certainly +his voice was very near a sob, and his accents vividly alive with +prayer as he cried to the darkness: + +“Charlie, old boy, be good to her.... For God’s sake be good to her.” + + + + +THE BEAUTIFUL, MERCILESS LADY + + +There are few men strong enough to withstand success. She is the +beautiful, merciless lady. + +At the first tap on the shoulder the victim of her favour rocks and +staggers. She glances into his eyes, and unless he is a creature of +superb control he loses his head. He plunges hither and thither, +clutching at the golden aura in which she seems to float. He feels +himself a thing apart, transcendent, impervious, invincible. The +world of pigmy men around him are merely the drab background to a +brilliant picture. He can do no wrong. The standards of morality and +behaviour which these others have set up are not his standards. He +is the darling of the gods, and he follows his mistress up and up, +leaping from crag to crag on the slope of the sunlit mountain. + +Whither? + +He never puts this query to himself. He lives in a welter of +exultation. All things are charged with the magic of a thousand +revelations. The younger he is when she first meets him the more +devastating are her allurements. Possibly this is why so many infant +prodigies never emerge from the infant stage. She stifles them with a +surfeit of her riches--the little bores! She likes men best in their +early manhood, when she may flirt with them at her leisure. The old +she seldom troubles about. They know her wiles and are frequently too +cunning or too weary. + +Oh, but the young man, still with beauty and health and clean, strong +limbs! + +It was such a one that she met in the person of my friend, Johnny +Lydgate. She led him away and destroyed him as completely as the rose +is destroyed by the breath of autumn winds. + +There was no reason why he should have been destroyed, no exterior +cause. He had a thousand friends and no enemy, except the one which +she created in himself. Everything tended to produce in Johnny +Lydgate a creature of gentle bearing, of sanity, and equipoise. His +father was a delightful old gentleman, a librarian in a country +town, who kept homing pigeons and compiled anthologies. His mother +and sisters were charming and lovable women. They formed a united, +devoted family. + +It was at Stoneleigh College that I first met Lydgate. We were +inseparable companions for nearly four years. My recollections of +him there were those of a pleasant, companionable, almost negative +schoolboy. He excelled at nothing and displayed no ambitions. He was +affectionate, intelligent, and amusing, but at work and at sport he +never rose above mediocrity. + +We know a man’s body by the familiar regard of its movements and +expressions. We know the quality of his mind as it is revealed to us +through his opinions and observations, but it is strange how we may +get to know a man’s soul by some instant of revelation. We may think +we are entirely familiar with him. We may have known him intimately +for twenty years or more, but one day we suddenly experience a scrap +of recognition of something deeper. It may be a phrase that he +employs, a gesture, an attitude, some queer telepathic message from +his eyes; but in that instant we realize that we know our man for the +first time. All our values concerning him become readjusted from that +moment. + +There came such a moment to me when Lydgate and I were in our last +term at Stoneleigh. I remember the moment vividly. It was after +our inter-house football match, in which Lydgate had played very +well--far above his average. Our Housemaster, who was a very popular +man, ran up and, slapping Johnny on the back, called out: “Bravo, +Lydgate! Bravo, bravo!” As he turned away I saw my school chum look +up at the sky and a queer expression came over his face, a kind of +drunken egoism, and I suddenly thought to myself: + +“So _that_ is Johnny Lydgate, after all! And I thought I knew----” + +For a time after leaving school we lost touch with each other. Boys +are very apt to make vows of eternal friendship, and then--well, +other things happen along. Writing is such a fag. + +Johnny went to Paris to study art, whilst I walked the hospitals. +However, he had not been in Paris for a year--he only wrote to +me once!--when his father died. As may be imagined, a man who +specializes in homing pigeons and anthologies does not leave +a fortune. The Lydgate family found themselves in distressed +circumstances. Lydgate was recalled from Paris, and had to do +something immediately to earn money. + +He took the position manfully, and with that cheery good humour +that was characteristic of him. He obtained a place as an assistant +to a firm of decorative designers, hoping that his meagre training +might be of some assistance. His remuneration was, naturally, quite +nominal, but the firm held out prospects of advancement. He stayed +with this firm for seven years and gave no evidence of special +ability. He jogged along stolidly, learning to make pleasant, +undistinguished designs for wallpapers, cretonnes, and furniture. +He was very popular in the studio where he worked, on account of +his unfailing good humour, unselfishness, and gift of fun. He +distinguished himself most by making caricatures of his colleagues, +and imitating their voices and mannerisms. He displayed no particular +ambitions, other than to jog along, and have as good a time as his +limited income would allow. + +We saw each other occasionally, and when I at last got my degrees I +bought a practice in West Kensington, not far from where Lydgate had +his rooms. He was at that time earning three hundred a year. + +The house I had taken was a tall, gaunt place in an inconspicuous +street. I was unmarried, and the place was obviously too large for +my requirements. So I had the inspiration to suggest to Lydgate that +he should occupy the upper part, and pay me whatever he was paying +for his diggings. He accepted my offer with alacrity. His mother and +sisters were still living in the country. + +The arrangement was full of promise. We had great fun arranging, +furnishing, and decorating the rooms. Lydgate spent his evenings +and Sundays doing all his own painting and decorating, and he also +insisted on doing mine. + +I was not convinced that the delicate scheme of grays which he +evolved for my consulting-room, with its frieze of stencilled +peacocks and yew trees, was quite in keeping with the dignity of my +bold brass plate on the front door, but then I knew nothing about +art, and Lydgate was so kind in the matter that I let it pass. I had +a boy to open the door, and an old woman kept the place reasonably +clean, and she used to cook us an evening meal, which we had together. + +That was a very happy time for both of us, and it lasted some years. +My brass plate did not seem to impress the neighbourhood as I should +have liked. Sometimes when I opened the door to people they used to +ask for the doctor. I once attended Lydgate when he had a feverish +chill, and he said my bedside manners were appalling. But gradually +it got about that young Doctor Berners was not such a fool as +you might imagine. Some said that he was a fairly good, straight, +sensible doctor, who took trouble with his patients. At the end of +the first year the practice began to show signs of developing. + +It was at this time that Lydgate had an affair with a married +ballad-singer. I could never quite get to the root of the matter. +Neither could I understand his infatuation. She was a fair, plump +person, with magnificent neck and shoulders, a brilliantly clear but +unsympathetic voice, and an almost unique gift of self-concentration. +She had this wonderful voice, but she knew nothing, not even about +music. She used to wear tiny paste diamonds early in the morning, and +a shiny vegetable silk jumper which made her person appear even more +capacious than it really was. Her name was Betty Brandt, and she had +a husband who travelled in automobile accessories. + +As I say, I do not know the details of this regrettable affair. I +only know that it was very passionate, rather involved, and it went +on for nearly six months. At the end of that time something happened. +Whether they quarrelled, or whether the traveller in automobile +accessories intervened, I cannot say. But Johnny Lydgate was +desperately unhappy. He sulked and moped and would not go out, except +backward and forward to his work. And then, one day, he did not even +go to that. He told me surlily that he had left. He gave no reason. +He sat about at home, and apparently drowned his sorrow in charcoal +and water-colours. He sketched and drew all day, things which he +said he never got an opportunity of doing at “that confounded shop.” +I thought it as well to leave him alone. He paid his rent the first +week and then he asked me for credit, which I naturally acceded. + +One Sunday morning I went up to his room, and found the walls covered +with drawings and sketches. In my poor opinion they seemed to be a +brilliant advance on anything he had done before. I said so, and he +seemed pleased, and announced that he was going to hawk his work +around to editors, and try to start up on his own. I wished him the +best of luck. + +At the end of a fortnight his campaign had apparently met with a fair +measure of success. He told me he had some commissions and he hoped +soon to be able to let me have some money. The next morning he came +into the dining-room. His face was crinkled with suppressed laughter, +his eyes brilliant with exultant glee. He unfolded a drawing and held +it up on the wall. It was a caricature of Betty Brandt! + +It was the most brilliant and, at the same time, the cruelest thing +I have ever seen. It was no portraiture, but you could not mistake +it. I had never liked Betty Brandt, and I was on the point of +protesting, and then the realization that this drawing, in any case, +meant the end of the Betty affair, gave me such a feeling of relief +that I laughed almost hysterically. Johnny and I stood side by side, +laughing till the tears rolled down our cheeks. Poor Betty! + +He seemed freer after that, and worked assiduously at the orders he +had in hand. I am afraid they were not very remunerative. It was a +long time before he proffered any further contribution toward the +upkeep of our establishment, and when he did so, it was with many +groans and apologies for the smallness of the amount. I told him that +he was not to worry about it; my practice was beginning to pay fairly +well, and it made a great difference to me to have a companion. + +For a year I observed Lydgate’s grim struggle with his artistic +conscience. The point was that for the work he wanted to do there was +no demand. But there was work which he could do for which there was +a demand. The latter gradually absorbed his energies. He refused to +sponge on me. In eighteen months’ time he had wiped out all debts and +was beginning to make headway. He appeared to have resigned himself +to a life of steady toil. I found him particularly companionable at +that time. I think the Betty Brandt affair had done him good. He was +calmer, quicker in his sympathies, more tolerant and reflective. +He still had his moments of gay fun; his capacity for fooling was +enlarged, his perceptions and discernments were more incisive. + +When I was thirty and Lydgate twenty-nine we both seemed to have +settled down to a solid professional life. He was making five or six +hundred a year, and had even saved a little. I was making rather +more, and we had improved the conditions of our household. We now had +a “general,” as well as a charwoman and a page-boy. On occasions we +actually entertained, bought reserved seats for the theatre, and went +away for week-end jaunts. + +And then, without any ostentatious forewarning, Viola appeared on +the scene. She glided into our lives with the inevitableness of a +portent in a Greek drama. She had occupied her place upon the stage +before we had realized the significance of her entrance. She was the +daughter of an old fellow-practitioner, a Doctor Brayscott, with +whom I had been on friendly terms, and who had been extremely kind +to me when I started my practice. His wife was dead, but he and his +daughter lived two streets away, and we indulged in those little +social amenities which busy professional people always seem to find +time for--occasional dinners, a game of bridge, a little music. Viola +sang divinely. I was, of course, the first to meet her, and I sang +her praises to such good purpose that Lydgate would not rest until he +met her. And then, of course, our little trouble began. + +There was never a gentler, fairer, more adorable woman than +Viola Brayscott. She brought into a room a feeling of complete +tranquillity, warmed with the sun-kissed humours of virginal youth, +seeking for ever surprises and revelations, giving out love and +sympathy and drawing it to herself. + +I cannot tell you of the agony and ecstasy of those months that +followed. She visited us sometimes with her father, sometimes +alone. We visited her, sometimes together, sometimes alone. It took +some weeks to realize that we both adored her. What was to happen? +Well, I think we played the game fairly. Each knew of the other’s +infatuation. It was a fair field and no favour. One does learn +something, after all, at an English public school. We bore each other +no animosity. We took no unfair advantages. + +And what of Viola? For some time the pendulum appeared to swing +backward and forward. There was no gainsaying the fact that she was +really fond of both of us. But the pendulum of that tenderer passion +does not swing backward and forward. It has a bias, a rhythm of its +own. And we each knew that the day would come when the pendulum would +not swing back to one of us. + +Heigho! I need hardly tell you the outcome of this contest--you will +have foreseen it already. In the social arena, when Lydgate chose +to shine, I was no match for him. He had all the advantages of good +looks, engaging manners, and that genius for always being at his best +in her presence. He shone and sparkled and glowed, whilst I sat dumb +and dour and angry with myself. I could not be surprised when the +pendulum swung his way and did not return to me. + +They got married the following spring, and after a honeymoon in +Brittany, went to live in a flat at Barnes. We visited each other +occasionally, and the complete success of their union emphasized the +loneliness of my own dismal household. They were devoted to each +other and bewilderingly happy. + +When the possessive sense is outraged, work is our only friend and +physician. I worked and worked and worked, and the practice grew. +But, oh, the emptiness of those waking hours! + +The following year they had a child, a boy, with those lustre-blue +eyes of the father. Their happiness appeared complete. Lydgate was +still doing reasonably well at what he called his “solid commercial +stuff.” He seemed to have put all other ambitions behind him. As a +social problem I would have wagered that there would be nothing more +to solve concerning him--in short, that he was going to “settle down +and live happily ever afterward.” + +But the face of the Sphinx is inscrutable. + +It all occurred so surprisingly suddenly. I believe its first +inception came about through a caricature he did of Lord Balfour. +Balfour is an easy person to caricature, and this was not one of +Lydgate’s best; but the drawing was published in a weekly and +attracted the attention of a well-known Jewish gentleman, who called +himself Maurice Loffley, and who dealt in other people’s brains. He +asked to see some of Lydgate’s work, and he admired it extravagantly, +especially the caricature of Betty Brandt; but he said: + +“My boy, it’s celebrities we want. Famous people. Do some, and I’ll +place them for you.” + +The outcome was not immediately successful. Lydgate did do some, and +some of them were placed; but Mr. Loffley was not very satisfactory +over his business arrangements, and Lydgate ended up by doing a +caricature of Mr. Loffley himself, which was the best and cruelest +thing he had turned out since Betty. It was published in another +illustrated weekly, and caused joy to all of Mr. Loffley’s colleagues +and rivals. + +The success of this rapidly led to others. Apart from his skill as a +draughtsman, Lydgate had a keen wit and an adroit gift of literary +exposition. He worked out some wonderful gibes at various famous +people. His drawings began to be talked about, and to be in demand by +editors and publishers. Their commercial value rose in direct ratio. + +Barely six months after the incident of Mr. Loffley--could his name +possibly have been Moritz Loeffler?--Johnny Lydgate had a one-man +show at the Regent Galleries. The exhibition was a most remarkable +success. A publisher bought the copyright of the entire collection +right out, and nearly all the originals were sold at high prices. The +Press came out with headlines about the discovery of a new satirist. +Artists and society people flocked to see the exhibition. + +On the Saturday afternoon following the opening I was in the +galleries, talking to Johnny and his wife and Mr. Burrows, the owner +of the galleries. They were all flushed and excited, and Viola was +looking proud and very pretty. + +Suddenly Mr. Burrows dived across the room and returned with a tall, +striking-looking girl. I did not hear Mr. Burrows introduce her, +but, of course, I knew her well by sight. She was a very famous and +intellectual woman, the daughter of one of His Majesty’s ministers. +Her photograph was always gracing the illustrated papers. I saw +her shake Johnny’s hand, and then I heard her deep contralto voice +exclaim with feeling: + +“Oh, Mr. Lydgate, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I think +your drawings are simply gorgeous!” + +I could not hear Johnny’s reply. They talked for several minutes, and +she passed on. And then I saw him stagger a few steps and look up at +the skylight. + +My mind immediately reverted to a certain fateful moment at +Stoneleigh, on that spring day after the inter-house match, when +he was congratulated on his fine play, and I saw upon his face +the identical expression. He was like a man dazed and drunken +with the riches of his own ego. Instead of the open field and the +cheering boys, he was swaying under the narcotic of a more pervading +flattery--brilliant and clever people, the faint perfume of a richly +dressed woman, admiring and significant glances. “That is he! That’s +Lydgate--Lydgate himself!” + +The beautiful and merciless lady had begun to put her spell on him. + +What astonished me was the rapidity with which the poison worked. +Within a few months he became a celebrity. He was just thirty-three, +at the very fullness of his powers. His popularity was no doubt +greatly accelerated by the charm of his personality, his good looks, +genial manners, and quaint humour. + +He was immediately “taken up” by a certain Lady Stradling, a wealthy +and adventurous American woman who adored lions. One invitation +led to another. He was always out at some dinner or reception. He +developed the club manner. He joined several Bohemian clubs, where +he became extremely popular. He would give an entertainment at a +drawing-board, making caricatures of people present and keeping up a +running fire of most amusing chatter. He began to live extravagantly, +but even then he was making more money than he could spend. + +At first Viola entered with zest into these manifestations of social +advancement. She accompanied him to many dinners and functions, but +gradually they began to pall upon her, and she let him go by himself. + +I remember meeting him one night the following winter at the Wombats +Club. I was enormously impressed by the change in him. I was there +when he arrived, and I saw him enter the room. He was still good +looking, but his face had become looser, and a little coarser. He +was greeted by cries of “Hallo, Johnny! Good old Johnny!” “Who is +that?” “Don’t you know? That’s Lydgate--Johnny Lydgate!” He tried to +appear impervious to these manifestations, but at the back of his +eye I could detect the slow greedy satisfaction of the man whose +cup of happiness is overflowing. He spoke to me pleasantly, but his +eyes wandered, seeking distinguished names and faces. He was not +particularly proud at being seen in conversation with a suburban +doctor. + +“Who is that? Ah, excuse me, old chap; I want a word with Edwin Wray. +Hallo, Wray, old boy!” + +Of course, Edwin Wray is familiar to you? You may see his picture on +all the hoardings--the famous comedian. + +Later, Johnny did one of his inimitable sketches--a huge success, a +wonderful hit at Edwin Wray. Afterward he sat at a table near me, +drinking rum and water. He had developed a rather affected style of +dress, with a voluminous blue and white stock, and peg top trousers. +Occasionally he made a note in a sketch-book, or flung an epigram at +a neighbour. + +The din of the club increased. It was difficult to see across the +room for smoke. And suddenly I thought of Viola. Was he neglecting +her? Was he cruel to her? + +It was very late when I took my departure, and I was crazy to say +something to him. I did indeed manage to mumble something to him +about this kind of life being bad for one’s nervous energies. He took +another sip of rum and said: + +“It’s a lovely life, old boy--a lovely life!” I left him there. + +The memory of that evening disturbed me. I felt that my position +as an old friend justified me in indulging in some course of +interference. A few days later I called, and found Viola alone. I +thought she seemed a little abstracted and self-conscious with me. We +talked of different things, and then I blurted out: + +“I think Johnny is having too many late nights. He didn’t look well +the other evening.” + +She bit her lip and said nothing. Suddenly she rose, pressed my arm, +and turned away. She was crying. I went up to her. + +“Tell me, Viola, is anything wrong?” + +She dabbed her eyes. + +“No, no--oh, no; it’s only that he--it’s just what you say. Too many +late nights, and sometimes he drinks too much, and has headaches and +is sullen; there’s nothing else, Tom. He loves me as much as ever, I +am certain. He hasn’t the strength, that’s all.” + +Oh, the beautiful, merciless lady! She took nearly three years to +destroy my friend. You may say that drink was the cause of his +ultimate downfall. Drink certainly accelerated it, but it was not the +basic cause. He was drunk before he began to drink--drunk with the +rich wine of her charms. + +Have you ever seen a man destroyed in that way? The spectacle is +not edifying. He went rapidly from bad to worse. The miracle is +how he retained his powers as a draughtsman almost to the end. +From a pleasant good-looking young man he developed into a puffy, +distinguished-looking Georgian roué. The world spoiled him, and he +hadn’t the strength to stand up against it. The standards of morality +and behaviour which these other men set up did not apply to Johnny +Lydgate. Oh, dear, no! He was above it all, a thing apart, a genius, +the observed of all observers. Sometimes he would be out all night. +Sometimes he would be lost for days together. Then he would turn up, +be very ill, and go to bed. Viola would minister to him, and give +him hot-water bottles. And he would cry and become maudlin. He would +swear not to do it again. He loved her--oh, how he loved her! + +And she would stroke his temple and whisper: + +“Strength, dear, strength. You must try. Oh, you must try, for my +sake!” + +Of course he would try. How ill he felt! And the days passed, and +his physical strength returned to him. Came also the little whispers +of the outside world. An invitation to Lady Stradling’s; telephone +messages from anxious publishers; the sale of two water-colours at +a record price; the house dinner at the Wombats Club. Just this +once--oh, just this once, Viola! + +Back he went, lost to the claims of common decency. His face became +lined and blotchy. He trembled in his movements; the veins in his +arms and his hands stood out like knotted cords. + +To the very end she tended him, shielded him, mothered him, and +fought for him. The world will never know what that woman suffered +and endured. She says that he was never cruel to her, except by his +neglect and lack of consideration. In his behaviour toward her he +was always tender and passionate, contrite, disgusted with himself. +He knew quite well what he was doing. It was not that he loved Viola +any the less, but that he was clay in the hands of that more powerful +mistress--the glamour of publicity, to be talked about, to be pointed +at, to be praised in the Press. + +Doctor Brayscott and I did what we could. We advised and argued and +cajoled, and even bullied. He had other real friends, too. Everybody +did what he could, but it was of no avail. When he sank into that +last illness from which he never recovered, I visited him one day, +and sat regarding the spectacle of “that unmatched form and feature +of blown youth, blasted with ecstasy.” He opened his eyes and looked +at me. He gave me a quick glance of apprehension. Suddenly he smiled +in his old way and whispered: + +“It was worth while, old boy!” + +Some men are made that way. They must crowd their life into a capsule +and swallow it. They know they are wooing destruction, and it is +“worth while.” Not for them the steady rhythm of an ordered life. +The beautiful, merciless lady pipes the tune and they must dance. + + * * * * * + +In spite of all, Johnny Lydgate remains a precious and endearing +memory to us--to Viola and me. When I married her, two years after +his death, we went abroad for a while, and on our return I acquired +a practice at Knayling, on the Sussex downs, and there we built +our home. The boy is a perfect joy to us. He has his father’s eyes +and vivacious manners, and something of his mother’s warmth and +tenderness. The study of his welfare and training is a constant +source of affectionate discussion. What will he become? What lies +before him? We are full of hope and tremulous surmises. Only at times +do the old doubts and fears assail us. He is twenty now, and next +term he leaves Cambridge. On this desk, as I write, there is a letter +from him, written to his mother: + + MOTHER DEAR,-- + + What is all this about the Indian Civil Service? I should + simply hate it. Fancy seeing all one’s life in perspective! + Knowing exactly how much you will be earning when you’re + forty-five; knowing that you’ll get a pension when you’re + sixty or seventy, or whenever it is. Who cares what happens + when they are seventy! No, old thing. Tony Stephens is going + to Paris to study art. I think I should like to join him. You + know I can draw, don’t you? Smithers thinks my life studies + are pretty useful. I have a feeling that I might do well. + Anyway, we’ll talk it over when I come down. Crowds of love, + mother dear.-- + + Your loving + SON. + +And I sit here, turning it over and biting my pen. He has his +father’s lustre-blue eyes. How would you answer this letter? Can one +advise the young? + + + + +THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME + + +Every seaman who makes the city of Bordeaux a port of call knows +the Rue Lucien Faure. It is one of those irregular streets which +one finds in the neighbourhood of docks in every city in the world. +Cordwainers, ships’ stores, cafés and strange foreign eating houses +jostle each other indiscriminately. At the farther end of the Rue +Lucien Faure, and facing Bassin à Flot No. 2, is a little cul de +sac known as Place Duquesne, an obscure honeycomb of high dingy +houses. It had often been pointed out to the authorities that the +Place Duquesne was a scandal to the neighbourhood; not that the +houses themselves were either better or worse than those of adjoining +streets, but that the inhabitants belonged almost entirely to the +criminal classes. A murderer, an apache, a blackmailer, a coiner, +hardly ever appeared in the Court of Justice without his habitation +being traced to this unsavoury retreat. + +And the authorities did nothing. Indeed, Chief Inspector Tolozan, who +had that neighbourhood under his special supervision, said that he +preferred it as it was. He affirmed--not unreasonably--that it was +better to have all one’s birds in one nest rather than have them +scattered all over the wood. Tolozan, although a practical man, was +something of a visionary. He was of that speculative turn of mind +which revels in theories. The contemplation of crime moved him in +somewhat the same way that a sunset will affect a landscape painter. +He indulged in broad generalities, and it always gave him a mild +thrill of pleasure when the actions or behaviour of his protégés +substantiated his theories. + +In a detached way, he had quite an affection for his “birds,” +as he called them. He knew their record, their characteristics, +their tendencies, their present occupation, if any, their place +of abode--which was generally the Place Duquesne. If old Granouz, +the forger, moved from the attic in No. 17 to the basement in No. +11, Monsieur Tolozan would sense the reason of this change. And he +never interfered until the last minute. He allowed Carros to work +three months on that very ingenious plant for counterfeiting one +franc notes. He waited till the plates were quite complete before he +stepped in with his quiet: + +“Now, _mon brave_, it distresses me to interfere....” + +He admired the plates enormously, and in the van on the way to the +police court he sighed many times, and ruminated upon what he called +“the accident of crime.” One of his pet theories was that no man +was entirely criminal. Somewhere at some time it had all been just +touch and go. With better fortune the facile Carros might now be +the director of an insurance company, or perhaps an eminent pianist. +Another saying of his, which he was very fond of repeating, was this: + +“The law does not sit in judgment on people. Laws are only made for +the protection of the citizen.” + +His colleagues were inclined to laugh at “Papa Tolozan,” as they +called him, but they were bound to respect his thoroughness and +conscientiousness, and they treated his passion for philosophic +speculation as merely the harmless eccentricity of an urbane and +charming character. Perhaps in this attitude toward crime there have +always been two schools of thought, the one which regards it--like +Tolozan--as “the accident,” the other, as represented by the forceful +Muguet of the Council of Jurisprudence at Bayonne, who insists that +crime is an ineradicable trait, an inheritance, a fate. In spite of +their divergence of outlook these two were great friends, and many +and long were the arguments they enjoyed over a glass of vermouth and +seltzer at a quiet café they sometimes favoured in the Cours du Pavé, +when business brought them together. Muguet would invariably clinch +the argument with a staccato: + +“Well, come now, what about old Laissac?” + +Then he would slap his leg and laugh. Here, indeed, was a hard case. +Here, indeed, was an irreconcilable, an _intransigeant_, an ingrained +criminal, and as this story principally concerns old Laissac it may +be as well to describe him a little in detail at once. He was at that +time fifty-seven years of age. Twenty-one years and ten months of +that period had been passed in penitentiaries, prisons, and convict +establishments. He was already an old man, but a wiry, energetic old +man, with a battered face seamed by years of vicious dissipations and +passions. + +At the age of seventeen he had killed a Chinaman. The affair was +the outcome of a dockside _mêlée_, and many contended that Laissac +was not altogether responsible. However that may be, the examining +magistrate at that time was of opinion that there had been rather too +much of that sort of thing of late, and that an example must be made +of someone. Even the chink must be allowed some show of protection. +Laissac was sent to a penitentiary for two years. He returned an +avowed enemy of society. Since that day, he had been convicted +of burglary, larceny, passing of counterfeit coins, assault, and +drunkenness. These were only the crimes of which he had actually been +convicted, but everyone knew that they were only an infinitesimal +fraction of the crimes of which he was guilty. + +He was a cunning old man. He had bashed one of his pals and maimed +him for life, and the man was afraid to give evidence against him. He +had treated at least two women with almost unspeakable cruelty. There +was no record of his ever having done a single action of kindliness +or unselfishness. He had, moreover, been a perverter and betrayer of +others. He bred crime with malicious enjoyment. He trained young men +in the tricks of the trade. He dealt in stolen property. He was a +centre, a focus, of criminal activity. One evening, Muguet remarked +to Tolozan, as they sipped their coffee: + +“The law is too childish. That man has been working steadily all his +life to destroy and pervert society. He has a diseased mind. Why +aren’t we allowed to do away with him? If, as you say, the laws were +made to protect citizens, there’s only one way to protect ourselves +against a villain like Laissac--the guillotine.” + +Tolozan shook his head slowly. “No, the law only allows capital +punishment in the case of murder.” + +“I know that, my old cabbage. What I say is, why should society +bother to keep an old ruffian like that?” + +Tolozan did not answer, and Muguet continued: + +“Where is he now?” + +“He lives in an attic in the Place Duquesne, No. 33.” + +“Are you watching him?