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diff --git a/78481-h/78481-h.htm b/78481-h/78481-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..34e953a --- /dev/null +++ b/78481-h/78481-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12130 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Miss Bracegirdle and others | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + clear: both; + font-weight: bold; + page-break-before: avoid;} +h1 { margin: 1em 5% 1em; + font-size: 180%;} +h2 { margin:2em 5% 1em 5%; + font-size: 150%;} +h3 { margin: 1em 5% 1em; + font-size: 120%;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; + margin-top: 4em;} + +p { text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.unindent {text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em;} +.pneg {margin-top: -1.5em;} +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} +.right {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} +.justl {float: left;} +.justr {float: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} +.small {font-size: 90%;} +.smaller {font-size: 82%;} +.muchsmaller {font-size: 75%;} +.large {font-size: 120%;} +.muchlarger {font-size: 150%;} +.xxl {font-size: 180%;} +.black {color: black} +.ls {letter-spacing: .2em; + margin-right: -0.25em;} + +p.drop-cap { + text-indent: 0em; +} +p.drop-cap:first-letter +{ + float: left; + margin: 0.15em 0.1em 0em 0em; + font-size: 250%; + line-height:0.85em; +} +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter +{ + float: none; + margin: 0; + font-size: 100%; +} + +a { border:none; text-decoration:none; font-variant:normal; } +abbr { border:none; text-decoration:none; font-variant:normal; } + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin: 2em 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +hr.full {width: 100%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} + +.outerbox {border: solid .1em; + margin-left: 2%; + margin-right: 2%; + padding: .5em .5em;} +.innerbox { border: solid .1em; + margin-left: 1%; + margin-right: 1%; + padding: 1em 1em; + color: orange;} +.smallbox {border: solid .1em; + margin: 2em 20%;} + +ul { list-style-type: none; } +li { margin-top: 0; + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 1em; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +.tdl {text-align: left; vertical-align: top; text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 3em;} +.tdr {text-align: right; padding-left: 3em; vertical-align: bottom;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; font-size: 90%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent0a {text-indent: -3.5em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.illowp47 {width: 47%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp47 {width: 100%;} +.illowp36 {width: 36%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp36 {width: 50%;} + </style> + </head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78481 ***</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter illowp47" id="cover" style="max-width: 102.0625em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Book cover is maroon-brown fabric. A black line extends around the outer edge of the cover. The title and author are printed in black at the top of the cover."> +</figure> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1> +MISS BRACEGIRDLE<br> +<span class="smaller">AND OTHERS</span> +</h1> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter smallbox"> +<p class="center"> +<i>Books by Stacy Aumonier</i> +</p> +<hr class="full"> + +<ul> +<li><span class="smcap">Friends and Other Stories</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Heartbeat</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Just Outside</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Miss Bracegirdle and Others</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Olga Bardel</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">One After Another</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">Querrils</span></li> +<li><span class="smcap">The Golden Windmill and Other Stories</span></li> +</ul> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter outerbox"> +<div class="innerbox"> +<div class="black"> +<p class="center"> +<span class="muchlarger">MISS BRACEGIRDLE</span><br> +<span class="large">AND OTHERS</span> +</p> + +<p class="center x-ebookmaker-important"> +<span class="small">BY</span><br> +<span class="large">STACY AUMONIER</span><br> +</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp36" id="colophon" style="max-width: 49.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/colophon.jpg" alt="Colophon: an orange-colored, stylized sketch of anchor with a vine and flowers entwined on the shank."> +</figure> + +<p class="p2 center"> +<span class="smaller"><span class="justl">GARDEN CITY</span>   <span class="justr">NEW YORK</span></span><br> +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br> +<span class="smaller">1923</span> +</p> +</div><!--end enclosed text--> +</div><!--end innerbox--> +</div><!--end outerbox and chapter--> + + +<div class="chapter allsmcap"> +<p class="center"> +COPYRIGHT, 1916, 1921, 1922, 1923, BY<br> +STACY AUMONIER<br> +<br> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION<br> +INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN<br> +<br> +<span class="small">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES<br> +AT<br> +THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.</span><br> +</p> +</div> +<br> +<p class="center small"><i>First Edition</i> +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ACKNOWLEDGMENT"> + ACKNOWLEDGMENT + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Thanks are due to <cite>The Pictorial Review Company</cite>, +<cite>The Century Company</cite>, and <cite>The Curtis Publishing +Company</cite>, for permission to reprint the stories in +this volume.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table> +<tr><td class="tdr muchsmaller" colspan="2">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Miss Bracegirdle Does Her Duty</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Where Was Wych Street?</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Octave of Jealousy</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Funny Man’s Day</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Beautiful, Merciless Lady</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Accident of Crime</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Old Fags</span>”</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Angel of Accomplishment</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Match</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Beelbrow’s Lions</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_238">238</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Man of Letters</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Face</span>”</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_269">269</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Brown Wallet</span></td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_304">304</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center ls"> +MISS BRACEGIRDLE<br><br> +<span class="small">AND OTHERS</span> +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1"></span></p> + <h2 class="xxl" id="Miss_Bracegirdle_and_Others"> + Miss Bracegirdle and Others + </h2> +</div> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="MISS_BRACEGIRDLE_DOES_HER_DUTY"> + MISS BRACEGIRDLE DOES HER DUTY + </h2> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">This</span> is the room, madame.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, thank you ... thank you.”</p> + +<p>“Does it appear satisfactory to madame?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, thank you ... quite.”</p> + +<p>“Does madame require anything further?”</p> + +<p>“Er—if not too late, may I have a hot bath?”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Parfaitement</i>, madame. The bathroom is at the +end of the passage on the left. I will go and prepare +it for madame.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, madame.”</p> + +<p>Millicent Bracegirdle was speaking the truth—she +<em>was</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The dear dean had given her endless advice, warning +her earnestly not to enter into conversation with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3"></span>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 <em>alone</em>. 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4"></span>home there came to her a pleasant moment—a sense +of enjoyment in her adventure. After all, it <em>was</em> +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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6"></span>foreign hotel. The handle of the door came off in her +hand.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“How very foolish!” she thought, “I shall have to +ring for the chambermaid—and perhaps the poor girl +has gone to bed.”</p> + +<p>She turned and faced the room, and suddenly +the awful horror was upon her. <em>There was a man +asleep in her bed!</em></p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7"></span>wasn’t the man’s fault; it was <em>her</em> fault. <em>She was in +the wrong room.</em> 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.</p> + +<p>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 ... +<em>a Frenchman</em>! 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 <em>did</em> 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!</p> + +<p>She <em>must</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8"></span>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!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10"></span>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 +<em>abroad</em>! 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?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11"></span>the man’s bedroom all that time. Why hadn’t she +screamed before?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12"></span>no further. One could hardly expect Mrs. Rushbridger +to ... not make implications ... +exaggerate.</p> + +<p>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 <em>was</em> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Please God protect me from the dangers and +perils of this night.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <em>could</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14"></span>of every single one of the ten commandments.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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, <em>most</em> fascinating—Oliver Cromwell, Lord +Beaconsfield, Lincoln, Grace Darling—<em>there</em> was a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15"></span>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 <em>so</em> +amusing. She.... <em>Good heavens!</em></p> + +<p><i>Almost unwittingly, Millicent Bracegirdle had emitted +a violent sneeze!</i></p> + +<p>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?...</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16"></span>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.</p> + +<p>She would switch on the light, cough, and say: +“<i lang="fr">Monsieur!</i>”</p> + +<p>Then he would start up and stare at her.</p> + +<p>Then she would say—what should she say?</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Pardon, monsieur, mais je</i>——” What on earth +was the French for “I have made a mistake”?</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">J’ai tort. C’est la chambre</i>—er—incorrect. +<i lang="fr">Voulezvous</i>—er——”</p> + +<p>What was the French for “door-knob,” “let me +go”?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Monsieur!</i>”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><em>The man on the bed was dead!</em></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17"></span></p> + +<p>She had never beheld death before, but one does +not mistake death.</p> + +<p>She stared at him bewildered, and repeated almost +in a whisper:</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Monsieur!... Monsieur!</i>”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>When the full truth came home to her, little Miss +Bracegirdle buried her face in her hands and murmured:</p> + +<p>“Poor fellow ... poor fellow!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have +ever done.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19"></span>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 <em>think</em>, and +think intensely. She mustn’t do anything rash and +silly, she must just think and plan calmly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21"></span></p> + +<p>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 <em>she had left her sponge-bag and towel in +the dead man’s room</em>!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Will you bring me some tea, please?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22"></span></p> + +<p>“Certainly, madame.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 <i lang="fr">café complêt</i>, madame?”</p> + +<p>“No, thank you, my dear ... just a cup of +tea ... strong tea....”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Parfaitement</i>, madame.”</p> + +<p>The girl retired, and a little later a waiter entered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24"></span>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!</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Brother</span>,⁠—</p> + +<p>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 <em>plain and wholesome</em>. 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.</p> + +<p>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,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Millicent</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“I spent a night in a strange man’s bedroom.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WHERE_WAS_WYCH_STREET"> + WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">In the</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Where was Wych Street, ma?