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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:58 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:58 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/865-0.txt b/865-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4d3d66 --- /dev/null +++ b/865-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,946 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 865 *** + + + + +PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK + +By Jerome K. Jerome + + +Author of “Paul Kelver,” “Three Men in a Boat,” etc., etc. + +New York + +Dodd, Mead & Company + +1909 + + +Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome + +Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company + +Published, September, 1908 + + + + +The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o’clock of a +November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of +appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb’s +boy, screaming at the top of his voice that _she_ was his honey, stopped +suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady +wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat +personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached +the next corner--and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the +street--did Tibb’s boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to +remark that _he_ was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following +some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in contemplation +of the stranger’s back. There was this that was peculiar about the +stranger’s back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided +curve. “It ain’t a ‘ump, and it don’t look like kervitcher of the +spine,” observed the voluble young lady to herself. “Blimy if I don’t +believe ‘e’s taking ‘ome ‘is washing up his back.” + +The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed +the stranger’s approach with gathering interest. “That’s an odd sort of +a walk of yours, young man,” thought the constable. “You take care you +don’t fall down and tumble over yourself.” + +“Thought he was a young man,” murmured the constable, the stranger +having passed him. “He had a young face right enough.” + +The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the +name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. + +“Why, ‘tis a young man,” the constable told himself; “a mere boy.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger; “but would you mind telling me +my way to Bloomsbury Square.” + +“This is Bloomsbury Square,” explained the constable; “leastways round +the corner is. What number might you be wanting?” + +The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned +overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: “Mrs. +Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight.” + +“Round to the left,” instructed him the constable; “fourth house. Been +recommended there?” + +“By--by a friend,” replied the stranger. “Thank you very much.” + +“Ah,” muttered the constable to himself; “guess you won’t be calling him +that by the end of the week, young--” + +“Funny,” added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the +stranger. “Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old +in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he’ll +look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry’s: stingy old +cat.” + +Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for +not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to +discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured +lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the +neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of +generosity and amiability. + +Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of +Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching +a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate +masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow’s cap before the +looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he +prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the +gas. + +“And don’t stop gossiping, and don’t you take it upon yourself to answer +questions. Say I’ll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry’s further +instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.” + +*** + +“What are you grinning at?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of +minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane. + +“Wasn’t grinning,” explained the meek Mary Jane, “was only smiling to +myself.” + +“What at?” + +“Dunno,” admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. + +“What’s he like then?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. + +“‘E ain’t the usual sort,” was Mary Jane’s opinion. + +“Thank God for that,” ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. + +“Says ‘e’s been recommended, by a friend.” + +“By whom?” + +“By a friend. ‘E didn’t say no name.” + +Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. “He’s not the funny sort, is he?” + +Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. + +Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the +room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than +the stranger’s bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of +old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw +herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor +had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant +Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, +existing precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was +prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked +an inexperienced young gentleman. + +“Someone has recommended me to you,” began Mrs. Pennycherry; “may I ask +who?” + +But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial. + +“You might not remember--him,” he smiled. “He thought that I should do +well to pass the few months I am given--that I have to be in London, +here. You can take me in?” + +Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in. + +“A room to sleep in,” explained the stranger, “--any room will do--with +food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require.” + +“For breakfast,” began Mrs. Pennycherry, “I always give--” + +“What is right and proper, I am convinced,” interrupted the stranger. +“Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever +it is I shall be content.” + +Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his +face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious. + +“At all events you will see the room,” suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, +“before we discuss terms.” + +“Certainly,” agreed the stranger. “I am a little tired and shall be glad +to rest there.” + +Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, +paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom. + +“It is very comfortable,” commented the stranger. + +“For this room,” stated Mrs. Pennycherry, “together with full board, +consisting of--” + +“Of everything needful. It goes without saying,” again interrupted the +stranger with his quiet grave smile. + +“I have generally asked,” continued Mrs. Pennycherry, “four pounds a +week. To you--” Mrs. Pennycherry’s voice, unknown to her, took to itself +the note of aggressive generosity--“seeing you have been recommended +here, say three pounds ten.” + +“Dear lady,” said the stranger, “that is kind of you. As you have +divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept +your reduction with gratitude.” + +Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a +suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon +that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. +Clearly he was as simple as he looked. + +“Gas, of course, extra.” + +“Of course,” agreed the Stranger. + +“Coals--” + +“We shall not quarrel,” for a third time the stranger interrupted. “You +have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I +can leave myself entirely in your hands.” + +The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put +a match to the stranger’s fire, turned to depart. And at this point it +was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record +for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her +career, would have deemed impossible--that no living soul who had ever +known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down upon +her knees and sworn it to them. + +“Did I say three pound ten?