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“Been to call on him?” + +“I was there yesterday.” + +“What was he doing?” + +“Playing with a dog.” + +Muguet slapped his leg, and threw back his head. Playing with a dog! +That was excellent! The greatest criminal in Bordeaux--playing with +a dog! Muguet didn’t know why it was so funny. Perhaps it was just +the vision of his old friend, Tolozan, solemnly sitting there and +announcing the fact that Laissac was playing with a dog, as though +it were a matter of profound significance. Tolozan looked slightly +annoyed and added: + +“He’s very fond of dogs.” + +This seemed to Muguet funnier still, and it was some moments before +he could steady his voice to say: + +“Well, I’m glad he’s fond of something. Was there nothing you could +lay your hands on?” + +“Nothing.” + +It is certainly true that Muguet had a strong case in old Laissac to +confute his friend’s theories. Where was “the accident of crime” in +such a confirmed criminal? + +It is also true old Laissac was playing with a dog, and at that very +moment. Whilst the representatives of law and order were discussing +him in the Café Basque he was tickling the ribs of his beloved +Sancho, and saying: + +“Up, soldier. Courage, my old warrior.” + +Sancho was a strange, forlorn-looking beast, not entirely retriever, +not wholly poodle, indeed not necessarily dog at all. He had large +sentimental eyes, and he worshipped his master with unquestioning +adoration. When his master was out, as he frequently was on strange +nocturnal adventures, he would lie on the mat by the door, his +nostrils snuggled between his paws, and watch the door. Directly his +master entered the house, Sancho would be aware of it. He would utter +one long whine of pleasure, and his skin would shake and tremble +with excitement. The reason of his perturbations this morning was +that part of the chimney had fallen down with a crash. The brickwork +had given way, and a little way up old Laissac could see a narrow +opening, revealing the leads on the adjoining roof. It was summer +time and such a disaster did not appal him unduly. + +“Courage,” he said, “to-morrow that shall be set right. To-day and +to-night we have another omelette in the pan, old comrade. To-morrow +there will be ham bones for Sancho, and a nice bottle of fine +champagne for the breadwinner, eh? Lie down, boy, that’s only old +Grognard!” + +The dog went into his corner, and a most strange-looking old man +entered the room. He had thin white hair, a narrow horse-like face +with prominent eyes. His face appeared much too thin and small +for the rest of his body, which had unexpected projections and +convolutions. From his movements it was immediately apparent that his +left side was paralyzed. On the left breast of his shabby green coat +was a medal for saving lives. The medal recorded that, at the age of +twenty-six, he had plunged into the Garonne, and saved the lives of +two boys. He sat down and produced a sheet of dirty paper. + +“Everything is in order,” he said dolefully. + +“Good,” said Laissac. “Show us the plan.” + +“This is the garage and the room above where you enter. The chauffeur +left with Madame Delannelle and her maid for Pau this morning. They +will be away three weeks or more. Monsieur Delannelle sleeps in this +room on the first floor; but, as you know, he is a drug fiend. From +eleven o’clock till four in the morning he is in a coma. Lisette and +the other maid sleep on the top floor. Lisette will see that this +other woman gets a little of the white powder in her cider before she +retires. There is no one else in the house. There is no dog.” + +“It appears a modest enterprise.” + +“It is as easy as opening a bottle of white oil. The door of the room +above the garage, connecting with the first landing in the house, is +locked and the key taken away, but it is a very old-fashioned lock. +You could open it with a bone toothpick, master.” + +“H’m. I suppose Lisette expects something out of this?” + +The old man sniggered, and blew his nose on a red handkerchief. + +“She’s doing it for love.” + +“You mean--young Leon Briteuil?” + +“Yes, now this is the point, master. Are you going to crack this +crib yourself, or would you like young Briteuil to go along? He’s a +promising lad, and he would be proud to be in a job with you.” + +“What stuff is there, there?” + +“In the second drawer on the left-hand side in a bureau in the salon +is a cash box, where Monsieur keeps the money from his rents. He owns +a lot of small property. There ought to be about ten thousand francs. +Madame has taken most of her jewels, but there are a few trinkets in +a jewel case in the bedroom. For the rest, there is a collection of +old coins in a cabinet, some of them gold. That is in the library, +here, see? And the usual silver plate and trinkets scattered about +the house. Altogether a useful haul, too much for one man to carry.” + +“Very well, I’ll take the young--tell him to be at the Place du Pont, +the other side of the river, at twelve-thirty. If he fails or makes +the slightest slip, I’ll break his face. Tell him that. That’s all.” + +“Right you are, master.” + +Young Briteuil was not quite the lion-hearted person he liked to +pose as, and this message frightened him. Long before the fateful +hour of the appointment, he was dreading the association of the +infamous Laissac more than the hazardous adventure upon which he was +committed. He would have rather made the attempt by himself. He was +neat with his fingers and had been quite successful pilfering little +articles from the big stores, but he had never yet experienced the +thrill of housebreaking. + +Moreover, he felt bitterly that the arrangement was unjust. It was +he who had manœuvred the whole field of operations, he with his +spurious lovemaking to the middle-aged coquettish Lisette. There was +a small fortune to be picked up, but because he was pledged to the +gang of which Laissac was the chief, his award would probably amount +to a capful of sous. Laissac had the handling of the loot, and he +would say that it realized anything he fancied. Grognard had to have +his commission also. The whole thing was grossly unfair. He deeply +regretted that he had not kept the courting of Lisette a secret. +Visions of unholy orgies danced before his eyes. However, there +it was, and he had to make the best of it. He was politeness and +humility itself when he met old Laissac at the corner of the Place +du Pont punctually at the hour appointed. Laissac was in one of his +sullen moods and they trudged in silence out to the northern suburb +where the villa of Monsieur Delannelle was situated. + +The night was reasonably dark and fine. As they got nearer and nearer +to their destination, and Laissac became more and more unresponsive, +the younger man’s nerves began to get on edge. He was becoming +distinctly jumpy, and, as people will in such a condition, he +carried things to the opposite extreme. He pretended to be extremely +light-hearted, and to treat the affair as a most trivial exploit. He +even assumed an air of flippancy, but in this attitude he was not +encouraged by his companion, who on more than one occasion told him +to keep his ugly mouth shut. + +“You won’t be so merry when you get inside,” he said. + +“But there is no danger, no danger at all,” laughed the young man +unconvincingly. + +“There’s always danger in our job,” growled Laissac. “It’s the things +you don’t expect that you’ve got to look out for. You can make every +preparation, think of every eventuality, and then suddenly, presto! +a bullet from some unknown quarter. The gendarmes may have had wind +of it all the time. Monsieur Delannelle may not have indulged in +his dope for once. He may be sitting up with a loaded gun. The girl +Lisette may be an informer. The other girl may have heard and given +the game away. Madame and the chauffeur may return at any moment. +People have punctures sometimes. You can even get through the job +and then be nabbed at the corner of the street, or the next morning, +or the following week. There’s a hundred things likely to give you +away. Inspector Tolozan himself may be hiding in the garden with a +half-dozen of his thicknecks. Don’t you persuade yourself it’s a soft +thing, my white-livered cockerel.” + +This speech did not raise Leon’s spirits. When they reached the wall +adjoining the garage, he was trembling like a leaf, and his teeth +began to chatter. + +“I could do with a nip of brandy,” he said sullenly in a changed +voice. + +The old criminal looked at him contemptuously, and produced a flask +from some mysterious pocket. He took a swig, and then handed it to +his companion. He allowed him a little gulp, and then snatched the +flask away. + +“Now, up you go,” he said. Leon knew then that escape was impossible. +Old Laissac held out his hands for him to rest his heel upon. He did +so, and found himself jerked to the top of the wall. The old man +scrambled up after him somehow. They then dropped down quietly on +to some sacking in the corner of the yard. The garage and the house +were in complete darkness. The night was unnaturally still, the kind +of night when every little sound becomes unduly magnified. Laissac +regarded the dim structure of the garage with a professional eye. +Leon was listening for sounds, and imagining eyes peering at them +through the shutters ... perhaps a pistol or two already covering +them. His heart was beating rapidly. He had never imagined it was +going to be such a nerve-racking business. Curse the old man! Why +didn’t he let him have his full whack at the brandy? + +A sudden temptation crept over him. The old man was peering forward. +He would hit him suddenly on the back of the head and then bolt. Yes, +he would. He knew he would never have the courage to force his way +into that sinister place of unknown terrors. He would rather die out +here in the yard. + +“Come on,” said Laissac, advancing cautiously toward the door of the +garage. + +Leon slunk behind him, watching for his opportunity. He had no +weapon, nothing but his hands, and he knew that in a struggle with +Laissac he would probably be worsted. The tidy concrete floor of the +yard held out no hope of promiscuous weapons. Once he thought: “I +will strike him suddenly on the back of the head with all my might. +As he falls I’ll strike him again. When he’s on the ground I’ll kick +his brains out....” + +To such a desperate pass can fear drive a man! Laissac stood by +the wood frame of the garage door looking up and judging the best +way to make an entrance of the window above. While he was doing so +Leon stared round, and his eye alighted on a short dark object near +the wall. It was a piece of iron piping. He sidled toward it, and +surreptitiously picked it up. At that exact instant Laissac glanced +round at him abruptly and whispered: + +“What are you doing?” + +Now must this desperate venture be brought to a head. He stumbled +toward Laissac, mumbling vaguely: + +“I thought this might be useful.” + +Leon was left-handed and he gripped the iron piping in that hand. +Laissac was facing him, and he must be put off his guard. He mumbled: + +“What’s the orders, master?” + +He doubtless hoped from this that Laissac would turn round and +look up again. He made no allowance for that animal instinct of +self-preservation which is most strongly marked in men of low +mentality. Without a word old Laissac sprang at him. He wanted to +scream with fear, but instead he struck wildly with the iron. He +felt it hit something ineffectually. A blow on the face staggered +him. In the agony of recovery he realized that his weapon had been +wrenched from his hands! Now, indeed, he would scream, and rouse the +neighbourhood to save him from this monster. If he could only get his +voice! If he could only get his voice! Curse this old devil! Where is +he? Spare me! Spare me! Oh, no, no ... oh, God! + +Old Laissac stuffed the body behind a bin where rubbish was +put, in the corner of the yard. The struggle had been curiously +silent and quick. The only sound had been the thud of the iron on +his treacherous assistant’s skull, a few low growls and blows. +Fortunately, the young man had been too paralyzed with fear to call +out. Laissac stood in the shadow of the wall and waited. Had the +struggle attracted any attention? Would it be as well to abandon +the enterprise? He thought it all out dispassionately. An owl, with +a deep mellow note, sailed majestically away toward a neighbouring +church. Perhaps it was rather foolish. If he were caught, and the +body discovered--that would be the end of Papa Laissac! That would be +a great misfortune. Everyone would miss him so, and he still had life +and fun in him. He laughed bitterly. Yes, perhaps he had better steal +quietly away. He moved over to the outer wall. + +Then a strange revulsion came over him, perhaps a deep bitterness +with life, or a gambler’s lure. Perhaps it was only professional +vanity. He had come here to burgle this villa, and he disliked being +thwarted. Besides it was such a soft thing, all the dispositions so +carefully laid. He had already thought out the way to mount to the +bedroom above the door. In half an hour he might be richer by many +thousand francs, and he had been getting rather hard up of late. That +young fool would be one less to pay. He shrugged his broad shoulders, +and crept back to the garage door. + +In ten minutes time he had not only entered the room above the garage +but had forced the old-fashioned lock, and entered the passage +connecting with the house. He was perfectly cool now, his senses +keenly alert. He went down on his hands and knees and listened. He +waited some time, focussing in his mind the exact disposition of the +rooms as shown in the plan old Grognard had shown him. He crawled +along the corridor like a large gorilla. At the second door on the +left he heard the heavy, stentorian breathing of a man inside the +room. Monsieur Delannelle, good! It sounded like the breathing of a +man under the influence of drugs or drink. + +After that, with greater confidence, he made his way downstairs to +the salon. With unerring precision he located the drawer in the +bureau where the cash box was kept. The box was smaller than he +expected and he decided to take it away rather than to indulge in +the rather noisy business of forcing the lock. He slipped it into +a sack. Guided by his electric torch, he made a rapid round of the +reception rooms. He took most of the collection of old coins from the +cabinet in the library and a few more silver trinkets. Young Briteuil +would certainly have been useful carrying all this bulkier stuff. +Rather unfortunate, but still it served the young fool right. He, +Laissac, was not going to encumber himself with plate ... a few small +and easily negotiable pieces were all he desired, sufficient to keep +him in old brandy, and Sancho in succulent ham bones for a few months +to come. A modest and simple fellow, old Laissac. + +The sack was soon sufficiently full. He paused by the table in the +dining room and helped himself to another swig of brandy, then he +blinked his eyes. What else was there? Oh, yes, Grognard had said +that there were a few of Madame’s jewels in the jewel case. But that +was in the bedroom where Monsieur Delannelle was sleeping, that was a +different matter, and yet after all, perhaps, a pity not to have the +jewels! + +H’m, Monsieur Delannelle was in one of his drug stupours. It must +be about two o’clock. They said he never woke till five or six. Why +not? Besides what was a drugged man? He couldn’t give any trouble. If +he tried to, Laissac could easily knock him over the head as he had +young Briteuil--might just as well have those few extra jewels. His +senses tingled rather more acutely as he once more crept upstairs. +He pressed his ear to the keyhole of Monsieur Delannelle’s bedroom. +The master of the house was still sleeping. + +He turned the handle quietly, listened, then stole into the room, +closing the door after him. Now for it. He kept the play of his +electric torch turned from the bed. The sleeper was breathing in an +ugly, irregular way. He swept the light along the wall, and located +the dressing-table--satinwood and silver fittings. A new piece of +furniture--curse it! The top right-hand drawer was locked. And that +was the drawer which the woman said contained the jewel case. Dare he +force the lock? Was it worth it? He had done very well. Why not clear +off now? Madame had probably taken everything of worth. He hesitated +and looked in the direction of the sleeper. Rich guzzling old pig! +Why should he have all these comforts and luxuries whilst Laissac +had to work hard and at such risk for his living? Be damned to him. +He put down his sack and took a small steel tool out of his breast +pocket. It was necessary to make a certain amount of noise, but after +all the man in the bed wasn’t much better than a corpse. Laissac went +down on his knees and applied himself to his task. + +The minutes passed. Confound it! It was a very obstinate lock. He +was becoming quite immersed in its intricacy when something abruptly +jarred his sensibilities. It was a question of silence. The sleeper +was no longer snoring or breathing violently. In fact he was making +no noise at all. Laissac was aware of a queer tremor creeping down +his spine for the first time that evening. He was a fool not to have +cleared out after taking the cash box. He had overdone it. The man +in bed was awake and watching him! What was the best thing to do? +Perhaps the fool had a revolver! If there was any trouble he must +fight. He couldn’t allow himself to be taken, with that body down +below stuffed behind the dust-bin. Why didn’t the tormentor call out +or challenge him? Laissac crept lower and twisted his body into a +crouching position. + +By this action he saved his life, for there was a sudden blinding +flash, and a bullet struck the dressing-table just at the place +where his head had been. This snapping of the tension was almost +a relief. It was a joy to revert to the primitive instincts of +self-preservation. At the foot of the bed an eiderdown had fallen. +Instinct drove him to snatch this up. He scrumpled it up into the +rough form of a body and thrust it with his right hand over the +end of the bed. Another bullet went through it and struck the +dressing-table again. But as this happened, Laissac, who had crept to +the left side of the bed sprang across it and gripped the sleeper’s +throat. The struggle was of momentary duration. The revolver dropped +to the floor. The man addicted to drugs gasped, spluttered, then +his frame shook violently and he crumpled into an inert mass upon +the bed. A blind fury was upon Laissac. He struck the still cold +thing again and again, then a revulsion of terror came over him. He +crouched in the darkness, sweating with fear. + +“They’ll get me this time,” he thought. “Those shots must have been +heard. Lisette, the other maid, the neighbours, the gendarmes ... +two of these disgusting bodies to account for. I’d better leave the +swag and clear.” He drained the rest of the brandy and staggered +uncertainly toward the door. The house was very still. He turned the +handle and went into the passage. Then one of those voices which were +always directing his life said: + +“Courage, old man, why leave the sack behind? You’ve worked for it. +Besides, one might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb!” + +He went quietly back and picked up the sack. But his hands were +shaking violently. As he was returning, the sack with its metallic +contents struck the end of the brass bed. This little accident +affected him fantastically. He was all fingers and thumbs to-night. +What was the matter? Was he losing his nerve? Getting old? Of course, +the time must come when--God! What was that? He stood dead still by +the jamb of the door. There was the sound of the stealthy tread on +the stairs, the distinct creak of a board. How often in his life had +he not imagined that! But there was no question about it to-night. He +was completely unstrung. + +“If there’s another fight I won’t be able to face it. I’m done.” + +An interminable interval of time passed, and then--that quiet +creaking of another board, the person, whoever it was, was getting +nearer. He struggled desperately to hold himself together, to be +prepared for one more struggle, even if it should be his last. +Suddenly a whisper came down the stairs: + +“Leon!” + +Leon! What did they mean? Eh? Oh, yes--Leon Briteuil! Of course that +fool of a woman, the informer--Lisette. She thought it was Leon. +Leon, her lover. He breathed more easily. Women have their uses and +purposes after all. But he must be very circumspect. There must be no +screaming. She repeated: + +“Leon, is that you?” + +With a great effort he controlled his voice. + +“It’s all right. I’m Leon’s friend. He’s outside.” + +The woman gave a little gasp of astonishment. + +“Oh! I did not know----” + +“Very quietly, mademoiselle. Compose yourself. I must now rejoin him. +Everything is going well.” + +“But I would see him. I wish to see him to-night. He promised----” + +Laissac hurried noiselessly down the stairs, thankful for the +darkness. He waited till he had reached the landing below. Then he +called up in a husky voice: + +“Wait till ten minutes after I have left the house, mademoiselle, +then come down. You will find your Leon waiting for you behind the +dust-bin in the yard.” + +And fortunately for Lisette’s momentary peace of mind she could not +see the inhuman grin which accompanied this remark. + +From the moment of his uttering it till four hours later, when his +mangled body was discovered by a gendarme on the pavement just below +the window of the house in which he lived in the Place Duquesne, +there is no definite record of old Laissac’s movements or whereabouts. + +It exists only in those realms of conjecture in which Monsieur +Tolozan is so noted an explorer. + +Old Laissac had a genius for passing unnoticed. He could walk through +the streets of Bordeaux in broad daylight with stolen clocks under +each arm and it never occurred to any one to suspect him, but when it +came to travelling in the dark he was unique. At the inquest, which +was held five days later, not a single witness could come forward and +say that they had seen anything of him either that evening or night. + +That highly eminent advocate, Maxim Colbert, president of the +court, passed from the cool mortuary into the stuffy courthouse +with a bored, preoccupied air. Dead bodies did not greatly interest +him, and he had had too much experience of them to be nauseated by +them--besides, an old criminal! It appeared to him a tedious and +unnecessary waste of time. The old gentleman had something much more +interesting occupying his mind. He was expecting his daughter-in-law +to present his son with a child. The affair might happen now, any +moment, indeed, it might already have happened. Any moment a message +might come with the good tidings. A son! Of course it must be a son! +The line of Colbert tracing their genealogy back to the reign of +Louis XIV--must be perpetuated. A distinguished family of advocates, +generals, rulers of men. A son! It annoyed him a little in that he +suspected that his own son was anxious to have a daughter. Bah! +Selfishness. + +Let us see what is this case all about? Oh, yes, an old criminal +named Theodore Laissac, aged fifty-seven, wanted by the police in +connection with a mysterious crime at the villa of Monsieur and +Madame Delannelle. The body found by a printer’s devil, named Adolp +Roger, at 4:15 o’clock on the morning of the ninth, on the pavement +of the Place Duquesne. Witness informed police. Sub-inspector +Floquette attested to the finding of body as indicated by witness. +The position of body directly under attic window, five stories high, +occupied by deceased, suggesting that he had fallen or thrown himself +therefrom. Good! Quite clear. A life of crime, result--suicide. Will +it be a boy or a girl? Let us have the deceased’s record.... + +A tall square-bearded inspector stood up in the body of the court, +and in a sepulchral voice read out the criminal life record of +Theodore Laissac. It was not pretty reading. It began at the age of +seventeen with the murder of the Chinaman, Ching Loo, and from thence +onward it revealed a deplorable story of villainy and depravity. The +record of evil doings and the award of penalties became monotonous. +The mind of Maxim Colbert wandered back to his son, and to his son’s +son. He had already seen the case in a nutshell and dismissed it. It +would give him a pleasant opportunity a little later on. A homily on +the wages of sin ... a man whose life was devoted to evil-doing, in +the end driven into a corner by the forces of justice, smitten by the +demons of conscience, dies the coward’s death. A homily on cowardice, +quoting a passage from Thomas à Kempis, excellent!... Would they +send him a telegram? Or would the news come by hand? What was that +the Counsel for the Right of the Poor was saying? Chief Inspector +Tolozan wished to give evidence. Ah, yes, why not? A worthy fellow, +Inspector Tolozan. He had known him for many years, worked with him +on many cases, an admirable, energetic officer, a little given to +theorizing--an interesting fellow, though. He would cross-examine him +himself. + +Inspector Tolozan took his place in the witness box, and bowed to the +president. His steady gray eyes regarded the court thoughtfully as he +tugged at his thin gray imperial. + +“Now, Inspector Tolozan, I understand that you have this district +in which this--unfortunate affair took place, under your own special +supervision?” + +“Yes, _monsieur le president_.” + +“You have heard the evidence of the witnesses Roger and Floquette +with regard to the finding of the body?” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +“Afterward, I understand, you made an inspection of the premises +occupied by the deceased?” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +“At what time was that?” + +“At six-fifteen, monsieur.” + +“Did you arrive at any conclusions with regard to the cause or motive +of the--er accident?” + +“Yes, _monsieur le president_.” + +“What conclusions did you come to?” + +“I came to the conclusion that the deceased, Theodore Laissac, met +his death trying to save the life of a dog.” + +“A dog! Trying to save the life of a dog!” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +The president looked at the court, the court looked at the president +and shuffled with papers, glancing apprehensively at the witness +between times. There was no doubt that old Tolozan was becoming +cranky, very cranky indeed. The president cleared his throat--was he +to be robbed of his homily on the wages of sin? + +“Indeed, Monsieur Tolozan, you came to the conclusion that the +deceased met his death trying to save the life of a dog! Will you +please explain to the court how you came to these conclusions?” + +“Yes, _monsieur le president_; the deceased had a dog to which he was +very devoted.” + +“Wait one moment, Inspector Tolozan, how do you know that he was +devoted to this dog?” + +“I have seen him with it. Moreover, during the years he has been +under my supervision he has always had a dog to which he was devoted. +I could call some of his criminal associates to prove that, although +he was frequently cruel to men, women, and even children, he would +never strike or be unkind to a dog. He would never burgle a house +guarded by a dog in case he had to use violence.” + +“Proceed.” + +“During that day or evening there had apparently been a slight +subsidence in the chimney place of the attic occupied by Laissac. +Some brickwork had collapsed, leaving a narrow aperture just room +enough for a dog to squeeze its body through, and get out on the +sloping leads of the house next door. The widow Forbin, who occupies +the adjoining attic, complains that she was kept awake for three +hours that night by the whining of a dog on the leads above. This +whining ceased about three-thirty, which must have been the time that +the deceased met his death. There was only one way for a man to get +from his attic to these leads and that was a rain-water pipe, sloping +from below the window at an angle of forty-five degrees to the roof +next door. He could stand on this water pipe, but there was nothing +to cling to except small projections of brick till he could scramble +hold of the gutter above. He never reached the gutter.” + +“All of this is pure conjecture, of course, Inspector Tolozan?” + +“Not entirely, _monsieur le president_. My theory is that after +Laissac’s departure, the dog became disconsolate and restless, +as they often will, knowing by some mysterious instinct that its +master is in danger. He tried to get out of the room and eventually +succeeded in forcing his way through the narrow aperture in the +fireplace. His struggle getting through brought down some more +brickwork and closed up the opening. This fact I have verified. Out +on the sloping roof the dog naturally became terrified. There was no +visible means of escape; the roof was sloping, and the night cold. +Moreover, he seemed more cut off from his master than ever. As the +widow, Forbin, asserts, he whined pitiably. Laissac returned some +time after three o’clock. He reached the attic. The first thing he +missed was the dog. He ran to the window and heard it whining on +the roof above. Probably he hesitated for some time as to the best +thing to do. The dog leaned over and saw him. He called to it to be +quiet, but so agitated did it appear, hanging over the edge of that +perilous slope, that Laissac thought every moment that it would jump. +_Monsieur le president_, nearly every crime has been lain at the door +of the deceased, but he has never been accused of lack of physical +courage. Moreover, he was accustomed to climbing about buildings. He +dropped through that window and started to climb up.” + +“How do you know this?” + +“I examined the water pipe carefully. The night was dry and there had +not been rain for three days. Laissac had removed his boots. He knew +that it would naturally be easier to walk along a pipe in his socks. +There are the distinct marks of stockinged feet on the dusty pipes +for nearly two metres of the journey. The body was bootless and the +boots were found in the attic. But he was an old man for his age, and +probably he had had an exhausting evening. He never quite reached the +gutter.” + +“Are the marks on the gutter still there?” + +“No, but I drew the attention of three of my subordinates to the +fact, and they are prepared to support my view. It rained the next +day. The body of the dog was found by the side of its master.” + +“Indeed! Do you suggest that the dog--committed suicide as it were?” + +Tolozan shrugged his shoulders and bowed. It was not his business +to understand the psychology of dogs. He was merely giving +evidence in support of his theories concerning the character of +criminals--“birds”--and the accident of crime. + +Maxim Colbert was delighted. The whole case had been salvaged from +the limbo of dull routine. He even forgave Tolozan for causing him +to jettison those platitudes upon the wages of sin. He had made it +interesting. Besides, he felt in a good humour--it would surely be +a boy! The procedure of the court bored him, but he was noticeably +cheerful, almost gay. He thanked the inspector profusely for his +evidence. Once he glanced at the clock casually, and said in an +impressive voice: + +“Perhaps we may say of the deceased--he lived a vicious life, but he +died not ingloriously.” + +The court broke up and he passed down into a quadrangle at the back +where a pale sun filtered. Lawyers, ushers, court functionaries +and police officials were scattering or talking in little groups. +Standing outside a group he saw the spare figure of Inspector +Tolozan. He touched his arm and smiled. + +“Well, my friend, you established an interesting case. I feel that +the verdict was just, and yet I cannot see that it in any way +corroborates your theory of the accident of crime.” + +Tolozan paused and blinked up at the sun. + +“It did not corroborate, perhaps, but it did nothing to----” + +“Well? This old man was an inveterate criminal. The fact that he +loved a dog--it’s not a very great commendation. Many criminals do.” + +“But they would not give their lives, monsieur. A man who would do +that is capable of--I mean to say it was probably an accident that he +was not a better man.” + +“Possibly, possibly! But the record, my dear Tolozan!” + +“One may only conjecture.” + +“What is your conjecture?” + +Tolozan gazed dreamily up at the Gothic tracery of the adjoining +chapel. Then he turned to Monsieur Colbert and said very earnestly: + +“You must remember that there was nothing against Laissac until the +age of seventeen. He had been a boy of good character. His father was +an honest wheelwright. At the age of seventeen the boy was to go to +sea on the sailing ship _La Turenne_. Owing to some trouble with the +customs authorities the sailing of the ship was delayed twenty-four +hours. The boy was given shore leave. He hung about the docks. There +was nothing to do. He had no money to spend on entertainment. My +conjecture is this. Let us suppose it was a day like this, calm +and sunny with a certain quiet exhilaration in the air. Eh? The +boy wanders around the quays and stares in the shops. Suddenly at +the corner of the Rue Bayard he peeps down into a narrow gally and +beholds a sight which drives the blood wildly through his veins.” + +“What sight, Monsieur Tolozan?” + +“The Chinaman, Ching Loo, being cruel to a dog.” + +“Ah! I see your implication.” + +“The boy sees red. There is the usual brawl and scuffle. He possibly +does not realize his own strength. Follow the law court and the +penitentiary. Can you not understand how such an eventuality would +embitter him against society? To him in the hereafter the dog would +stand as the symbol of patient suffering, humanity as the tyrant. +He would be at war for ever, an outcast, a derelict. He was raw, +immature, uneducated. He was at the most receptive stage. His sense +of justice was outraged. The penitentiary made him a criminal.” + +“Then from this you mean----” + +“I mean that if the good ship _La Turenne_ had sailed to time, or if +he had not been given those few hours’ leave, he might by this time +have been a master mariner, or in any case a man who could look the +world in the face. That is what I mean by the accident----” + +“Excuse me.” + +A messenger had handed Monsieur Colbert a telegram. He tore it open +feverishly and glanced at the contents. An expression of annoyance +crept over his features. He tore the form up in little pieces and +threw it petulantly upon the ground. He glanced up at Tolozan +absently as though he had seen him for the first time. Then he +muttered vaguely: + +“The accident, eh? Oh, yes, yes. Quite so, quite so.” + +But he did not tell Inspector Tolozan what the telegram contained. + + + + +“OLD FAGS” + + +The boys called him “Old Fags,” and the reason was not far to seek. +He occupied a room in a block of tenements off Lisson Grove, bearing +the somewhat grandiloquent title of Bolingbroke Buildings, and +conspicuous among the many doubtful callings that occupied his time +was one in which he issued forth with a deplorable old canvas sack, +which, after a day’s peregrination along the gutters, he would manage +to partly fill with cigar and cigarette ends. The exact means by +which he managed to convert this patiently gathered garbage into the +wherewithal to support his disreputable body nobody took the trouble +to enquire. Neither were their interests any further aroused by the +disposal of the contents of the same sack when he returned with the +gleanings of dustbins distributed thoughtfully at intervals along +certain thoroughfares by a maternal borough council. + +No one had ever penetrated to the inside of his room, but the general +opinion in Bolingbroke Buildings was that he managed to live in a +state of comfortable filth. And Mrs. Read, who lived in the room +opposite, No. 477, with her four children, was of opinion that “Old +Fags ’ad ’oarded up a bit.” He certainly never seemed to be behind +with the payment of the weekly three-and-sixpence that entitled him +to the sole enjoyment of No. 475, and when the door was opened, among +the curious blend of odours that issued forth, that of onions and +other luxuries of this sort was undeniable. + +Nevertheless, he was not a popular figure in the Buildings. Many, in +fact, looked upon him as a social blot on the Bolingbroke escutcheon. +The inhabitants were mostly labourers and their wives, charwomen and +lady helps, dressmakers’ assistants, and several mechanics. There was +a vague tentative effort among a great body of them to be a little +respectable, and among some even to be clean. + +No such uncomfortable considerations hampered the movements of +Old Fags. He was frankly and ostentatiously a social derelict. He +had no pride and no shame. He shuffled out in the morning, his +blotchy face covered with dirt and black hair, his threadbare green +clothes tattered and in rags, the toes all too visible through his +forlorn-looking boots. He was rather a large man with a fat, flabby +person and a shiny face that was over-affable and bleary through a +too constant attention to the gin bottle. He had a habit of ceaseless +talk. He talked and chuckled to himself all the time, he talked to +every one he met in an undercurrent of jeering affability. Sometimes +he would retire to his room with a gin bottle for days together and +then (the walls at Bolingbroke Buildings are not very thick) he +would be heard to talk and chuckle and snore alternately, until the +percolating atmosphere of stewed onions heralded the fact that Old +Fags was shortly on the war-path again. + +He would meet Mrs. Read with her children on the stairs and would +mutter, “Oh, here we are again! All these dear little children been +out for a walk, eh? Oh, these dear little children!” and he would pat +one of them gaily on the head. + +And Mrs. Read would say: “’Ere, you keep your filthy ’ands off my +kids, you dirty old swine, or I’ll catch you a swipe over the mouth!” + +And Old Fags would shuffle off muttering: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! these +dear little children! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” + +And the boys would call after him and even throw orange peel and +other things at him, but nothing seemed to disturb the serenity of +Old Fags. Even when young Charlie Good threw a dead mouse that hit +him on the chin he only said: “Oh, these boys! these _boys_!” + +Quarrels, noise and bad odours were the prevailing characteristics +of Bolingbroke Buildings and Old Fags, though contributing in some +degree to the latter quality, rode serenely through the other two in +spite of multiform aggression. The penetrating intensity of his onion +stews had driven two lodgers already from No. 476, and was again a +source of aggravation to the present holders, old Mrs. Birdle and her +daughter Minnie. + +Minnie Birdle was what was known as a “tweeny” at a house in +Hyde Park Square, but she lived at home. Her mistress--to whom +she had never spoken, being engaged by the housekeeper--was Mrs. +Bastien-Melland, a lady who owned a valuable collection of little +dogs. These little dogs somehow gave Minnie an unfathomable sense of +respectability. She loved to talk about them. She told Mrs. Read that +her mistress paid “’undreds and ’undreds of pahnds for each of them.” +They were taken out every day by a groom on two leads of five--ten +highly groomed, bustling, yapping, snapping, vicious little luxuries. +Some had won prizes at dog shows, and two men were engaged for the +sole purpose of ministering to their creature comforts. + +The consciousness of working in a house which furnished such an +exhibition of festive cultivation brought into sharp relief the +degrading social condition of her next room neighbour. + +Minnie hated Old Fags with a bitter hatred. She even wrote to a firm +of lawyers who represented some remote landlord and complained of +“the dirty habits of the old drunken wretch next door.” But she never +received any answer to her complaint. It was known that Old Fags had +lived there for seven years and paid his rent regularly. + +Moreover, on one critical occasion, Mrs. Read, who had periods of +rheumatic gout, and could not work, had got into hopeless financial +straits, having reached the very limit of her borrowing capacity, +and being three weeks in arrears with her rent, Old Fags had come +over and had insisted on lending her fifteen shillings! Mrs. Read +eventually paid it back, and the knowledge of the transaction further +accentuated her animosity toward him. + +One day Old Fags was returning from his dubious round and was passing +through Hyde Park Square with his canvas bag slung over his back, +when he ran into the cortège of little dogs under the control of +Meads, the groom. + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” muttered Old Fags to himself. “What dear little +dogs! H’m! What dear little dogs!” + +A minute later Minnie Birdle ran up the area steps and gave Meads a +bright smile. + +“Good-night, Mr. Meads,” she said. + +Mr. Meads looked at her and said: “’Ullo! you off?” + +“Yes!” she answered. + +“Oh, well,” he said, “Good-night! Be good!” + +They both sniggered and Minnie hurried down the street. Before she +reached Lisson Grove Old Fags had caught her up. + +“I say,” he said, getting into her stride. “What dear little dogs +those are! Oh, dear! what dear little dogs!” + +Minnie turned, and when she saw him her face flushed, and she said: +“Oh, you go to hell!” with which unladylike expression she darted +across the road and was lost to sight. + +“Oh, these women!” said Old Fags to himself, “these _women_!” + +It often happened after that Old Fags’s business carried him in the +neighbourhood of Hyde Park Square, and he ran into the little dogs. +One day he even ventured to address Meads, and to congratulate him on +the beauty of his canine protégés, an attention that elicited a very +unsympathetic response, a response, in fact, that amounted to being +told to “clear off.” + +The incident of Old Fags running into this society was entirely +accidental. It was due in part to the fact that the way lay through +there to a tract of land in Paddington that Old Fags seemed to +find peculiarly attractive. It was a neglected strip of ground by +the railway that butted at one end on to a canal. It would have +made quite a good siding but that it seemed somehow to have been +overlooked by the railway company and to have become a dumping ground +for tins and old refuse from the houses in the neighbourhood of +Harrow Road. Old Fags would spend hours there alone with his canvas +bag. + +When winter came on there was a great wave of what the papers call +“economic unrest.” There were strikes in three great industries, a +political upheaval, and a severe “tightening of the money market.” +All these misfortunes reacted on Bolingbroke Buildings. The dwellers +became even more impecunious, and consequently more quarrelsome, more +noisy and more malodorous. Rents were all in arrears, ejections were +the order of the day, and borrowing became a tradition rather than +an actuality. Want and hunger brooded over the dejected buildings. +But still Old Fags came and went, carrying his shameless gin and +permeating the passages with his onion stews. + +Old Mrs. Birdle became bedridden and the support of room No. 476 +fell on the shoulders of Minnie. The wages of a “tweeny” are not +excessive, and the way in which she managed to support herself and +her invalid mother must have excited the wonder of the other dwellers +in the building if they had not had more pressing affairs of their +own to wonder about. Minnie was a short, sallow little thing, with a +rather full figure, and heavy gray eyes that somehow conveyed a sense +of sleeping passion. She had a certain instinct for dress, a knack of +putting some trinket in the right place, and of always being neat. + +Mrs. Bastien-Melland had one day asked who she was. On being +informed, her curiosity did not prompt her to push the matter +further, and she did not speak to her, but the incident gave Minnie +a better standing in the domestic household at Hyde Park Square. It +was probably this attention that caused Meads, the head dog-groom, +to cast an eye in her direction. It is certain that he did so, and, +moreover, on a certain Thursday evening had taken her to a cinema +performance in the Edgware Road. Such attention naturally gave rise +to discussion and alas! to jealousy, for there was an under housemaid +and even a lady’s maid who were not impervious to the attentions of +the good-looking groom. + +When Mrs. Bastien-Melland went to Egypt in January she took only +three of the small dogs with her, for she could not be bothered +with the society of a groom, and three dogs were as many as her two +maids could spare time for after devoting their energies to Mrs. +Bastien-Melland’s toilette. Consequently, Meads was left behind, and +was held directly responsible for seven, five Chows and two Pekinese, +or, as he expressed it, “over a thousand pounds worth of dogs.” + +It was a position of enormous responsibility. They had to be fed on +the very best food, all carefully prepared and cooked and in small +quantities. They had to be taken for regular exercise and washed in +specially prepared condiments. Moreover, at the slightest symptom +of indisposition he was to telephone to Sir Andrew Fossiter, the +great veterinary specialist, in Hanover Square. It is not to be +wondered at that Meads became a person of considerable standing +and envy, and that little Minnie Birdle was intensely flattered +when he occasionally condescended to look in her direction. She had +been in Mrs. Bastien-Melland’s service now for seven months and the +attentions of the dog-groom had not only been a matter of general +observation for some time past, but had become a subject of reckless +mirth and innuendo among the other servants. + +One night she was hurrying home. Her mother had been rather worse +than usual of late, and she was carrying a few scraps that the cook +had given her. It was a wretched night and she was not feeling well +herself, a mood of tired dejection possessed her. She crossed the +drab street off Lisson Grove and as she reached the curb her eye +lighted on Old Fags. He did not see her. He was walking along the +gutter patting the road occasionally with his stick. + +She had not spoken to him since the occasion we have mentioned. For +once he was not talking: his eyes were fixed in listless apathy on +the road. As he passed she caught the angle of his chin silhouetted +against the window of a shop. For the rest of her walk the haunting +vision of that chin beneath the drawn cheeks, and the brooding +hopelessness of those sunken eyes, kept recurring to her. Perhaps +in some remote past he had been as good to look upon as Meads, the +groom! Perhaps some one had cared for him! She tried to push this +thought from her, but some chord in her nature seemed to have been +awakened and to vibrate with an unaccountable sympathy toward this +undesirable fellow-lodger. + +She hurried home and in the night was ill. She could not go to Mrs. +Melland’s for three days and she wanted the money badly. When she +got about again she was subject to fainting fits and sickness. On +one such occasion, as she was going upstairs, at the Buildings, she +felt faint, and leant against the wall just as Old Fags was going +up. He stopped and said: “Hullo, now, what are we doing? Oh, dear! +Oh, dear!” and she said: “It’s all right, old ’un.” These were the +kindest words she had ever spoken to Old Fags. + +During the next month there were strange symptoms about Minnie Birdle +that caused considerable comment, and there were occasions when old +Mrs. Birdle pulled herself together and became the active partner +and waited on Minnie. On one such occasion Old Fags came home late +and, after drawing a cork, varied his usual programme of talking +and snoring by singing in a maudlin key, and old Mrs. Birdle came +banging at his door and shrieked out: “Stop your row, you old----. My +daughter is ill. Can’t you hear?” And Old Fags came to his door and +blinked at her and said: “Ill, is she? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Would she +like some stew, eh?” And old Mrs. Birdle said: “No, she don’t want +any of your muck,” and bundled back. But they did not hear any more +of Old Fags that night or any other night when Minnie came home queer. + +Early in March Minnie got the sack from Hyde Park Square. Mrs. +Melland was still away, having decided to winter in Rome; but the +housekeeper assumed the responsibility of this action, and in writing +to Mrs. Melland justified the course she had taken by saying that +“she could not expect the other maids to work in the same house with +an unmarried girl in that condition.” Mrs. Melland, whose letter in +reply was full of the serious illness of poor little Anisette (one +of the Chows), that she had suffered in Egypt on account of a maid +giving it too much rice with its boned chicken, and how much better +it had been in Rome under the treatment of Doctor Lascati, made no +special reference to the question of Minnie Birdle, only saying that +“she was so sorry if Mrs. Bellingham was having trouble with these +tiresome servants.” + +The spring came and the summer, and the two inhabitants of Room 476 +eked out their miserable existence. One day Minnie would pull herself +together and get a day’s charing, and occasionally Mrs. Birdle +would struggle along to a laundry in Maida Vale where a benevolent +proprietress would pay her one shilling and threepence to do a +day’s ironing, for the old lady was rather neat with her hands. And +once when things were very desperate the brother of a nephew from +Walthamstow turned up. He was a small cabinet maker by trade, and +he agreed to allow them three shillings a week “till things righted +themselves a bit.” But nothing was seen of Meads, the groom. One +night Minnie was rather worse and the idea occurred to her that she +would like to send a message to him. It was right that he should +know. He had made no attempt to see her since she had left Mrs. +Melland’s service. She lay awake thinking of him and wondering how +she could send a message, when she suddenly thought of Old Fags. He +had been quiet of late, whether the demand for cigarette ends was +abating and he could not afford the luxuries that their disposal +seemed to supply, or whether he was keeping quiet for any ulterior +reason she was not able to determine. + +In the morning she sent her mother across to ask him if he would +“oblige by calling at Hyde Park Square and asking Mr. Meads if he +would oblige by calling at 476, Bolingbroke Buildings, to see Miss +Birdle.” There is no record of how Old Fags delivered this message, +but it is known that that same afternoon Mr. Meads did call. He left +about three-thirty in a great state of perturbation and in a very +bad temper. He passed Old Fags on the stairs, and the only comment +he made was: “I never have any luck! God help me!” and he did not +return, although he had apparently promised to do so. + +In a few weeks’ time the position of the occupants of Room 476 became +desperate. It was, in fact, a desperate time all round. Work was +scarce and money scarcer. Waves of ill-temper and depression swept +Bolingbroke Buildings. Mrs. Read had gone--heaven knows where. Even +Old Fags seemed at the end of his tether. True, he still managed to +secure his inevitable bottle, but the stews became scarcer and less +potent. All Mrs. Birdle’s time and energy were taken up in nursing +Minnie, and the two somehow existed on the money now increased to +four shillings a week, which the sympathetic cabinet maker from +Walthamstow allowed them. The question of rent was shelved. Four +shillings a week for two people means ceaseless gnawing hunger. The +widow and her daughter lost pride and hope, and further messages +to Mr. Meads failed to elicit any response. The widow became so +desperate that she even asked Old Fags one night if he could spare a +little stew for her daughter who was starving. The pungent odour of +the hot food was too much for her. Old Fags came to the door. + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said. “What trouble there is! Let’s see what +we can do!” + +He messed about for some time and then took it across to them. It +was a strange concoction. Meat that it would have been difficult +to know what to ask for at the butcher’s, and many bones, but the +onions seemed to pull it together. To any one starving it was good. +After that it became a sort of established thing--whenever Old +Fags _had_ a stew he sent some over to the widow and daughter. But +apparently things were not doing too well in the cigarette end trade, +for the stews became more and more intermittent, and sometimes were +desperately “boney.” + +And then one night a terrible climax was reached. Old Fags was +awakened in the night by fearful screams. There was a district nurse +in the next room, and also a student from a great hospital. No one +knows how it all affected Old Fags. He went out at a very unusual +hour in the early morning, and seemed more garrulous and meandering +in his speech. He stopped the widow in the passage and mumbled +incomprehensible solicitude. Minnie was very ill for three days, but +she recovered, faced by the insoluble proposition of feeding three +mouths instead of two, and two of them requiring enormous quantities +of milk. + +This terrible crisis brought out many good qualities in various +people. The cabinet maker sent ten shillings extra and others came +forward as though driven by some race instinct. Old Fags disappeared +for ten days after that. It was owing to an unfortunate incident +in Hyde Park when he insisted on sleeping on a flower bed with a +gin-bottle under his left arm, and on account of the uncompromising +attitude that he took up toward a policeman in the matter. When he +returned things were assuming their normal course. Mrs. Birdle’s +greeting was: + +“’Ullo, old ’un, we’ve missed your stoos.” + +But Old Fags had undoubtedly secured a more stable position in the +eyes of the Birdles, and one day he was even allowed to see the baby. + +He talked to it from the door. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said. “What a +beautiful little baby! What a dear little baby! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” + +The baby shrieked with unrestrained terror at sight of him, but that +night some more stew was sent in. + +Then the autumn came on. People whose romantic instincts had been +touched at the arrival of the child gradually lost interest and fell +away. The cabinet maker from Walthamstow wrote a long letter saying +that after next week the payment of the four shillings would have to +stop. He “hoped he had been of some help in their trouble, but that +things were going on all right now. Of course he had to think of his +own family first,” and so on. The lawyers of the remote landlord, +who was assiduously killing stags in Scotland, “regretted that their +client could not see his way to allow any further delay in the matter +of the payment of rent due.” The position of the Birdle family became +once more desperate. Old Mrs. Birdle had become frailer, and though +Minnie could now get about she found work difficult to obtain, +owing to people’s demand for a character from the last place. Their +thoughts once more reverted to Meads, and Minnie lay in wait for him +one morning as he was taking the dogs out. There was a very trying +scene ending in a very vulgar quarrel, and Minnie came home and cried +all the rest of the day and through half the night. Old Fags’s stews +became scarcer and less palatable. He, too, seemed in dire straits. + +We now come to an incident that we are ashamed to say owes its +inception to the effect of alcohol. It was a wretched morning in late +October, bleak and foggy. The blue-gray corridors of Bolingbroke +Buildings seemed to exude damp. The strident voices of the unkempt +children quarrelling in the courtyard below permeated the whole +Buildings. The strange odour that was its characteristic lay upon it +like the foul breath of some evil god. All its inhabitants seemed +hungry, wretched and vile. Their lives of constant protest seemed +for the moment lulled to a sullen indifference, whilst they huddled +behind their gloomy doors and listened to the rancorous railings of +their offspring. The widow Birdle and her daughter sat silently in +their room. The child was asleep. It had had its milk, and it would +have to have its milk whatever happened. The crumbs from the bread +the women had had at breakfast lay ungathered on the bare table. They +were both hungry and very desperate. There was a knock at the door, +Minnie went to it, and there stood Old Fags. He leered at them meekly +and under his arm carried a gin-bottle three parts full. + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said. “What a dreadful day! What a dreadful +day! Will you have a little drop of gin to comfort you? Now! What do +you say?” + +Minnie looked at her mother; in other days the door would have been +slammed in his face, but Old Fags had certainly been kind in the +matter of the stews. They asked him to sit down. Then old Mrs. Birdle +did accept “just a tiny drop” of gin, and they both persuaded Minnie +to have a little. Now neither of the women had had food of any worth +for days, and the gin went straight to their heads. It was already +in Old Fags’s head firmly established. The three immediately became +garrulous. They all talked volubly and intimately. The women railed +Old Fags about his dirt, but allowed that he had “a good ’eart.” They +talked longingly and lovingly about his “stoos,” and Old Fags said: + +“Well, my dears, you shall have the finest stoo you’ve ever had in +your lives to-night.” + +He repeated this nine times, only each time the whole sentence +sounded like one word. Then the conversation drifted to the child, +and the hard lot of parents, and by a natural sequence to Meads, its +father. Meads was discussed with considerable bitterness, and the +constant reiteration of the threat by the women that they meant “to +’ave the lor on ’im all right,” mingled with the jeering sophistries +of Old Fags on the “genalman’s behaviour,” and the impossibility of +expecting “a dog-groom to be sportsman,” lasted a considerable time. + +Old Fags talked expansively about “leaving it to him,” and somehow as +he stood there with his large puffy figure looming up in the dimly +lighted room, and waving his long arms, he appeared to the women +a figure of portentous significance. He typified powers they had +not dreamt of. Under the veneer of his hide-bound depravity Minnie +seemed to detect some slow-moving force trying to assert itself. He +meandered on in a vague monologue, using terms and expressions they +did not know the meaning of. He gave the impression of some fettered +animal launching a fierce indictment against the fact of its life. At +last he took up the gin-bottle and moved to the door and then leered +round the room. “You shall have the finest stoo you’ve ever had in +your life to-night, my dears!” He repeated this seven times again and +then went heavily out. + +That afternoon a very amazing fact was observed by several +inhabitants of Bolingbroke Buildings. Old Fags washed his face! He +went out about three o’clock without his sack. His face had certainly +been cleaned up and his clothes seemed in some mysterious fashion to +hold together. He went across Lisson Grove and made for Hyde Park +Square. He hung about for nearly an hour at the corner, and then he +saw a man come up the area steps of a house on the south side and +walk rapidly away. Old Fags followed him. He took a turning sharp to +the left through a mews and entered a narrow street at the end. There +he entered a deserted-looking pub. kept by an ex-butler and his wife. +He passed right through to a room at the back and called for some +beer. Before it was brought Old Fags was seated at the next table +ordering gin. + +“Dear, oh dear! what a wretched day!” said Old Fags. + +The groom grunted assent. But Old Fags was not to be put off by mere +indifference. He broke ground on one or two subjects that interested +the groom, one subject in particular being dog. He seemed to have a +profound knowledge of dog, and before Mr. Meads quite realized what +was happening he was trying gin in his beer at Old Fags’s expense. +The groom was feeling particularly morose that afternoon. His luck +seemed out. Bookmakers had appropriated several half-crowns that he +sorely begrudged, and he had other expenses. The beer-gin mixture +comforted him, and the rambling eloquence of the old fool who seemed +disposed to be content paying for drinks and talking, fitted in with +his mood. + +They drank and talked for a full hour, and at length got to a +subject that all men get to sooner or later if they drink and talk +long enough--the subject of woman. Mr. Meads became confiding and +philosophic. He talked of women in general and what triumphs and +adventures he had had among them in particular. But what a trial and +tribulation they had been to him in spite of all. Old Fags winked +knowingly and was splendidly comprehensive and tolerant of Meads’s +peccadillos. + +“It’s all a game,” said Meads. “You’ve got to manage ’em. There ain’t +much I don’t know, old bird!” + +Then suddenly Old Fags leaned forward in the dark room and said: + +“No, Mr. Meads, but you ought to play the game you know. Oh, dear, +yes!” + +“What do you mean, _Mister Meads_?” said that gentleman sharply. + +“Minnie Birdle, eh? you haven’t mentioned Minnie Birdle yet!” said +Old Fags. + +“What the devil are you talking about?” said Meads drunkenly. + +“She’s starving,” said Old Fags, “starving, wretched, alone with her +old mother and your child. Oh, dear! yes, it’s terrible!” + +Meads’s eyes flashed with a sullen frenzy, but fear was gnawing at +his heart, and he felt more disposed to placate this mysterious old +man than to quarrel with him. + +“I tell you I have no luck,” he said after a pause. Old Fags looked +at him gloomily and ordered some more gin. When it was brought he +said: + +“You ought to play the game, you know, Mr. Meads--after all--luck? +Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Would you rather be the woman? Five shillings a +week you know would----” + +“No, I’m damned if I do!” cried Meads fiercely. “It’s all right for +all these women. Gawd! How do I know if it’s true? Look here, old +bird, do you know I’m already done in for two five bobs a week, eh? +One up in Norfolk and the other at Enfield. Ten shillings a week +of my----money goes to these blasted women. No fear, no more, I’m +through with it!” + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” said Old Fags, and he moved a little further +into the shadow of the room and watched the groom out of the +depths of his sunken eyes. But Meads’s courage was now fortified +by the fumes of a large quantity of fiery alcohol, and he spoke +witheringly of women in general and seemed disposed to quarrel if +Old Fags disputed his right to place them in the position that Meads +considered their right and natural position. But Old Fags gave no +evidence of taking up the challenge: on the contrary he seemed to +suddenly shift his ground. He grinned and leered and nodded at +Meads’s string of coarse sophistry, and suddenly he touched him on +the arm and looked round the room and said very confidentially: + +“Oh, dear! yes, Mr. Meads. Don’t take too much to heart what I said.” + +And then he sniffed and whispered: + +“I could put you on to a very nice thing, Mr. Meads. I could +introduce you to a lady I know would take a fancy to you, and you to +her. Oh, dear, yes!” + +Meads pricked up his ears like a fox-terrier and his small eyes +glittered. + +“Oh!” he said. “Are you one of those, eh, old bird? Who is she?” + +Old Fags took out a piece of paper and fumbled with a pencil. He then +wrote down a name and address somewhere at Shepherd’s Bush. + +“What’s a good time to call?” said Meads. + +“Between six and seven,” answered Old Fags. + +“Oh, hell!” said Meads, “I can’t do it. I’ve got to get back and take +the dogs out at half-past five, old bird. From half-past five to +half-past six. The missus is back, she’ll kick up a hell of a row.” + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” said Old Fags. “What a pity! The young lady is +going away, too!” + +He thought for a moment, and then an idea seemed to strike him. + +“Look here, would you like me to meet you and take the dogs round the +park till you return?” + +“What!” said Meads. “Trust you with a thousand pounds’ worth of dogs! +Not much!” + +“No, no, of course not, I hadn’t thought of that!” said Old Fags +humbly. + +Meads looked at him, and it is very difficult to tell what it was +about the old man that gave him a sudden feeling of complete trust. +The ingenuity of his speech, the ingratiating confidence that a +mixture of beer-gin gives, tempered by the knowledge that famous +pedigree Pekinese would be almost impossible to dispose of, perhaps +it was a combination of these motives. In any case a riotous impulse +drove him to fall in with Old Fags’s suggestion, and he made the +appointment for half-past five. + + * * * * * + +Evening had fallen early, and a fine rain was driving in fitful gusts +when the two met at the corner of Hyde Park. There were ten little +dogs on their lead, and Meads with a cap pulled close over his eyes. + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Old Fags as he approached. “What dear +little dogs! What dear little dogs!” + +Meads handed the lead over to Old Fags, and asked more precise +instructions of the way to get to the address. + +“What are you wearing that canvas sack inside your coat for, old +bird, eh?” asked Meads, when these instructions had been given. + +“Oh, my dear sir,” said Old Fags. “If you had the asthma like I get +it, and no underclothes on these damp days! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” + +He wheezed drearily and Meads gave him one or two more exhortations +about the extreme care and tact he was to observe. + +“Be very careful with that little Chow on the left lead. ’E’s got his +coat on, see? ’E’s ’ad a chill and you must keep ’im on the move. +Gently, see?” + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Poor little chap! What’s his name?” said Old +Fags. + +“Pelleas,” answered Mr. Meads. + +“Oh, poor little Pelleas! Poor little Pelleas! Come along. You won’t +be too long, Mr. Meads, will you?” + +“You bet I won’t,” said the groom, and nodding he crossed the road +rapidly and mounting a Shepherd’s Bush motor-bus he set out on his +journey to an address that didn’t exist. + +Old Fags ambled slowly round the Park, snuffling and talking to the +dogs. He gauged the time when Meads would be somewhere about Queen’s +Road, then he ambled slowly back to the point from which he had +started. With extreme care he piloted the small army across the high +road and led them in the direction of Paddington. He drifted with +leisurely confidence through a maze of small streets. Several people +stopped and looked at the dogs, and the boys barked and mimicked +them, but nobody took the trouble to look at Old Fags. At length he +came to a district where their presence seemed more conspicuous. +Rows of squalid houses and advertisement hoardings. He slightly +increased his pace, and a very stout policeman standing outside a +funeral furnisher’s glanced at him with a vague suspicion. However, +in strict accordance with an ingrained officialism that hates to act +“without instructions,” he let the cortège pass. Old Fags wandered +through a wretched street that seemed entirely peopled by children. +Several of them came up and followed the dogs. + +“Dear little dogs, aren’t they? Oh my, yes, dear little dogs!” he +said to the children. At last he reached a broad gloomy thoroughfare +with low irregular buildings on one side, and an interminable length +of hoardings on the other that screened a strip of land by the +railway--land that harboured a wilderness of tins and garbage. Old +Fags led the dogs along by the hoarding. It was very dark. Three +children, who had been following, tired of the pastime, had drifted +away. He went along once more. There was a gap in a hoarding on which +was notified that “Pogram’s Landaulettes could be hired for the +evening at an inclusive fee of two guineas. Telephone, 47901 Mayfair.” + +The meagre light from a street lamp thirty yards away revealed a +colossal coloured picture of a very beautiful young man and woman +stepping out of a car and entering a gorgeous restaurant, having +evidently just enjoyed the advantage of this peerless luxury. Old +Fags went on another forty yards and then returned. There was no one +in sight. + +“Oh, dear little dogs,” he said. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What dear +little dogs! Just through here, my pretty pets. Gentle, Pelleas! +Gently, very gently! There, there, there! Oh, what dear little dogs!” + +He stumbled forward through the quagmire of desolation, picking his +way as though familiar with every inch of ground, to the further +corner where it was even darker, and where the noise of shunting +freight trains drowned every other murmur of the night. + + * * * * * + +It was eight o’clock when Old Fags reached his room in Bolingbroke +Buildings carrying his heavily laden sack across his shoulders. The +child in Room 476 had been peevish and fretful all the afternoon +and the two women were lying down exhausted. They heard Old Fags +come in. He seemed very busy, banging about with bottles and tins +and alternately coughing and wheezing. But soon the potent aroma of +onions reached their nostrils and they knew he was preparing to keep +his word. + +At nine o’clock he staggered across with a steaming saucepan of hot +stew. In contrast to the morning’s conversation, which though devoid +of self-consciousness, had taken on at times an air of moribund +analysis, making little stabs at fundamental things, the evening +passed off on a note of almost joyous levity. The stew was extremely +good to the starving women, and Old Fags developed a vein of +fantastic pleasantry. He talked unceasingly, sometimes on things they +understood, sometimes on matters of which they were entirely ignorant +and sometimes he appeared to them obtuse, maudlin and incoherent. + +Nevertheless he brought to their room a certain light-hearted +raillery that had never visited it before. No mention was made of +Meads. The only blemish to the serenity of this bizarre supper party +was that Old Fags developed intervals of violent coughing, intervals +when he had to walk around the room and beat his chest. These fits +had the unfortunate result of waking the baby. When this undesirable +result had occurred for the fourth time Old Fags said: + +“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! This won’t do! Oh, no, this won’t do. I must go +back to my hotel!” a remark that caused paroxysms of mirth to old +Mrs. Birdle. + +Nevertheless, Old Fags retired and it was then just on eleven +o’clock. The women went to bed, and all through the night Minnie +heard the old man coughing. And while he is lying in this unfortunate +condition let us follow the movements of Mr. Meads. + +Meads jumped off the ’bus at Shepherd’s Bush and hurried quickly +in the direction that Old Fags had instructed him. He asked three +people for the Pomeranian Road before an errand boy told him that he +“believed it was somewhere off Giles Avenue,” but at Giles Avenue no +one seemed to know it. He retraced his steps in a very bad temper and +enquired again. Five other people had never heard of it. So he went +to a post office and a young lady in charge informed him that there +was no such road in the neighbourhood. + +He tried other roads whose names vaguely resembled it, then he +came to the conclusion “that that blamed old fool had made a silly +mistake.” He took a ’bus back with a curious fear gnawing at the pit +of his stomach, a fear that he kept thrusting back; he dare not allow +himself to contemplate it. It was nearly seven-thirty when he got +back to Hyde Park and his eye quickly scanned the length of railing +near which Old Fags was to be. Immediately that he saw no sign of him +or the little dogs, a horrible feeling of physical sickness assailed +him. The whole truth flashed through his mind. He saw the fabric of +his life crumble to dust. He was conscious of visions of past acts +and misdeeds tumbling over each other in a furious kaleidoscope. + +The groom was terribly frightened. Mrs. Bastien-Melland would be in +at eight o’clock to dinner, and the first thing she would ask for +would be the little dogs. They were never supposed to go out after +dark, but he had been busy that afternoon and arranged to take them +out later. How was he to account for himself and their loss? He +visualized himself in a dock, and all sorts of other horrid things +coming up--a forged character, an affair in Norfolk and another at +Enfield, and a little trouble with a bookmaker seven years ago. For +he felt convinced that the dogs had gone for ever, and Old Fags with +them. + +He cursed blindly in his soul at his foul luck and the wretched +inclination that had lured him to drink “beer-gin” with the old +thief. Forms of terrific vengeance passed through his mind, if he +should meet the old devil again. In the meantime what should he do? +He had never even thought of making Old Fags give him any sort of +address. He dared not go back to Hyde Park Square without the dogs. +He ran breathlessly up and down peering in every direction. Eight +o’clock came and there was still no sign! Suddenly he remembered +Minnie Birdle. He remembered that the old ruffian had mentioned and +seemed to know Minnie Birdle. It was a connection that he had hoped +to have wiped out of his life, but the case was desperate. + +Curiously enough, during his desultory courtship of Minnie he had +never been to her home, but on the only occasion when he had visited +it, after the birth of the child, he had done so under the influence +of three pints of beer, and he hadn’t the faintest recollection now +of the number or the block. He hurried there, however, in feverish +trepidation. Now Bolingbroke Buildings harbour some eight hundred +people, and it is a remarkable fact that although the Birdles had +lived there about a year, of the eleven people that Meads asked not +one happened to know the name. People develop a profound sense of +self-concentration in Bolingbroke Buildings. Meads wandered up all +the stairs and through the slate-tile passages. Twice he passed their +door without knowing it: on the first occasion only five minutes +after Old Fags had carried a saucepan of steaming stew from No. 475 +to No. 476. + +At ten o’clock he gave it up. He had four shillings on him and he +adjourned to a small “pub.” hard by and ordered a tankard of ale, +and, as an afterthought, three pennyworth of gin which he mixed in +it. Probably he thought that this mixture, which was so directly +responsible for the train of tragic circumstances that encompassed +him, might continue to act in some manner toward a more desirable +conclusion. It did indeed drive him to action of a sort, for he sat +there drinking and smoking Navy Cut cigarettes, and by degrees he +evolved a most engaging but impossible story of being lured to the +river by three men and chloroformed, and when he came to, finding +that the dogs and the men had gone. He drank a further quantity of +“beer-gin” and rehearsed his rôle in detail, and at length brought +himself to the point of facing Mrs. Bastien-Melland.... + +It was the most terrifying ordeal of his life. The servants +frightened him for a start. They almost shrieked when they saw him +and drew back. Mrs. Bastien-Melland had left word that he was to go +to a breakfast-room in the basement directly he came in and she +would see him. There was a small dinner party on that evening and +an agitated game of bridge. Meads had not stood on the hearthrug of +the breakfast-room two minutes before he heard the foreboding swish +of skirts, the door burst open and Mrs. Bastien-Melland stood before +him, a thing of penetrating perfumes, high-lights and trepidation. + +She just said “Well!” and fixed her hard bright eyes on him. Meads +launched forth into his improbable story, but he dared not look at +her. He tried to gather together the pieces of the tale he had so +carefully rehearsed in the “pub.,” but he felt like some helpless +bark at the mercy of a hostile battle fleet, the searchlights of +Mrs. Melland’s cruel eyes were concentrated on him, while a flotilla +of small diamonds on her heaving bosom winked and glittered with +a dangerous insolence. He was stumbling over a phrase about the +effects of chloroform when he became aware that Mrs. Melland was not +listening to the matter of his story, she was only concerned with the +manner. Her lips were set and her straining eyes insisted on catching +his. He looked full at her and caught his breath and stopped. + +Mrs. Melland still staring at him was moving slowly to the door. +A moment of panic seized him. He mumbled something and also moved +toward the door. Mrs. Melland was first to grip the handle. Meads +made a wild dive and seized her wrist. But Mrs. Bastien-Melland came +of a hard-riding Yorkshire family. She did not lose her head. She +struck him across the mouth with her flat hand, and as he reeled +back she opened the door and called to the servants. Suddenly Meads +remembered that the rooms had a French window on to the garden. He +pushed her clumsily against the door and sprang across the room. He +clutched wildly at the bolts while Mrs. Melland’s voice was ringing +out: + +“Catch that man! Hold him! Catch thief!” + +But before the other servants had had time to arrive he managed +to get through the door and to pull it to after him. His hand was +bleeding with cuts from broken glass but he leapt the wall and got +into the shadow of some shrubs three gardens away. He heard whistles +blowing and the dominant voice of Mrs. Melland directing a hue and +cry. He rested some moments, then panic seized him and he laboured +over another wall and found the passage of a semi-detached house. +A servant opened a door and looked out and screamed. He struck her +wildly and unreasonably on the shoulder and rushed up some steps and +got into a front garden. There was no one there and he darted into +the street and across the road. + +In a few minutes he was lost in a labyrinth of back streets and +laughing hysterically to himself. He had two shillings and eightpence +on him. He spent fourpence of this on whisky, and then another +fourpence just before the pubs. closed. He struggled vainly to +formulate some definite plan of campaign. The only point that seemed +terribly clear to him was that he must get away. He knew Mrs. Melland +only too well. She would spare no trouble in hunting him down. She +would exact the uttermost farthing. It meant gaol and ruin. The +obvious impediment to getting away was that he had no money and no +friends. He had not sufficient strength of character to face a tramp +life. He had lived too long in the society of the pampered Pekinese. +He loved comfort. + +Out of the simmering tumult of his soul grew a very definite +passion--the passion of hate. He developed a vast, bitter, scorching +hatred for the person who had caused this ghastly climax to his +unfortunate career--Old Fags. He went over the whole incidents of the +day again, rapidly recalling every phase of Old Fags’s conversation +and manner. What a blind fool he was not to have seen through the +filthy old swine’s game! But what had he done with the dogs? Sold the +lot for a pound, perhaps! The idea made Meads shiver. He slouched +through the streets harbouring his pariah-like lust. + + * * * * * + +We will not attempt to record the psychologic changes that harassed +the soul of Mr. Meads during the next two days and nights, the ugly +passions that stirred him and beat their wings against the night, +the tentative intuitions urging toward some vague new start, +the various compromises he made with himself, his weakness and +inconsistency that found him bereft of any quality other than the +sombre shadow of some ill-conceived revenge. We will only note that +on the evening of the day we mention he turned up at Bolingbroke +Buildings. His face was haggard and drawn, his eyes blood-shot and +his clothes tattered and muddy. His appearance and demeanour was +unfortunately not so alien to the general character of Bolingbroke +Buildings as to attract any particular attention, and he slunk like a +wolf through the dreary passages and watched the people come and go. + +It was at about a quarter to ten when he was going along a passage +in Block “F” that he suddenly saw Minnie Birdle come out of one door +and go into another. His small eyes glittered and he went on tip-toe. +He waited till Minnie was quite silent in her room and then he went +stealthily to Room 475. He tried the handle and it gave. He opened +the door and peered in. There was a cheap tin lamp guttering on a box +that dimly revealed a room of repulsive wretchedness. The furniture +seemed mostly to consist of bottles and rags. But in one corner on a +mattress he beheld the grinning face of his enemy--Old Fags. Meads +shut the door silently and stood with his back to it. + +“Oh!” he said. “So here we are at last, old bird, eh!” + +This move was apparently a supremely successful dramatic coup, for +Old Fags lay still, paralyzed with fear, no doubt. + +“So this is our little ’ome, eh?” he continued, “where we bring +little dogs and sell ’em. What have you got to say, you old----” + +The