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat and said:</p> + +<p>“Wych Street used to be a turnin’ runnin’ from +Long Acre into Wellington Street.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, old boy,” chipped in Mr. Dawes, who +always treated the ex-man with great deference. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29"></span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I know what I’m talkin’ about,” growled Meadows.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dawes’s high nasal whine broke in:</p> + +<p>“Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. +Where was Wych Street?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“No, it warn’t. It were alongside the Strand, +before yer come to Wellington Street.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30"></span></p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Ben, you’re a hot old devil, you are. We was just +’aving a discussion like. Where was Wych Street?”</p> + +<p>Ben scowled at her, and she continued:</p> + +<p>“Some sez it was one place, some sez it was +another. I <em>know</em> where it was, ’cors my aunt what +died from blood p’ison, after eatin’ tinned lobster, +used to work at a corset shop....”</p> + +<p>“Yus,” barked Ben, emphatically. “I know +where Wych Street was—it was just sarth of the +river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station.”</p> + +<p>It was then that the coloured man, who up to that +point had taken no part in the discussion, thought +fit to intervene.</p> + +<p>“Nope. You’s all wrong, cap’n. Wych Street +were alongside de church, way over where de Strand +takes a side line up west.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31"></span></p> + +<p>Ben turned on him fiercely.</p> + +<p>“What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know +abaht it? I’ve told yer where Wych Street was.”</p> + +<p>“Yus, and I know where it was,” interposed Meadows. +“Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning +running from Long Acre into Wellington Street.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t ask yer what <em>you</em> thought,” growled Ben.</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose I’ve a right to an opinion?”</p> + +<p>“You always think you know everything, you do.”</p> + +<p>“You can just keep yer mouth shut.”</p> + +<p>“It ’ud take more’n you to shut it.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to +bawl across the bar:</p> + +<p>“Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling—please.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Don’t! Don’t!”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man, who had pushed her, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i lang="fr">hors de combat</i> 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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“If they cop us, it means swinging.”</p> + +<p>“Was the nigger done in?”</p> + +<p>“I think so. But even if ’e wasn’t, there was +that other affair the night before last. The game’s +up.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35"></span>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At the inquiry held under Justice Pengammon, +various odd, interesting facts were revealed. Mr. +Lowes-Parlby, the brilliant young <abbr title="Knight Commander">K.C.</abbr>, distinguished +himself by his searching cross-examination +of many witnesses. At one point a certain Mrs. +Dawes was put in the box.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Now, will you tell his lordship what you were +discussing?”</p> + +<p>“Diseases, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?”</p> + +<p>“Pardon?”</p> + +<p>“Was there a serious dispute about diseases?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36"></span></p> + +<p>“Well, what was the subject of the dispute?”</p> + +<p>“We was arguin’ as to where Wych Street was, +sir.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” said his lordship.</p> + +<p>“The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing +as to where Wych Street was.”</p> + +<p>“Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p>“You mean the narrow old street that used to run +across the site of what is now the Gaiety Theatre?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming +manner.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Well, sir, my aunt, who died from eating tinned +lobster, used to work at a corset shop. I ought to +know.”</p> + +<p>His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to +the counsel rather peevishly:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dispute +with a justice, although that justice be a hopeless +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37"></span>old fool; but another eminent <abbr title="Knight Commander">K.C.</abbr>, an elderly +man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the +court, and said:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, Mr. Backer!” exclaimed Lowes-Parlby.</p> + +<p>His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out:</p> + +<p>“The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38"></span>pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required +as a witness of an abortive discussion.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i lang="fr">fiancée</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39"></span>seemed to be nothing missing in the life of Francis +Lowes-Parlby, <abbr title="Knight Commander">K.C.</abbr></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40"></span>which he intended to compile a summary of his legal +experiences. The sentence ran:</p> + +<p>“The basic trouble is that people make statements +without sufficient data.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, <abbr title="Knight Commander">K.C.</abbr>, James Trolley, a very tame +Socialist <abbr title="Member of Parliament">M.P.</abbr>, 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41"></span>and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal +guest. The sixth guest was Stephen Garrit.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42"></span>Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. +Lowes-Parlby changed the subject abruptly.</p> + +<p>“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 <abbr title="public house">pub.</abbr> as to where Wych Street was.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Where would you say it was, sir?” asked Lowes-Parlby.</p> + +<p>“Why, to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery +Lane and ended at the second turning after the +Law Courts, going west.”</p> + +<p>Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman +cleared his throat and said, in his supercilious, +oily voice:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Really? How wonderful—to have such comprehensive +knowledge!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little +contretemps. The whole thing was so absurd—so +utterly undignified. As though <em>he</em> didn’t know! +It was the little accumulation of pinpricks all arising +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly +go and see him in the library?”</p> + +<p>Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse +me, dear.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“What the devil have you done?”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand. +Is it Sandeman...?”</p> + +<p>“Sandeman has gone.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Sorry! By God, I should think you might be +sorry! You insulted him. My prospective son-in-law +insulted him in my own house!”</p> + +<p>“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realize....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But I....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46"></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I really can’t see, sir, how I should know all this.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“He said he knew where Wych Street was. He +was quite wrong. I corrected him.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>The somewhat cynical inference of this remark +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47"></span>went unnoticed. Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. +He mumbled:</p> + +<p>“I’m very sorry.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t want your sorrow. I want something +more practical.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that, sir?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48"></span></p> + +<p>Of course he should apologize. It would hurt +horribly to do so, but would a man sacrifice everything +on account of some <a id="chg8"></a>footling argument about a +street?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Sandeman</span>,⁠—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="center"> +Yours cordially, +</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Francis Lowes-Parlby</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49"></span></p> + +<p>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 <em>really</em> 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?</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50"></span>groan, and, going into the other room, he tore the +letter to Mr. Sandeman to pieces.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>He put the nuts back on the dish and then, in an +apparently irrelevant manner, he said abruptly:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51"></span></p> + +<p>“Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?”</p> + +<p>The Lord Chief Justice grunted.</p> + +<p>“Wych Street! Of course I do.”</p> + +<p>“Where would you say it was, my lord?”</p> + +<p>“Why, here, of course.”</p> + +<p>His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and +sketched a plan on the tablecloth.</p> + +<p>“It used to run from there to here.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Do you remember it?” said the Lord Chief +Justice.</p> + +<p>Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to +come from a long way off:</p> + +<p>“Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy +little street.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_OCTAVE_OF_JEALOUSY"> + THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY + </h2> +</div> + +<h3><abbr title="One">I</abbr></h3> + +<p class="drop-cap">A <span class="smcap">tramp</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Where does this road lead to, mate?”</p> + +<p>The labourer replied brusquely:</p> + +<p>“Pondhurst.”</p> + +<p>“How far?”</p> + +<p>“Three and a half miles.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<h3><abbr title="Two">II</abbr></h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Having</span> kicked some mud off his boots, the labourer, +Martin Crosby, said to his wife:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54"></span></p> + +<p>“Dinner ready?”</p> + +<p>Emma Crosby was wringing out some clothes. +Her face was shiny with the steam and the heat of +the day. She answered petulantly:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Ugh! There’s allus somethin’.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55"></span></p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Mornin’, Martin.”</p> + +<p>Martin replied: “Mornin’.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!... ay, thank’ee.”</p> + +<p>“Middlin’ hot to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Ay ... terrible hot.”</p> + +<p>“When’ll you be comin’?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Of course <em>they</em> had had their dinner. It would be +like that. Mrs. Baines was a marvel. On one or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56"></span>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 +<em>their</em> runner beans would be prolific whilst his +failed. Mrs. Baines appeared at the door and called +out:</p> + +<p>“Mornin’, Mr. Crosby.”</p> + +<p>He replied gruffly: “Mornin’, Mrs. Baines.”</p> + +<p>“Middlin’ hot.”</p> + +<p>“Ay ... terrible hot.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Some people do have luck,” Martin murmured, +and went back to his wife.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57"></span></p> +<br> +<h3><abbr title="Three">III</abbr></h3> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Jack and Jill went up the hill</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To fetch a pail of water;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jack fell down and broke his crown</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And Jill came tumbling after!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">It was</span> 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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59"></span>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.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Jack and Jill went up the hill</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To fetch a pail of water;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jack fell down and broke his crown</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And Jill came tumbling after!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear?”</p> + +<p>“Will you be passing Mr. Meads’s shop? We have +run out of candles.”</p> + +<p>“Oh? Roight be, my love. I’ll be nigh there afore +sundown. I have to order seed from Crumblings.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Evenin’, Mr. Meads, give us a pound of candles, +will ye?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60"></span></p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Good evening, Mr. Baines, hope you are all +nicely.”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>He picked up his packet of candles and muttered +gruffly:</p> + +<p>“Good evenin’.”</p> + +<p>Before he had reached the door he heard “Tap-tapping!” +<em>His</em> one and twopence had gone into +the box. As he swung down the village street, he +muttered to himself:</p> + +<p>“God! I wish I had his money!”