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, +her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with +the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself. + +“You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount,” replied the +stranger; “but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--” + +“I was making a mistake,” said Mrs. Pennycherry, “it should have been +two pound ten.” + +“I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice,” exclaimed the stranger; +“the three pound ten I can well afford.” + +“Two pound ten are my terms,” snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. “If you are bent +on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You’ll find plenty to oblige you.” + +Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. “We will not contend +further,” he smiled. “I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your +heart--” + +“Oh, it isn’t as good as all that,” growled Mrs. Pennycherry. + +“I am not so sure,” returned the stranger. “I am somewhat suspicious of +you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way.” + +The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, +it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had +been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant +laugh--though laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, +when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to +the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and +through their bare branches of the sky beyond. + +“There’s nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes +back. I’ll see to the door if you’d like a run out?” suggested Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +“It would be nice,” agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power +of speech; “it’s just the time of day I like.” + +“Don’t be longer than the half hour,” added Mrs. Pennycherry. + +Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the +drawing-room, discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness +characteristic of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent. + +“Not what I call a smart young man,” was the opinion of Augustus +Longcord, who was something in the City. + +“Thpeaking for mythelf,” commented his partner Isidore, “hav’n’th any +uthe for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith.” + +“Must be pretty smart if he’s one too many for you,” laughed his +partner. + +There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension. + +“Well it made me feel good just looking at him,” declared Miss Kite, the +highly coloured. “It was his clothes, I suppose--made me think of Noah +and the ark--all that sort of thing.” + +“It would be clothes that would make you think--if anything,” drawled +the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the +moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined +upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only +easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine’s remark +received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it +merited. + +“Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?” Miss Kite requested +to be informed. + +“Both,” claimed Miss Devine. + +“Myself? I must confess,” shouted the tall young lady’s father, commonly +called the Colonel, “I found him a fool.” + +“I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together,” purred his +wife, a plump, smiling little lady. + +“Possibly we were,” retorted the Colonel. “Fate has accustomed me to the +society of fools.” + +“Isn’t it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you +two,” suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, “you’ll have +nothing left to amuse you for the rest of the evening.” + +“He didn’t strike me as a conversationalist,” said the lady who was +cousin to a baronet; “but he did pass the vegetables before he helped +himself. A little thing like that shows breeding.” + +“Or that he didn’t know you and thought maybe you’d leave him half a +spoonful,” laughed Augustus the wit. + +“What I can’t make out about him--” shouted the Colonel. + +The stranger entered the room. + +The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The +highly coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, +held it coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair +sofa, and rearranged her skirts. + +“Know anything?” demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the +somewhat remarkable silence. + +The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for +Augustus, the witty, to advance further into that odd silence. + +“What’s going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I’ll go out +straight and put my shirt upon it.” + +“I think you would act unwisely,” smiled the stranger; “I am not an +authority upon the subject.” + +“Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the _Sporting Life_--in +disguise.” + +It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody +laughed, though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and +maybe none of his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square Mr. Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The +stranger himself appeared unaware that he was being made fun of. + +“You have been misinformed,” assured him the stranger. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Augustus Longcord. + +“It is nothing,” replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and passed +on. + +“Well what about this theatre,” demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend +and partner; “do you want to go or don’t you?” Mr. Longcord was feeling +irritable. + +“Goth the ticketh--may ath well,” thought Isidore. + +“Damn stupid piece, I’m told.” + +“Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh,” argued +Isidore, and the pair went out. + +“Are you staying long in London?” asked Miss Kite, raising her practised +eyes towards the stranger. + +“Not long,” answered the stranger. “At least I do not know. It depends.” + +An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this hour. The +Colonel remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump +white hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible +to say. The lady who was cousin to a baronet had shifted her chair +beneath the gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The +languid Miss Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering +softly the tuneless keys, her back to the cold barely-furnished room. + +“Sit down!” commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the +vacant seat beside her. “Tell me about yourself. You interest me.” Miss +Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthful-looking +members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and +the golden hair, and fitted her about as well. + +“I am glad of that,” answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. +“I so wish to interest you.” + +“You’re a very bold boy.” Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of +glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time encountered +the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss +Kite experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so +ago had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger had first bowed to +her. It seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, +had she risen and looked into it, the fly-blown mirror over the marble +mantelpiece would, she knew, have presented to her view; but quite +another Miss Kite--a cheerful, bright-eyed lady verging on middle age, +yet still good-looking in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat +thin brown locks. Miss Kite felt a pang of jealousy shoot through her; +this middle-aged Miss Kite seemed, on the whole, a more attractive +lady. There was a wholesomeness, a broadmindedness about her that +instinctively drew one towards her. Not hampered, as Miss Kite herself +was, by the necessity of appearing to be somewhere between eighteen and +twenty-two, this other Miss Kite could talk sensibly, even brilliantly: +one felt it. A thoroughly “nice” woman this other Miss Kite; the real +Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit it. Miss Kite wished to +goodness she had never seen the woman. The glimpse of her had rendered +Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself. + +“I am not a boy,” explained the stranger; “and I had no intention of +being bold.” + +“I know,” replied Miss Kite. “It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me +to make it, I can’t think. Getting foolish in my old age, I suppose.” + +The stranger laughed. “Surely you are not old.” + +“I’m thirty-nine,” snapped out Miss Kite. “You don’t call it young?” + +“I think it a beautiful age,” insisted the stranger; “young enough not +to have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy.” + +“Oh, I daresay,” returned Miss Kite, “any age you’d think beautiful. +I’m going to bed.” Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got itself +broken. She threw the fragments into the fire. + +“It is early yet,” pleaded the stranger, “I was looking forward to a +talk with you.” + +“Well, you’ll be able to look forward to it,” retorted Miss Kite. +“Good-night.” + +The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the +glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that other Miss +Kite--the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had +been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might +not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner that evening. + +The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, +seeking something to read. + +“You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite,” remarked the lady who was +cousin to a baronet. + +“It seems so,” admitted the stranger. + +“My cousin, Sir William Bosster,” observed the crocheting lady, “who +married old Lord Egham’s niece--you never met the Eghams?” + +“Hitherto,” replied the stranger, “I have not had that pleasure.” + +“A charming family. Cannot understand--my cousin Sir William, I mean, +cannot understand my remaining here. ‘My dear Emily’--he says the same +thing every time he sees me: ‘My dear Emily, how can you exist among the +sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.’ But they amuse me.” + +A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage. + +“Our family on my mother’s side,” continued Sir William’s cousin in her +placid monotone, “was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when King +George the Fourth--” Sir William’s cousin, needing another reel of +cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger’s gaze. + +“I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” said Sir William’s +cousin in an irritable tone. “It can’t possibly interest you.” + +“Everything connected with you interests me,” gravely the stranger +assured her. + +“It is very kind of you to say so,” sighed Sir William’s cousin, but +without conviction; “I am afraid sometimes I bore people.” + +The polite stranger refrained from contradiction. + +“You see,” continued the poor lady, “I really am of good family.” + +“Dear lady,” said the stranger, “your gentle face, your gentle voice, +your gentle bearing, all proclaim it.” + +She looked without flinching into the stranger’s eyes, and gradually a +smile banished the reigning dulness of her features. + +“How foolish of me.” She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger. +“Why, of course, people--people whose opinion is worth troubling +about--judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying you +are.” + +The stranger remained silent. + +“I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two +hundred and thirty pounds per annum,” she argued. “The sensible thing +for me to do is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these +high and mighty relations of mine as little as they have ever worried +themselves about me.” + +The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying. + +“I have other connections,” remembered Sir William’s cousin; “those of +my poor husband, to whom instead of being the ‘poor relation’ I could +be the fairy god-mama. They are my people--or would be,” added Sir +William’s cousin tartly, “if I wasn’t a vulgar snob.” + +She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced +preparations for a hurried departure. + +“Now it seems I am driving you away,” sighed the stranger. + +“Having been called a ‘vulgar snob,’” retorted the lady with some heat, +“I think it about time I went.” + +“The words were your own,” the stranger reminded her. + +“Whatever I may have thought,” remarked the indignant dame, “no +lady--least of all in the presence of a total stranger--would have +called herself--” The poor dame paused, bewildered. “There is something +very curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand,” + she explained, “I seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself.” + +Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, +hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger, +hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her. + +“Tell me,” laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was +contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, “how did you +manage to do it? I should like to know.” + +“How did I do what?” inquired the stranger. + +“Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?” + +“How well you play!” observed the stranger. “I knew you had genius for +music the moment I saw you.” + +“How could you tell?” + +“It is written so clearly in your face.” + +The girl laughed, well pleased. “You seem to have lost no time in +studying my face.” + +“It is a beautiful and interesting face,” observed the stranger. + +She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. + +“You