groom’s face blazed into a sudden accumulated fury. He thrust his +chin forward and let forth a volley of frightful and blasting oaths. +But Old Fags didn’t answer; his shiny face seemed to be intensely +amused with this outburst. + +“We got to settle our little account, old bird, see?” and the +suppressed fury of his voice denoted some physical climax. “Why the +hell don’t you answer?” he suddenly shrieked, and springing forward +he lashed Old Fags across the cheek. + +And then a terrible horror came over him. The cheek he had struck was +as cold as marble and the head fell a little impotently to one side. +Trembling, as though struck with an ague, the groom picked up the +guttering lamp and held it close to the face of Old Fags. It was set +in an impenetrable repose, the significance of which even the groom +could not misunderstand. The features were calm and childlike, lit by +a half smile of splendid tolerance that seemed to have over-ridden +the temporary buffets of a queer world. Meads had no idea how long he +stood there gazing horror-struck at the face of his enemy. He only +knew that he was presently conscious that Minnie Birdle was standing +by his side and as he looked at her, her gaze was fixed on Old Fags +and a tear was trickling down either cheek. + +“’E’s dead,” she said. “Old Fags is dead. ’E died this morning of +noomonyer.” + +She said this quite simply as though it was a statement that +explained the wonder of her presence. She did not look at Meads or +seem aware of him. He watched the flickering light from the lamp +illumining the underside of her chin and nostrils and her quivering +brows. + +“’E’s dead,” she said again, and the statement seemed to come as an +edict of dismissal as though love and hatred and revenge had no place +in these fundamental things. Meads looked from her to the tousled +head leaning slightly to one side of the mattress and he felt himself +in the presence of forces he could not comprehend. He put the lamp +back quietly on the box and tip-toed from the room. + +Out once more in the night, his breath came quickly and a certain +buoyancy drove him on. He dared not contemplate the terror of that +threshold upon which he had almost trodden. He only knew that out of +the surging mælstrom of irresolution some fate had gripped him. He +walked with a certain elasticity in the direction of Millwall. There +would be doss-houses and docks there and many a good ship that glided +forth to strange lands, carrying human freight of whom few questions +would be asked, for the ship wanted them to ease her way through the +regenerating seas.... + +And in the cold hours of the early dawn Minnie Birdle lay awake +listening to the rhythmic breathing of her child. And she thought +of that strange old man less terrible now in his mask of death than +when she had first known him. No one to-morrow would follow to +his pauper’s grave, and yet at one time--who knows? She dared not +speculate upon the tangled skein of this difficult life that had +brought him to this. She only knew that somehow from it she had drawn +a certain vibrant force that made her build a monster resolution. Her +child! She would be strong, she would throw her frail body between it +and the shafts of an unthinking world. She leant across it, listening +intensely, then kissed the delicate down upon its skull, crooning +with animal satisfaction at the smell of its warm soft flesh. + + + + +THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT + + +In reconstructing the sombre story which gathered round the +professional association of those two clever men, James Wray and +Francis Vallery, it is necessary to know a little of their early +life and up-bringing. I am indebted very considerably to my friend, +Timothy Rallish, for the light of his somewhat sardonic perceptions +upon the character of Wray. They were at Marlborough together, and +afterward at Oxford, although at different colleges; Timothy at +Oriel, and Wray--as one would naturally expect--at Balliol. + +“I used to like him,” said Timothy. “I suppose I was the only chap +who did. They hated him at Marlborough; he was so confoundedly +pious. Up at Oxford it was not so bad. There are always such a lot +of precious people at Balliol; it doesn’t stand out so. He was an +idealist, without a conscience, if you know what I mean. He set up +impossible standards, never attempted to live up to them, or to +observe whether any one else attempted to. His contempt for his +fellow-creatures was almost abnormal. I think the whole attitude in +some queer way came out of his music-madness. Music was the absorbing +passion of his life, and even for the best of that he never +appeared to have a very great opinion. I believe he thought that +Bach’s compositions were not too bad, and for Beethoven he sometimes +indulged in mild patronage. Schumann bored him, so did Wagner, and +for Chopin’s ‘sentimental tripe’ he had no use.” + +“I am talking now of Wray between the age of seventeen and +twenty-three--the age when one’s critical faculties are relentless, +when one knows every darned thing, don’t you know. I can’t tell +why I liked Wray. He did not--and never has--liked me. Perhaps +there was something about the profundity of his discontent which +appealed to me--his restlessness and detachment. I like people who +are dissatisfied. But there was more than that about him: he was a +spiritual wanton. I believe he would have sacrificed a city full of +babies to perfect one musical phrase. You see, there was no reason at +all why he should have gone up to Oxford. He was only interested in +music, which has never been properly taught there. I think he liked +to compose tone-poems in the society of rich men’s sons who were only +interested in sports and rag-time. The contact satisfied some cynical +kink in his own nature. It was certainly nothing to do with the +mediævalism of Oxford, which only bored him. O Lord! The things which +bored Jimmy Wray when he was twenty-three!” + +“At that time,” I asked, “do you know anything of his standard of +accomplishments?” + +“Very little,” replied Timothy. “Of course I know nothing about +music myself, but people who did know something used to differ +considerably about Wray. I got the general impression that he was +talented in a nebulous kind of way; that he had ideas but that they +were too involved; that he could create atmosphere but that he +couldn’t construct. He was a very pretty boy at that time, with a +thin æsthetic face, dark reflective eyes and two pink spots in the +centre of each cheek. He had got out of all sport on the ground that +he had a weak heart. It is certainly true that his father--who made a +small fortune out of accordion-pleated skirts--died at an early age +from heart disease. His mother was a gentle negative kind of woman, +who lived at Bournemouth, knitted things for people, and distributed +prizes at Girls’ Friendly Societies. He also had two sisters, one, I +believe, dabbled in Christian Science, the other married a sanitary +inspector. They played no great part in Wray’s life, neither did +any of them, or any relative or ancestor, as far as I can find out, +supply any note to account for the peculiarly individual precocity of +James himself. Afterward, when he became famous, the whole family was +almost shocked.” + +This conversation with Timothy impressed itself on my memory very +vividly, for it occurred just after I had had an interview with +Wray’s mother. At that time the study and analysis of suppressions +and complexes had not reached the degree of fashionable absurdity +which it has at the present day, but neurosis has always been a +popular complaint amongst those people unlucky enough to be able to +afford to indulge in it. As an ordinary, rather over-worked local +practitioner, I can only give my opinion that neurosis only exists +amongst that small minority of people who do not have to fight for +existence. + +It appears to me that this instinct of fighting for existence is born +in every man or woman. When circumstances rob them of it they are +apt to raise some artificial standard and fight for that, for fight +they must. We have not reached the millennium. During my thirty-three +years’ experience in the medical profession I have never yet met the +case of a man or a woman who worked hard for a living being neurotic, +unless his or her constitution was already undermined by neurotic +parentage. You may say that an artificial standard is as good a thing +to fight for as a real standard, and so it may be. A man who fights +for some spiritual cause is certainly as justified as a man who +fights to earn bread and wine. It is all a question of equipoise. But +a man who in Timothy’s terms would “sacrifice a city full of babies +to perfect one musical phrase” is in my opinion a lunatic. + +But I am perfectly willing to admit that I may be wrong. For all I +know the whole social fabric may be changing its face values. We can +only act according to our lights. When Wray’s mother came and spoke +to me about him I knew nothing about the man. He was thirty-one +then. I can see her now, that gentle old lady, with silver curls +and pleading eyes, extremely confiding and rather outraged. Such +things didn’t happen at Bournemouth. But, dear her, Jimmy had only +been to Bournemouth once, and he refused to go again because--the +trams didn’t run on Sundays and it took him two hours to walk out +of the town! Was ever such a ridiculous excuse offered! He was a +dear boy, a lovable, clever--oh, brilliantly clever!--boy, but quite +incomprehensible, and with such awful moods. Then with great solemn +shaking curls, bobbing above the stiff corsets, worse than that--a +terrible temper ... cruel, vindictive, he might do anything in such +moods. She regarded me alertly. I think she thought I might prescribe +some pills--they do that in Bournemouth--one to be taken night and +morning, will cure asthma, sluggish liver or homicidal mania. + +I remarked obligingly that I would see the young man. But how was +that to be done? He lived in Chelsea, a terrible, irreligious suburb +of London, inhabited by artists and others ... quite irresponsible +people. Besides, he was so exclusive, so apt to be rude, even violent +and abusive. He detested strangers. He was altogether so unlike his +dear papa, who treated everyone even his _work-people_ as though +they were equals! And then came the terrible crux of the story. It +appeared that on Jimmy Wray’s solitary visit to Bournemouth he had +murdered a cat. Not, mark you, an ordinary stray, vagabond cat, +but his mother’s cat, his mother’s own darling Pee-Wee. The cat, it +appeared, had annoyed him for several nights when he was sitting up +late, trying to compose. He had warned his mother that something +would have to be done. He had appeared haggard and distraught in the +mornings. But Mrs. Wray had not taken the matter very seriously. Such +a trivial affair! Dear Pee-Wee! He was often like that. He made funny +noises in the night.... There were several cats in the neighbouring +houses, doubtless friends of Pee-Wee’s. And then one night the +appalling thing happened. Jimmy got up about one o’clock. He went out +and picked up a piece of plank. He beat the cat to a pulp! He had +never been to Bournemouth since. What can you suggest, Doctor Parsons? + +I am quite sure that I should have suggested nothing, done nothing, +had I not soon after come in touch with Timothy Rallish, who reported +upon Wray in the manner I have stated. I was amused to hear Timothy +say that he didn’t know why he liked Wray. I knew the reason. It was +because Timothy couldn’t help liking every one. He was that kind of +boy--rather short and stocky, with ingenuous blue eyes which sparkled +at you through enormous gold-rimmed glasses. He found life absorbing. +He had scrambled through Oxford, accomplishing nothing of note beyond +making himself popular. His people were poor, and on coming down from +Oxford he had plunged into the vagaries of journalism. + +He was full of enthusiasms, and was always doing the donkey-work +for some quack. He had a genius for compiling and card-indexing. He +edited and subedited various treatises and anthologies. I remember +that he once wrote a book with the impressive title, “Concentrate,” +for a South African pseudo-medical gentleman, who lived in +Westminster and charged three guineas a visit for the treatment of +concentration. Timothy wrote every word of the book, but when it +was published the author was announced as Mr. Hambro MacManus, and +this red-haired South African Scot who arranged his rooms in such +a theatrical way in Ashley Gardens, and made mysterious passes and +grunts over the back of people’s heads, claimed the credit for it, +and also the royalties. Timothy thought the whole episode extremely +amusing. + +“I never mind paying for experience,” he said. “Poor old Mac! He was +quite wrong in most of his theories, but somehow I liked him.” + +When I told Timothy about my interview with Mrs. Wray he was wildly +enthusiastic at the idea of my visiting Jimmy Wray when I next went +to London. + +“It’s no good going to him as a medical man, or letting him know +that his mother sent you. You must just meet him socially. He is +just possible on occasions. I could easily work it for you. I could +introduce you when you are up in town. You could meet him casually at +the Albatross Club or the Café Royale. I should love to know what +you think of him.” + +The whole matter passed out of my mind till five months later when I +had occasion to visit London for a few days in connection with the +idea of purchasing a half-practice from an old medical friend of mine +in West Kensington. + +Timothy immediately looked me up and reminded me about Wray. His +method was characteristic. He came into my bedroom at the little +hotel at Paddington, and, striking a sentimental attitude, began +humming a well-known popular song. When I asked him what his +particular ailment was he laughed and said: + +“Don’t you know that tune?” + +“I’ve heard it, I believe.” + +“That’s ‘The Sheen of thy Golden Tresses,’ the most popular song of +the day, words by Francis Vallery, music by James Wray. How are the +mighty fallen!” + +I met Wray that same evening at the Albatross Club. Either Timothy’s +estimate of him was distorted, or he had altered considerably, or +else we had struck him on a good night. He was quite charming to me. +His dress was certainly a little affected, but he was still very +good looking, and he had a quiet sense of fun, and was prepared to +listen and to be entertained. I observed that he was appreciably +more friendly to me than he was to Timothy. He had a curious high, +rather squeaky voice as though it had never cracked, and a laugh +that corresponded. I could understand that this characteristic of +him might easily get on one’s nerves after a time. But on the whole +I could find little to criticize about the man or his behaviour. He +even invited me to visit him in his rooms at Chelsea. And there two +nights later I met the great Francis Vallery. + +In looking back after all these years, and trying to analyze +the character of James Wray, it is impossible to do so without +associating it with that of Francis Vallery. Their lives and +characters dove-tailed and reacted upon one another in a bewildering +degree. Physically, they were a strange contrast. Vallery was a +heavy, masterful-looking man, with a wide loose mouth, sloping +forehead, and cynical, watchful eyes. He was normally taciturn, +unresponsive, and curiously brusque in his manners. By comparison +Wray seemed slim, debonair, almost unsubstantial. I do not think they +really liked each other from the first. On that evening when I saw +them together in the Chelsea flat, I could tell by the expression of +Vallery’s face that Wray’s high reedy voice and laughter irritated +him. I also came to the conclusion before the evening was over that +Vallery had a beast of a temper. + +Once an argumentative young student made a remark contradicting a +statement of Vallery’s, and I saw the latter’s eyes blaze with anger +and saliva ooze to the corners of his large mouth. He said nothing, +however. When we were leaving, the man in the hall handed him his +overcoat the wrong way round. Vallery snatched it angrily from his +grasp and growled. I knew that Wray was also capable of murdering +a cat in a fit of passion, so I said to myself that the happy +association which produced “The Sheen of thy Golden Tresses” was not +very likely to last. + +And then comes the strange aspect of the case. The association +between Wray and Vallery lasted for twenty-seven years, and became a +by-word amongst English-speaking peoples. + +In justice to the memory of them both I would like to hasten to add +that they never again did anything quite so bad as “The Sheen of thy +Golden Tresses.” This song was a little difficult to account for. It +was in a way their meeting ground, the plank from which they sprang. +It was quite understandable Vallery writing the words, but quite +incomprehensible Wray composing the music. It is not known and never +will be known by what method or means Vallery influenced Wray to +suddenly forsake his precious muse and write this appalling song. For +a man who up to that time had considered Chopin “sentimental tripe” +to turn suddenly round and write this ballad, which was devoid of any +subtlety or distinction, is one of those things one can only state +and leave to the imagination of the reader to account for. Vallery +had certainly written a good deal of sentimental prose tripe at that +time, but nothing quite so bad as that. I think they were both a +little ashamed of the song, and never mentioned it. It was nearly a +year before anything else sprang from their united efforts, and then +was produced the musical play, “The Oasis.” + +“The Oasis” was a great success and ran at the Lyric for over a +year. It was an astonishingly clever work, notable for its complete +unity. The words appeared to inspire the music; the music was a vivid +expression of the words. You could not think of one without the +other. If Vallery’s libretto appeared ingenious and suggestive of +melody, Wray’s music had a literary and whimsical flavour of its own +which helped the context enormously. It appeared as though from two +extreme poles both men had gone half way to meet the other. Vallery +had had little education. He was the son of an unsuccessful bookmaker +from Nottingham. + +Up to that time he had been known as a writer of jingles and sporting +articles, but in “The Oasis” he displayed a considerable ingenuity +of construction and a really mordant sense of fun. Wray came halfway +down from his pinnacle of involved and atmospheric experiment to +write simple melodic airs. It was rather amusing to observe in this +work, and in others that followed, how he cunningly employed some of +the lesser known themes of the despised Schumann and Chopin, adapted +them, elaborated them and converted them into “songs of the day!” + +Timothy and I, and some of the others who knew them both, were +naturally intrigued to see how the personal side of the association +worked. Timothy offered to bet me five pounds that they would quarrel +and separate within six months. It certainly seemed remarkable that +they did not. It may have been a fortunate factor that two men +working together on these lines do not necessarily work in the same +room. Vallery brought Wray the libretto, and probably discussed it a +little. He was profoundly ignorant of the technical side of music. +Wray wrote the music and the lyrics; his partner was clever enough to +see that these were good and there was little for him to criticize. +They may have discussed joins, and turns and intervals, but there +were no great points of cleavage over which they would be likely to +fall foul. + +During the succeeding five years, four Wray-Vallery productions were +staged in London and New York, and companies went on the road with +them. By that time they had established their reputation as a unique +combination. They were beginning to make money and to be big people +in the theatrical world. And Timothy and I were still awaiting the +great quarrel. I had by that time joined my friend Doctor Brill +in West Kensington, so that I was able to indulge occasionally in +the society of Timothy’s friends and to visit the theatre. The +Wray-Vallery plays were a constant delight to me. I really believe +that Timothy was more interested in the men than in their plays. But +then he was like that. He would come and report to me the latest +scandal concerning them, and indeed their behaviour was always open +to criticism of some sort. + +One evening Vallery was arrested for assaulting the head waiter at +the Amalfi restaurant because he moved his walking-stick from the +corner of the room to an umbrella-stand. He escaped with a fine and a +little gentle bantering from the Press. The more successful he became +the more overbearing became his manners. He hardly troubled to speak +to anyone, unless it was a pretty woman, or someone to whom it paid +him to be polite. Upon Wray the effect was almost as disastrous, +although it touched him in a different way. His manners in some ways +improved, that is to say, he was more sociable and amenable. On the +other hand he became more shallow and insincere, more of a _poseur_. + +He adopted the garb of the eccentric genius. He was wildly +extravagant, and took parties of girls to the Café Royale, and +to an ornate bungalow he had hired at Maidenhead. He became less +self-opinionated, but it was done as though opinion--no one’s +opinion--was of any consequence. It was as though he had lost +something and the knowledge of it made him desperate. It was a known +fact that during those early years of their association Wray and +Vallery sometimes quarrelled, but the quarrel never reached an open +rupture. Once Wray appeared in my consulting-room. He was looking +haggard and ill. When I asked him the trouble he said: + +“I’m not sleeping, Parsons.” + +I advised the usual remedies, recommended a complete rest and change, +but as I watched the restless movements of his features I realized +how inadequate is the authority of a medical man. We may sometimes +make a shrewd guess at the basic cause of a disaster, but no medicine +or advice will cure a megalomaniac. Just as he was about to go he +turned to me and with one of his quick appealing looks he gasped: + +“I hate that man, Vallery!” + +So you see the old faith in the fetish does not die. What did Wray +expect me to do? Possibly he would have been better advised to +have gone to a priest. That is, if he could have found a really +nice impressive priest, any one would have done, if they had only +had sufficient strength of character to change Wray. I thought of +his rather futile old mother and I felt sorry for him. I said what +I could. I tried to persuade him to give up his association with +Vallery. I pointed out that his health was more important than his +material success. It wasn’t that, he tried to explain, not just the +material success. He had quite a decent private income (inherited +from his father in the accordion-pleated line). Then what was it? +Wray was quite incoherent. He went off late in the evening, and I +noticed after he had gone that he had left the prescription I had +given him on the table in the hall! + +On discussing the matter afterward with Timothy I said: + +“What is it that keeps these men together?” + +And for all it may be worth I will quote just what Timothy replied. +For Timothy at that time had just married a charming girl, a former +typist to a dental surgeon in Kilburn, and he was becoming something +of a philosopher. This is what Timothy said: + +“It is the angel of accomplishment, old man. When people are working, +doing things together, especially if they are doing them in the face +of difficulties, there is always some queer genie which presides over +their affections. Comrades in battle, however opposed they may be +temperamentally.... Chaps who row in the same boat, play in the same +team at cricket or football, or are up against things together. The +angel of accomplishment presides over their fate. It’s afterward, +or when they lose that united sense of conflict, that the trouble +sometimes comes.” + +In the light of what followed I found Timothy’s remarks interesting. +It was during the production of their sixth success, “The Apple-pie +Bed,” that the biggest cloud that had so far gathered over the +Wray-Vallery combination made its appearance. And, as one might +expect, it came in the form of a woman. Lydia Looe played the part +of the _ingènue_, Myra, in “The Apple-pie Bed.” She was a pretty +girl, not quite so ingenuous as she appeared on the stage, but in +any case too good for either James Wray or Francis Vallery, who were +both approaching a rather dilapidated middle-age. How their rivalry +over the charms of this new discovery never reached a crisis is a +mystery to me. I spent a Sunday evening at Wray’s flat when all +concerned were present, and the look of venom that passed between the +two men at the slightest success of either upon the lady’s favour +was positively frightening. The competition lasted eight months and +Vallery appeared to be winning. + +“If the matter is really settled,” I thought, “I shall dread to pick +up my newspaper.” + +Let me add that all this time the two men were working on a new +play, “The Island in Arabia.” Timothy said he had seen the figure +of Wray all muffled up, hanging about outside Vallery’s house in +Knightsbridge late at night “looking like an apache.” The crash was +surely about to come, but in July the Gordian knot was severed by +Lydia Looe running away with the business manager of a jam and pickle +factory. “The Island in Arabia” was produced the following month +and became one of the biggest successes of the series. We all hoped +that the episode of Lydia Looe would tend to reconcile the two men, +and so apparently it did. But the following year Vallery publicly +accused Wray of swindling him. There was a fearful dispute between +principals and their lawyers and the matter came into court. I forget +the details of the case but it principally concerned the royalties on +the songs published separately from the score. I know that Wray lost +the case and that it cost him thousands of pounds. + +He went on the continent and married a wealthy Hungarian widow, +and we all believed that England had seen the last of him. But as +though not to be outdone in this, Vallery also married. His marriage +was about as disastrous an affair as ever disgraced the records of +a divorce court. It lasted eighteen months, and when Mrs. Vallery +was eventually persuaded to appeal to the courts she had a most +pitiable story to disclose. Not only had she no difficulty in proving +Vallery’s guilt of faithlessness, but she recorded a distressing +series of cruelties. He had struck her on innumerable occasions. He +had thrashed her with a belt, locked her in a cupboard, thrown her +out into the garden on a wet night, and many times threatened her +with a revolver. + +A few months after the divorce, news came that Wray’s wife had died +suddenly under rather mysterious circumstances, in Buda-Pesth. He +returned to London, and three years after this law case Wray and +Vallery were again at work together on a play which was called, +“Wine, Woman, and Mr. Binns.” It was one of the most amusing, most +lyrical plays seen in London for a decade, and ran for four hundred +and fifty odd nights. The Wray-Vallery combination then seemed to +make a most surprising spurt. They both settled down and worked +hard. Wray’s experience in Hungary, whatever it had been, quieted +him. He became less eccentric, less depraved, in his appetites. On +the other hand, he was rapidly becoming more self-centred, shrewd, +and commercial. He appeared to be obsessed with the idea of making +a huge fortune. Vallery was also not without ambitions in this +direction. And between them they undoubtedly succeeded in grinding +the commercial axe to good purpose. + +There is no question but that the series of plays that they composed +during this latter phase were artistically inferior to the earlier +ones, but on the other hand their sureness of touch was more +apparent. To use a hackneyed phrase they knew just what the public +wanted and how to give it to them. + +At that time Timothy and I had quite lost touch with them. +Timothy was the proud father of three girls. He had written +several successful novels and stories, and was a reader to an +eminent firm of publishers. I myself had a son and daughter and +an increasing practice. We met frequently and indulged in little +social distractions, but we felt no great desire to seek further the +companionship of these two notorieties. + +“They’re getting a bit too thick,” was Timothy’s comment after +reading the details of Vallery’s divorce. Nevertheless we still +followed their careers with considerable interest, and there often +came to us stories of their violent differences, of scenes at +rehearsals, ugly threats, and recriminations. On one occasion Wray +wanted to have the whole of their interests put in the hands of a +well-known agent, but Vallery objected. The dispute went on for +months and as usual Vallery had his way. It is said that they wrote +“The Girl at Sea” when they were not on speaking terms, and all the +score and libretto were passed backward and forward through a lawyer. +Still they went on from success to success. Together they wrote some +twenty odd variably successful plays. In one new year’s honour list +we found the name of James Wray, the eminent composer, under the +knighthoods. The forces which control the distribution of honours are +as mysterious as the forces which control the stars, and rather more +inexplicable. How Sir James Wray managed to obtain his title over the +heads of many distinguished artists it is impossible to say. These +things are usually accepted with a smile and a shrug, and a man’s +rivals are not often perturbed by them. + +But in the case of Vallery the affair reacted disastrously. He was +furious. He took the whole thing as a royal affront to himself. If +Sir James Wray why not Sir Francis Vallery? It is said that the +powers that be have a prejudice against people who have shown up +badly in the divorce court. This was true, but on the other hand was +Wray’s private life above reproach? + +His colleague’s title broke Vallery up, and it certainly did no +good to Wray. They were both now prematurely old men, worn out, and +embittered. They never wrote another play together. + + * * * * * + +Nestling in a hollow among the gentler slopes of the Pyrenees is a +little village called Cambo-les-Bains. No harsh winds ever come to +Cambo. Even in the few months of winter the air is soft and tender. +In February the hedges are aglow with primroses and violets. In March +rhododendrons and magnolias raise their insolent heads. Thither +Rostand, the famous French poet, laid out a dreamy garden on the +proceeds of the success which was to come to “Chanticler.” Alas, poor +Chanticler! Some things survive more readily in a sturdier clime. +Thither come people whose lungs are not quite the thing--“just for a +month or two, old boy.” And they lie there in camp beds out in the +open under the trees ... waiting. It is a good place to die. + +Thither one day came Francis Vallery, old and broken in health. He +took the ground floor of the Miramar Hotel, with his own valet, and +cook and secretary. And thither one day--strangely enough--came Sir +James Wray. It seems curious that after a life’s enmity they should +have been drawn together in the end. It was Vallery who invited Wray. +It appears to me less remarkable that Vallery should have invited +Wray, than that Wray should have accepted. Vallery was completely +friendless. The vicious associations of his youth were snapped. +People of interest had deserted him. Friends had betrayed him. +Wray--no, Wray was not his friend, but in any case they had worked +together. They knew each other’s frailties. There were a thousand +things they could talk about, discuss ... memories. Ah! perhaps the +old inspiration might once more spring forth--just one more play. It +was seven years now since the curtain had rung down on “The Picador.” + +But why did Wray go to Cambo? He had friends of a sort, society +people, artists. He was still a figure at dinner parties, first +nights. _His_ lungs were still all right. His hatred of Vallery was +not assuaged. Perhaps he went because he feared him. All through +their association he had been under the spell of the stronger party. +At every great crisis he knew he had given way. Vallery had him under +his thumb from the first. Wray had sworn never to write again, “not a +phrase, not a bar.” And yet one day he took the train from Biarritz +and drove up to the little village in the hills, and there he stayed +for seven months. + +For the account of the tragic _dénouement_ of this visit Timothy and +I are indebted to an American gentleman named Scobie. Scobie had +been to Cambo to visit his sister, who was herself suffering from +pulmonary trouble. + +On his way back through London he had dined at Timothy’s one evening +at Chelsea, and I was the only other guest. Mr. Scobie was a +lean-faced New Englander, with small keen gray eyes beneath shaggy +brows. He had long thin hands, the first fingers of which he had the +habit of shaking at us alternately as he spoke. He was not anxious to +talk about the Wray-Vallery affair. He said he would rather forget +all about it, but as Timothy had inveigled him there with the express +purpose of pumping in the matter, we were cruel enough to insist. Mr. +Scobie had certainly had enough of it. He had had to give evidence in +a French court through an interpreter, and he had no great opinion +either of French courts, their dilatory methods, or their sanitary +arrangements. You see, he was the sole witness of the actual tragedy. + +It appeared that his sister’s suite of rooms was in the Hotel Miramar +annex. From her balcony he had a complete view of the South Veranda, +where Vallery spent most of the day. He had spoken to Vallery once or +twice, but finding that he was a “bear with a sore neck” he desisted +and devoted his attention to other hotel guests. + +Then he explained: “The other old boy with the squeaky voice turned +up.” + +“Sir James Wray?” + +“Sure. I didn’t take much stock of him at first, I used to hear him +piping away below, and the other occasionally barking back an answer +which I couldn’t hear. + +“But at last that voice began to get on my nerves. You see I could +hear just what he said, but I couldn’t hear the reply. It was like +listening to a man on the ’phone. My! it was a voice. I was almost on +the point of wanting to call out to him to quit. But you know how it +is. If you listen to anyone you kind of can’t help wanting to hear +what they are going to say next.” + +“What sort of things did he talk about?” + +“Most every kind of dither, like old men will--the colour of a girl’s +frock in some show put across when he was a young man; the best place +to buy over-shoes; the retail price of whisky. He was a pretty good +hand at whisky, too. He arrived with two cases. The other man sat +watching him. I didn’t like them. I tried to get my sister moved, but +the hotel was full. I was away in Paris during the fall and didn’t +return for some months. I got back to Cambo three days before--the +thing happened.” + +I don’t think Mrs. Timothy took the interest in this incident that +we did. In any case she made some excuse about packing up Christmas +presents for the children, and left the room. + +Mr. Scobie, Timothy and I, drew our chairs up round the fire. + +“How did you find things when you got back, Mr. Scobie?” + +“Identically the same, sir. There were those two old boys still on +the veranda below, sitting some way apart, squeaky voice with the +whisky bottle in front of him letting on about the difference between +merino and linsey-woolsey, or the rise in home rails, or the name of +the girl who used to sell programmes at some God-forsaken theatre. +There was the other man, kind of vague in the background, growling +‘yes’ and ‘no’ or be damned if he knew or cared. It was November +and the weather was heavy and overcast for those parts. It’s a dandy +place, except for the sick people.” + +“What happened on the actual day?” + +“It all grew out of the same thing, if you’ll believe me. It was +early in the afternoon. I’d been out for a stroll. When I got to my +sister’s room, I heard squeaky voice going strong. The other man +was asking him where some place was hard by. Yes, sir, I recollect +exactly now how the thing came through. Squeaky voice said: ‘You +remember the villa next to Madam Ponsolle’s épicerie establishment. +There’s a flower-pot in the window about the size of a stone +ginger-beer bottle--well, it’s just opposite.’ This seemed to satisfy +the big man, except that he growled: ‘Oh, it’s there, is it?’ +Then he added rather savagely: ‘I know the place you mean. I noticed +the flower-pot myself but it’s a good three times the size of a stone +ginger-beer bottle.’ + +“Then, believe me, the trouble began. It beats me why the argument +got them like that. Squeaky voice began to scream that he had taken +particular note of the flower-pot at the time, and he’d swear it +wasn’t an inch higher than an ordinary stone ginger-beer bottle. +And each time he said that the bear got angrier and growled: ‘It’s +three times the size.’ The argument raged for an hour. Squeaky voice +pointed out that the other was every kind of walleyed, bone-headed +thruster, and the bear rolled about the veranda shaking his fist and +using language that would have made a Milwaukee bartender hand in +his checks. The exhibition tired me and I went in. + +“I think they slackened up, too, after a bit. Somewhere away in the +big rooms a meal was cooked. The night came on quick and the moon +broke through the clouds. After dinner I’m darned if I didn’t hear +them going it again hammer and tongs. ‘I’m a judge of size,’ Squeaky +was saying. ‘There isn’t an inch to it.’ ‘It’s damn nearly four times +the size,’ roared the other, who you see had raised his figures. +I was near to getting the hotel management on to quelling the +disturbance, but it slackened off. At least, I thought it had. About +ten o’clock I went to my room, which was right at the corner. I went +on to the balcony to take a last breather, and then I saw the whole +darn thing happen----” + +“Have a little whisky, Mr. Scobie,” said Timothy. + +“I will, sir, thank you. It seemed dead still. I thought they had +gone in. But suddenly I saw Wray--that’s the man’s name, sure, +Wray--he was crouching in the corner of the veranda just beneath me, +and he had a bottle in his hand. I thought at first it was a last +carouse, then by the light of the moon I noticed he was holding it by +the neck and the bottle was empty. His thin voice came up to me like +a husky wail: ‘Blast you, it is just the exact size.’ I could just +see the shadowy form of the other man lying back near the window at +the end. He was mumbling: ‘Five times as big!’ + +“Wray went toward him like a cat. I called out, and I think the +effect of my cry was to get the big man alert to trouble. He was on +his legs by the time Wray reached him. I saw the bottle swing in the +air. Then they came to grips. Gosh! I’ve seen men fight, but--tables +and chairs and glasses were scattered and broken. I heard the bottle +break, but one of them was still holding it by the neck. Up and down +the veranda they rolled and fought and bit. Just like madmen. Then +there was a scream. A man and a woman rushed out. I went below. The +big man Vallery was lying in a heap--dead--his throat cut from ear to +ear. Wray was writhing by his side. He died the next morning: he died +blaspheming. Like a gump I gave out that I’d seen the whole thing and +they nailed me for the inquest. Those French courts of justice--ugh! +I wanted to forget the whole blamed thing--wipe it out of my memory. +But there I was nailed, made to go over and over it again. I never +thought it possible to see such scarlet hate and passion--just savage +beasts they were--and all over the size of a flower-pot.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Rallish, just a finger.” + +The fire glowed in the warm security of the little room and snow was +drifting against the windows. In the drawing-room across the passage +Mrs. Timothy was running her hands over the keys of a piano. Timothy +smiled wistfully. + +“Neither Wray nor Vallery ever liked me,” he remarked apparently +irrelevantly. Then by way of explanation: “I’m going to have my +revenge upon them. It isn’t often that a writer of fiction has things +like that left at his door----” + +Mr. Scobie nodded, and shook his long first finger at him. + +“I see your point, sir. Provided you leave me out, the goods are +yours. Here’s another small side issue might be useful to you. It +wasn’t a flower-pot at all. I verified the fact the next day. It was +a child’s red stockinette cap. Just think of it. They only had to +stroll ten minutes up the village street. They could have taken a +ruler, bet each other drinks, laughed the thing off. ’Stead of that +they thought it more amusing to fight with broken whisky bottles. +What do you think of it?” + +We sat there staring at the fire. Timothy was sucking at an empty +pipe. + +“I can see the explanation,” he said at last. + +“I should be entertained to hear it, sir.” + +“You see,” said Timothy slowly, “the angel of accomplishment had +deserted them.” + + + + +THE MATCH + + +It is all so incredibly long ago that you must not ask me to remember +the scores. In fact, even of the result I am a little dubious. I +only know that it was just on such a day as this that we were all +mooning round Bunty Cartwright’s garden after breakfast, smoking, +and watching the great bumblebees hanging heavily on the flowers. +Along the flagged pathway to the house were standard rose-trees, the +blossoms and perfume of which excited one pleasantly. It was jolly +to be in flannels and to feel the sun on one’s skin, for the day +promised to be hot. + +For years it had been a tradition for dear old Bunty to ask us all +down for the week. There were usually eight or nine of us, and we +made up our team with the doctor and his son and one or two other +odds and ends of chaps in the neighbourhood. I know that on this day +he had secured the services of Dawkin, a very fast bowler from a town +near by, for Celminster, the team we were to play, were reputed to be +a very hot lot. + +As we stood there laughing and talking, Bunty and Tony Peebles were +sitting within the stone porch, I remember, trying to finish a game +of chess started the previous evening; there was the crunch of wheels +on the road, and the brake arrived, accompanied by the doctor’s son, +a thin slip of a boy on a bicycle. + +Then there was the usual bustle of putting up cricket-bags and going +back for things one had forgotten, and the inevitable “chipping” of +“Togs,” a boy whose real name I have forgotten, but who was always +last in everything, even in the order of going in. It must have been +fully half an hour before we made a start, and then the doctor hadn’t +arrived. However, he came up at the last minute, his jolly red face +beaming and perspiring. Some of the chaps cycled, and soon left us +behind, but I think we were seven on the brake. It was good to be +high up and to feel the wind blowing gently on our faces from the +sea. We passed villages of amazing beauty nestling in the hollows +of the downs, and rumbled on our way to the accompaniment of lowing +sheep and the doctor’s rich, burring voice talking of cricket, and +the song of the lark overhead that sang in praise of this day of +festival. + +It was good to laugh and talk and watch the white road stretching far +ahead, then dipping behind a stretch of woodland. It was good to feel +the thrill of excited anticipation as we approached the outskirts of +Celminster. What sort of ground would it be? What were their bowlers +like? Who would come off for us? + +It was good to see the grinning, friendly faces of the villagers +and then to descend from the brake, to nod to our opponents in that +curiously self-conscious way we have as a race, and then eagerly +to survey the field. And is there in the whole of England a more +beautiful place than the Celminster cricket ground? + +On one side is a clump of buildings dominated by the straggling +yards and outhouses belonging to the “Bull” inn. On the farther side +is a fence, and just beyond a stream bordered by young willows. At +right angles to the inn is a thick cluster of elms--a small wood, +in fact--while on the fourth side a low, gray stone wall separates +the field from the road. Across the road may be seen the spire of +a church, the fabric hidden by the trees, and away beyond sweeping +contours of the downs. + +In the corner of the field is a rough pavilion faced with +half-timber, and a white flagstaff with the colours of the Celminster +Cricket Club fluttering at its summit. + +Members of the Celminster Club were practising in little knots about +the field, and a crowd of small boys were sitting on a long wooden +bench, shouting indescribably, and some were playing mock games with +sticks and rubber balls. A few aged inhabitants looked at us with +lazy interest and touched their hats. + +A little man with a square chin and an auburn moustache came out and +grinned at us and asked for Mr. Cartwright. We discovered that he +was the local wheelwright and the Celminster captain. He showed us +our room in the pavilion and called Bunty “sir.” Of course, Bunty +lost the toss. He always did during that week, and this led to +considerably more “chipping,” and we turned out to field. + +No one who has never experienced it can ever appreciate the tense +joy of a cricketer when he comes out to begin a match. The gaiety of +the morning, when the light is at its best and all one’s senses are +alert; the sense of being among splendid deeds that are yet unborn; +and then the jolly red ball! How we love to clutch it with a sort +of romantic exultation and toss it to one another! For it is upon +_it_ that the story of the day will turn. It is the scarlet symbol +of our well-ordered adventure, as yet untouched and virginal, and +yet strangely pregnant of unaccomplished actions. What story will it +have to tell when the day is done? Who will drop catches with it? Who +destroy its virgin loveliness with a fearful drive against the stone +wall? + +As I have stated, it happened all so long ago that I cannot clearly +remember many of the details of that match, but curiously enough I +remember the first over that Dawkin sent down very vividly. + +A very tall man came in to bat. The first ball he played straight +back to the bowler; the second was a “yorker” and just missed his +wicket; the third he drove hard to mid-off and Bunty stopped it; the +fourth he stopped with his pads; the fifth he played back to the +bowler again; and the sixth knocked his leg clean out of the ground. + +One wicket for no runs! We flung the scarlet symbol backward and +forward in a great state of excitement, with visions of a freak +match, the whole side of our opponents being out for ten runs, and so +on. I remember the glum face of their umpire, a genial corn merchant, +dressed in a white coat and a bowler hat, with a bewildering number +of sweaters tied round his neck, glancing apprehensively at the +pavilion. I remember that the next man in was the little wheelwright, +and he looked very solemn and tense. The first three balls missed +his wicket by inches, then he stopped them. My recollection of the +rest of that morning was a vision of the little wheelwright, with his +chin thrust forward, frowning at the bowlers. He had a peculiarly +uncomfortable stance at the wicket, but he played very straight. He +kept Dawkin out for about five overs, then he started pulling him +round to leg. The wicket was rather fiery, and Dawkin was very fast. +The wheelwright was hit three times on the thigh, twice on the chest, +and numberless times on the arms, and one ball got up and glanced off +his scalp, but he did not waver. He plodded on, lying in wait for the +short ball to hook to leg. I do not remember how many he made, but it +was a great innings. He took the heart out of Dawkin and encouraged +one or two of the others to hit with courage. He was caught at last +by a brilliant catch by Arthur Booth running in from long leg. + +One advantage of a village team like Celminster is that they have +no “tail,” or, rather, that you never know what the tail will do. +You know by the costume that they have a tail, for the first four +or five batsmen appear in complete outfits of white flannels and +sweaters, and then the costumes start varying in a wonderful degree. +Number six appears in a black waistcoat with white flannel trousers, +number seven with brown pads and black boots, number eight with a +blue shirt and brown trousers, and so on to the last man, who is +dressed uncommonly like a verger. But this rallentando of sartorial +equipment does not in any way represent the run-getting ability of +the team, for suddenly some gentleman inappropriately garbed, who +gives the impression of never having had a bat in his hand before, +will lash out and score twenty-five runs off one over. + +On this particular occasion I remember one man who came in about +ninth, and who wore one brown pad and sand-shoes, and had on a blue +shirt with a dicky and a collar, but no tie, and who stood right in +front of his wicket, looked grimly at Dawkin, and then hit him for +two sixes, a four, and a five, to the roaring accompaniment of “Good +old Jar-r-ge!” from a row of small boys near the pavilion. The fifth +ball hit his pad and he was given out l.b.w. He gave no expression of +surprise, disappointment or disgust, but just walked grimly back to +the pavilion. Celminster were all out before lunch, but I cannot let +the last man--the verger--retire (he was bowled first ball off his +foot) before speaking of our wicket-keeper, Jimmy Guilsworth. + +Jimmy Guilsworth was, in my opinion, an ideal wicket-keeper. He +was a little chap and wore glasses, but his figure was solid and +homely. He was by profession something of a poet, and wrote lyrics +in the celtic-twilight manner. He played cricket rarely, but when he +did, he was instinctively made wicket-keeper. He had that curious, +sympathetic mothering quality which every good wicket-keeper +should have. The first business of a wicket-keeper is to make the +opposing batsmen feel at home. When the man comes in trembling and +nervous, the wicket-keeper should make some reassuring remark, +something that at once establishes a bond of understanding between +honourable opponents. When the batsman is struck on the elbow it +is the wicket-keeper who should rush up and administer first-aid +or spiritual comfort. And when the batsman is bowled or caught, he +should say: “Hard luck, sir!” + +At the same time it his business to mother the bowlers on his own +side. He must be continually encouraging them and sympathizing +with them, but in a subdued voice, so that the batsman does not +hear. And, moreover, he must be prepared to act as chief of staff +to the captain. He must advise him on the change of bowlers and +on the disposition of the field. All of this requires great tact, +understanding and perspicacity. + +All these qualities Jimmy Guilsworth had in a marked degree. If he +sometimes dropped catches and never stood near enough to stump any +one, what was that to the sympathetic way he said “Oh, hard luck, +sir!” to an opposing batsman when he was bowled by a long hop, or the +convincing way he would call out, “Oh, well hit, sir!” when another +opponent pulled a half-volley for four. What could have been more +encouraging than the way he would rest his hand on young Booth’s +shoulder after he had bowled a disappointing over, and say: “I say, +old chap, you’re in great form. Could you pitch ’em up just a wee +bit?” When things were going badly for the side, Jimmy would grin and +whisper into Cartwright’s ear. Then there would be a consultation and +a change of bowlers, or some one would come closer up to third-man, +and, lo! in no time something would happen. + +But it is lunch-time. In the pavilion a long table is set, with a +clean cloth and napkins and with gay bowls of salad. On a side-table +is a wonderful array of cold joints, hams, cold lamb, and pies. We +sit down, talking of the game. Curiously enough, we do not mix with +our opponents. We sit at one end, and they occupy the other, but we +grin at one another, and the men sitting at the point of contact of +the two parties occasionally proffer a remark. + +Girls wait on us, and a fat man in shirt-sleeves, who produces ale +and ginger-beer from some mysterious corner. And what a lunch it is! +Does ever veal-and-ham pie taste so good as it does in the pavilion +after the morning chasing a ball? And then tarts and fruit and +custard and a large yellow cheese, how splendid it all seems, with +the buzz of conversation and the bright sun through the open door! +Does anything lend a fuller flavour to the inevitable pipe than such +a lunch, mellowed by the rough flavour of a pint of shandy-gaff? + +We stroll out again into the sun and puff tranquilly, and some of us +gather round old Bob Parsons, the corn merchant, and listen to his +panegyric of cricket as played “in the old days.” He’s seen a lot of +cricket in his time, old Bob. His bony, weather-beaten face wrinkles, +and his clear, ingenuous eyes blink at the heavens as he recalls +famous men: “Johnny Strutt, he was a good ’un. Aye, and ye should ha’ +seen old Tom Kennett bowl in his time. Nine wicket’ he took against +Kailhurst, hittin’ the wood every toime. Fast he were, faster’n they +bowl now. Fower bahls he bahl fast, then put up a slow.” + +He shakes his head meditatively, as though the contemplation of the +diabolical cunning of bowling a slow ball after four fast ones was +almost too much to believe, as though it was a demonstration of +intellectual calisthenics that this generation could not appreciate. + +It is now the turn of the opponents to take the field, while we +eagerly scan the score-sheet to see the order of going in, and +restlessly move about the pavilion, trying on pads, and making +efforts not to appear nervous. + +And with what a tense emotion we watch our first two men open the +innings! It is with a gasp of relief we see Jimmy Guilsworth cut +a fast ball for two, and know, at any rate, we have made a more +fortunate start than our opponents did. + +I do not remember how many runs we made that afternoon, though as +we were out about tea time, I believe we just passed the Celminster +total, but I remember that to our joy Bunty Cartwright came off. He +had been unlucky all the week, but this was his joy-day. He seemed +cheerful and confident when he went in, and he was let off on the +boundary off the first ball! After that he did not make a mistake. + +It was a joy to watch Bunty bat. He was tall and graceful, and he +sprang to meet the ball like a wave scudding against a rock. He +seemed to epitomize the dancing sunlight, a thing of joy expressing +the fullness of the crowded hour. His hair blew over his face, and +one could catch the gleam of satisfaction that radiated from him as +he panted on his bat after running out a five. + +He was not a great cricketer, none of us were, but he had a good eye, +the heart of a lion, and he loved the game. + +I believe I made eight or nine. I know I made a cut for four. The +recollection of it is very keen to this day, and the satisfying +joy of seeing the ball scudding along the ground a yard out of the +reach of point. It made me very happy. And then one of those balls +came along that one knows nothing about. How remarkable it is that +a bowler who appears so harmless from the pavilion seems terrifying +and demoniacal when he comes tearing down the crease toward you! + +Yes, I’m sure we passed the Celminster total now, for I remember at +tea time discussing the possibilities of winning by a single innings +if we got Celminster out for forty. + +After tea, for some reason or other, one smokes cigarettes. We +strolled into a yard at the back of the “Bull” inn, and there was a +wicket gate leading to a lawn where some wonderful old men, whose +language was almost incomprehensible, were drinking ale and playing +bowls. At the side were some tall sunflowers growing amid piles of +manure. + +Some one in the pavilion rang a bell, and we languidly returned to +take the field once more. + +I remember that it was late in the afternoon that a strange thing +happened to me. I was fielding out in the long field not thirty yards +from the stream. Tony Peebles was bowling from the end where I was +fielding. I noted his ambling run up to the wicket and the graceful +action of his arm as he swung the ball across. A little incident +happened, a thing trivial at the time, but which one afterward +remembers. The batsman hit a ball rather low on the off side, which +the doctor’s son caught or stopped on the ground. There was an appeal +for a catch, given in the batsman’s favour, but for some reason or +other he thought the umpire had said “out,” and he started walking +to the pavilion. He was at least two yards out of his crease when +the doctor’s son threw the ball to Jimmy Guilsworth at the wicket. +Jimmy had the wicket at his mercy, but instead of putting it down +he threw it back to the bowler. It was perhaps a trivial thing, but +it epitomized the game we played. One does not take advantage of a +mistake. It isn’t done. + +The sun was already beginning to flood the valley with the excess of +amber light which usually betokens his parting embrace. The stretch +of level grass became alive and vibrant, tremblingly golden against +the long, crisp shadows cast from the elms. The elms themselves +nodded contentedly, and down by the stream flickered little white +patches of children’s frocks. Everything suddenly seemed to become +more vivid and transcendent. As if aware of the splendour of that +moment, all the little things struggled to express themselves more +actively. The birds and little insects in solemn unison praised God, +or, rather, to my mind, at that moment they praised England, the land +that gave them such a glorious setting. The white-clad figures on the +sunlit field, the smoke from the old buildings by the inn trailing +lazily skyward, the comfortable buzz of the voices of some villagers +lying on their stomachs on the grass. Ah! My dear land! + +I don’t know how it was, but at that moment I felt a curious +contraction of the heart, like one who looks into the face of a lover +who is going on a journey. Perhaps a townsman gets a little tired at +the end of a day in the field, or the feeling may have been due to +the Cassandra-like dirge of a flock of rooks that swung across the +sky and settled in the elms. + +The bat, cut from a willow down by the stream, the stumps, the +leather ball, the symbol of the wicket, the level lawn, cut and +rolled and true--all these things were redolent of the land we +moved on. They spoke of the love of trees and wind and sun and the +equipoise of man in Nature’s setting. They symbolized our race, +slow-moving and serene, with a certain sensuous joy in movement, a +love of straightness, and an indestructible faith in custom. Ah, that +the beauty of that hour should fade, that the splendour and serenity +of it all should pass away! Strange waves of misgiving flooded me. + +If it should be all _too_ slow-moving, _too_ serene! If at that +moment the wheels of the Juggernaut of evolution were already on +their way to crush the splendour of it beneath their weight! + +Ah! my dear land, if you should be in danger! If one day another +match should come in which you would measure yourself against--some +unknown terrors! I was aware at that moment of a poignant sense of +prayer that when your trial should come it would find you worthy of +the clean sanity of that sunlit field; and if in the end you should +go down, as everything in nature _does_ go down before the scythe of +Time, the rooks up there in the elm should cry aloud your epitaph. +They are very old and wise, these rooks: they watched the last of the +Ptolemys pass from Egypt, they moaned above Carthage and Troy, and +warned the Roman prætors of the coming of Attila. And the epitaph +they shall make for you--for _they_ saw the little incident of Jimmy +Guilsworth and the doctor’s son--shall be: “Whatever you may say of +these people, they played the game.” + +I think those small boys down by the pavilion made too much fuss +about the catch I muffed. Of course, I did get both hands to it, +and as a matter of fact the sun was _not_ in my eyes; but I think I +started a bit late, and it seemed to be screwing horribly. Ironical +jeers are not comforting. Bunty, like the dear good sportsman he is, +merely called out: + +“Dreaming there?” + +But it was a wretched moment. I remember slinking across at the +over, feeling like an animal that has contracted a disease and is +ashamed to be seen, and my mental condition was by no means improved +by the cheap sarcasms of young Booth or Eric Ganton. We did not get +Celminster out for the second time, and the certainty that the result +would not be affected by the second innings led to introduction of +strange and unlikely bowlers being put on and given their chance. + +I remember that just at the end of the day even young “Togs” was +tired. He sent down three most extraordinary balls that went nowhere +within reach of the batsman, the fourth was a full pitch, and a +young rustic giant who was then batting, promptly hit it right over +the pavilion. The next ball was very short and came on the leg +side. I was fielding at short leg and I saw the batsman hunching his +shoulders for a fearful swipe. I felt in a horrible funk. I heard the +loud crack of the ball on the willow, and I was aware of it coming +straight at my head. I fell back in an ineffectual sort of manner, +and despairingly threw up my hands in a sort of self defence. And +then an amazing thing happened: the ball went bang into my left hand +and stopped there. I slipped and fell, but somehow I managed to hang +on to the ball. I remember hearing a loud shout, and suddenly the +pain of impact vanished in the realization that I had brought off a +hot catch. + +It was a golden moment. The match was over. I remember all our chaps +shouting and laughing, and young “Togs” rushing up and throwing his +arms round me in a mock embrace. We ambled back to the pavilion and +it suddenly struck me how good looking most of our men were, even +Tony Peebles, whom I had always looked upon as the plainest of the +plain. My heart warmed toward Bunty with a passionate zeal when he +struck me on the back and said: “Good man! You’ve more than retrieved +your muff in the long field.” + +I know they ragged me frightfully in the pavilion when we were +changing, but it was no effort to take it good-humouredly. I felt +ridiculously proud. + +We took a long time getting away, there was so much rubbing down and +talking to be done, and then there was the difficulty of getting Len +Booth out of the “Bull” inn. He had a romantic passion for drinking +ale with yokels, and a boy had stuck a pin into one of Ganton’s +tires, and he had to find a bicycle shop and get it mended. It was +getting dark when we all got established once more in the brake. + +I remember vividly turning the corner in the High Street and looking +back on the solemn profile of the inn. The sky was almost colourless, +just a glow of warmth, and already in some of the windows lamps were +appearing. We huddled together contentedly in the brake, and I saw +the firm lines of Bunty’s face as he leaned over a match lighting his +pipe. + +The grass is long to-day in the field where we played Celminster, and +down by the stream are two square, unattractive buildings, covered +with zinc roofing, where is heard the dull roar of machinery. The +ravages of time cannot eradicate from my memory the vision of Bunty’s +face leaning over his pipe, or the pleasant buzz of the village +voices as we clattered among them in the High Street, or the sight of +the old corn merchant’s face as he came up and spoke to Bunty (Bunty +had stopped the brake to get more tobacco) and touched his hat and +said: + +“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!” + +Decades have passed, and I have to press the spring of my memory to +bring these things back; but when they come they are very dear to me. + +I know that in the wind that blows above Gallipoli you will find the +whispers of the great faith that Bunty died for. Eric Ganton, young +Booth, and Jimmy Guilsworth, where are they? In vain the soil of +Flanders strives to clog the free spirit of my friends. + +“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!” + +Again I see the old man’s face as I gaze across the field where the +long grass grows, and I see the red ball tossed hither and thither, +with its story still unfinished, and I hear the sound of Jimmy’s +voice: + +“Oh, well hit, sir!” as he encourages an opponent. + +The times have changed since then, but you cannot destroy these +things. Manners have changed, customs have changed, even the faces of +men have changed; and yet this calendar on my knee is trying to tell +me that it all happened _two years ago to-day_! + +And overhead the garrulous rooks seem strangely flustered. + + + + +MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS + + +Mrs. Poulteney-Beelbrow is the kind of woman who drips with +refinement. Everything else has been squeezed out of her. Even her +hair, which once was red, has been dried to a rusty gray. Her narrow +face is pinched and bloodless; the lines of her figure blurred by +shapeless and colourless materials, as though she resented any +suggestion of organic functioning, as though blood itself were not +quite “nice.” The voice is high pitched, toneless, ice-cold. She +speaks with dead monotony, without enthusiasm. And yet one can hardly +describe Mrs. Beelbrow as a woman who has not had enthusiasms. +Lions!--lions have been the determining passion of Mrs. Beelbrow’s +life. A life amidst lions can hardly be called an apathetic life, you +might say. + +I would like to have known Mrs. Beelbrow when she was quite young, +although the condition is difficult to visualize. She is now--that +quite indeterminate age which æsthetic women sometimes arrive at +too soon and forsake too early. She might easily be in the early +thirties; on the other hand she might be in the late forties; even +later, even earlier--she is _so_ refined, you see. You can imagine +her doing nothing so vulgar as visiting the Royal Academy or reading +a popular magazine. As for the cinema, or a revue--oh, my dear! + +It is only her eyes which sometimes give you an inkling of a restless +soul. They are almost green with a tiny gray pupil. She sometimes +smiles with her lips, but never with her eyes, which are always +roaming--searching--lions. + +She was a Miss Poulteney (you know, the Hull shipping people), and +she married Beelbrow the stockbroker. God knows why! You can seldom +find Beelbrow. Sometimes you may observe him standing against the +wall at one of those overpowering receptions she gives. He is tubby, +genial and negative. He smiles at his wife--busily occupied with +lions--and mutters: + +“Wonderful woman, my wife--wonderful! um-m.” + +And then he retires to the refreshment-room and waits on people. + +Everyone will tell you that Mrs. Beelbrow was once a remarkably +talented violinist, though we have never met any one who has heard +her play. She certainly knows something about music, and can talk +shiveringly about every ancient and modern composer of note, in +addition to many composers without note. But do not imagine that +her discriminations are confined to music. She shivers about +architecture, sculpture, painting, and literature. She dissects +tone-poems, eulogizes discords, subdivides futurism into seven +distinct planes, considers Synge too sensational, professes a +pallid admiration for Bach when performed in an empty church, is +coldly contemptuous of the Renaissance, dislikes Dickens, Scott, +Zola and Tolstoi (in spite of the latter being a Russian and a +lion). By the way, everything Russian exercises a curious influence +over her--Russian and Chinese. Things Japanese she condemns as +_bourgeois_. She is enormously refined, a sybarite of æsthetic +values. She has no children, but she keeps a marmoset, a Borzoi, +five chows, two smoke-gray Persian cats, a parakeet, and some baby +crocodiles in a sunk tank in the conservatory. The latter she keeps +because they remind her of the slow movement of some sonata by +Sibelius. + +But it is of the lions she keeps that we would speak. They +are not real lions, of course. Real lions are peculiarly +commonplace--reminiscent of Landseer and the Zoölogical Gardens. +Mrs. Beelbrow’s lions roar in drawing-rooms and concert halls. +They are mostly indigenous to the soil of Central or Eastern +Europe. She imports them from Russia, Bohemia, Hungary, Austria, or +Tcheko-Slovakia. No other breeds are any good. Neither must they be +popular in the generally accepted sense. If you say to Mrs. Beelbrow: +“I heard Kreisler play the Bach _chaconne_ very finely last night,” +she shivers and says: “Ah! but have you heard De Borch play the slow +movement of the Sczhklski sonata?” + +You weakly reply “No.” The name of De Borch seems familiar, but you +had never heard of him as a violinist. + +She leans backward and regards you through half-closed eyes. Upon +her face there creeps an expression of genuine sympathy. There is an +almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, and she turns away. You +mutter “Damn!” and also repair to the refreshment-room, where Mr. +Beelbrow waits on you. (The refreshments are very good.) He says: + +“Have you seen my wife? She’s a wonderful woman--wonderful--um-m!” + +We should mention that this “um-m” of Mr. Beelbrow is a curious kind +of low hum that he affixes at the end of every statement. It seems to +deliberately contradict just what he has said. It is like a genteel +“I don’t think!” + +It is said that in the old days Mrs. Beelbrow used to make a hobby +of genuine lions, famous opera singers and painters. There is a full +length of her by Sarjeant in the billiard-room; a very good portrait, +too, if somewhat merciless. It is characteristic of her that it +should now be in the billiard-room--a room that is only used on the +night of a great crush to deposit hats and coats that are crowded out +of the cloak-room. Sarjeant is _passé_. If you mention the portrait +to her, she says: + +“Ah! but have you seen the pastel of me by Splitz?” + +The pastel by Splitz is in the place of honour in the drawing-room. +You suspect that it is meant to be a woman by the puce-coloured +drapery and what appears to be long hair--or is it a waterfall in the +background? She says of it: + +“It is wonderful! Splitz got into it the expression of all that I +have yearned for and never achieved. You can feel the wave-lengths of +my thoughts vibrating esoterically.” + +(Good luck to Splitz! I hope he got his cheque.) + +The day came when Mrs. Beelbrow tired of genuine lions. + +They were a little disillusioning, too business-like, and too fond of +being waited on by Mr. Beelbrow in the refreshment-room. And so she +said: + +“I will make my own lions.” + +She travelled abroad, taking with her the marmoset, two of the chows, +one smoke-gray Persian cat, the parakeet, the crocodiles in a special +tank, and Mr. Beelbrow. It was in Budapest that she discovered her +first embryo lion. His name was Skrâtch. She heard him playing the +fiddle in an obscure café. She went to hear him three nights running. +On the third night she went up to him after the performance, and she +said: + +“Come with me. I will make you a lion.” + +Now we are anxious to deal fairly by Skrâtch. He was young, talented, +poor and hungry. He had the normal ambitions, desires, appetites, +and the weaknesses of the normal young man. He had often dreamed of +being a lion, and after one or two beers he frequently persuaded +himself that the accomplishment was not impossible. Nevertheless, he +had never been blind to its difficulties. And here was a woman who +came to him and said, quite simply: “I will make you a lion,” in the +same way that she might have said, “I will cut you a liver-sausage +sandwich.” + +How could you expect Skrâtch to take it? + +When he arrived in London he impressed us as being quite a pleasant, +amiable young man. He had a thin body, but rather puffy, sallow +cheeks, jet black hair, and brown eyes. He was obviously at first a +little apprehensive, suspicious. The eyes seemed to say: + +“Oh, well, anyway they can’t eat me.” + +He lived at Mrs. Beelbrow’s and had what she called finishing lessons +with a Polish professor. It was exactly a year before Skrâtch was +launched into lionhood. During that time no one heard him play a +note. And yet a most remarkable thing happened in connection with the +launching. Months before Skrâtch appeared in public the newspapers +were always containing paragraphs about “a remarkable young violinist +shortly expected from Budapest. Said to be a second Ysaye.” Mrs. +Beelbrow’s drawing-room was always crowded, but Skrâtch never played. +He was introduced to all kinds of people, and whispered about. I +remember meeting there the critics of the--no, perhaps this kind +of revelation is not quite fair. Anyway, when Skrâtch gave his +first orchestral concert at the Queen’s Hall the affair had been so +cleverly prepared that the place was packed. The Press reviews, when +not eulogistic, were for the most part non-committal. Dogs are afraid +to bark at a lion. It would be a terrible blunder to condemn a real +lion. One must wait and see what the general verdict is. + +There is no denying also that Skrâtch did play very well. He was what +is known as a talented violinist. One may assert without fear of +contradiction that there were at that time in London probably thirty +or forty violinists (leaving out, of course, the few supreme artists) +equally as talented as Skrâtch. But they had not the _flair_ of +lions. They just went on with their job, playing when an opportunity +occurred but for the most part teaching. + +The following day an advertisement appeared in the papers announcing +that “owing to the colossal success of Herr Skrâtch’s concert, three +more would follow on such-and-such dates.” (The advertisement must +have been sent in before the colossally successful concert took +place.) From that day forward Skrâtch did indeed become a qualified +lion. The more responsible papers certainly began to damn him with +faint praise, and even to pull him to pieces. But if you assert a +thing frequently enough, insistently enough, and in large enough +type, people will come to accept it. He became a kind of papier-mâché +lion, and it didn’t do the boy any good. For two years the hoardings +and the newspapers reeked with advertisements and notices about the +“great violinist Skrâtch.” + +And then he began to develop in other ways. From a slim, nervous +boy he rapidly became a robustious, self-assured, florid man. His +body filled out, his cheeks reddened, his hair grew unmanageable. He +adopted an eccentric mode of dress. And Mrs. Beelbrow? The affair +reacted upon her just as one might expect. She became more precious, +more aloof, more impossible. She floated round the drawing-room with +her protégé with an air which implied: + +“Look at me! I’m the woman who made a lion!” + +She wore a tiger skin and left Mr. Beelbrow at home to look after the +live stock. + +And after the first flush of triumph and excitement, Skrâtch treated +Mrs. Beelbrow with complete indifference and contempt. He left +lighted cigar-ends on the lid of the grand piano, spilt wine on his +bed-linen, walked about the house all day in a dressing-gown, threw +his boots at the servants, and snubbed visitors. He would get up from +table in the middle of a meal and walk out of the room without an +apology. He was even rude to her in public, and she revelled in it. +The ruder he was the more delighted she appeared. She would glance +round the room proudly, as much as to say: + +“There! didn’t I tell you I had made a lion?” + +They went about everywhere together. They went to the opera, the +theatre, to concerts and receptions, for motor rides in the country, +and they were always alone. Mr. Beelbrow was very busy, you see, +making money in the city. (He had to do that to pay for Herr +Skrâtch’s publicity campaign.) Of course, people began to talk. They +might have talked on much less evidence than they had. The thing was +simply thrown at them. She glued herself to him, and he accepted her +and what she gave him as only right and proper. Sometimes he would +treat her with playful familiarity. He would put his arm round her +shoulders and call her “ol gel!” All very well, but how old really +was Mrs. Beelbrow? What was happening in the