</p> + + +<h3><abbr title="Four">IV</abbr></h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> 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.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” she said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61"></span></p> + +<p>“That’s all right, my love,” replied Mr. Meads, +not looking up from his newspaper.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that was nice,” said Mr. Meads, trying to +listen and read a piquant paragraph about a divorce +case at the same time.</p> + +<p>“I should think you want your supper.”</p> + +<p>“I’m ready when you are, my love.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>The maid went, and Mrs. Meads clucked:</p> + +<p>“Um—being a bit extravagant to-night, John.”</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62"></span>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——”</p> + +<p>“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’.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” came rumbling through the veal.</p> + +<p>“Oh, and did I tell you Mrs. Mounthead was +there, too? She was wearing her starched ninon—no +end of a swell she looked.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, so she’s got into it, too, has she?”</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63"></span>so they’ll be all right. By the way, we haven’t heard +from Charlie for nearly three weeks.”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>“I don’t want no tart,” he said, on observing Edie +begin to carve it.</p> + +<p>“No tart!” she exclaimed. “Why, what’s wrong?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Damn that man!”</p> + + +<h3><abbr title="Five">V</abbr></h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. James Mounthead</span> 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.</p> + +<p>“A nightcap, Queenie?” he wheezed through the +creaking machinery of his respiratory organs.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mounthead smiled brightly. “I think I +will to-night, Jim.”</p> + +<p>He went to a cabinet and poured out two mixed +drinks. He handed his wife one, and raising the +other to his lips, said:</p> + +<p>“Well, here’s to the boy!”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66"></span></p> + +<p>“Come and give me a kiss, old dear”, she said, +leaning back.</p> + +<p>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, <em>the</em> 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.</p> + +<p>A little drink easily affected Mrs. Mounthead. +She became garrulous.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>During this verbal explosion, James Mounthead +thoughtfully regarded his glass. And he thought to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“Did Mrs. Wonnicott say anything about her +husband?” he asked, to change the subject.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68"></span>now, after ’aving bought a lawn mower!’ Ha, ha, +ha. He, he, he. O my!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 <em>he</em> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69"></span>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.</p> + + +<h3><abbr title="Six">VI</abbr></h3> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">I don’t</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <cite>The Times</cite> and said:</p> + +<p>“Oh, how is that, my dear?”</p> + +<p>“They are getting such awful people in. That +dreadful woman, the wife of Mounthead, the publican, +has joined.”</p> + +<p>“Old Mounthead’s all right—not a bad sort. He +knows a gelding from a blood mare.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“By gad! I bet he does, too. I wouldn’t mind +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70"></span>having a bit in his <abbr title="public house">pub.</abbr> Do you see Canadian +Pacifics are still stagnant?”</p> + +<p>“Lewis, I sometimes wish you wouldn’t be so +material. You think about nothing but money.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, come, my dear, I’m interested in a crowd of +other things—things which I don’t make money out +of, too.”</p> + +<p>“For instance?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“You know they’re there, but how much interest +you take, I couldn’t say.”</p> + +<p>“What is it you want me to do, my dear?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“No one at all! Jeminy! Why, we know everyone!”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71"></span></p> + +<p>“Don’t be absurd! You know quite well that the +Letters are entirely inaccessible. He’s not only an +<abbr title="Member of Parliament">M.P.</abbr> 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.”</p> + +<p>“Who, for instance?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“My word! Who’s being material now?”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t material, it’s just—thinking of the +children.”</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>And she went out of the room, shutting the door +crisply.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Jiminy-Piminy!” muttered Mr. Wonnicott. +“Jiminy-Piminy!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72"></span></p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I can’t do it,” he thought, “I can’t do it, and I +shall have to do it.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <em>did</em> 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!</p> + +<p>He looked across the valley at the five red gables +among the elms, and sighed.</p> + +<p>“Lucky devil!” he murmured. “Damn it all! +I suppose I must go.”</p> + + +<h3><abbr title="Seven">VII</abbr></h3> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">You</span> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“These things always seem so simple to women,” +answered Sir John, a little peevishly.</p> + +<p>“Well, isn’t it true? Do you deny that he has +the power?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. St. John Burnaby stamped her elegant Louis +heels.</p> + +<p>“Is nothing ever worth trying?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be foolish, Gwen, haven’t I tried? Haven’t +I ambition?”</p> + +<p>“For yourself, yes. I am thinking of Lal.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75"></span>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?”</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mrs. St. John Burnaby raised her lorgnette. +“One of these local people,” she reflected.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76"></span></p> + +<p>On being announced the gentleman in the check +suit exclaimed rapidly:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>St. John Burnaby nodded.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, yes, quite. I remember, Mr.—er—Mr.——”</p> + +<p>“Wonnicott.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, of course. How do you do? My wife—Mr. +Wonnicott.”</p> + +<p>The wife and the Wonnicott bowed to each other, +and there was an uncomfortable pause. At last Mr. +Wonnicott managed to say:</p> + +<p>“We live over at Wimpstone, just across the +valley—my wife, the girls are at school, boy’s up at +Rugby.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes—really?” This was Mrs. Burnaby, who +was thinking to herself:</p> + +<p>“The man looks like a dog fancier.”</p> + +<p>“Very good school,” said St. John Burnaby. +“Hot to-day, isn’t it!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it’s exceedingly warm.”</p> + +<p>“Do you golf?”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t golf. I ride a bit.”</p> + +<p>“You must excuse me,” said Mrs. St. John Burnaby, +“I have got to get a trunk call to London.”</p> + +<p>She fluttered away across the terrace, and into the +house. Mr. Wonnicott chatted away for several +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“It’s no good. He dislikes me.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Damn it!” he muttered, “I will not appeal for +young Lal. Let him fight his own battles.”</p> + + +<h3><abbr title="Eight">VIII</abbr></h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">On a</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78"></span>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.</p> + +<p>The secretary was saying:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I know what he’ll say. You can cut that out, +Roberts. Get Libby to give me a précis at six +forty-five.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Right. What line are Jennins and Castwell +taking over this?”</p> + +<p>“They’re trying to side-track the issue. They +have every un-associated newspaper in the North +against you.”</p> + +<p>“H’m, h’m. Well, we’ve fought them before.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. The pressure is going to be greater this +time, but everyone has confidence you will get them +down.”</p> + +<p>The little man’s eyes sparkled. “Roberts, get +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What did we pay?”</p> + +<p>“One hundred and twenty thousand.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t sell.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Have you seen my wife, lately?”</p> + +<p>“I have not seen Lady Letter for some days, sir. +I believe she is at Harrogate.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Damn it, Roberts, Reeves says I mustn’t +smoke.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80"></span></p> + +<p>“Oh, dear!—only a temporary disability I trust, +sir.”</p> + +<p>“Everything is temporary, Roberts.”</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Lucky devil!... lucky devil! O God! +If I could die....”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_FUNNY_MANS_DAY"> + THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">His</span> 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 <i lang="it">bambini</i>. 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I am deeply indebted to your Lambship.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I am distressed to hear that,” exclaimed Willy +Nilly. “Hiccoughs at nine o’clock in the morning! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84"></span>You don’t say so! I always looked upon it as a +nocturnal disease. The result of too many hic, hæc, +hock cups.”</p> + +<p>“You must have your fun, Mr. Basingstoke, but +the pore little feller has been very bad ever since he +woke up.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lamb looked at the white capsules <a id="chg9"></a>interestedly.</p> + +<p>“Do you really mean that, Mr. Basingstoke?”</p> + +<p>The little fat man struck a dramatic situation.</p> + +<p>“Did you ever find me not a man of my word, +Lady Lamb?”</p> + +<p>“You are a <span class="allsmcap">ONE</span>,” 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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85"></span></p> + +<p>The little fat man thrust out his arms in the similitude +of some long-forgotten clumsy exercise. Then +he regarded himself in the mirror.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0a">“Oh, what care I for a new feather bed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a sheet turned down so bravely—O.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You’d hardly believe it,” she said, “but Nibby +took them white pills and his hiccups is abated.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I told him what you said, Mr. Basingstoke. +Here’s the letters and the newspaper.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88"></span>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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—⁠—</p> + +<p>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! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90"></span>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?</p> + +<p>“Did you think of emerald green parrots in a dark +wood, Nibby?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“And monkeys hanging by their tails?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“There, you see, Mrs. Munro! It was a genuine +case, and a genuine cure.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Chris was waiting on the doorstep, a fresh-complexioned +young man inclined to corpulence. His +face glowed with a kind of vacant geniality.</p> + +<p>“Well, old boy, how goes it?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91"></span></p> + +<p>“I’ve got a peach this morning, Willy old boy; I +think you’ll like it.”</p> + +<p>“Good boy, come on in.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Now, let’s see what you’ve got, old boy.”</p> + +<p>Chris sat at the piano, and unwrapped a manuscript +score.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92"></span>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0a">“Lost in the jungle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, what a bungle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Eaten by spiders and ants.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where is my happy home?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why did they let me roam?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where are my Sunday pants?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>“Good, eh? What do you think? Make something +of it, old boy? Eh?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Let’s have a go at it, old boy,” he said.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lost in a jungle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, what a bungle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Eaten by spiders and ants,</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="unindent">when there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Lamb +thrust her head in and said: “A telegram for you, +Mr. Basingstoke.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93"></span></p> + +<p>“Eh? Oh! Well—er, never mind. Yes, thank +you, my dear, give it to me.”</p> + +<p>He opened the telegram absently, his mind still +occupied with the song. When he had read it, he +exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Good God! Poor old Joe! Yes, no, there’s no +answer, my dear. I must go out.