can read faces?” + +“Yes.” + +“Tell me, what else do you read in mine?” + +“Frankness, courage--” + +“Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted.” It +was odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. “Tell me the reverse +side.” + +“I see no reverse side,” replied the stranger. “I see but a fair girl, +bursting into noble womanhood.” + +“And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, +of--” An angry laugh escaped her lips. “And you are a reader of faces!” + +“A reader of faces.” The stranger smiled. “Do you know what is written +upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce, +scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, +contempt of all things that are contemptible--especially of such things +as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?” + +I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried +from the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in +them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? + +The idea occurred to her: “Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you +during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?” + +“The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your +mother principally.” + +“I am sorry,” returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the +question. “I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first +evening!” + +“He did try one or two,” admitted the stranger; “but I have been about +the world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I +feel we shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine.” + +“Indeed,” commented the girl. + +“He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted +it but once!” + +Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died +from them. She turned aside to hide her smile. + +“So he regretted it--once.” + +“Only once,” explained the stranger, “in a passing irritable mood. It +was so frank of him to admit it. He told me--I think he has taken a +liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an +opportunity of talking to a man like myself--he told me that he and your +mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a honeymoon +couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really quite +amusing.” The stranger laughed at recollection of them--“that even here, +in this place, they are generally referred to as ‘Darby and Joan.’” + +“Yes,” said the girl, “that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, +the second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever--but +rather obvious I thought myself.” + +“Nothing--so it seems to me,” said the stranger, “is more beautiful +than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender +blossom that flowers in the heart of the young--in hearts such as +yours--that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, +that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that +is the beginning of--of things longer.” + +“You seem to find all things beautiful,” the girl grumbled. + +“But are not all things beautiful?” demanded the stranger. + +The Colonel had finished his paper. “You two are engaged in a very +absorbing conversation,” observed the Colonel, approaching them. + +“We were discussing Darbies and Joans,” explained his daughter. “How +beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!” + +“Ah!” smiled the Colonel, “that is hardly fair. My friend has been +repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband’s +affection for his middle-aged and somewhat--” The Colonel in playful +mood laid his hand upon the stranger’s shoulder, an action that +necessitated his looking straight into the stranger’s eyes. The Colonel +drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet. + +Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was +explaining quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself, +why he was a cad. + +“That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to +both of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from +the world--not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You +are a cad, sir, a cad!” + +Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not +moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like +the voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger +to his daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they +had not heard the voice--a mere hallucination. The Colonel breathed +again. + +Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it +was bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No +gentleman would have done so. + +But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. +No gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife--certainly +never in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have +exercised self-control. + +Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid +hold of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark +to him--he could see it in her eye--which would irritate him into savage +retort. + +Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boarding-house +wits had dubbed them “Darby and Joan,” would grasp the fact that the +gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table +acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule. + +“My dear,” cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, “does not this +room strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl.” + +It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of +both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each +other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her +point of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A +wild, fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel’s brain: If to +him, why not to her? + +“Letitia,” cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her +into silence, “I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not +remind you of someone?” + +Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. “Yes,” she +murmured, turning to her husband, “he does, who is it?” + +“I cannot fix it,” replied the Colonel; “I thought that maybe you would +remember.” + +“It will come to me,” mused Mrs. Devine. “It is someone--years ago, +when I was a girl--in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn’t troubling you, +Harry. I left it in the dining-room.” + +It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, +the colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the +trouble. “Give me a man, who can take care of himself--or thinks he +can,” declared Augustus Longcord, “and I am prepared to give a good +account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what +you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for +him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself--well, +it isn’t playing the game.” + +“Auguthuth,” was the curt comment of his partner, “you’re a fool.” + +“All right, my boy, you try,” suggested Augustus. + +“Jutht what I mean to do,” asserted his partner. + +“Well,” demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending +the stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with +the door shut. + +“Oh, don’t arth me,” retorted Isidore, “thilly ath, thath what he ith.” + +“What did he say?” + +“What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they +were--how people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. + +“Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. +Thought