dark places of _her_ +heart? Of course, it couldn’t go on for ever. We all shook our heads +and were very wise, and we were right. It went on for nine months, +and then Mr. Beelbrow--no, Mr. Beelbrow did nothing. He just sat +tight, helped people to hock-cup, and expatiated upon his wife’s +remarkable character and abilities. The disruption came from outside. + +Another woman appeared on the scene. Her name was Fanny Friedlander. +She was an accompanist. Now, if you had wanted to invent a complete +antithesis to Mrs. Beelbrow, Fanny would have saved you the trouble. +She was it. She was young, common, ignorant and frivolous; at the +same time she had emotional warmth. There was something sympathetic +and lovable about her. She was not exclusively a man-hunter. She +liked to be petted and admired. When she accompanied she wore red +carnations in her hair, and cast glad, furtive glances at the +audience, and sometimes at the soloist, who, of course, was Herr +Skrâtch. + +Herr Skrâtch was not the kind of gentleman to make any bones about +such a position. He flirted with her outrageously, even on the +platform. Whether Mrs. Beelbrow made any protest about this affair at +its inception is not known. By the time the infatuation was apparent +it was too late. Inflated by his meretricious successes, he was in no +mood to brook interference. Mrs. Beelbrow’s face expressed little. +I really believe she was rather fascinated by the girl herself. She +seemed to be watching a little bewildered and uncertain how to act. + +It ended in the three of them going about everywhere together, the +usual unsatisfactory triangle. The fact that she had to play his +accompaniments was sufficient excuse for Fanny Friedlander to go with +him to concerts where he was playing, and to call at Mrs. Beelbrow’s +for rehearsals, but hardly an excuse for her to go to the opera, +the theatre, and motor rides, or even to stop all the afternoon at +Mrs. Beelbrow’s and then to stay on to dinner. It was surmised that +Mrs. Beelbrow only tolerated it because she knew that if she turned +the girl out, Skrâtch would have gone with her. She appeared to be +content with the crumbs the younger woman left over. Ah! but only for +the moment, we were convinced. + +At that time, as if conscious of his delinquency, Herr Skrâtch was a +little more polite to Mrs. Beelbrow; whilst the girl made no end of +a fuss of her in a loud common way that must have jarred the good +lady’s sensibilities horribly. We waited to see what would happen +next, what would be the next move of Mrs. Beelbrow to rid herself of +this dangerous rival. To our surprise, a few weeks later the girl +went there to live. She was actually living in the Beelbrows’ house! +Was there ever a queerer _ménage à quatre_? There was Mrs. Beelbrow, +the lion-hunter, badly mauled by one of her own lions, entertaining +her most dangerous enemy. She must have shut her eyes to all kinds +of things. Skrâtch was behaving abominably. The girl was not the +kind you could trust anyway. There was Mr. Beelbrow, quite negative, +merely earning the money to support the absurd drama. + +“It’s incredible,” said Jimmy Beale, one night in the club, “that a +woman as conceited as Mrs. Beelbrow is could possibly put up with +such a damned indignity. It’s making her look the prize fool of +London.” + +“Love is more powerful than a sense of dignity,” remarked some +sententious bore from the corner. + +Love? Well, an unanalyzable quantity. I was perhaps the only one +fortunate enough to have the opportunity to judge of the _dénouement_ +by any practical evidence. And even then it was only a fluke, a +glance. It occurred a few nights before Skrâtch disappeared. Some say +he went back to the obscure café in Budapest, taking the girl with +him. It is hardly likely in view of the handsome _dot_ which someone +presented to Fanny. + +It was one of Mrs. Beelbrow’s most overwhelming crushes. You could +not hear yourself speak for the roar of lions. I was squeezed against +the folding doors. Behind a palm in the corner was an empire mirror, +tilted at an angle. It was about the only thing I could see. It gave +me a good view of certain people a little farther down the room. The +first person I saw was Mrs. Beelbrow, and as I glanced at her I saw +an expression come over her face, an expression I can only describe +as one of blind jealousy--a nasty, vindictive, dangerous look. + +“Oh, ho!” I thought, and sought for the reflection of Fanny or Herr +Skrâtch. But to my astonishment I realized very clearly that her +glance was not directed at these two at all. She was looking at Mr. +Beelbrow, whose wicked, malevolent little eyes were fixed on Fanny’s. +Skrâtch for the moment was occupied with some other woman. + +You might imagine that the defection of Skrâtch would have broken +Mrs. Beelbrow’s heart for the business. But, oh dear, no! don’t you +believe it. Whatever you may say or think about Mrs. Beelbrow she has +proved herself a true and indomitable lion-hunter. Only last Thursday +I was again in her crowded drawing-room. A little East-end Jewess was +playing the piano quite nicely. Mrs. Beelbrow was standing by the +folding-doors, her face set and taut. When the child had finished, +she murmured: + +“Ah, if Teresa Carreño could have heard that! Teresa never reached +that velvety warmth in her mezzo passages. I believe the child must +be the reincarnation of--who would it be? Liszt? No, someone more +southern, more Byzantine. I will make her a lion.” + +In the refreshment-room Mr. Beelbrow was ladling out hock-cup as +usual. When I approached him he said: + +“Halloa, old boy! Have some of this? Good! Have you seen my wife? +She’s a wonderful woman--wonderful--um-m.” + + + + +A MAN OF LETTERS + + + ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS + + MY DEAR ANNIE, + + I got into an awful funny mood lately. You’l think I’m barmy. + It comes over me like late in the evenin’ when its gettin + dusky. It started I think when I was in Egypt. Nearly all + us chaps who was out there felt it a bit I think. When you + was on sentry go in the dessert at night it was so quite and + missterius. You felt you wanted to _know_ things if you know + what I mean. Since I’ve come back and settled in the saddlery + again I still feel it most always. A kind of discontented + funny feelin if you know what I mean. Well old girl what I + mean is when we’re spliced up and settled over in Tibbelsford + I want to be good for you and I want to know all about things + and that. Well I’m goin to write to Mr. Weekes whose a + gentleman and who lives in a private house near the church. + They say he is a littery society and if it be so I’m on for + joinin it. You’l think I’m barmy won’t you. It isn’t that old + dear. Me that has always been content to do my job and draw my + screw on Saturday and that. You’l think me funny. When you’ve + lived in the dessert you feel how old it all is. You want + something and you don’t know what it is praps its just to + improve yourself and that. Anyway there it is and I’ll shall + write to him. See you Sunday. So long, dear. + + ALF. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. + + DEAR SIR, + + Someone tells me you are a littery society in Tibbelsford. In + which case may I offer my services as a member and believe me. + + Your obedient servant + ALFRED CODLING. + + + PENDRED CASTAWAY (SECRETARY TO JAMES WEEKES, + ESQ.) TO ALFRED CODLING. + + DEAR SIR, + + In reply to your letter of the 27th inst. I beg to inform + you that Mr. James Weekes is abroad. I will communicate the + contents of your letter to him. + + Yours faithfully, + + PENDRED CASTAWAY. + + + ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING + + MY DEAR ALF, + + You are a dear old funny old bean. What _is_ up with you. I + expeck you are just fed up. You haven’t had another tutch of + the fever have you. I will come and look after you Sunday. You + are a silly to talk about improvin considerin the money you + are gettin and another rise next spring you say. I expeck you + got fed up in the dessert and that didn’t you. I expeck you + wanted me sometimes, eh? I shouldn’t think the littery society + much cop myself. I can lend you some books. Cook is a great + reader. She has nearly all Ethel M. Dells and most of Charles + Garvice. She says she will lend you some if you promiss to + cover in brown paper and not tare the edges. They had a big + party here over the weekend a curnel a bishop two gentleman + and some smart women one very nice she gave me ten bob. We + could go to the pictures come Wednesday if agreeable. Milly is + walking out with a feller over at Spindlehurst in the grossery + a bit flashy I don’t like him much. Mrs. Vaughan had one of + her attacks on Monday. Lord she does get on my nerves when + she’s like that. Well be good and cheerio must now close. Love + and kisses till Sunday. + + ANNIE. + + + JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. (MALAGA, SPAIN) TO ALFRED + CODLING + + DEAR SIR, + + My secretary informs me that you wish to join our literary + society in Tibbelsford. It is customary to be proposed and + seconded by two members. + + Will you kindly send me your qualifications? + + Yours faithfully, + JAMES WEEKES. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS + + MY DEAR ANNIE, + + Please thank Cook for the two books which I am keepin rapt up + and will not stain. I read the Eagles mate and think it is + a pretty story. As you know dear I am no fist at explaining + myself. At the pictures the other night you were on to me + again about gettin on and that. It isn’t that. Its difficul to + explane what I mean. I expeck I will always be able to make + good money enough. If you havent been throw it you cant know + what its like. Its somethin else I want if you know what I + mean. To be honest I did not like the picturs the other night. + I thought they were silly but I like to have you sittin by me + and holding your hand. If I could tell you what I mean you + would know. I have heard from Mr. Weekes about the littery and + am writin off at once. Steve our foreman has got sacked for + pinchin lether been goin on for yeres so must close with love + till Sunday. + + ALF. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. + + DEAR SIR, + + As regards your communication you ask what are my + quallifications. I say I have no quallifications sir + nevertheless I am wishful to join the littery. I will be + candid with you sir. I am not what you might call a littery + or eddicated man at all. I am in the saddlery. I was all + throw Gallipoli and Egypt L/corporal in the 2/15th Mounted + Blumshires. It used to come over me like when I was out there + alone in the dessert. Prehaps sir you will understand me when + I say it for I find folks do not understand me about it not + even the girl I walk out with Annie Phelps, who is as nice a + girl a feller could wish. Prehaps sir you have to have been + throw if it you know what I mean. When you are alone at night + in the dessert its all so big and quite you want to get to + know things and all about things if you know what I mean sir + so prehaps you will pass me in the littery. + + Your obedient servant + ALFRED CODLING. + + + ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING + + DEAR ALF, + + You was funny Sunday. I dont know whats up with you. You never + used to be that glum I call it. Is it thinking about this + littery soc turnin your head or what. Millie says you come + into the kitchen like a boiled oul you was. Cheer up ole dear + till Sunday week. + + ANNIE. + + + JAMES WEEKES, ESQ., TO ALFRED CODLING + + DEAR SIR, + + Allow me to thank you for your charming letter. I feel that + I understand your latent desires perfectly. I shall be + returning to Tibbelsford in a week’s time when I hope to make + your acquaintance. I feel sure that you will make a desirable + member of our literary society. + + Yours cordially, + JAMES WEEKES. + + + JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS + + MY DEAR SAM, + + I received the enclosed letter yesterday and I hasten to send + it on to you. Did you ever read anything more delightful? We + must certainly get Alfred Codling into our society. He sounds + the kind of person who would make a splendid foil to old + Baldwin with his tortuous metaphysics--that is, if we can only + get him to talk. + + Yours ever, + J. W. + + + SAMUEL CHILDERS TO JAMES WEEKES + + MY DEAR CHAP, + + You are surely not serious about the ex-corporal! I showed his + letter to Fanny. She simply screamed with laughter. But of + course you mean it as a joke proposing him for the “littery.” + Hope to see you on Friday. + + Ever yours, + S. C. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS + + MY DEAR ANNIE, + + I was afraid you would begin to think I was barmy dear + I always said so but you musnt take it like that. It is + difficult to tell you about but you know my feelins to you is + as always. Now I have to tell you dear that I have seen Mr. + Weekes he is a very nice old gentlemen indeed he is very kind + he says I can go to his hous anytime and read his books he + has hundreds and hundreds. I have nevver seen so many books + you have to have a ladder to clime up to some of them he is + very kind he says he shall propose me for the littery soc and + I can go when I like he ast me all about mysel and that was + very kind and pleesant he told me all about what books I was + to read and that so I think dear I wont be goin to the picturs + Wendesday but will meet you by the Fire statesion Sunday as + usual. + + Your lovin + ALF. + + + EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO JAMES WEEKES + + MY DEAR WEEKS, + + I’m afraid I cannot understand your attitude in proposing and + getting Childers to second this hobbledehoy called Alfred + Codling. I have spoken to him and I am quite willing to + acknowledge that he may be a very good young man in his place. + But why join a literary society? Surely we want to raise the + intellectual standard of the society, not lower it? He is + absolutely ignorant. He knows nothing at all. Our papers and + discussions will be Greek to him. If you wanted an extra hand + in your stables or a jobbing gardener well and good, but I + must sincerely protest against this abuse of the fundamental + purposes of our society. + + Yours sincerely, + EPHRAIM BALDWIN. + + + FANNY CHILDERS TO ELSPETH PRITCHARD + + DEAR OLD THING, + + I must tell you about a perfect scream that is happening here. + You know the Tibbelsford literary society that Pa belongs to, + and also Jimmy Weekes? Well, it’s like this. Dear Old Jimmy is + always doing something eccentric. The latest thing is he has + discovered a mechanic in the leather trade with a soul! (I’m + not sure I ought not to spell it the other way). He is also an + ex-soldier and was out in the East. He seems to have become + imbued with what they called “Eastern romanticism.” Anyway, + he wanted to join the Society, and old Weekes rushed Pa into + seconding him, and they got him through. And now a lot of the + others are up in arms about it--especially old Baldwin--you + know, we call him “Permanganate of Potash.” If you saw him + you’d know why, but I can’t tell you. I have been to two of + the meetings specially to observe the mechanic with the + soul. He is really quite a dear. A thick-set, square-chinned + little man with enormous hands with a heavy silver ring on + the third finger of his left, and tattoo marks on his right + wrist. He sits there with his hands spread out on his knees + and stares round at the members as though he thinks they are + a lot of lunatics. The first evening he came the paper was on + “The influence of Erasmus on modern theology,” and the second + evening “The drama of the Restoration.” No wonder the poor + soul looks bewildered. He never says a word. How is Tiny? I + was in town on Thursday and got a duck of a hat. Do come over + soon. + + Crowds of love, + FAN. + + + JAMES WEEKES TO ALFRED CODLING + + MY DEAR CODLING, + + I quite appreciate your difficulty. I would suggest that you + read the following books in the order named. You will find + them in my library: + + Jevon’s “Primer of Logic,” + Welton’s “Manual of Logic,” + Brackenbury’s “Primer of Psychology,” and + Professor James’ “Text book of Psychology.” + + Do not be discouraged! + + Sincerely yours, + JAMES WEEKES. + + + ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING + + DEAR ALF, + + I dont think you treat me quite fare You says you are sweet + on me and that and then you go on in this funny way It isnt + my falt that you got the wind up in Egypt I dont know what + you mean by all this I wish the ole littery soc was dead and + finish. Cook say you probibly want a blue pill you was so glum + Sunday. Dont you see all these gents and girls and edicated + coves are pullin youre leg if you dont know what they talkin + about and that Your just makin a fule of yourself and then + what about me you dont think of me its makin me a fule too. + Milly says _she_ wouldent have no truck with a book lowse so + there it is. + + ANNIE. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. + + DEAR SIR, + + I am much oblidged to you for puttin me on them books It beats + me how they work up these things. I’m afeard I’m not scollard + enough to keep the pace with these sayins and that. Its the + same with the littery I lissen to the talk and sometimes I + think Ive got it and then no. Sometimes I feels angry with the + things said I know the speakers wrong but I cant say I feel + they wrong but I dont know what to say to say it. Theres some + things to big to say isnt that sir. Im much oblidged to you + sir for what you done Beleive me I enjoy the littery altho I + most always dont know the talk I know who are the rite ones + and who are the rong ones If you have been throw what I have + been throw you would know the same sir Beleive me your + + obedient servant + ALFRED CODLING. + + + EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE, SECRETARY TO + THE TIBBELSFORD LITERARY SOCIETY + + DEAR JOPE, + + For my paper on the 19th prox. I propose to discuss “The + influence of Hegelism on modern psychology.” + + Yours ever, + + EPHRAIM BALDWIN. + + + EDWIN JOPE TO EPHRAIM BALDWIN + + DEAR MR. BALDWIN, + + I have issued the notices of your forthcoming paper. The + subject, I am sure, will make a great appeal to our members, + and I feel convinced that we are in for an illuminating and + informative evening. With regard to our little conversation + on Wednesday last, I am entirely in agreement with you + with regard to the quite inexplicable action of Weekes in + introducing the “leather mechanic” into the society. It + appears to me a quite superfluous effrontery to put upon our + members. We do not want to lose Weekes but I feel that he + ought to be asked to give some explanation of his conduct. As + you remark, it lowers the whole standard of the society. We + might as well admit agricultural labourers, burglars, grooms + and barmaids, and the derelicts of the town. I shall sound the + opinion privately of other members. + + With kind regards, + Yours sincerely, + EDWIN JOPE. + + + ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING + + All right then you stick to your old littery. I am sendin + you back your weddin ring you go in and out of that place + nevver thinkin of me Aunt siad how it would be you goin off + and cetterer and gettin ideas into your head what do you care + I doant think you care at all I expeck you meet a lot of + these swell heads there men _and women_ and you get talkin + and thinkin you someone All these years you away I wated for + you faithfull I never had a thowt for other fellers and then + you go on like this and treat me in this way Aunt says she + wouldn’t put up and Milly says a book lowse is worse than no + good and so I say goodby and thats how it is now forever You + have broken my hart + + ANNE. + + + ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING + + I cried all nite I didndt mean quite all I says you know how + I mene dear Alf if you was only reesonible I doant mind you + goin the littery if you eggsplain yourself For Gawds sake meet + me tonight by the fire stachon and eggsplain everything. + + Your broke hearted + ANNE. + + + JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS + + MY DEAR SAM, + + I hope Harrogate is having the desired effect upon you. I was + about to say that you have missed few events of any value + or interest during your absence, but I feel I must qualify + that statement. You have missed a golden moment. The great + Baldwin evening has come and gone and I deplore the fact that + you were not there. My sense of gratification, however, is + not due to Ephraim himself but to my unpopular protégé and + white elephant--Alfred Codling. I tell you it was glorious! + Ephraim spoke for an hour and a half, the usual thing, a + dull _réchauffée_ of Schopenhauer and Hegel, droning forth + platitudes and half-baked sophistries. When it was finished + the chairman asked if anyone else wished to speak. To my + amazement my ex-lance-corporal rose heavily to his feet. His + face was brick red and his eyes glowed with anger. He pointed + his big fingers at Ephraim and exclaimed: “Yes, talk, talk, + talk--that’s all it is. There’s nothing in it at all!” and + he hobbled out of the room (you know he was wounded in the + right foot). The position, as you may imagine, was a little + trying. I did not feel in the mood to stay and make apologies. + I hurried after Codling. I caught him up at the end of the + lane. I said, “Codling, why did you do that?” He could not + speak for a long time, then he said: “I’m sorry, sir. It came + over me like, all of a sudden.” We walked on. At the corner + by Harvey’s mill we met a girl. Her face was wet--there was a + fine rain pouring at the time. They looked at each other these + two, then she suddenly threw out her arms and buried her face + on his chest. I realized that this was no place for me and + I hurried on. The following morning I received the enclosed + letter. Please return it to me. + + Yours ever, + JAMES. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES + + DEAR SIR, + + Please to irrase my name from the littery soc. I feel I have + treated you bad about it but there it is. I apologize to you + for treatin you bad like this that is all I regret You have + always been kind and pleesant to me lendin me the books and + that. I shall always be grateful to you for what you have + done. It all came over me sudden like last night while that + chap was spoutin out about what you call _physology_. I had + never heard tell on the word till you put me on to it and now + they all talk about it. I looked it up in the diction and it + says somethin about the science of mind and that chap went + on spoutin about it. I had quarrel with my girl we had nevver + quarrel before and I was very down abowt it. She is the best + girl a feller could wish and I have always said so. Somehow + last night while he was spoutin on it came over me sudden I + thowt of the nights I had spent alone in the dessert when it + was all quite and missterous and big. I had been throw it + all sir. I had seen my pals what was alive one minnit blown + to peices the next. I had tramped hundreds of miles and gone + without food and watter. I had seen hell itsel sir And when + you are always with death like that sir you are always so much + alive You are alive and then the next minnit you may be dead + and it makes you want to feel in touch like with everythin + You cant hate noone when you like that You think of the other + feller over there whose thinkin like you are prehaps and he + all alone to lookin up the blinkin stars and it comes over + you that its only love that holds us all together love and + nothin else at all My hart was breakin thinkin of Annie what + I had treated so bad and what I had been throw and he went on + spoutin and spoutin What does he know about _physology_ You + have to had been very near death to find the big things thats + what I found out and I couldnt tell these littery blokes that + thats why I lost my temper and so please to irrase me from the + soc They cant teach me nothen that matters I’ve seen it all + and I cant teach them nothen because they havent been throw + it What I have larnt is sir that theres somethin big in our + lives apart from getting on and comfits and good times and so + sir I am much oblidged for all you done for me and except my + appology for the way I treat you + + Your obedient servant, + ALFRED CODLING. + + + JAMES WEEKES TO EDWIN JOPE + + DEAR JOPE, + + In reply to your letter, I cannot see my way to apologize or + even dissociate myself with the views expressed by Mr. Alfred + Codling at our last meeting, consequently I must ask you to + accept my resignation. + + Yours very truly, + JAMES WEEKES. + + + SAMUEL CHILDERS TO EDWIN JOPE + + DEAR JOPE, + + Taking into consideration all the circumstances of the case, + I must ask you to accept my resignation from the Tibbelsford + Literary Society. + + Yours faithfully, + S. CHILDERS. + + + ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING + + MY DEAR ALF, + + Of course its all right. I am all right now dear Alf I will + try and be a good wife to you I amnt clever like you with all + your big thowts and that but I will and be a good wife to you + Aunt Em is goin to give us that horses-hair and mother says + therell be tweanty-five pounds comin to me when Uncle Steve + pegs out and he has the dropsie all right already What do you + say to Aperil if we can git that cottidge of Mrs. Plummers + mothers See you Sunday + + love from + x x x x x x x x x x ANNIE. + + + EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE + + DEAR MR. JOPE, + + As no apology has been forthcoming to me _from any quarter_ + for the outrageous insult I was subjected to on the occasion + of my last paper, I must ask you to accept my resignation. + + Yours faithfully, + EPHRAIM BALDWIN, O.B.E. + + + ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS + + MY DEAR ANNE, + + You will be please to hear they made me foreman this will mean + an increas and so on I think April; will be alright Mr. Weekes + sent me check for fifty pounds to start farnishin but I took + it back I said no I could not accep it havin done nothin to + earn it and treatin him so bad over that littery soc but he + said yes and he put it in such a way that I accep after all + so we shall be alright for farnishin at the present He was + very kind and he says we was to go to him at any time and I + was to go on readin the books he says I shall find good things + in them but not the littery soc he says he has left it hisself + I feel I treated him very bad but I could not stand that + feller spoutin and him nevver havin been throw it like what I + have That dog of Charly’s killed one of Mrs. Reeves chickens + Monday so must now close till Sunday with love from + + Your soon husband (dont it sound funny?) + ALF. + + + EDWIN JOPE TO WALTER BUNNING + + DEAR SIR, + + In reply to your letter I beg to say that the Tibbelsford + Literary Society is dissolved. + + Yours faithfully, + E. JOPE. + + + + +“FACE” + + +It will not, of course, surprise you to know that it was at the +Cravenford National School that he was first known as “Face.” The +people of Essex are well-known for their candour and lucidity of +expression. He was an exceptionally--well, plain boy. There was +nothing abnormal, or actually mal-formed about him, it was only that +his features had that perambulatory character which is the antithesis +of classic. It was what the Americans call a “homely” face. The +proportions were all just wrong, the ears slightly protruding, the +jaw too lantern, the eyes actually too wide apart. Moreover, his +figure was clumsy in the extreme. He seemed all hands, and feet, and +knees, and chin. It was impossible for him to pass any object without +kicking it. Neither was his personality enhanced by his manner, +which was taciturn and sullen, _gauche_ in the extreme. The games +and amusements of other boys held no attractions for him. He made no +friends, exchanged no confidences, distinguished himself at nothing. +Yet those of the impatient world who found time to devote a second +glance to this uncouth exterior were bound to be impressed by the +appeal of those deep brown expectant eyes. + +They were not essentially intelligent eyes, but they had a kind of +breadth of sympathy, a profound watchfulness, like the eyes of some +caged animal to whom the full functions of its being had not so far +been revealed. + +It was the universality of this nick-name, “Face,” which preserved +it, for the boys of Cravenford National School knew that Caleb +Fryatt resented it, and individually they feared him. That very +clumsiness and imperviousness of his was apt to be overwhelming +when adapted to militant purposes. Not that he was easy to rouse, +but it was difficult to know when he was roused--he gave no outward +manifestation of it--but when he was, it was difficult to get him to +stop. He was a grim and merciless fighter, who could take punishment +with a kind of morbid relish. It only inspired him to a more terrible +onslaught. The boys preferred to attack him in company, and then +usually vocally, by peeping over the churchyard wall and calling out: + +“Face! Face! Oh, my! There’s a face!” + +The tragic setting of his home life explained much. He had had a +brother and two elder sisters, all of whom had died in infancy. He +lived with his father and mother in a meagre dilapidated cottage a +mile beyond the church. His father worked at a stud farm, at such +moments as the mood for work was upon him. He was a man of morose +and vicious temper, quickened by spasmodic outbreaks of alcoholic +indulgence. Of poor physique, he was nevertheless a dangerous +engine of destruction in these moods, particularly in respect to the +frailer sex. Caleb had been brought up in a code which recognized +unquestioningly the right of might, which accepted tears and blows as +a natural concomitant to its reckoning. He had stood powerless and +affrighted at the vision of his little mother beaten unreasonably +almost to insensibility, and he had never heard her complain. His own +body was scarred by the thousand attentions of sticks and belts. He, +too, had not complained. In some dumb way he suffered more from the +blows his mother received than he did from those he received himself. + +But he was growing up now--ugly, clumsy old “Face.” When at the age +of fourteen he passed through the first standard and out of the +school, he was already as tall as his father, and somewhat thicker +in girth, more agile, tougher in fibre. The significance of this +development did not occur to him at the time. He was sent to work at +Sam Hurds’, the blacksmith, a dour, intelligent, religious giant, +who instructed him in the intricacies of his craft with relentless +thoroughness, but without much sympathy. The boy liked the work, +although he showed no great aptitude at it. He had a way of plodding +on, appearing to understand, serving long hours, and then in a period +of abstraction forgetting all that he had been told. He loved the +blazing forge, the clang of metal upon metal, the sheen upon the +carter’s horses that came in to be shod, the sunlight making patterns +on the road outside.... + +He was two years with Sam Hurds. At seventeen his muscles were like +a man’s. His overgrown, hulking body like a fully developed farm +labourer’s. His appearance had not improved. Even the smith adopted +the village nick-name and called him “Face.” At first it was “Young +Face,” then “Face,” then as their sombre familiarity developed, +and the smith realized the boy’s sound qualities and the something +far too old for his years, it became “Old Face.” He knew that his +assistant had no powers of adaptability, little invention, not a very +real grasp of the essentials, but at the same time he knew he could +trust him. He would do precisely as he was told. He would stick to +it. He could be relied upon like a sheep dog. Nothing could shift him +from his post of duty. + +The smith was right, but he had not allowed for those outward thrusts +of fate which upset the soberest plans. + +One night Caleb arrived home and found his mother crying. He had +never seen her cry before. He regarded her spell-bound. + +“What is it, mother?” + +“Nothing, lad, nothing. Come, your tea’s keeping warm upon the hob. +There’s a pasty----” + +“Nay, you wouldn’t cry for nowt, mother. Lift up your head.” + +She lifted up her head and dashed the tears away, but as she moved +toward the kitchen he noticed that she was trying to conceal a limp. +He caught her up. + +“He has been striking you again.” + +“It’s nothing, lad.” + +“Show me.” + +He pulled her down to him and she wept again. Lifting the hem of her +skirt, she revealed her leg above the ankle, bound up in linen. + +“He kicked me, dear, but it is nothing. It will pass.” + +Caleb ate his tea in silence. His table manners were never of the +finest, and on this occasion he masticated his food, and swilled +his tea, like an animal preoccupied with some disturbance of its +normal life. Afterward he sat apart and thought, his mother busy with +household matters. Later she popped across the road to a neighbouring +cottage to borrow some ointment. + +While she was out his father returned. It was getting dark, and a +fine rain was beginning to fall. His father came stumbling up the +cottage garden singing. Caleb blocked his passage in the little +entrance hall, and said deliberately: + +“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.” + +His father, emerging from the shock of surprise, scowled at him. + +“What’s that?” + +“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.” + +For a moment Stephen Fryatt was speechless, then he lurched forward +and pushed his son away. + +“What the devil’s it to do with you, whippersnapper?” + +Caleb thrust his father back against the wall and repeated. + +“You didn’t ought to have kicked her.” + +Then Stephen saw red. He struck at his son with his clenched hand, +and the blow split the boy’s ear. Caleb took his father by the throat +and shook him. The latter tried to bring his knee into play. At this +foul method of attack, Caleb, too, became angry. Those long powerful +fingers gripped tighter. He closed up, and flung his father’s body +against the lintel of the door. He did not realize his own newly +developed strength. When his mother returned a little later she found +her man lying in the passage with the back of his head in a pool of +blood, her son hovering ghost-like in the background. She gave a cry: + +“What’s this ye’ve done, Caleb?” + +A hollow voice came out of the darkness: + +“He didn’t ought to have kicked ye, mother.” + +She screamed and, kneeling upon the floor, she supported the battered +head upon her knee. It appeared an unrecognizable thing, the hair so +much blacker in the ivory-hued face, the eyes staring stupidly. + +Followed then a shifting phantasmagoria, scenes and emotions +incomprehensible to the defender. Neighbours, and doctors and +policemen, talking and arguing, whispering together, pointing at +him. He was led away. In all that early turmoil, and in the more +bewildering proceedings which followed, the one thing which impressed +him deeply was the attitude of his mother. She had changed toward him +entirely. She accused him, reviled him, even cursed him. He would +ponder upon this in his dark cell at night. He had never imagined +that his mother could have loved his father--not in that way, not to +that extent. His brown ox-like eyes tried to penetrate the darkness +for some solution. He had no fear as to what they would do with him, +but everything was inexplicable ... unsatisfying. The days and weeks +which followed--he lost all sense of time--added to the sense of +mystification. He appeared to be passed from one judge to another, +beginning with a gentleman in a tweed suit and knickerbockers, and +ending with a very old man in a white wig and gold-rimmed glasses, +of whom only the head and the thin pale fingers seemed visible. Yes, +yes, why did they keep on torturing him like this? He had answered +all the questions again and again, always giving the same replies, +always ending up with the solemn asseveration: + +“He didn’t ought to have kicked her.” + +At the same time he had never meant to kill his father. He had +under-estimated his strength. He had become very strong in the forge. +His father had attacked him first. It was unfortunate that the back +of Mr. Fryatt’s head had struck the sharp corner of the lintel post. +He was in any case crazy with drink. The boy was only seventeen. He +believed he was defending his mother. Of course, these pleas were +not his. This version of the case had not occurred to him, but to +his surprise a learned-looking gentleman, who had visited him in his +cell, had stood up in Court and made them vehemently. And hearing +the case put like that Caleb nodded his head. He hadn’t thought +of it in that light, but it was quite true. Oh, but the arguments +which ensued! The long words and phrases, the delays, and pomp and +uncertainty. Never once did the question seem to come up as to +whether his father “ought to have done it,” or not. According to his +mother his father appeared to have been almost a paragon of a father. + +It was all settled at last, and he was sent away to a “Home” for two +years. + +Home! The ironic travesty of the word penetrated his thick skull +immediately he had passed what looked like a prison gate. There +were two hundred boys in this home. It seemed strange to live in a +home ruled over by a governor in uniform, policed by gaolers and +superintendents. Strange to have a home one could not leave at will, +where iron discipline turned one out at dawn, drove one like a slave +to long hours of hard and uncongenial work. Strange that home should +breathe bitterness and distrust, that it should be under a code which +seemed to repeat eternally: + +“Don’t forget you are a criminal. Young as yet, but the taint is in +you!” + +It was true there were momentary relaxations, football and other +games which he detested, bleak and interminable services in a chapel, +organ recitals and concerts. The other boys disgusted him with their +endless obscenities and suggestions, their universal conviction that +the great thing was to “get through it,” so as to be able to resume +those criminal practices inherent in them, practices which the home +did nothing to eradicate or relieve. + +If “Old Face” had not been of the toughest fibre, dull witted, +impervious, and