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lamb retired.</p> + +<p>“Poor old Joe! Stranded, eh?”</p> + +<p>“What is it, old boy?” said Chris.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Sorry to have kept you, Chris, old boy.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all right. I’ve just helped myself to a tot +from the sideboard.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 <em>must</em> 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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95"></span></p> + +<p>A voice came across the years.</p> + +<p>“I’m not so well, Jim. God bless you for coming.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>Old Mrs. Labbory began to laugh, too, in a feeble, +distant manner. Then she stopped and looked at +him wistfully.</p> + +<p>“You going to Katie Easebrook’s wedding, Jim?”</p> + +<p>“Eh? Oh, yes, I’m going, old girl. I’m going +straight on now.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96"></span></p> + +<p>“You ought to have married Katie Easebrook.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Like some discerning oracle came the reply:</p> + +<p>“Charlie’s a good feller, a good-looking feller, too—but +you would have made her a better husband, +Jim.”</p> + +<p>With some curious twist of chivalry and affection +the little man gripped the old woman’s hand and +kissed it.</p> + +<p>“You’ve always thought too much of me, Martha, +old girl.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve had good cause to, Jim.... Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Life is a lovely thing,” he thought as he hurried +on. “Poor old Martha!... She’s going out.”</p> + +<p>He was, of course, late for the service in the church. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“Rather detailed, old boy,” he thought. “Perhaps +that’s why a bride wears a veil.”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Charlie gripped his hand and whispered:</p> + +<p>“Come on Willie, old boy, kiss the bride.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98"></span></p> + +<p>The bride looked up at him with her glorious eyes, +and held out her arms.</p> + +<p>“Dear old Willie ... so glad you came, old +boy.”</p> + +<p>He kissed the bride all right, and held her from him.</p> + +<p>“God bless you, dear old girl. God bless you. +May you ... may all your dreams come true, +old girl.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Katie’s wedding certainly contained a large element +of sadness.</p> + +<p>“She looks so sweet and fragile. I hope he’ll be +good to her,” women whispered.</p> + +<p>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 <a id="chg10"></a>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Not too much, old boy. I’ve a rehearsal at +three-forty.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“God bless you, old boy. Be good to her. You’ve +got the dearest woman in the world.”</p> + +<p>And Charlie replied:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100"></span></p> + +<p>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 <abbr title="public house">pub.</abbr> to open +at six.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101"></span>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.’”</p> + +<p>“I thought you were going to have a chop at six-thirty, +Willy,” someone remarked to him suddenly.</p> + +<p>“So I am, old boy.”</p> + +<p>“It’s seven-fifteen now.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Number five’s on,” came the message down the +corridors. Good! There was only “Charlemayne,” +the equilibrist, between him and “his people.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102"></span>men in bowler hats patted him as he passed and +whispered:</p> + +<p>“Hullo, Willy, old boy! Good luck!”</p> + +<p>He loved to wait there and hear his number go up; +the roar of welcome which greeted it was music to his +soul.</p> + +<p>“Number seven!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0a">“Old Fags! Old Fags!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">See my collection of fine old fags.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If you want to be happy,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If you want to be gay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Empty your sack</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At the fag-end of the day.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>On that night, Willy Nilly was at his best. A +lightning change and he came on as “The Carpet +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103"></span>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0a">“O Mary-vitch,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O Ada-vitch</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I don’t know which</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ich lieber ditch;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I told your pa</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’d got the itch;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He promptly hit me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the snitch.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>It was difficult for Willy to escape after this valiant +satirical digression.</p> + +<p>He fled perspiring to his dressing-room.</p> + +<p>“Give me a drink, old boy,” he gasped to the +lugubrious Flood.</p> + +<p>He had smothered his face in cocoa-butter, when +there was a knock on the door.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Peter Wilberforce, representing the <cite>Railham +Mercury</cite>.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, yes, come in, old boy.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104"></span></p> + +<p>“You just give me a lead,” said Mr. Wilberforce, +“I’ll fill in the padding.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Very good, old boy! Very good.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“They’ve had dinner. They’re probably taking a +stroll on the front before turning in.”</p> + +<p>He poured himself out another tot of whisky and +picked up his red nose.</p> + +<p>“O God! How tired I feel!... Not quite +the man you were, old boy.”</p> + +<p>He found it a terrible effort to go on that second +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0a">“O my! Hold me down!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My wife’s gone away till Monday!”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“They’ve gone to bed now.”</p> + +<p>The imperturbable Flood followed him, laden with +properties.</p> + +<p>“I’ll just have one more spot, Flood, old boy.”</p> + +<p>How tired he was! He cleaned up languidly and +got into his normal clothes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106"></span></p> + +<p>“Well, that’s that, old boy,” he said to Flood. +“Now I think we’ll toddle off to our bye-byes.”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, Mr. Nilly, wasn’t you going round to +Mr. Bird Craft’s?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you’ve got a winner there, old boy,” he remarked +at the end of each song.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You’re tired, old boy.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It’s badly ordered ... it’s all badly ordered, +old boy.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107"></span></p> + +<p>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 <a id="chg11"></a>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:</p> + +<p>“Charlie, old boy, be good to her.... For +God’s sake be good to her.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BEAUTIFUL_MERCILESS_LADY"> + THE BEAUTIFUL, MERCILESS LADY + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">There</span> are few men strong enough to withstand +success. She is the beautiful, merciless +lady.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Whither?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109"></span>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.</p> + +<p>Oh, but the young man, still with beauty and +health and clean, strong limbs!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>We know a man’s body by the familiar regard of its +movements and expressions. We know the quality +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“So <em>that</em> is Johnny Lydgate, after all! And I +thought I knew——”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Johnny went to Paris to study art, whilst I walked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115"></span>Johnny and I stood side by side, laughing till the +tears rolled down our cheeks. Poor Betty!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <a id="chg1"></a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I cannot tell you of the agony and ecstasy of those +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>They got married the following spring, and after a +honeymoon in Brittany, went to live in a flat at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>But the face of the Sphinx is inscrutable.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119"></span></p> + +<p>“My boy, it’s celebrities we want. Famous people. +Do some, and I’ll place them for you.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>On the Saturday afternoon following the opening +I was in the galleries, talking to Johnny and his wife +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120"></span>and Mr. Burrows, the owner of the galleries. They +were all flushed and excited, and Viola was looking +proud and very pretty.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Lydgate, I’m so pleased to make your +acquaintance. I think your drawings are simply +gorgeous!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121"></span></p> + +<p>The beautiful and merciless lady had begun to put +her spell on him.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“Who is that? Ah, excuse me, old chap; I want a +word with Edwin Wray. Hallo, Wray, old boy!”</p> + +<p>Of course, Edwin Wray is familiar to you? You +may see his picture on all the hoardings—the famous +comedian.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>It was very late when I took my departure, and I +was crazy to say something to him. I did indeed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“It’s a lovely life, old boy—a lovely life!” I left +him there.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I think Johnny is having too many late nights. +He didn’t look well the other evening.”</p> + +<p>She bit her lip and said nothing. Suddenly she +rose, pressed my arm, and turned away. She was +crying. I went up to her.</p> + +<p>“Tell me, Viola, is anything wrong?”</p> + +<p>She dabbed her eyes.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124"></span></p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>And she would stroke his temple and whisper:</p> + +<p>“Strength, dear, strength. You must try. Oh, +you must try, for my sake!”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Back he went, lost to the claims of common +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“It was worth while, old boy!”</p> + +<p>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.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126"></span>Not for them the steady rhythm of an ordered life. +The beautiful, merciless lady pipes the tune and they +must dance.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Mother Dear</span>,⁠—</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127"></span>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.⁠—</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.0em;">Your loving</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Son</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>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?</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ACCIDENT_OF_CRIME"> + THE ACCIDENT OF CRIME + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">Every</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129"></span>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 <a id="chg12"></a>protégés substantiated his theories.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Now, <i lang="fr">mon brave</i>, it distresses me to interfere....”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“The law does not sit in judgment on people. +Laws are only made for the protection of the citizen.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Well, come now, what about old Laissac?”</p> + +<p>Then he would slap his leg and laugh. Here, +indeed, was a hard case. Here, indeed, was an +irreconcilable, an <em>intransigeant</em>, an ingrained criminal, +and as this story principally concerns old Laissac it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131"></span>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.</p> + +<p>At the age of seventeen he had killed a Chinaman. +The affair was the outcome of a dockside <i lang="fr">mêlée</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Tolozan shook his head slowly. “No, the law +only allows capital punishment in the case of murder.”</p> + +<p>“I know that, my old cabbage. What I say is, +why should society bother to keep an old ruffian like +that?”</p> + +<p>Tolozan did not answer, and Muguet continued:</p> + +<p>“Where is he now?”</p> + +<p>“He lives in an attic in the Place Duquesne, No. 33.”</p> + +<p>“Are you watching him?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>“Been to call on him?”</p> + +<p>“I was there yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“What was he doing?”</p> + +<p>“Playing with a dog.”</p> + +<p>Muguet slapped his leg, and threw back his head. +Playing with a dog! That was excellent! The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“He’s very fond of dogs.”</p> + +<p>This seemed to Muguet funnier still, and it was +some moments before he could steady his voice to +say:</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m glad he’s fond of something. Was +there nothing you could lay your hands on?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Up, soldier. Courage, my old warrior.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135"></span></p> + +<p>“Everything is in order,” he said dolefully.</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Laissac. “Show us the plan.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It appears a modest enterprise.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“H’m. I suppose Lisette expects something out of +this?”</p> + +<p>The old man sniggered, and blew his nose on a red +handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“She’s doing it for love.”</p> + +<p>“You mean—young Leon Briteuil?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What stuff is there, there?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136"></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Right you are, master.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You won’t be so merry when you get inside,” he +said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138"></span></p> + +<p>“But there is no danger, no danger at all,” laughed +the young man unconvincingly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I could do with a nip of brandy,” he said sullenly +in a changed voice.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139"></span>He allowed him a little gulp, and then snatched the +flask away.</p> + +<p>“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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Come on,” said Laissac, advancing cautiously +toward the door of the garage.</p> + +<p>Leon slunk behind him, watching for his opportunity. +He had no weapon, nothing but his hands, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140"></span>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....”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“What are you doing?”</p> + +<p>Now must this desperate venture be brought to a +head. He stumbled toward Laissac, mumbling +vaguely:</p> + +<p>“I thought this might be useful.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“What’s the orders, master?”</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141"></span>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then a strange revulsion came over him, perhaps +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147"></span></p> + +<p>“If there’s another fight I won’t be able to face it. +I’m done.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Leon!”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Leon, is that you?”</p> + +<p>With a great effort he controlled his voice.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right. I’m Leon’s friend. He’s outside.”</p> + +<p>The woman gave a little gasp of astonishment.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I did not know——”</p> + +<p>“Very quietly, mademoiselle. Compose yourself. +I must now rejoin him. Everything is going well.”</p> + +<p>“But I would see him. I wish to see him to-night. +He promised——”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Wait till ten minutes after I have left the house, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148"></span>mademoiselle, then come down. You will find +your Leon waiting for you behind the dust-bin in +the yard.”</p> + +<p>And fortunately for Lisette’s momentary peace +of mind she could not see the inhuman grin which +accompanied this remark.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It exists only in those realms of conjecture in +which Monsieur Tolozan is so noted an explorer.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149"></span>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 <abbr title="fourteen">XIV</abbr>—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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>A tall square-bearded inspector stood up in the +body of the court, and in a sepulchral voice read out +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Now, Inspector Tolozan, I understand that you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151"></span>have this district in which this—unfortunate affair +took place, under your own special supervision?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, <i lang="fr">monsieur le president</i>.”</p> + +<p>“You have heard the evidence of the witnesses +Roger and Floquette with regard to the finding of +the body?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Afterward, I understand, you made an inspection +of the premises occupied by the deceased?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“At what time was that?”</p> + +<p>“At six-fifteen, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Did you arrive at any conclusions with regard to +the cause or motive of the—er accident?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, <i lang="fr">monsieur le president</i>.”</p> + +<p>“What conclusions did you come to?”</p> + +<p>“I came to the conclusion that the deceased, +Theodore Laissac, met his death trying to save the +life of a dog.”</p> + +<p>“A dog! Trying to save the life of a dog!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>“Indeed, Monsieur Tolozan, you came to the conclusion +that the deceased met his death trying to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152"></span>save the life of a dog! Will you please explain to +the court how you came to these conclusions?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, <i lang="fr">monsieur le president</i>; the deceased had a dog +to which he was very devoted.”</p> + +<p>“Wait one moment, Inspector Tolozan, how do +you know that he was devoted to this dog?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Proceed.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“All of this is pure conjecture, of course, Inspector +Tolozan?”</p> + +<p>“Not entirely, <i lang="fr">monsieur le president</i>. 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. <i lang="fr">Monsieur le president</i>, nearly +every crime has been lain at the door of the deceased, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“How do you know this?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Are the marks on the gutter still there?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! Do you suggest that the dog—committed +suicide as it were?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Maxim Colbert was delighted. The whole case +had been salvaged from the limbo of dull routine. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155"></span>He even forgave Tolozan for causing him to <a id="chg2"></a>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:</p> + +<p>“Perhaps we may say of the deceased—he lived a +vicious life, but he died not ingloriously.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Tolozan paused and blinked up at the sun.</p> + +<p>“It did not corroborate, perhaps, but it did nothing +to——”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156"></span></p> + +<p>“Possibly, possibly! But the record, my dear +Tolozan!”</p> + +<p>“One may only conjecture.”</p> + +<p>“What is your conjecture?”</p> + +<p>Tolozan gazed dreamily up at the Gothic tracery +of the adjoining chapel. Then he turned to Monsieur +Colbert and said very earnestly:</p> + +<p>“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 <i>La Turenne</i>. +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.”</p> + +<p>“What sight, Monsieur Tolozan?”</p> + +<p>“The Chinaman, <a id="ch13"></a>Ching Loo, being cruel to a dog.”</p> +l +<p>“Ah! I see your implication.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Then from this you mean——”</p> + +<p>“I mean that if the good ship <i>La Turenne</i> 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——”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“The accident, eh? Oh, yes, yes. Quite so, +quite so.”</p> + +<p>But he did not tell Inspector Tolozan what the +telegram contained.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158"></span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="OLD_FAGS"> + “OLD FAGS” + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>And Old Fags would shuffle off muttering: “Oh, +dear! Oh, dear! these dear little children! Oh, +dear! Oh, dear!”</p> + +<p>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 <em>boys</em>!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” muttered Old Fags to +himself. “What dear little dogs! H’m! What dear +little dogs!”</p> + +<p>A minute later Minnie Birdle ran up the area steps +and gave Meads a bright smile.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Mr. Meads,” she said.</p> + +<p>Mr. Meads looked at her and said: “’Ullo! you +off?”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well,” he said, “Good-night! Be good!”</p> + +<p>They both sniggered and Minnie hurried down the +street. Before she reached Lisson Grove Old Fags +had caught her up.</p> + +<p>“I say,” he said, getting into her stride. “What +dear little dogs those are! Oh, dear! what dear little +dogs!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163"></span></p> + +<p>“Oh, these women!” said Old Fags to himself, +“these <em>women</em>!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165"></span>and even a lady’s maid who were not impervious to +the attentions of the good-looking groom.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>One night she was hurrying home. Her mother +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167"></span>dear! Oh, dear!” and she said: “It’s all right, old +’un.” These were the kindest words she had ever +spoken to Old Fags.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169"></span>supply, or whether he was keeping quiet for any +ulterior reason she was not able to determine.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he said. “What trouble +there is! Let’s see what we can do!”</p> + +<p>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 <em>had</em> 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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171"></span>instead of two, and two of them requiring enormous +quantities of milk.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“’Ullo, old ’un, we’ve missed your stoos.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>The baby shrieked with unrestrained terror at +sight of him, but that night some more stew was sent +in.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174"></span></p> + +<p>“Well, my dears, you shall have the finest stoo +you’ve ever had in your lives to-night.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175"></span></p> + +<p>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 <abbr title="public house">pub.</abbr> 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.</p> + +<p>“Dear, oh dear! what a wretched day!” said Old +Fags.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It’s all a game,” said Meads. “You’ve got to +manage ’em. There ain’t much I don’t know, old +bird!”</p> + +<p>Then suddenly Old Fags leaned forward in the +dark room and said:</p> + +<p>“No, Mr. Meads, but you ought to play the game +you know. Oh, dear, yes!”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean, <em>Mister Meads</em>?” said that +gentleman sharply.</p> + +<p>“Minnie Birdle, eh? you haven’t mentioned +Minnie Birdle yet!” said Old Fags.</p> + +<p>“What the devil are you talking about?” said +Meads drunkenly.</p> + +<p>“She’s starving,” said Old Fags, “starving, +wretched, alone with her old mother and your child. +Oh, dear! yes, it’s terrible!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! yes, Mr. Meads. Don’t take too much +to heart what I said.”</p> + +<p>And then he sniffed and whispered:</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>Meads pricked up his ears like a fox-terrier and his +small eyes glittered.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said. “Are you one of those, eh, old +bird? Who is she?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What’s a good time to call?” said Meads.</p> + +<p>“Between six and seven,” answered Old Fags.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” said Old Fags. “What a +pity! The young lady is going away, too!”</p> + +<p>He thought for a moment, and then an idea seemed +to strike him.</p> + +<p>“Look here, would you like me to meet you and +take the dogs round the park till you return?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179"></span></p> + +<p>“What!” said Meads. “Trust you with a thousand +pounds’ worth of dogs! Not much!”</p> + +<p>“No, no, of course not, I hadn’t thought of that!” +said Old Fags humbly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Old Fags as he +approached. “What dear little dogs! What dear +little dogs!”</p> + +<p>Meads handed the lead over to Old Fags, and +asked more precise instructions of the way to get to +the address.</p> + +<p>“What are you wearing that canvas sack inside +your coat for, old bird, eh?” asked Meads, when these +instructions had been given.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180"></span></p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>He wheezed drearily and Meads gave him one or +two more exhortations about the extreme care and +tact he was to observe.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Poor little chap! What’s +his name?” said Old Fags.</p> + +<p>“Pelleas,” answered Mr. Meads.</p> + +<p>“Oh, poor little Pelleas! Poor little Pelleas! +Come along. You won’t be too long, Mr. Meads, +will you?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182"></span>luxury. Old Fags went on another forty yards and +then returned. There was no one in sight.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186"></span>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.</p> + +<p>At ten o’clock he gave it up. He had four shillings +on him and he adjourned to a small “<abbr title="public house">pub.</abbr>” 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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 “<abbr title="public house">pub.</abbr>,” 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Catch that man! Hold him! Catch thief!