in a sense unawakened, those two years would have +broken him. As it was they dulled his sensibilities even more, they +embittered him. Those brown eyes had almost lost that straining +glance of expectancy, as though the home had taught him that there +was nothing for him in any case to expect. He was a criminal, +hallmarked for eternity. When he had been there six months they sent +for him to go and visit the chaplain. That good man looked very +impressive, and announced that the governor had received information +that Caleb’s mother was dead, and that it was his solemn duty to +break the news to him. He appeared relieved that the boy did not at +once burst into tears. He then delivered a little homily on life and +death, and pointed out that it was Caleb’s evil and vicious actions +which had hastened his mother’s death. He advised him to pour out his +heart in penitence to God, who was always our Rock and Saviour in +times of tribulation. He quoted passages from Leviticus, and Caleb +stared at him dully, thinking the while: + +“I’ll never see my mother again, never, never.” + +He did not give way to grief. The news only bewildered him the +more. He went about his duties in the home stolidly. He was quite +an exemplary inmate, hardly up to the average standard of quickness +and intelligence, but quiet, obedient, and well behaved. At the end +of his term of service he was sent up before the governor and other +officials. The clumsy scrawl of his signature was demanded upon +innumerable forms. He believed he was once more to be a free man. +And so he was in a qualified sense. But he was not to escape without +the seal of the institution being indelibly stamped upon him. In +round-about phrases the governor explained that he was to leave the +home, but he was not to imagine that he was a free agent to go about +the world murdering whomever he liked. He was still a criminal, +requiring supervision and watching. Out of their Christian charity +the governors had found employment for him at a timber merchant’s +at Bristol. Thither he would go, but he must remember that he was +still under their protection. Every few weeks he must report to the +police. Any act of disobedience on his part would be treated--well, +by a sterner authority. On the next occasion he would not be sent to +a nice comfortable establishment like the home, where they played +football and had concerts, but to Wormwood Scrubbs or Dartmoor. Did +he understand? Oh, yes, Caleb understood--at least, partly. He was to +be free, free in a queer way. + +The arrangement did not exactly tally with his sense of freedom, any +more than this building tallied with his idea of home, but he was +only nineteen and his body was strong and his spirit not completely +broken. Any ideas he may have entertained that the new life was going +to spell freedom in any sense were quickly shattered. The timber +merchant at Bristol was a man named Barnet, a tyrant of the worst +description. He knew the kind of material he was handling. Most of +his employees were ex-convicts, ticket-of-leave-men, Lascars, or +social derelicts. He acted accordingly. Caleb slept in a shed with +nine other men, four of whom were coloured. They worked ten hours a +day loading timber on barges. They were given greasy cocoa and bread +at six o’clock in the morning, a meal of potatoes and little square +lumps of hard meat at twelve, then tea and bread at four o’clock in +the afternoon. In addition to this he was paid twelve shillings a +week. The slightest act of insubordination or slackness was met with +the threat: + +“Here, you! Any more of that and you go back to where you came from!” + +Before he had been there a month he felt that the home was indeed a +home in comparison. Strangely enough, it was one of the coloured men +who rescued him from his thraldom, a pleasant voiced coon with only +one eye. He appeared to take a fancy to Caleb. One night he came to +him and whispered: + +“Say, boss, would you like to beat it?” + +It took some time for the boy from Cravenford to understand the +coloured man’s phraseology and plan, but when he did, he fell in +with it with alacrity. The following Saturday they visited a little +public-house down by the docks and were there introduced to a +grizzled mate. Hands were wanted on a merchantman sailing for Buenos +Ayres the following week. The coloured man was a free agent and he +signed on, and Caleb signed on in the name of J. Bullock. Two nights +before sailing he hid in a barge and joined his ship the following +morning. All day long he experienced the tremors of dread for the +first time in his life. The primitive instinct of escape and the call +of the sea was upon him. He could have danced with joy when he heard +the rattling of the chains, and the hoarse cries of the deck hands as +the big ship got under way at dusk. + +The voyage to Buenos Ayres was uneventful. The work was hard and the +discipline severe, but he was conscious all the time of sensing the +first draught of freedom that he had experienced since he left his +village. This feeling was accentuated at port when he realized that +after being paid off, he was free to leave the ship. But the rigid +magnificence of Buenos Ayres depressed him. He learnt that after +unloading they were to refit and convey cattle to Durban in South +Africa, so he signed on again for the next voyage. This proved to be +a formidable experience. A week out they ran into very heavy seas. He +was detailed to attend the cattle. The cattle superintendent was a +drunken bully. The stench among the cattle pens, added to the violent +heaving of the ship, brought on sickness, but he was not allowed any +respite. The cattle themselves were seasick, and many of them died +and had to be thrown overboard. The voyage lasted three weeks, and +when he arrived at Durban he determined to try his luck once more as +a landsman. At that time there was plenty of demand for unskilled +labour for men of Caleb’s physique in South Africa, but it was poorly +paid. He drifted about the country doing odd jobs. He visited Cape +Town, Kimberly and Pietermaritzburg. The fever of _wanderlust_ was +upon him. He never remained in one situation for more than a few +months. He was the man who desired to see over the ridge. Perhaps +further, just a little further, would be--he knew not what, some +answer to the inexpressible yearning within him, deep calling unto +deep. At the age of twenty-two he was working on the railroad near +Nyanza. They came and told him about the great war, which had just +started in Europe. A keen-faced little man, one of the gangers, +tapped him on the shoulder and said: + +“It’s lucky for you lad you’re out here. Otherwise they’d be telling +you that ‘your king and country need you’.” + +The phrase disturbed him. Night after night he lay awake dreaming of +England. Memories of the home and of the timber-merchant at Bristol +vanished. He thought only of Cravenford, the gray ivy-coloured +church, the rambling high street, the pond by Mr. Larry’s farm, the +cross-roads where he and another boy named Stoddard had fought one +April afternoon, his mother’s cottage, now, alas! deserted, but +always sacred, old Sam Hurds banging away in the smithy, the rooks +circling above the great elms in the park--all, all these things were +perhaps in danger whilst he lay sulking in a foreign land. They had +called him “Face.” Well, why not? He knew he was not particularly +pre-possessing. The fellow workmen had always been at great pains to +point this out to him. But still--stolidly and indifferently he went +about his work, and then one day in the old manner he vanished.... + +We will not attempt to record Caleb’s experiences of the war. He had +no difficulty in joining a volunteer unit in Capetown, which was +drafted to England. There he asked to be transferred to one of his +own county regiments. The request was overlooked in the clamour of +those days. He found himself with a cockney infantry regiment, and he +remained with it through the whole course of the war. His life was +identical to that of his many million comrades. In some respects he +seemed to enjoy lapses of greater freedom than he had experienced for +a long time. He was better fed, better clothed, better looked after. +He had money in his pocket which he knew not what to do with. He +made a good soldier, doing unquestioningly what he was told, sticking +grimly to his post, being completely indifferent to danger. + +Save for a few months on the Italian front, he served the whole time +in France. He was slightly wounded three times, and in 1917 was +awarded a military cross for an astounding feat of bravery in bombing +a German dug-out and killing five of the enemy single-handed in the +dark. Those queer spiritual strivings so deep down in his nature +derived no satisfaction from the war. It was all quite meaningless +and incomprehensible. When he left South Africa he had an idea that +the fighting would be in England. He visualized grim battles in the +fields beyond Cravenford, and he and the other boys from the school +defending their village. He had never conceived that a war could be +like this. Sometimes he would lie awake at night and ruminate vaguely +upon the queer perversity of fate which suddenly made murder popular. +He had been turned out of England because he had quite inadvertently +killed his father for kicking his mother across the shins, and now +he was praised for killing five men within a few minutes. He didn’t +know, of course, but perhaps some of those men--particularly that +elderly plump man who coughed absurdly as he ran on to Caleb’s +bayonet--perhaps they were better men than his father, although +foreigners, although enemy. It was very perplexing.... + +After a gray eternity of time, the thing came to an end. He found +himself back in England. During the war much had been forgotten and +forgiven. No one asked him for his credentials. The police never +interfered with him. With his three wound stripes, his military +cross, and his papers all in order, he was for a time a _persona +grata_. + +He had a bonus beyond the pay which he had saved, and he had never +been so wealthy in his life. He stayed in London, and tried to adapt +himself to a life of luxury and freedom, but he was not happy. In +restaurants he was self-conscious, in theatres bored, in the streets +bewildered. And so one day he set out and returned to his native +village. Strangely, little had it altered! There was the church, +the smithy, and the old street all just the same. He called on the +smith, who was startled at the sight of him, but on perceiving his +stripes and ribbons, reasonably polite. He ransacked the village for +old friends. Alas! How many of his school associates had gone, never +to return. He called on Mr. Green, the miller, Mrs. Allport, at the +general shop, Bob Canning, the carrier. Oh, dear me! yes, they all +remembered him, were quite courteous, glad he had done well at the +war, got through safely. Well, well! And soon the story got round. +“Old Face has returned. Old Face! The boy who murdered his father!” + +The novelty of his re-appearance and return soon wore off, and he +knew that he was held in distrust in the village. He wandered far +afield, and eventually obtained employment at a brick-works at +Keeble, four miles down the valley toward Blaizing-Killstoke. Here +the rumours concerning him gradually percolated, but they carried +little weight or significance. He was a good workman, and time +subdues all things. + +Then the strangest miracle happened to Caleb Fryatt. He was nearly +thirty, hard-bitten, battered, ill-mannered, with a scar from +a bullet on his left cheek, little money, no prospects and no +ambition--an unattractive chunk of a man. But what should we all do +if love itself were not the greatest miracle of all? Anne Tillie was +by no means a beauty herself, but she was not without attraction. She +had a round, bright red ingenuous face, a heavily built figure with +rather high shoulders and long arms. She was a year older than Caleb +and inclined to be deaf, but there was a transparent honesty and +simplicity about her. One could see that she would be honest, loyal, +and true to all her purposes. She was the daughter of the postman +at Blaizing-Killstoke. She and Caleb used to meet in the evenings +and wander the lanes together. They did not appear to converse very +much, but they would occasionally laugh, and give each other a hearty +push. To her father’s disgust, these attentions led to marriage the +following year. They went to live in a tiny cottage on the outskirts +of Keeble, ten minutes’ bicycle ride from the works. Anne made an +excellent wife. She seemed to understand and adapt herself to her +husband’s idiosyncrasies. She kept the cottage spotlessly clean, +tended his clothes, and kept him in clean linen, cooked well, and +studied all his little wants and peculiarities. She found time to +attend to the garden, grow her own vegetables, and even see after a +dozen fowls. + +Caleb had never enjoyed such material comfort. In the evening they +would sit either side of the fire, he with his pipe and she with +her sewing. They were an unusually silent couple. Apart from her +deafness, they never seemed prompted to exchange more than cursory +remarks about the weather, their food, or some matter of local +gossip. In the summer they sat in the garden, and watching the blue +smoke from his pipe curl away into the amber light of the setting +sun, Caleb felt that he had reached a haven after a restless storm. +He worked remorsely hard at the brick-works, and in two years’ time +was made a kiln foreman, receiving good wages. Malevolent people +still whispered the story concerning the boy who murdered his father, +and pointed an accusing finger at the back of his bulky form, but no +one dared to remind Anne of that tragic happening. She knew the full +details of it quite well, and woe to any unfortunate individual who +dared to suggest that her man was in the wrong! In course of time he +built a barn, and a toolshed, and they bought an adjoining orchard. +They kept pigs, and then a pony and trap, and on Thursdays Anne would +drive to market, and sell eggs, and chickens and apples. Oh, yes, +they were becoming a prosperous pair. Caleb had surely outlived +the ugly vicissitudes of his fate. Was he happy? Was he completely +satisfied? Who shall say? The promptings from the soul come from some +deep root no one has fathomed. He was conscious of a greater peace +than he had ever known. He sometimes hummed a quite unrecognizable +tune as he went about his work. The mornings enchanted him with +gossamer webs gleaming with dew, swinging between the flowers. But +the eyes still sometimes appeared to be seeking--one knows not what. + +They had been married five years and seven months when the child was +born. It came as a great surprise to Caleb. He had hardly dared to +visualize such an eventuality. What a to-do there was in the cottage! +Another room to be prepared, strange garments suddenly appearing upon +the line in the kitchen, a visiting nurse somewhat important and +discursive. + +“A boy! Ho!” thought Caleb, as he trundled along on his bicycle +the following morning. A boy who would grow up and perhaps become +like himself. Well, that was very strange, very remarkable. Most +remarkable that such a possibility had never occurred to him. All +day long, and for nights and weeks after he thought about the boy +who was going one day to be a man like himself. The thought at first +worried and perplexed him. Was he--had he been--the kind of man +the world would want perpetuated? He felt the fierce censure and +distrust mankind had always lavished upon himself beginning to focus +upon the boy, and gradually the protective sense developed in him +to a desperate degree. The boy should have better chances than he +ever had, the boy should be protected, cared for, shown the way of +things.... Caleb ruminated. His wife became very dear to him. He was +a man on the threshold of revelation. But before his eyes had fully +opened to the complete realization of all that this meant to him, +a wayward gust of fever shattered the spectrum. The little fellow +died when barely four months old. For a time Caleb was most deeply +concerned for the health of his wife, who was a victim of the same +scourge, but, as she gradually recovered, a feeling of unendurable +melancholy crept over him. He began to observe the gray perspective +of his life, its past and future. When Anne was once more normal, +their intercourse became more taciturn than ever. There fell between +them long, empty silences. There were times when he regarded her +with boredom, almost with aversion. The years would roll on ... +wander-spirit would assail him. He would be tempted to pick up his +cap and go forth and seek some port, where a ship under ballast +might be preparing to essay the vast insecurity of heaving waters. +But something told him that that would be cruel. His wife’s love for +him was the most moving experience of his life, far greater than his +love for her. She was middle-aged now, and her deafness was more +pronounced than ever. + +Once she went away to stay with her father for a few days. The +morning after she left, a wall in the brickyard collapsed and crushed +his right foot. He was carried home in excruciating pain. A neighbour +came in and attended him and they fetched the doctor. They wanted to +send for his wife but he told them not to bother her. All night he +was delirious, and for the next two days and nights he went through a +period of torment. As the fever abated a deep feeling of depression +crept over him. He began to yearn for his wife profoundly. The +neighbour, an elderly woman, wife of the local corn-chandler, was +kindness itself. But everything she did was just wrong. How could +she know the way Caleb liked things, and he lying there silent and +uncomplaining? + +On the third evening Anne arrived. She had heard the news. She came +bustling into the cottage, dropped her bag, pressed her lips to his. + +“Silly Billy, why didn’t you send for me?” + +Silly Billy! That was her favourite term of raillery when he had +behaved foolishly. + +He choked back a desire to cry with relief. + +“It’s nothing, nothing to bother about.” + +But a feeling of deep contentment crept over him. His eyes regarded +her thick plump figure moving busily but quietly about the room. +There would be nothing now to disturb or annoy him. Everything +would be done just--just as he liked it. She deftly re-arranged +the positions of tables, and cups, and curtains. As the evening +wore on she hovered above him, watching his every little movement, +like a tigress watching over its cub. She eased the pillow, stroked +his hair, and by some adroit manœuvre relieved the pressure on his +throbbing leg. A deep sense of tranquillity permeated him. For the +first time for three days he felt the desire to sleep, the cottage +seemed so inordinately quiet, secure. Once when she was stooping near +the chair by the bed, he seized her rough, strong forearm and pulled +her to him. He believed he slept at last with her cheeks pressed +against his own.... + +They treated him very well at the brick-works, and his wages were +paid every week during his absence. It was nearly two months before +he could get about again, and the doctors said he must expect to +have a permanent limp. Summer vanished in the October mists, and a +long winter dragged through its course. Spring again. Its pulse a +little feebler than in the old days? Well, well, what could a man +expect? Some of the old desires raised their heads and tugged at +his heart-strings. He was very happy--off and on a little soiled, +perhaps, by the stress of bitter years, a little more ordinary, a +little more sociable. He sometimes visited “The Green Man” and would +drink beer with Mr. White, the corn-chandler, and old Tom Smethwick. +And after a glass or two he would be quite a social acquisition, and +would be inclined to boast a little of his deeds in the Great War, +and of his adventures in foreign lands. No harm in it. Not such a +bad sort, Old Face, the boy who murdered his father. + +Heigho! But how the years ravage us! ’Twas but a while when things +were so and so, and now.... He was forty-four when two disturbing +factors came into his life, threatening to wreck its calm tenor, +and they occurred almost simultaneously. There was a girl at the +brick-works who came from London. She was the manager’s secretary and +she worked in his office. Oh, but she was a smart piece of goods, +and the men never tired of discussing her. In the early twenties, +distinctly pretty, with a mass of chestnut hair, pert manners and a +wrist watch. Passing through the yards, she would sometimes chat with +the men at the kilns, and in their dinner hour she would laugh and +joke with them. Their estimate of her was not always expressed in +very refined or flattering language. Old Ingleton, the time-keeper, +swore she had given him the “glad-eye,” but as one of his own eyes +was glass, his confession did not carry great weight. She had never +singled Caleb out for any particular attention although she was +always friendly with him. The cataclysm came upon him quite suddenly +one day in late September. He was digging a trench by a mound covered +with nettles, and a few tall sunflowers. It was a glorious day and +the earth smelt good. He rested on his spade and was enjoying the +pleasant tranquillity of the scene, when the girl came round the +corner and looked at him. She smiled and exclaimed: + +“A lovely day, Mr. Fryatt!” + +He instinctively touched his hat and said “Ay.” + +And that was the end of the conversation. But Caleb watched her +walking up the narrow path toward the manager’s shanty, and some +restless fever stirred within him. She was unique. He had seen +such women from a distance, smartly apparelled, walking about the +streets of London and Capetown, but he had always looked upon them as +creatures of a different world from his own, and hardly given them a +thought. But here was one smiling at him, speaking to him. After all, +she was not so remote. She was a girl, indeed, a working girl, quite +accessible and friendly. And what a lithesome, dainty figure! What an +appealing pretty face! Those lips! Ugh! A large worm wriggled free +from the side of the little trench, and quite unreasonably he cut it +in half with his spade. + +From that moment forward Caleb began to think of Agnes Fareham. +Alas! He began to dream about her also. She was a note of bright and +vivid colour in the drab monotony of his life. He began to lie in +wait for her, to force his clumsy attentions upon her and she did +not seem to resent it unduly. The affair became an obsession. His +faculty for reasoning had never been considerable. In some dim way he +felt that there was the solution of all those buried yearnings and +thwarted desires which had accompanied him through life. Here was an +explanation. He was content to be held by the experience, without +formulating any plan or definite resolution. Whether the girl would +ultimately succumb to his solicitations, whether she would go away +with him, and if so how he was to manage to keep her; moreover, how +he was to face the appalling cruelty of his own attitude toward +Anne--all these questions he put behind him. For the moment they +appeared immaterial to the blinding obsession. One day while still in +this indeterminate mood he went home as usual to his mid-day dinner. +As he dismounted his bicycle and leant it against the garden fence, +Anne came out of the cottage and said: + +“Caleb, there’s a gentleman to see you.” + +He went inside and beheld a small keen-faced elderly man, who nodded +to him and said: + +“Mr. Caleb Fryatt?” + +“Ay.” + +The little man examined him closely. + +“I will come straight to the business I have in hand. I am the head +clerk of Rogers, Mason and Freeman, solicitors of Blaizing-Killstoke. +You, I believe, are the only child of Stephen and Mary Fryatt, late +of Cravenford?” + +“Ay.” + +“You may be aware that your father had a brother, named Leonard, in +Nova Scotia?” + +“I’ve heard tell on ’ee.” + +“Your uncle died last year. He left a little property and no will. My +principals are of opinion that you are the lawful legatee. They would +be obliged if you would pay them a visit so that the matter may be +fully determined. Here is my card.” + +Caleb stared dully at the piece of pasteboard, but Anne who had +entered the cottage just previously, asked to have the business +explained to her. Caleb shouted in her ear. Then she turned to the +lawyer and said: + +“And how much money did his Uncle Leonard leave? Do you know, sir?” + +“Quite without prejudice, and entirely between ourselves, I believe +it is a matter of approximately four thousand pounds.” + +It took the whole of the afternoon for this news thoroughly to +penetrate the skull of the fortunate legatee. Indeed, it was not till +he had had a pint of beer at “The Green Man” on the way home that +the full significance came home to him. It is to be regretted that +after his supper he returned to “The Green Man,” and for the first +time in his life Mr. Caleb Fryatt got drunk. He stood drinks lavishly +and indiscriminately. He told everyone his news. The amount became +a little distorted. It may have been due to the lawyer’s use of the +word “approximately.” This orgy acted upon him disastrously. As he +reeled up the village street, only one vision became clear to him. +Agnes! He could take her away, buy her a mansion and smart frocks. +He could take her to hotels and theatres in London. At the same +time, he could settle money on Anne. He was a millionaire. The world +belonged to him. With a tremendous effort he controlled his feet and +voice when he reached the cottage, but he went to bed at once. In +the morning he had a headache and Anne bound his head in damp linen +handkerchiefs and brought him tea. + +By Monday everyone on the countryside from Cravenford to Billows Weir +knew that “Old Face,” the ugly man, known as the boy who murdered his +father, had come in for a huge fortune left by an uncle in Canada. +The first person he met in the brick-works on Monday was Agnes, who +came up to him and held out her hand: + +“I believe we are to congratulate you, Mr. Fryatt.” + +He smiled at her foolishly and held her hand an unnecessarily long +time. There was no doubt she had taken to him. She liked him. Could +he stir her deeper emotion? + +The weeks went by in a dream. He visited the lawyers. Everything +was in order. They even offered to advance him money. He could not +visualize the full dimensions of his fortune; neither had he the +power to act upon it. He still went on at the brick-works and the +cottage, listening to Anne’s sensible admonitions to invest the +money in small amounts so as to have a nest egg for their old age. +But he could not detach this miracle of wealth from the figure of +Agnes. They had come together. They belonged to each other, fantastic +phenomena jerking him violently out of the deep rut of his existence. +One day he went into the town and bought a gold locket, set with +blue stones. He gave four pounds ten for it. He waited for Agnes +that evening and gave it to her. He had been in an agony as to +whether she would accept it, but to his delight she received it with +gratitude and thanked him bewitchingly. This seemed to bind her to +him indissolubly. A few evenings later he met her in the lane. There +was no one about. Without a word he took her in his arms and pressed +his lips to hers. She gasped and spluttered: + +“Oh, Mr. Fryatt, please ... no.” + +But she wasn’t angry. Oh, no, not really angry--just provocative, +more alluring than ever.... They met frequently after that, in +secret disused corners of the brick-field, in the lanes at night. +He bought her more presents, and one Saturday they went secretly +to a fair at Molesham and only returned by the last train. The men +naturally began to get wind of this illicit courtship, but as far +as he knew no rumour had penetrated the deafness of Anne. He was +drifting desperately beyond care in either respect. Two months of +this intensive worship and the madness was upon him. He said: + +“You must come with me. We will run away.” + +“Where, Caleb?” + +“We’ll go to London.” + +“Where should we stay?” + +“At swell hotels. We will have a carriage. I will buy frocks and +jewels.” + +The girl’s eyes narrowed. + +“What about your wife?” + +“I’ll make it all right. I’ll settle some money on her.” + +But Agnes was not so easily won. Oh dear, no! There were tears and +emotion. You see, she was only a young and innocent girl. Suppose +he deserted her? What assurance had she? This scheming and plotting +went on for weeks. At length they came to an agreement. Agnes would +go to London with him if he would first settle a thousand pounds +upon her. It was very cheap at the price, and a fair and reasonable +bargain. One Saturday they journeyed together to his lawyers at +Blaizing-Killstoke. The deed was drawn up, and they both signed +various papers. The elopement was fixed for the following Saturday. +All the week Caleb walked like a man unconscious of his surroundings. +The purposes of his life were to be fulfilled. True, he had odd +moments of misgiving. He dared not think about Anne. Also at times +he had gloomy forebodings concerning London hotels, how to behave, +whether the people would laugh at him, what clothes to wear, whether +Agnes would quickly sicken of him. But still he had pledged himself. +He jingled the money in his pocket.... His destiny. + +Friday was a disastrous day. It was cold and damp, and to his disgust +he awoke with a severe twinge of rheumatism in his left shoulder. It +made him irritable and nervous all day. Agnes was very preoccupied. +He had advanced her some money to buy frocks, and she went backward +and forward to her lodgings with large cardboard boxes. He had +selected the morrow, because Anne was going away to spend a few days +with her father. In the afternoon his rheumatism became worse, and he +became aware of the symptoms of a feverish chill. He left off work at +his usual time and cycled home. The cottage was all in darkness. He +lighted the lamp. Anne had left his supper ready for him on the tray. +The little room looked neat and tidy. She had also left a note for +him. He picked it up carelessly and held it under the lamp. This is +what he read: + + Caleb dear, I hear that you have made some money over to Agnes + Fareham and that you are wishful to go away with her. My dear! + I do not want to interfere with your happiness. I thowt I had + been a good wife to you but you know best. I am goin to my + father and I shall not come back. Please God you may be happy. + + Your broking hearted wife, + + ANNE. + + Bless you dear for all you have been to me and the happiness + you have give me. + +And Caleb buried his face in his hands. Without touching his supper +he carried the lamp into the bedroom and went to bed. Curse it! How +his teeth were chattering! He would have liked a little brandy, but +there was none in the cottage, and there was no one to go and fetch +it. He wrapped himself up and rolled over, the interminable night +began. What a weak fool he was! All the experiences and temptations +of his life crowded upon him and tortured him. Idle dreams! Idle +dreams! His shoulder ached insufferably. If Anne were here, she would +rub it with that yellow oil. He could not rub his own shoulder and +back. Then she would wrap it up in a thick shawl and say: + +“Silly Billy, you must be careful of the damp.” + +He could visualize her moving about the room, arranging the curtain +so that there was no draught, stirring something in a cup, giving +those little dexterous pokes to the bed clothes which meant so much, +sitting placidly by the window, his coarse woollen socks in her hand. +She loved darning his socks ... doing things for him, even all the +unpleasant, ugly things of domestic life. + +He ought to have some soup or gruel or something, but he could not +be bothered to make it. He turned out the lamp. And all night long +Caleb turned and fretted, and strangely enough he gave little thought +to Agnes. She was now becoming the unreality, the vain fancy, a +feather drifting on the ocean. She was nothing to him. She had no +part in that deep consciousness, amongst whose folds he had sought +so desperately to find inner relief. What was it? Where was it? +Toward dawn he slept fitfully, struggling to keep awake on account +of the disturbing dreams that crowded upon him. When things at last +became visible the first thing he was aware of was an old shawl of +his wife’s on a nail by the door, and cap which she wore to do the +housework in. The things became to him an emblem of the love she +bore him, and truth came to him with the rising of the sun. Love--the +deep secret her hand had sought; the love that struggles to endure +through any conditions, the love that as far as human nature is +concerned is permanent and indestructible. He observed its action +upon his own career. His mother’s love for his father, a love which +he had so tragically misinterpreted. Later his love for his country, +which had crept upon him across the years and whispered to him across +the endless waste of waters. And lastly the love that existed between +his wife and himself, a love that was so near and familiar to him +that he could not always see it. He sighed and the dreams no longer +worried him. It must have been some hours later that he awoke and +made himself some tea. He was still shaky, and his shoulder hurt, so +he went back to bed. + +In the middle of the morning he heard the latch of the front door +click, and his heart beat rapidly. + +“She has come back,” he thought. He heard some one moving in +the passage, his door opened, and on the threshold of the room +stood--Agnes! It was queer that on observing her his first thought +was with regard to his teeth. During the war he had lost three front +teeth. A loving government had presented him with a plate and three +false teeth which he always wore in daytime, but which at night, on +Anne’s advice, he always kept in a glass of water by the side of the +bed. He stretched out his hand for the teeth, and then he felt that +he would be ridiculous putting the plate in, so he left the matter +alone. She advanced into the room, and neither of them spoke. It is +difficult to know precisely what attitude Agnes had resolved to take, +but the appearance and atmosphere of that room may have altered or +modified it. She merely grinned rather uncomfortably at Caleb. He +could not have been an attractive sight. He had slept badly, and he +had not washed or shaved. He was wearing a coarse woollen nightgown, +and his three front teeth were missing. Perhaps it occurred to her +abruptly that in the round of life one has to take the unshorn +early morning with the gaily bedecked evening, and she was already +wondering whether the combination was worth while. In any case she +merely said: + +“Well?” + +And Caleb replied, “Hullo!” + +They both looked a little ashamed then, and Agnes glanced out of the +window as though dreading some one’s approach. As he did not speak +further, she turned and said: + +“You’re not coming then?” + +He turned his face to the wall and answered “No.” + +There was a definite expression of relief on the girl’s face. She +was very smartly dressed in a tailor-made coat and skirt. She edged +toward the door. Then she said in a mildly querulous voice: + +“I knew you’d back out of it.” + +Caleb sat up and exclaimed feelingly: + +“I’m sorry, Agnes.” + +This seemed to quite appease her, and she said: + +“Anything you want, Caleb, before I go?” + +The man stared thoughtfully at the ceiling before replying: + +“Yes; wait a minute, Agnes.” + +He took a pencil and a sheet of paper, and wrote out a telegram +addressed to his wife: + +“Come back, dear, I want you.” + +The girl took up the telegram and read it through thoughtfully. Then +she once more edged toward the door. She fumbled with the latch. +Suddenly she turned and said: + +“That’ll be elevenpence.” + +“Eh?” + +“That’ll be elevenpence--for the telegram.” + +“Oh, ay, that’s it. Yes, elevenpence.” + +He fumbled with his trousers on the chair by the side of the bed and +produced a shilling. + +“There, lass, I haven’t any change. Don’t bother about the penny.” + +She took the shilling and went back to the door. + +“Good-bye, Caleb.” + +“Good-bye.” + +When she had gone he thought it was rather queer of her to ask for +the shilling. He had already given her a thousand pounds, and many +frocks and presents. She might in any case have offered to give him +the penny change. However, he soon forgot her in the fever of anxiety +he was in as to the return of his wife. All day long no one came +near the cottage. The day was wet, and a thick white mist drifted +with the rain. He could not trouble to light the fire. He ate some +bread and cheese at mid-day, and vainly tried to rub his shoulder +with the oil. Soon after five it began to be dark again. He was +in a terror of remorse and fear. Had he destroyed the lamp of his +happiness? He buried his face in the pillow and groaned: “I didn’t +understand! I didn’t understand!” + +He began to feel so weak; he was losing sense of time. He awakened +once with a start. The room seemed suddenly filled with an enveloping +comfort. He held out his arms. He felt those wet cheeks pressed close +to his. That voice so dear and familiar to him was whispering in his +ear: + +“Silly Billy, I knew ye would send for me.” + + + + +THE BROWN WALLET + + +Giles Meiklejohn was a beaten man. Huddled in the corner of a +third class railway carriage on the journey from Epsom to London, +he sullenly reviewed the unfortunate series of episodes which had +brought him into the position he found himself. Dogged by bad +luck!... Thirty-seven years of age; married; a daughter ten years +old; nothing attained; his debts exceeding his assets; and now--out +of work! + +He had tried, too. A little pampered in his up-bringing; when the +crisis came he had faced it manfully. When, during his very first +year at Oxford, the news came of his father’s bankruptcy and sudden +death from heart failure, he immediately went up to town and sought a +situation in any capacity. His mother had died many years previously, +and his only sister was married to a missionary in Burmah. His +accomplishments at that time? Well, he could play cricket and squash +rackets; he knew a smattering of Latin and a smudge of French; he +remembered a few dates in history, and he could add up and