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said. “So here we are at last, old bird, +eh!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191"></span></p> + +<p>This move was apparently a supremely successful +dramatic coup, for Old Fags lay still, paralyzed with +fear, no doubt.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192"></span>looked at her, her gaze was fixed on Old Fags and a +tear was trickling down either cheek.</p> + +<p>“’E’s dead,” she said. “Old Fags is dead. ’E +died this morning of noomonyer.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“’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 +<a id="chg3"></a>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194"></span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ANGEL_OF_ACCOMPLISHMENT"> + THE ANGEL OF ACCOMPLISHMENT + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“At that time,” I asked, “do you know anything +of his standard of accomplishments?”</p> + +<p>“Very little,” replied Timothy. “Of course I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <em>work-people</em> +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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199"></span>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201"></span>Café Royale. I should love to know what you +think of him.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Don’t you know that tune?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard it, I believe.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>Timothy and I, and some of the others who knew +them both, were naturally intrigued to see how the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206"></span>concerning them, and indeed their behaviour was +always open to criticism of some sort.</p> + +<p>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 <i lang="fr">poseur</i>.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I’m not sleeping, Parsons.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207"></span></p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I hate that man, Vallery!”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>On discussing the matter afterward with Timothy +I said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208"></span></p> + +<p>“What is it that keeps these men together?”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i lang="fr">ingènue</i>, +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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“If the matter is really settled,” I thought, “I +shall dread to pick up my newspaper.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210"></span>the case and that it cost him thousands of pounds.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>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. <em>His</em> 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.</p> + +<p>For the account of the tragic <i lang="fr">dénouement</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then he explained: “The other old boy with the +squeaky voice turned up.”</p> + +<p>“Sir James Wray?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216"></span>of can’t help wanting to hear what they are going to +say next.”</p> + +<p>“What sort of things did he talk about?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mr. Scobie, Timothy and I, drew our chairs up +round the fire.</p> + +<p>“How did you find things when you got back, Mr. +Scobie?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217"></span>was November and the weather was heavy and overcast +for those parts. It’s a dandy place, except for +the sick people.”</p> + +<p>“What happened on the actual day?”</p> + +<p>“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, <a id="chg14"></a> 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.’</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218"></span>would have made a <a id="chg4"></a>Milwaukee bartender hand in +his checks. The exhibition tired me and I went +in.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“Have a little whisky, Mr. Scobie,” said Timothy.</p> + +<p>“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!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219"></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Mr. Rallish, just a finger.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Neither Wray nor Vallery ever liked me,” he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220"></span>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——”</p> + +<p>Mr. Scobie nodded, and shook his long first finger +at him.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>We sat there staring at the fire. Timothy was +sucking at an empty pipe.</p> + +<p>“I can see the explanation,” he said at last.</p> + +<p>“I should be entertained to hear it, sir.”</p> + +<p>“You see,” said Timothy slowly, “the angel of +accomplishment had deserted them.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221"></span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MATCH"> + THE MATCH + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222"></span>on the road, and the brake arrived, accompanied by +the doctor’s son, a thin slip of a boy on a bicycle.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223"></span>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224"></span>always did during that week, and this led to considerably +more “chipping,” and we turned out to field.</p> + +<p>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 <em>it</em> 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>One wicket for no runs! We flung the scarlet +symbol backward and forward in a great state of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Jimmy Guilsworth was, in my opinion, an ideal +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227"></span>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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229"></span>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?</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And with what a tense emotion we watch our first +two men open the innings! It is with a gasp of relief +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231"></span>and demoniacal when he comes tearing down the +crease toward you!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Some one in the pavilion rang a bell, and we +languidly returned to take the field once more.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233"></span>been due to the Cassandra-like dirge of a flock of +rooks that swung across the sky and settled in the +elms.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>If it should be all <em>too</em> slow-moving, <em>too</em> 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!</p> + +<p>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 <em>does</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234"></span>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 +<em>they</em> 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.”</p> + +<p>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 <em>not</em> 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:</p> + +<p>“Dreaming there?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I know that in the wind that blows above Gallipoli +you will find the whispers of the great faith that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, well hit, sir!” as he encourages an opponent.</p> + +<p>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 <em>two years ago to-day</em>!</p> + +<p>And overhead the garrulous rooks seem strangely +flustered.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238"></span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="MRS_BEELBROWS_LIONS"> + MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <em>so</em> refined, you see. You can imagine +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239"></span>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Wonderful woman, my wife—wonderful! um-m.”</p> + +<p>And then he retires to the refreshment-room and +waits on people.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240"></span>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 <i lang="fr">bourgeois</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i lang="fr">chaconne</i> +very finely last night,” she shivers and says: “Ah! +but have you heard De Borch play the slow movement +of the Sczhklski sonata?”</p> + +<p>You weakly reply “No.” The name of De Borch +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241"></span>seems familiar, but you had never heard of him as a +violinist.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Have you seen my wife? She’s a wonderful +woman—wonderful—um-m!”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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 <i lang="fr">passé</i>. If you mention +the portrait to her, she says:</p> + +<p>“Ah! but have you seen the pastel of me by +Splitz?”</p> + +<p>The pastel by Splitz is in the place of honour in the +drawing-room. You suspect that it is meant to be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>(Good luck to Splitz! I hope he got his cheque.)</p> + +<p>The day came when Mrs. Beelbrow tired of genuine +lions.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I will make my own lions.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Come with me. I will make you a lion.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>How could you expect Skrâtch to take it?</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, anyway they can’t eat me.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <em>flair</em> of lions. They just went on +with their job, playing when an opportunity occurred +but for the most part teaching.</p> + +<p>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 <span lang="fr">papier-mâché</span> +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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245"></span></p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Look at me! I’m the woman who made a +lion!”</p> + +<p>She wore a tiger skin and left Mr. Beelbrow at +home to look after the live stock.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“There! didn’t I tell you I had made a lion?”</p> + +<p>They went about everywhere together. They +went to the opera, the theatre, to concerts and receptions, +for motor rides in the country, and they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246"></span>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 <em>her</em> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247"></span>glances at the audience, and sometimes at the soloist, +who, of course, was Herr Skrâtch.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248"></span>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 <i lang="fr">ménage à quatre</i>? +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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Love is more powerful than a sense of dignity,” +remarked some sententious bore from the corner.</p> + +<p>Love? Well, an unanalyzable quantity. I was +perhaps the only one fortunate enough to have the +opportunity to judge of the <i lang="fr">dénouement</i> 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 <em>dot</em> which +someone presented to Fanny.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Ah, if Teresa Carreño could have heard that! +Teresa never reached that velvety warmth in her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250"></span>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.”</p> + +<p>In the refreshment-room Mr. Beelbrow was ladling +out hock-cup as usual. When I approached him he +said:</p> + +<p>“Halloa, old boy! Have some of this? Good! +Have you seen my wife? She’s a wonderful woman—wonderful—um-m.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251"></span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_MAN_OF_LETTERS"> + A MAN OF LETTERS + </h2> +</div> + + +<p class="center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Annie</span>,</p> + +<p>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 <em>know</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Alf.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, <abbr title="Esquire">ESQ.</abbr> +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>Someone tells me you are a littery society in +Tibbelsford. In which case may I offer my services +as a member and believe me.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.5em;">Your obedient servant</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Alfred Codling</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="p2 center"> +PENDRED CASTAWAY (SECRETARY TO JAMES WEEKES,<br> +<abbr title="Esquire">ESQ.</abbr>) TO ALFRED CODLING. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="center"> +Yours faithfully, +</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Pendred Castaway</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Alf</span>,</p> + +<p>You are a dear old funny old bean. What <em>is</em> +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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Annie.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +JAMES WEEKES, <abbr title="Esquire">ESQ.</abbr> (MALAGA, SPAIN) TO ALFRED<br> +CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Will you kindly send me your qualifications?</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 2.5em;">Yours faithfully,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">James Weekes</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254"></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Annie</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Alf.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, <abbr title="Esquire">ESQ.</abbr> +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.5em;">Your obedient servant</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Alfred Codling</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Alf</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Annie.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +JAMES WEEKES, <abbr title="Esquire">ESQ.</abbr>, TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>Allow me to thank you for your charming letter. I +feel that I understand your latent desires perfectly. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 3.0em;">Yours cordially,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">James Weekes</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Sam</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + Yours ever,<br> + <span style="margin-right: 3.0em;">J. W.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +SAMUEL CHILDERS TO JAMES WEEKES +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Chap</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + Ever yours,<br> + <span style="margin-right: 3.0em;">S. C.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257"></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Annie</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.5em;">Your lovin</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Alf</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO JAMES WEEKES +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Weeks</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 4.5em;">Yours sincerely,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Ephraim Baldwin</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +FANNY CHILDERS TO ELSPETH PRITCHARD +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear old Thing</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + Crowds of love,<br> + <span style="margin-right:1.0em;"><span class="smcap">Fan</span>.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +JAMES WEEKES TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Codling</span>,</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<ul> + <li>Jevon’s “Primer of Logic,”</li> + <li>Welton’s “Manual of Logic,”</li> + <li>Brackenbury’s “Primer of Psychology,” and</li> + <li>Professor James’ “Text book of Psychology.”</li> +</ul> + +<p>Do not be discouraged!</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right:3.0em;">Sincerely yours,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">James Weekes</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260"></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Alf</span>,</p> + +<p>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 <em>she</em> wouldent +have no truck with a book lowse so there it is.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Annie.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, <abbr title="Esquire">ESQ.</abbr> +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261"></span>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</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 4.0em;">obedient servant</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Alfred Codling</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE, SECRETARY TO<br> +THE TIBBELSFORD LITERARY SOCIETY +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Jope</span>,</p> + +<p>For my paper on the 19th prox. I propose to discuss +“The influence of Hegelism on modern psychology.”</p> + +<p class="center"> +Yours ever, +</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Ephraim Baldwin</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +EDWIN JOPE TO EPHRAIM BALDWIN +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Baldwin</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 1.0em;">With kind regards,</span><br> + <span style="margin-right: 2.0em;">Yours sincerely,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Edwin Jope</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent">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 <em>and women</em> 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</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Anne</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent">I cried all nite I didndt mean quite all I says you +know how I mene dear Alf if you was only reesonible +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263"></span>I doant mind you goin the littery if you eggsplain +yourself For Gawds sake meet me tonight by the +fire stachon and eggsplain everything.</p> + +<p class="right"> + Your broke hearted<br> + <span style="margin-right: 2.0em;"><span class="smcap">Anne</span>.</span> +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Sam</span>,</p> + +<p>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 <i lang="fr">réchauffée</i> 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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264"></span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 2.0em;">Yours ever,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">James</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<em>physology</em>. 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265"></span>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 <em>physology</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266"></span>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</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right:1.0em;">Your obedient servant,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Alfred Codling</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +JAMES WEEKES TO EDWIN JOPE +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Jope</span>,</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: .5em;">Yours very truly,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">James Weekes</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +SAMUEL CHILDERS TO EDWIN JOPE +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Jope</span>,</p> + +<p>Taking into consideration all the circumstances of +the case, I must ask you to accept my resignation +from the Tibbelsford Literary Society.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 2.0em;">Yours faithfully,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">S. Childers</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Alf</span>,</p> + +<p>Of course its all right. I am all right now dear Alf +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267"></span>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</p> + +<p class="right"> + love from   +</p> + +<p class="unindent">x x x x x x x x x x</p> +<p class="pneg right">Annie. </p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Jope</span>,</p> + +<p>As no apology has been forthcoming to me <em>from +any quarter</em> for the outrageous insult I was subjected +to on the occasion of my last paper, I must ask you to +accept my resignation.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right:7.5em;">Yours faithfully,</span><br> + <span class="smcap">Ephraim Baldwin</span>, O.B.E. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Anne</span>,</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268"></span>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</p> + +<p class="center"> +Your soon husband (dont it sound funny?) +</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Alf</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +EDWIN JOPE TO WALTER BUNNING<br> + +</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="unindent"><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> + +<p>In reply to your letter I beg to say that the Tibbelsford +Literary Society is dissolved.</p> + +<p class="right"> + Yours faithfully,<br> + <span class="smcap">E. Jope</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="FACE"> + “FACE” + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">It will</span> 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, <i lang="fr">gauche</i> +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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Face! Face! Oh, my! There’s a face!”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272"></span>upon the carter’s horses that came in to be shod, +the sunlight making patterns on the road outside....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The smith was right, but he had not allowed for +those outward thrusts of fate which upset the soberest +plans.</p> + +<p>One night Caleb arrived home and found his +mother crying. He had never seen her cry before. +He regarded her spell-bound.</p> + +<p>“What is it, mother?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing, lad, nothing. Come, your tea’s keeping +warm upon the hob. There’s a pasty⁠——”</p> + +<p>“Nay, you wouldn’t cry for nowt, mother. Lift +up your head.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“He has been striking you again.”</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing, lad.”</p> + +<p>“Show me.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“He kicked me, dear, but it is nothing. It will +pass.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.”</p> + +<p>His father, emerging from the shock of surprise, +scowled at him.</p> + +<p>“What’s that?”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t ought to have kicked mother.”</p> + +<p>For a moment Stephen Fryatt was speechless, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274"></span>then he lurched forward and pushed his son away.</p> + +<p>“What the devil’s it to do with you, whippersnapper?”</p> + +<p>Caleb thrust his father back against the wall and +repeated.</p> + +<p>“You didn’t ought to have kicked her.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“What’s this ye’ve done, Caleb?”</p> + +<p>A hollow voice came out of the darkness:</p> + +<p>“He didn’t ought to have kicked ye, mother.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Followed then a shifting phantasmagoria, scenes +and emotions incomprehensible to the defender. +Neighbours, and doctors and policemen, talking and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“He didn’t ought to have kicked her.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276"></span>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.</p> + +<p>It was all settled at last, and he was sent away to a +“Home” for two years.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277"></span></p> + +<p>“Don’t forget you are a criminal. Young as yet, +but the taint is in you!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“I’ll never see my mother again, never, never.”</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Here, you! Any more of that and you go back to +where you came from!”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280"></span>only one eye. He appeared to take a fancy to Caleb. +One night he came to him and whispered:</p> + +<p>“Say, boss, would you like to beat it?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281"></span>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 <em>wanderlust</em> 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:</p> + +<p>“It’s lucky for you lad you’re out here. Otherwise +they’d be telling you that ‘your king and country +need you’.”</p> + +<p>The phrase disturbed him. Night after night he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282"></span>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283"></span>to do with. He made a good soldier, doing unquestioningly +what he was told, sticking grimly to +his post, being completely indifferent to danger.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>After a gray eternity of time, the thing came to an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284"></span>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 <i lang="la">persona grata</i>.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288"></span>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289"></span></p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Silly Billy, why didn’t you send for me?”</p> + +<p>Silly Billy! That was her favourite term of +raillery when he had behaved foolishly.</p> + +<p>He choked back a desire to cry with relief.</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing, nothing to bother about.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290"></span>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291"></span>harm in it. Not such a bad sort, Old Face, the boy +who murdered his father.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292"></span></p> + +<p>“A lovely day, Mr. Fryatt!”</p> + +<p>He instinctively touched his hat and said “Ay.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Caleb, there’s a gentleman to see you.”</p> + +<p>He went inside and beheld a small keen-faced +elderly man, who nodded to him and said:</p> + +<p>“Mr. Caleb Fryatt?”</p> + +<p>“Ay.”</p> + +<p>The little man examined him closely.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Ay.”</p> + +<p>“You may be aware that your father had a brother, +named Leonard, in Nova Scotia?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard tell on ’ee.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294"></span>obliged if you would pay them a visit so that the +matter may be fully determined. Here is my card.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“And how much money did his Uncle Leonard +leave? Do you know, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Quite without prejudice, and entirely between +ourselves, I believe it is a matter of approximately +four thousand pounds.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I believe we are to congratulate you, Mr. Fryatt.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Fryatt, please ... no.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“You must come with me. We will run away.”</p> + +<p>“Where, Caleb?”</p> + +<p>“We’ll go to London.”</p> + +<p>“Where should we stay?”</p> + +<p>“At swell hotels. We will have a carriage. I will +buy frocks and jewels.”</p> + +<p>The girl’s eyes narrowed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297"></span></p> + +<p>“What about your wife?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll make it all right. I’ll settle some money on +her.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298"></span>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:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="center"> +Your broking hearted wife, +</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Anne</span>. +</p> + +<p>Bless you dear for all you have been to me and the happiness +you have give me.