subtract +(a little unreliably). He was good looking, genial, and of excellent +physique. He had no illusions about the difficulties which faced him. + +His father had always been a kind of practical visionary. Connected +with big insurance interests, he was a man of large horizons, +profound knowledge, and great ideals. Around his sudden failure and +death there had always clung an atmosphere of mystery. That he had +never expected to fail, and was unprepared for death a week before it +happened is certain. He had had plans for Giles which up to that time +he had had no opportunity of putting into operation. The end must +have been cyclonic. + +Through the intervention of friends, Giles obtained a situation +as clerk in an insurance office, his wages amounting to fifteen +shillings a week, a sum he had managed to live on. In the evening he +attended classes, and studied shorthand and typewriting. At first +the freshness of this experience, aided by youth and good health, +stimulated him. But as time went on he began to realize that he had +chosen work for which he was utterly unsuited. He worked hard but +made no progress. He had not a mathematical mind; he was slow in +the up-take. The chances of promotion were remote. The men around +him seemed so quick and clever. At the end of two years he decided +to resign and try something else. If only he had been taught a +profession! After leaving the insurance office he went through +various experiences; working at a seedsman’s nursery, going round +with a circus, attempting to get on the stage and failing, working +his passage out to South Africa, more clerking, nearly dying from +enteric through drinking polluted water, working on an ostrich farm, +returning to England as a male nurse to a young man who was mentally +deficient. + +It was not till he met Minting that he achieved any success at all. +They started a press-cutting agency in two rooms in Bloomsbury. +Minting was clever, and Giles borrowed fifty pounds (from whom we +will explain later). Strangely enough the press-cutting agency was a +success. After the first six months they began to do well. + +It was at that time that he met Eleanor. She was secretary to Sir +Herbert Woolley, the well-known actor-manager, and she happened +to call one day concerning the matter of press-cuttings for her +employer. From the very first moment there was never any question +on either side but that both he and she had met their fate. Neither +had there been an instant’s regret on either side ever since. They +were completely devoted. With the business promising well, he married +her within three months. It is probable that if the business had not +existed he would have done the same. They went to live in a tiny flat +in Maida Vale, and a child was born the following year. + +A period of unclouded happiness followed. There was no fortune to +be made out of press-cuttings, but a sufficient competence to keep +Eleanor and the child in reasonable comfort. Everything progressed +satisfactorily for three years. And then one July morning the blow +fell. At that time he and Minting were keeping a junior clerk. Giles +and Eleanor had been away to the sea for a fortnight’s holiday. +Minting was to go on the day of their return. When Giles arrived at +the office he found the clerk alone. To his surprise he heard that +Minting had not been there himself for a fortnight. He did not have +long to wait to find the solution of the mystery. The first hint came +in the discovery of a blank counterfoil. Minting had withdrawn every +penny of their small capital and vanished! + +Giles did not tell his wife. He made a desperate effort to pull +the concern together, but in vain. There were a great number of +outstanding debts, and he had just nine shillings when he returned +from his holiday. He rushed round and managed to borrow a pound or +two here and there, sufficient to buy food and pay off the clerk, +but he quickly foresaw that the crash was inevitable. He had not +the business acumen of Minting, and no one seemed prepared to +invest money in a bankrupt press-cutting agency. In the midst of +his troubles the original source of the fifty pounds upon which he +started the business, wrote peremptorily demanding the money back. +He went there and begged and pleaded, but it was obvious that the +“original source” looked upon him as a waster and ne’er-do-well. + +He went bankrupt, and Eleanor had to be told. She took it in just the +way he knew she would take it. She said: + +“Never mind, darling. We’ll soon get on our feet again.” + +She had been a competent secretary, with a knowledge of French, +bookkeeping, shorthand and typewriting. She set to work and obtained +a situation herself as secretary to the manager of a firm of +wallpaper manufacturers, housing the child during the day with a +friendly neighbour. + +Giles was idle the whole of August. They gave up the flat and went +into lodgings. In September he got work as a clerk to a stationer. +His salary was thirty shillings a week, a pound less than his wife +was getting. He felt the situation bitterly. Poor Eleanor! How he had +let her down. When he spoke about it though she only laughed and said: + +“If our troubles are never anything worse than financial ones, +darling, I shan’t mind.” + +They continued to be only financial ones till the following year +when Eleanor became very ill. She gave birth to a child that died. +In a desperate state Giles again approached the “original source.” +After suffering considerable recrimination and bullying he managed +to extract another ten pounds, which quickly vanished. It was three +months before Eleanor was well enough to resume work, and during that +time they lived in a state of penury. Giles lived almost entirely on +tea and bread, and became very run down and thin. He pretended to +Eleanor that he had had an increase, and that he had a good lunch +every day, so that all the money he earned could be spent on her and +the baby. In the meantime he dissected desperately that grimmest of +all social propositions--the unskilled labour market. If only he +had been taught to be a boot-maker, a plumber, or a house-painter he +would have been better off. Manners may make men, but they don’t make +money, and one has to make money to live. He became envious of his +fellow clerks and shop assistants who had never tasted the luxurious +diet of a public school training. That he had brains he was fully +aware, but they had never been trained in any special direction. +They were, moreover, the kind of brains that do not adapt themselves +to commercial ends. He had always had a great affection for his +father, but he began to nurture a resentment against his memory. His +father had treated him badly, bringing him up to a life of ease and +assurance and then deserting him. + +It would be idle and not very interesting to trace the record of +his experiences during the next years up to the time when we find +him in the train on the way back from Epsom. It is a dreary story, +the record of a series of dull underpaid jobs, a few bright gleams +of hope, even days and nights of complete happiness, then dull +reactions, strain, worry, hunger, nervous fears, blunted ambitions, +and thwarted desires. Through it all the only thing that remained +unalterably bright and inspiring, was his wife’s face. Not once did +she flinch, not once did she lose hope. Her constant slogan: “Never +mind, old darling, we’ll soon be on our feet again,” was ever in his +ears, buoying him up through the darkest hours. + +And again he was out of work, again Eleanor was not well, and again +he had been to the “original source.” + +The “original source” was his uncle, his father’s brother. He +was a thin, acid old gentleman, known in commercial circles as a +money-maniac. Living alone in a large house at Epsom, with all kinds +of telephonic connections with the city, he thought and dreamed of +nothing at all but his mistress--money. Between him and Giles’ father +had always existed a venomous hatred, far more pronounced on the side +of his uncle than of his father. It had dated back many years. When +his father died and Giles appealed to his uncle, the old gentleman +appeared thoroughly to enjoy giving him five pounds as an excuse for +a lecture and a subtly conveyed sneer at his father’s character. + +He was a very wealthy man, and he could easily have launched Giles +into the world by putting him through the training for one of the +professions, but he preferred to dole out niggardy little bits of +charity and advice, and to boast that he himself was a self-made man, +who had had no special training. + +“No,” thought Giles, “but you have an instinct for making money. I +haven’t. You don’t have to train a duck to swim.” + +Naturally, they very quickly quarrelled, and his uncle seemed to +rejoice in his failures. It was only in his most desperate positions +that he appealed to him again. + +Lying back in the dimly lighted railway carriage he kept on +visualizing his uncle’s keen malevolent eyes, the thrust of the +pointed chin. The acid tones of his voice echoed through his brain: + +“It’s quite time, my lad, you pulled yourself together. You ought to +have made your fortune by now. Don’t imagine I’m always going to help +you.” + +Giles had humbled his pride for his wife and child’s sake. He had +spent the night at his uncle’s, and by exercising his utmost powers +of cajolery, had managed to extort three pounds. Three pounds! and +the rent overdue, bills pressing, his wife unwell and he--out of +work. What was he going to do? + +The train rumbled into Waterloo Station without any satisfactory +answer being arrived at. He pulled his bag out from under the seat, +and stepped slowly out of the carriage. + +Walking along the platform it suddenly occurred to him that he was +feeling weak and exhausted. “I hope to God I’m not going to be ill,” +he thought. + +The bag, which only contained his night things and a change of +clothes, seemed unbearably heavy. A slight feeling of faintness came +over him as he passed the ticket-collector. + +“I believe I shall have to have a cab,” flashed through him. + +Two important-looking men got out of a taxi which had just driven +up. Giles engaged it, and having given his address he stepped in and +sank back exhausted on to the seat. It was very dark in the cab, +and he lay huddled in the corner--a beaten man. Everything appeared +distant and dim, and unimportant. He had hardly eaten any lunch, and +his uncle seemed to have arranged that he should leave his house just +before dinner. It was late, and he was hungry and over-wrought. + +The cab turned a corner sharply, and Giles lurched and thrust his +hand on to the other end of the seat to prevent himself falling. As +he did so his knuckles brushed against an object. Quite apathetically +he felt to see what it was. He picked it up and held it near the +window. It was a brown leather wallet, with a circular brass lock. He +regarded it dubiously, and for an instant hesitated whether he should +tell the driver to go back to the station, the wallet presumably +belonging to one of those two important-looking men who had got +out. But would it be possible to find them? By that time they would +probably have gone off by train. No, the right thing to do was to +give it up to the police, of course. + +It was a fat wallet, and he sat there with it in his hand ruminating. +He wondered what it contained. Quite easy just to have a squint +anyway. He tried to slip the catch but it wouldn’t open. It was +locked. It is difficult to determine the extent to which this +knowledge affected him. If it had not been locked Giles Meiklejohn’s +immediate actions, and indeed his future career might have been +entirely different. It irritated him that the wallet was locked +... tantalized him. If it was locked it meant that it contained +something ... pretty useful. All round the park he lay back in the +cab hugging the wallet like one in a trance. + +A desperate, beaten man, holding a fat wallet in his hand. Contrary +forces were struggling within his tired mind. Going up Park Lane one +of these forces seemed to succumb to the other. Almost in a dream he +leant out of the cab, and said quietly to the driver: + +“Drive to the Trocadero. I think I’ll get a bit of supper first.” + +Arriving there, he paid the cabman, concealed the wallet in his +overcoat and went in. He entered a lavatory and locked himself in. +With unruffled deliberation he took out a penknife and began to saw +away at the leather around the lock. + +“I just want to have a squint,” he kept on mentally repeating. + +It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to get the wallet open, and +when he did his heart was beating like a sledge hammer. + +The wallet contained eight thick packets of one pound treasury notes! +He feverishly computed the number which each packet contained, and +decided that it must be two hundred and fifty. In other words, he had +two thousand pounds’ worth of ready cash in his possession! + +A desperate, beaten man, with a wife and child, hungry ... out of +work ... two thousand pounds!... + +There seemed no question about it all then. One side of the scale was +too heavily weighted. He took seventeen of the one pound notes and +put them in his pocket book, the rest he divided into the pockets of +his overcoat, where he also concealed the wallet. He went up into the +bar and ordered a double brandy and soda. He drank it in two gulps +and went out and hailed another taxi. On the way home he stopped at +a caterer’s, and bought a cold fowl, some pressed beef, new rolls, +cheese, a box of chocolates, and a bottle of wine. Then he drove +homeward. + +Up to this point his actions seemed to have been controlled by +some sub-conscious force. So far as his normal self was concerned, +he had hardly thought at all. But as he began to approach his +own neighbourhood--his own wife--the realization of what he had +done--what he was doing--came home to him.... + +“It was practically stealing. It is stealing, you know.” + +Yes, but what would any one else have done in that position? He +couldn’t let his wife and child starve. There was only one thing he +was afraid of ... his wife’s eyes. She must never know. He would +have to be cunning, circumspect. He must get rid of the wallet, +conceal the notes from his wife--eke them out in driblets, pretend +he was making money somehow. But the wallet? He couldn’t leave it +in the cab. It would be found and the cabman would give evidence. +He mustn’t drive home at all. He must get out again, think again. +Between Paddington and Maida Vale runs a canal. Happy thought! a +canal! he stopped at the bridge and dismissed the man again, tipping +him lavishly. The banks of the canal were railed off. It was only +possible to get near enough to throw anything in from the bridge. +Thither he walked at a rapid stride. The feeling of exhaustion had +passed. He was tingling with excitement. He looked eagerly about for +a stone, and cursed these modern arrangements of wooden pavements. +There were no stones near the canal. Never mind, the thing would +probably sink. If it didn’t, who could trace its discovery to his +action? The point was to get rid of it unseen. + +He reached the bridge. A few stray people were passing backward and +forward--must wait till everyone was out of sight. He hung about, +gripping his portmanteau in one hand, and the wallet in his right +hand overcoat pocket. He crossed the bridge once, but still seeing +dark figures about he had to return. Why not throw it now? No, there +was someone watching in the road opposite--might be a policeman! The +police! never had cause to feel frightened at the police before. +There would be a splash. Someone might come out of the darkness, a +deep voice: + +“What was that you threw in the canal?” + +No, no, couldn’t do it. The bridge was too exposed, too much of a +fairway. He hurried off walking rapidly down side streets in the +direction of his home. At last an opportunity presented itself. +Shabby, deserted little street, a low stone wall enclosing a meagre +garden. Not a soul in sight. Like a flash he slipped the wallet over +the wall and dropped it. Instantaneously he looked up at the house +connected with the garden. A man was looking out of the first floor +window, watching him! + +He turned and walked quickly back. He thought he heard a call. At the +first turning he ran, the portmanteau banging against his leg and +impeding his progress. He only ceased running because people stopped +and looked at him suspiciously. + +“It’s all right! It’s all right!” he kept saying to himself. “I’ve +got rid of it.” + +Yes, he was rid of that danger, but there loomed before him the more +insidious difficulty of concealing the notes. His pockets bulged with +them. When he arrived home, Eleanor would run out into the landing +and throw her arms round him. He could almost hear the tones of her +gentle voice saying: + +“Whatever have you got in your pockets, darling?” + +If he put them in the portmanteau she would be almost certain to +open it, or she would be in the room when he went to unpack. Very +difficult to conceal anything from Eleanor; she knew all about +him; every little thing about him interested her. Nothing in their +rooms was locked up. Moreover, she was very observant, methodical +and practical. Someone had called her psychic, but this was only +because she thought more quickly than most people, and had unerring +intuitions. + +Giles would have to be very cunning. His mental energies were so +concerned with the necessity for deceiving Eleanor that the moral +aspect of his position was temporarily blurred. He plunged on through +the darkness, his mind working rapidly. At the corner of their meagre +street he was tempted to stuff the notes in a pillar box and hurry +home. + +“Don’t be a fool,” said the other voice. “Here is comfort and luxury +interminably--not only for yourself, for the others.” + +He went boldly up to the house and let himself in. He heard other +lodgers talking in the front ground floor room. He hurried by and +reached his own landing. To his relief Eleanor’s voice came from the +room above: + +“Is that you, darling?” + +He dumped the bag down and in a flash had removed his overcoat and +hung it on a peg in a dark corner. Then he called out: + +“Hullo, old girl. Everything all right?” + +Within a minute his wife’s arms were around him, and he exclaimed +with forced triumph: + +“I touched the old boy for twenty pounds! I’ve brought home a chicken +and things.” + +“Oh! how splendid! A chicken! Rather extrav. isn’t it, darling?” + +“One must live, dear angel.” + +Her confidence and trust in him, her almost childish glee over the +gay feast, her solicitude in his welfare, her anxiety that little +Anna should have some chicken, but keep the sweets till the morrow, +her voice later crooning over the child--all these things mocked his +conscience. But he couldn’t afford to have a conscience. He couldn’t +afford to say: + +“I stole all this and more.” + +He was eager for the attainment of that last instance--crooning over +the child. Whilst she was putting the little girl to bed, he crept out +into the passage and extracted the packets of notes from his overcoat +pocket. He took them into the sitting room and wrapped them up in +brown paper. He wrote on the outside, “stationery.” Then he stuffed +the parcel at the back of a cupboard where they kept all kinds of +odds and ends. + +“That’ll have to do for to-night,” he thought. “I’m too tired to +think of anything better.” + +When she came down he enlarged the claims of his exhaustion. He had +a bit of a head he explained, just as well to turn in early. In +the darkness he clung to her fearfully, like a child in terror of +separation. + +It was not till she was sleeping peacefully that the enormity of his +offence came home to him. + +If he were found out! It would kill her. + +He remembered her expression: + +“If our troubles are never anything worse than financial ones, +darling, I shan’t mind.” + +Good God! What had he done? He could call it what he liked, +but crudely speaking it was just stealing. He had stolen. He +was a criminal, a felon. If found out, it meant arrest, trial, +imprisonment--all these horrors he had only vaguely envisaged as +concerning a different type of person to himself. In the rough and +tumble of his life he had never before done anything criminal, never +anything even remotely dishonest. And she, Eleanor, what would she +think of him? It would destroy her love, destroy her life, ruin the +child. + +He must get up, go into the other room and--what? What could he do +with the notes? Burn them? Eleanor had that mother’s curious faculty +for profound, but at the same time, watchful sleep. If he got out of +bed she would be aware of it. If he went into the next room and began +burning things, she would be instantly alert. + +“What’s that burning, darling?” + +An ever-loving wife may be an embarrassment when one is not quite +playing the game. By destroying the wallet he had burnt his boats. If +he returned the money he would have to explain what the wallet was +doing in a neighbour’s garden with the brass lock cut away. + +“Besides, you’ve already spent some,” interjected that other voice. +“You’re horribly in debt. Here’s succour. The money probably belongs +to some rich corporation. It’s not like taking it from the poor. +Don’t be a fool. Go to sleep.” + +For hours he tossed feverishly, the pendulum of his resolutions +swinging backward and forward. If he was to keep the money, he would +have to invent some imaginary source of income, a fictitious job, +perhaps, and that would be very difficult because Eleanor was so +solicitous, such a glutton for details concerning himself. He might +have made out that his uncle had given him a much larger sum of +money, but in that case there was the danger that in her impetuous +manner Eleanor might have written to the old man, and the old man +would smell a rat. Doubtless the affair of the lost wallet would be +in the papers the next day, and wouldn’t the old man be delighted to +bring it home to Giles! + +There was nothing to be done but to trust to fate. The milk carts +were clattering in the road before he slept. + +It was hours later that he heard Anna’s merry little laugh, and his +wife’s voice saying: + +“Hush, darling, daddy’s asleep. He’s very tired.” + +He got up and faced the ordeals of the day. The place at the back of +the lumber cupboard seemed the most exposed in the world. He racked +his brains for a more suitable spot. But whichever place he thought +of danger seemed to lurk. One never quite knew what Eleanor might do. +She was so keen on tidying up and clearing things out. He decided +that a crisp walk might clear his mind. He made up the excuse that he +was going to the public library to look through the advertisements +and went out. He meant to smuggle the parcel of notes out with him. +but Eleanor was too much on the spot. She helped him on with his +overcoat and said: + +“It’ll soon be all right again, darling.” + +Poor Eleanor! What a capacity she had for living! She ought to +have married a rich, successful, and clever man. She ought to have +everything a beautiful woman desires. Well?... He walked quickly to +the nearest news-agent and bought a paper. There was nothing in the +morning paper about the loss of the wallet. He felt annoyed about +this, until he realized that of course there wouldn’t have been time. +It would come out later. And indeed whilst standing on the curb +anxiously scrutinizing his morning paper, boys came along the street +selling the _Star_ and the _Evening News_. + +A paragraph in the _Star_, headed “£2,000 left in a taxi,” supplied +him with the information he needed. It announced that Sir James +Cusping, K.B.E., a director of a well-known bank and a chief cashier, +left a wallet containing two thousand pounds in treasury notes in +a taxi at Waterloo Station. The money was the result of a cash +transaction concerning certain bank investments. Any one giving +information likely to lead to recovery would be suitably rewarded. It +also announced that Scotland Yard had the matter in hand. + +So far the information was satisfactory. Sir James Cusping was a +notoriously wealthy man, and the chief cashier was hardly likely to +be held seriously responsible for a loss for which such an important +person was jointly responsible. The bank mentioned was a bank that +advertised that its available assets exceeded four hundred million +pounds. Two thousand pounds meant less to it than two pence would +mean to Giles. No one was hurt by the transfer of this useful sum to +his own pocket. The sun was shining. Why be down in the mouth about +it? What he had done he had done, and he must see it through. + +How could anybody trace the theft to him? The two cabmen? They would +be hardly likely to remember his face, and neither of them had driven +him home. There was no danger from any one except Eleanor. A sudden +fever of dread came over him. She would assuredly turn out that +cupboard to-day, find the packet of “stationery.” Then--what? + +He hurried back home. Approaching the house other fears assailed him. +He had visions of policemen waiting for him on the other side of the +hall door. + +Damn it! His nerves were going to pot. He opened the door with +exaggerated nonchalance. There was no one there. No one up in his +rooms except his wife and child. Eleanor was singing. The kettle was +on the gas ring, ready for tea. + +“What a cad I am to her,” he thought. + +The condition of frenzied agitation continued till the following +afternoon when it reached a crisis. He was feeling all unstrung. +Seated alone in their little sitting room he was struggling with the +resolution to confess everything to Eleanor, when she entered the +room. He glanced at her and nearly screamed. _She was holding up the +parcel in her hand!_ + +In her cheerful voice she said: + +“What is this parcel marked stationery, darling? I was turning out +the cupboard.” + +Like an animal driven to bay he jumped up and almost snatched it from +her. The inspiration of despair prompted him to exclaim: + +“Oh!... that! Yes, yes, I wanted that. It’s something a chap wanted +me to get for him.... It doesn’t belong to me.” + +A chap! What chap? Giles didn’t usually refer to chaps. They had no +secrets apart. She looked surprised. + +“I was just going to open it. As a matter of fact we have run out of +stationery.” + +“Eh? No, no, not that. I must send that back. I’ll get some more +stationery.” + +He tucked the packet under his arm and went out into the hall. + +“You’re not going out at once?” said Eleanor, following. + +“Yes, yes, I must post it at once. I’d quite forgotten.” + +He slipped on his coat and went out without his customary embrace. + +Beads of perspiration were on his brow. + +“That’s done it!” he muttered in the street, “I must never take it +back.” + +An extravagant plan formed in his mind. He went to the library and +looked at the advertisements in a local paper. He took down some +addresses in St. John’s Wood. In half an hour’s time he was calling +on a landlady in a mean street. + +“You have a furnished room to let?” he said when she appeared. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Well, it’s like this. I am an author. I want a quiet room to work in +during the day time.” + +“I’ve got a nice room as would suit you.” + +“Come on, then, let me see it, please.” + +He booked the room, a shabby little over-crowded apartment. + +“I’ll be coming in to-day,” he said. + +“Very good, sir. What name might it be?” + +“Er--name? Oh, yes, name--er--John Parsons.” + +He fled down the street and sought a furnishing establishment. + +“I want an oak desk which I can lock up--a good strong lock.” + +He paid seven pounds ten for the desk, and got it taken round at once +on a barrow. He then bought scribbling papers, paper, and ink. He +established himself in his room, stuffed the packet of notes in the +desk and locked it. Then he went out into the street again. The fresh +air fanned his temples. He almost chuckled. + +“By God! Why didn’t I think of this at first?” he reflected. “After +the life I’ve led one forgets the power of money.” + +He felt singularly calm and confident. It was dark when he got home. +He kissed Eleanor and made up an elaborate story about a fellow clerk +named Lyel Bristowe, who used to work in the same office, and whom +he had met in the street recently. He had wanted this particular +stationery most particularly. He had been to see him, and Bristowe +was giving him an introduction to a man who might be able to offer +him a good situation. The story went down reasonably well, but he +thought he detected a pucker of suspicion about his wife’s brow. + +He was too involved now to turn back. The following day he visited +his furnished room. He anxiously unlocked the desk, took out the +notes, examined them, put them back, took them out again, stuffed +them in his pocket.... Very dangerous after all leaving them there, a +flimsy lock ... there might be a burglary. He had told the landlady +that he was an author, and it is true that he spent a great portion +of the day inventing fiction ... lies to tell Eleanor. He eventually +locked the notes up again and went home. + +He assumed a somewhat forced air of triumph. He had been successful. +Through the influence of Bristowe, he had secured a position as chief +cashier to a firm of surgical instrument makers in Camden Town. His +salary was to be five pounds a week to commence. Eleanor clapped her +hands. + +“Oh, but how lovely, darling! I suppose you can do it? You’re such an +old silly at figures!” + +He explained that the work was quite simple, and added ironically +that the great thing Messrs. Binns and Binns wanted was a man they +could trust. + +Then the narrow life of lies proceeded apace. Every day he went +to his room, fingered the notes, took some when he needed them, +deliberately invented the names and characters of his fellow +workers at Messrs. Binns and Binns, even made up little incidents +and stories concerning his daily experiences. The whole affair was +so inordinately successful. No further reference was made in the +newspapers to the missing wallet, and though Scotland Yard were +supposed to have the matter in hand, what could they do? Even if by +chance suspicion fell on him, there was nothing incriminating to +be found in his lodgings, and not a soul knew the whereabouts of +“John Parsons.” His wife and child were living comfortably. He was +gradually paying off his debts. + +But if the purely material side of his adventure was successful, +the same cannot be said of the spiritual. He was tortured beyond +endurance. Lies bred lies. The moral lapse bred other moral lapses. +He was conscious of his own moral degeneration. He was ashamed to +look his wife in the face. In the evening when he intended to be +gay and cheerful he sat morosely in the corner, wishing that the +night would come--and go. In the day time he would sit in his room, +fretful and desolate. In a mood of despair he began to set down +his experiences in terms of fiction, ascribing his feelings to an +imaginary person. Sometimes when the position became unbearable he +would go out and drink. Often he would go up to the West End and +lunch extravagantly at some obscure restaurant. He came into touch +with unsavoury people of the underworld. + +The marks of his deterioration quickly became apparent to his wife. +One morning she said: + +“Darling, you’re working too hard at that place. You look rotten. +Last night when you came home you smelt of brandy.” + +Then she wept a little, a thing she had never done in their days of +adversity. He promised not to do such a thing again. He swore that +the work was not hard; the firm were very pleased with him and were +going to give him a raise. + +The weeks and months went by and he struggled to keep straight. But +little by little he felt himself slipping back. He managed to write +a few things which he sent off to publishers, but for the most part +he avoided his room for any length of time, and sat about in obscure +cafés in Soho, drinking and playing cards. + +Between himself and his wife the great chasm seemed to be yawning. +She was to him the dearest treasure in the world, and he was +thrusting her away. In that one weak moment he had destroyed all +chance of happiness--hers and his. Too late! Too late! In six +months’ time he found that he had spent nearly five hundred pounds! +At this rate in another eighteen months it would all be gone, and +then--what? His moral character destroyed, his wife broken in health, +the child without protection or prospects. + +One morning he observed his wife glancing in the mirror as she did +her hair. It came home to him abruptly that she had aged, aged +many years in the last six months. Soon she would be turning gray, +middle-aged, old-aged. And he? His hair was thin on top, his face +flabby, his organisms becoming inefficient and weak, his nerves +eternally on edge. Sometimes he was rude and snappy to her. And he +buried his face in the pillow and thought: + +“Oh, my darling, what have I done? What have I done?” + +That day he concentrated on a great resolve. This thing would +have to stop. He would rather be a starving clerk again, rather a +bricklayer’s navvy, a crossing-sweeper, anything. He wandered the +streets, hugging his determination. He avoided his old haunts. There +must be no compromise. The thing should be cut clean out. He would +confess. They would send back the remainder of the money anonymously, +and start all over again. It was hard, but anything was better than +this torture. + +He returned home early in the afternoon, his face pale and tense. His +wife was on the landing. She said: + +“Oh, I was just going to send a telegram on to you. It’s from your +uncle. He says come at once.” + +A queer little stab of the old instinct of conspiracy went through +him. If she had sent the telegram on, it would have come back: “No +such firm known at this address.” + +What did his uncle want? Come at once? Should he go, or should he +make his confession first? + +“I think you ought to go, darling. It sounds important.” + +Very well, then. The confession should be postponed till his return. + +He caught a train at a quarter to four, and arrived at his uncle’s +house in daylight. An old housekeeper let him in and said: + +“Ah! Your uncle’s been asking for you. The doctor’s here.” + +“Is he ill?” + +“They say he hasn’t long to live. The poor man is in great agony.” + +He was kept waiting ten minutes. A doctor came out to him, looking +very solemn. + +“I’ve just given him an injection of strychnine. He wishes to see you +alone.” + +His uncle was propped up against the pillows. His face unrecognizable +except for the eyes, which were unnaturally bright. Giles went close +up to him, and took his hand. The old man’s voice was only just +audible. He whispered: + +“Quickly! quickly! I shall be going----” + +“What is it, uncle?” + +“It mustn’t come out, see? mustn’t get into the newspapers, nothing, +the disgrace, see? That’s why ... no cheques must pass; all cash +transaction, see?” + +“What do you want me to do?” + +“On that bureau ... a brown paper parcel ... it’s yours, all in bonds +and cash, see? Twenty-eight thousand pounds ... it really belongs to +your father ... I can’t explain ... I’m going. He--I swindled him ... +he thought he was ... it’s all through me he ... bankrupt, death, see?” + +“Do you mean my father ... killed himself?” + +“Not exactly, see? Hastened his end ... thought he would get into +trouble. Take it, Giles, for God’s sake! Let me die in peace.” + +“Why did you? Why did you?” + +“I loved your mother.... Take it, Giles, for God’s sake. Oh, this +pain! ... it’s coming ... God help me!” + +It was very late when Giles arrived home. His wife was asleep in bed. +All the way home he had been repeating to himself in a dazed way: + +“Twenty-eight thousand pounds. No, twenty-six thousand. Two thousand +to be sent back anonymously to the bank. No need for confession. +Twenty-six thousand pounds. Eleanor, Anna. Oh, my dears!” + +On the table in the sitting-room was a letter from a firm of +publishers, addressed to Mr. John Parsons. It stated that the +firm considered the short novel submitted to be a work of striking +promise, and the manager would be glad if Mr. Parsons would call on +them. + +“Perhaps I’ve found out what I can do,” Giles meditated. + +Eleanor came into the room in her dressing-gown and embraced him. + +“All right, darling?” + +“Very much. Uncle has given me twenty-eight--I mean twenty-six +thousand pounds. He said he cheated my father out of it.” + +“Darling! Cheated! How awful.” + +No, there was no need for confession. The sudden wild change in their +fortunes got into his blood. He gripped her round the waist and +lifted her up. + +“Think of it, old girl, money to live on for ever. A place in the +country, eh? You know, your dream: a bit of land and an old house, +flowers, chickens, dogs, books, a pony perhaps. What about it?” + +“Oh, Giles, I can’t realize it. But how splendid, too, about the +publishers’ letter. Why didn’t you tell me you were writing? Why do +you call yourself John Parsons?” + +No need for confession, no, no, let’s go to bed. But oh! to get back +to the old intimacy.... + +And so in the silent night he told her everything. + +And the tears she shed upon his burning cheeks gave him the only balm +of peace he had enjoyed since the hour he had destroyed the wallet. + +It was Eleanor’s hand which printed in Roman lettering on the outside +of a parcel the address of Sir James Cusping, K.B.E. Inside were two +thousand pounds in treasury notes, and on a slip of paper in the same +handwriting: “_Conscience money._ Found in a taxi.” + + + THE END + + + + +Transcriber’s Note: + +Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent +hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged, as were +jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. Dialect +sometimes omits apostrophes in contractions. Thirteen misspelled words +were corrected. + +Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like +this_. Those in bold are surrounded by equal signs, =like this=. +Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially +printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops were +substituted for commas at the end of sentences. Duplicate words at +line endings were removed. + +The word ‘and’ was removed from ‘This seemed to satisfy the big man, +[and] except that he growled:’ + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78481 *** |