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Silly Billy, you must be careful of the damp.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300"></span>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.</p> + +<p>In the middle of the morning he heard the latch +of the front door click, and his heart beat rapidly.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>And Caleb replied, “Hullo!”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“You’re not coming then?”</p> + +<p>He turned his face to the wall and answered “No.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I knew you’d back out of it.”</p> + +<p>Caleb sat up and exclaimed feelingly:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302"></span></p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, Agnes.”</p> + +<p>This seemed to quite appease her, and she said:</p> + +<p>“Anything you want, Caleb, before I go?”</p> + +<p>The man stared thoughtfully at the ceiling before +replying:</p> + +<p>“Yes; wait a minute, Agnes.”</p> + +<p>He took a pencil and a sheet of paper, and wrote +out a telegram addressed to his wife:</p> + +<p>“Come back, dear, I want you.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“That’ll be elevenpence.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?”</p> + +<p>“That’ll be elevenpence—for the telegram.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, ay, that’s it. Yes, elevenpence.”</p> + +<p>He fumbled with his trousers on the chair by the +side of the bed and produced a shilling.</p> + +<p>“There, lass, I haven’t any change. Don’t +bother about the penny.”</p> + +<p>She took the shilling and went back to the door.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, Caleb.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303"></span>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!”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Silly Billy, I knew ye would send for me.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304"></span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BROWN_WALLET"> + THE BROWN WALLET + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">Giles Meiklejohn</span> 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306"></span>drinking polluted water, working on an ostrich farm, +returning to England as a male nurse to a young man +who was mentally deficient.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307"></span>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He went bankrupt, and Eleanor had to be told. +She took it in just the way he knew she would take +it. She said:</p> + +<p>“Never mind, darling. We’ll soon get on our feet +again.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“If our troubles are never anything worse than +financial ones, darling, I shan’t mind.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310"></span></p> + +<p>And again he was out of work, again Eleanor was +not well, and again he had been to the “original +source.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <a id="chg5"></a>little bits of charity +and advice, and to boast that he himself was a self-made +man, who had had no special training.</p> + +<p>“No,” thought Giles, “but you have an instinct +for making money. I haven’t. You don’t have to +train a duck to swim.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311"></span></p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I believe I shall have to have a cab,” flashed +through him.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 ... +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Drive to the Trocadero. I think I’ll get a bit +of supper first.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I just want to have a squint,” he kept on mentally +repeating.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>A desperate, beaten man, with a wife and child, +hungry ... out of work ... two thousand +pounds!...</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“It was practically stealing. It is stealing, you +know.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“What was that you threw in the canal?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316"></span>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right! It’s all right!” he kept saying to +himself. “I’ve got rid of it.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Whatever have you got in your pockets, darling?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317"></span>thought more quickly than most people, and had +unerring intuitions.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be a fool,” said the other voice. “Here is +comfort and luxury interminably—not only for yourself, +for the others.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Is that you, darling?”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Hullo, old girl. Everything all right?”</p> + +<p>Within a minute his wife’s arms were around him, +and he exclaimed with forced triumph:</p> + +<p>“I touched the old boy for twenty pounds! I’ve +brought home a chicken and things.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! how splendid! A chicken! Rather extrav. +isn’t it, darling?”</p> + +<p>“One must live, dear angel.”</p> + +<p>Her confidence and trust in him, her almost childish +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318"></span>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:</p> + +<p>“I stole all this and more.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“That’ll have to do for to-night,” he thought. +“I’m too tired to think of anything better.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was not till she was sleeping peacefully that the +enormity of his offence came home to him.</p> + +<p>If he were found out! It would kill her.</p> + +<p>He remembered her expression:</p> + +<p>“If our troubles are never anything worse than +financial ones, darling, I shan’t mind.”</p> + +<p>Good God! What had he done? He could call it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What’s that burning, darling?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>For hours he tossed feverishly, the pendulum of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320"></span>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!</p> + +<p>There was nothing to be done but to trust to fate. +The milk carts were clattering in the road before he +slept.</p> + +<p>It was hours later that he heard Anna’s merry little +laugh, and his wife’s voice saying:</p> + +<p>“Hush, darling, daddy’s asleep. He’s very tired.”</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321"></span>but Eleanor was too much on the spot. She helped +him on with his overcoat and said:</p> + +<p>“It’ll soon be all right again, darling.”</p> + +<p>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 <cite>Star</cite> and the <cite>Evening News</cite>.</p> + +<p>A paragraph in the <cite>Star</cite>, headed “£2,000 left in a +taxi,” supplied him with the information he needed. +It announced that Sir James Cusping, <abbr title="Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire">K.B.E.</abbr>, 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What a cad I am to her,” he thought.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323"></span>entered the room. He glanced at her and nearly +screamed. <em>She was holding up the parcel in her hand!</em></p> + +<p>In her cheerful voice she said:</p> + +<p>“What is this parcel marked stationery, darling? +I was turning out the cupboard.”</p> + +<p>Like an animal driven to bay he jumped up and +almost snatched it from her. The inspiration of +despair prompted him to exclaim:</p> + +<p>“Oh!... that! Yes, yes, I wanted that. +It’s something a chap wanted me to get for him.... +It doesn’t belong to me.”</p> + +<p>A chap! What chap? Giles didn’t usually refer +to chaps. They had no secrets apart. She looked +surprised.</p> + +<p>“I was just going to open it. As a matter of fact +we have run out of stationery.”</p> + +<p>“Eh? No, no, not that. I must send that back. +I’ll get some more stationery.”</p> + +<p>He tucked the packet under his arm and went out +into the hall.</p> + +<p>“You’re not going out at once?” said Eleanor, +following.</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, I must post it at once. I’d quite forgotten.”</p> + +<p>He slipped on his coat and went out without his +customary embrace.</p> + +<p>Beads of perspiration were on his brow.</p> + +<p>“That’s done it!” he muttered in the street, “I +must never take it back.”</p> + +<p>An extravagant plan formed in his mind. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“You have a furnished room to let?” he said when +she appeared.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s like this. I am an author. I want a +quiet room to work in during the day time.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got a nice room as would suit you.”</p> + +<p>“Come on, then, let me see it, please.”</p> + +<p>He booked the room, a shabby little over-crowded +apartment.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be coming in to-day,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Very good, sir. What name might it be?”</p> + +<p>“Er—name? Oh, yes, name—er—John Parsons.”</p> + +<p>He fled down the street and sought a furnishing +establishment.</p> + +<p>“I want an oak desk which I can lock up—a good +strong lock.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_325"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but how lovely, darling! I suppose you can +do it? You’re such an old silly at figures!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326"></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <a id="chg6"></a>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327"></span>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.</p> + +<p>The marks of his deterioration quickly became +apparent to his wife. One morning she said:</p> + +<p>“Darling, you’re working too hard at that place. +You look rotten. Last night when you came home +you smelt of brandy.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328"></span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Oh, my darling, what have I done? What have +I done?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He returned home early in the afternoon, his face +pale and tense. His wife was on the landing. She +said:</p> + +<p>“Oh, I was just going to send a telegram on to you. +It’s from your uncle. He says come at once.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329"></span></p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>What did his uncle want? Come at once? Should +he go, or should he make his confession first?</p> + +<p>“I think you ought to go, darling. It sounds +important.”</p> + +<p>Very well, then. The confession should be postponed +till his return.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Ah! Your uncle’s been asking for you. The +doctor’s here.”</p> + +<p>“Is he ill?”</p> + +<p>“They say he hasn’t long to live. The poor man is +in great agony.”</p> + +<p>He was kept waiting ten minutes. A doctor came +out to him, looking very solemn.</p> + +<p>“I’ve just given him an injection of strychnine. +He wishes to see you alone.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Quickly! quickly! I shall be going⁠——”</p> + +<p>“What is it, uncle?”</p> + +<p>“It mustn’t come out, see? <a id="chg7"></a>mustn’t get into the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330"></span>newspapers, nothing, the disgrace, see? That’s +why ... no cheques must pass; all cash transaction, +see?”</p> + +<p>“What do you want me to do?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean my father ... killed himself?”</p> + +<p>“Not exactly, see? Hastened his end ... +thought he would get into trouble. Take it, Giles, +for God’s sake! Let me die in peace.”</p> + +<p>“Why did you? Why did you?”</p> + +<p>“I loved your mother.... Take it, Giles, for +God’s sake. Oh, this pain! ... it’s coming +... God help me!”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>On the table in the sitting-room was a letter from a +firm of publishers, addressed to Mr. John Parsons. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331"></span>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.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I’ve found out what I can do,” Giles +meditated.</p> + +<p>Eleanor came into the room in her dressing-gown +and embraced him.</p> + +<p>“All right, darling?”</p> + +<p>“Very much. Uncle has given me twenty-eight—I +mean twenty-six thousand pounds. He said he +cheated my father out of it.”</p> + +<p>“Darling! Cheated! How awful.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>No need for confession, no, no, let’s go to bed. +But oh! to get back to the old intimacy....</p> + +<p>And so in the silent night he told her everything.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_332"></span></p> + +<p>It was Eleanor’s hand which printed in Roman +lettering on the outside of a parcel the address of Sir +James Cusping, <abbr title="Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire">K.B.E.</abbr> Inside were two thousand +pounds in treasury notes, and on a slip of paper in the +same handwriting: “<em>Conscience money.</em> Found in a +taxi.”</p> + + +<p class="p2 center"> +THE END +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Note"> + Transcriber’s Note: + </h2> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The word ‘and’ was removed from ‘This seemed to satisfy the big man, <a href="#chg14">and</a> except that he growled:’</p> + +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78481 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78481-h/images/colophon.jpg b/78481-h/images/colophon.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..93402d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78481-h/images/colophon.jpg diff --git a/78481-h/images/cover.jpg b/78481-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c140ee --- /dev/null +++ b/78481-h/images/cover.jpg |