I wath one of ‘em!” + +“Well, did you get anything out of him?” + +“Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn’t very well thell the +whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after that. +Didn’t theem worth it.” + +There were many things Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square came gradually +to the conclusion were not worth the doing:--Snatching at the gravy; +pouncing out of one’s turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to +more than one’s fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting on +the evening paper while pretending not to have seen it--all such-like +tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really +it was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one’s food; +grumbling everlastingly at most things; abusing Pennycherry behind her +back; abusing, for a change, one’s fellow-boarders; squabbling with +one’s fellow-boarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one’s +fellow-boarders; talking scandal of one’s fellow-boarders; making +senseless jokes about one’s fellow-boarders; talking big about oneself, +nobody believing one--all such-like vulgarities. Other boarding-houses +might indulge in them: Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had its dignity to +consider. + +The truth is, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good +opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as +the stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea--where obtained from +Heaven knows--that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded, coarse-fibred +occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first water; and +time and observation had apparently only strengthened this absurd idea. +The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming round +to the stranger’s opinion of itself. + +Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born +and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no control to +fill an arduous but honorable position of middle-class society--a sort +of foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her +promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung +to with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages attaching, but +these Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady +born and bred cannot charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and +candles they have never burnt; a foster-mother cannot palm off upon her +children New Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper +can play these tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she +cannot: Mrs. Pennycherry felt she no longer could. + +To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist +of most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was lack +of vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If +Miss Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger’s eyes, the +modesty that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms would fall +from her. The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put +it to the test. One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the +drawing-room, when the stranger only was there and before the gas +was lighted, a pleasant, good-looking lady, somewhat pale, with +neatly-arranged brown hair, who demanded of the stranger if he knew her. +All her body was trembling, and her voice seemed inclined to run away +from her and become a sob. But when the stranger, looking straight into +her eyes, told her that from the likeness he thought she must be Miss +Kite’s younger sister, but much prettier, it became a laugh instead: and +that evening the golden-haired Miss Kite disappeared never to show her +high-coloured face again; and what perhaps, more than all else, might +have impressed some former habitue of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square +with awe, it was that no one in the house made even a passing inquiry +concerning her. + +Sir William’s cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any +boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing outward +or visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class family. She +herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt +it. Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, diffused an atmosphere of +gentle manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; +Sir William’s cousin gathered that he thought it, and felt herself in +agreement with him. + +For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type +of business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what unfortunate +results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm +appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger’s good +opinion--had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste for honest men’s +respect--that in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we all +have our pet extravagance. + +The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from +the necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, new +tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one +another. + +“Tomfool nonsense,” grumbled the Colonel, “you and I starting billing +and cooing at our age!” + +“What I object to,” said Mrs. Devine, “is the feeling that somehow I am +being made to do it.” + +“The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together +for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of them! it’s +damn ridiculous,” the Colonel exploded. + +“Even when he isn’t there,” said Mrs. Devine, “I seem to see him looking +at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite haunts me.” + +“I have met him somewhere,” mused the Colonel, “I’ll swear I’ve met him +somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go.” + +A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a +hundred things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the +Colonel. But by the time the opportunity occurred--when nobody else was +by to hear--all interest in saying them was gone. + +“Women will be women,” was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled +himself. “A man must bear with them--must never forget that he is a +gentleman.” + +“Oh, well, I suppose they’re all alike,” laughed Mrs. Devine to herself, +having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge in +cheerfulness. “What’s the use of putting oneself out--it does no good, +and only upsets one.” There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you +are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies of +others. Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much +self-approbation. + +But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger’s bigoted belief in +the innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, +handsome Miss Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a +noble-souled, high-minded young woman, something midway between a Flora +Macdonald and a Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself +to be a sleek, luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to +the bidder who could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, +the most sumptuous surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person +of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly +rich and undoubtedly fond of her. + +Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done, +was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that +the stranger’s ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but +inconvenienced her. Under the very eyes of a person--however +foolish--convinced that you are possessed of all the highest attributes +of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated by only the +basest motives. A dozen times had Miss Devine determined to end the +matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer’s large and flabby +hand, and a dozen times--the vision intervening of the stranger’s grave, +believing eyes--had Miss Devine refused decided answer. The stranger +would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her himself, he was but a +passing traveller. When he was gone it would be easier. So she thought +at the time. + +One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing +by the window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in +Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another +foggy afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger’s arrival three months +before. No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and +came towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long +coat was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat +and the massive knotted stick that was almost a staff. + +“I have come to say good-bye,” explained the stranger. “I am going.” + +“I shall not see you again?” asked the girl. + +“I cannot say,” replied the stranger. “But you will think of me?” + +“Yes,” she answered with a smile, “I can promise that.” + +“And I shall always remember you,” promised the stranger, “and I wish +you every joy--the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage.” + +The girl winced. “Love and marriage are not always the same thing,” she +said. + +“Not always,” agreed the stranger, “but in your case they will be one.” + +She looked at him. + +“Do you think I have not noticed?” smiled the stranger, “a gallant, +handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not +have gone away without knowing it was well with you.” + +Her gaze wandered towards the fading light. + +“Ah, yes, I love him,” she answered petulantly. “Your eyes can see +clearly enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in our +world. I will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know.” + She would not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the +dingy trees, the mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and vehemently: “The man +who can give me all my soul’s desire--money and the things that money +can buy. You think me a woman, I’m only a pig. He is moist, and breathes +like a porpoise; with cunning in place of a brain, and the rest of him +mere stomach. But he is good enough for me.” + +She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would +go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh. + +“No,” he said, “you will not marry him.” + +“Who will stop me?” she cried angrily. + +“Your Better Self.” + +His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and +look upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very +first had haunted her. She had met him, talked to him--in silent country +roads, in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking +with him her spirit had been lifted up: she had been--what he had always +thought her. + +“There are those,” continued the stranger (and for the first time she +saw that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes +could also command), “whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand +and troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too +strong; it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and it +will follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise +you with burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day to day.” + The sternness faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness crept back. +He laid his hand upon the young girl’s shoulder. “You will marry your +lover,” he smiled. “With him you will walk the way of sunlight and of +shadow.” + +And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would +be so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed away from +her for ever. + +“Now,” said the stranger, “come to the door with me. Leave-takings +are but wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door softly +behind me.” + +She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw +no more of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly +buttoned coat, before he faded into the gathering fog. + +Then softly she closed the door. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 865 *** diff --git a/865-h/865-h.htm b/865-h/865-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..88806d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/865-h/865-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1217 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Passing of the Third Floor Back | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ + + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 865 ***</div> + + <h1> + PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK + </h1> + <p> + <br> + </p> + <h2> + By Jerome K. Jerome + </h2> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + Author of “Paul Kelver,” “Three Men in a Boat,” etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + New York + </p> + <p> + Dodd, Mead & Company + </p> + <p> + 1909 + </p> + <p> + Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome + </p> + <p> + Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company + </p> + <p> + Published, September, 1908 + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + <br> <br> + </p> + <p> + The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o’clock of a November + afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of appearance + anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb’s boy, + screaming at the top of his voice that <i>she</i> was his honey, stopped + suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady + wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat + personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached the + next corner—and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the + street—did Tibb’s boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs + to remark that <i>he</i> was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, + following some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in + contemplation of the stranger’s back. There was this that was peculiar + about the stranger’s back: that instead of being flat it presented a + decided curve. “It ain’t a ‘ump, and it don’t look like kervitcher of the + spine,” observed the voluble young lady to herself. “Blimy if I don’t + believe ‘e’s taking ‘ome ‘is washing up his back.” + </p> + <p> + The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed + the stranger’s approach with gathering interest. “That’s an odd sort of a + walk of yours, young man,” thought the constable. “You take care you don’t + fall down and tumble over yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Thought he was a young man,” murmured the constable, the stranger having + passed him. “He had a young face right enough.” + </p> + <p> + The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the + name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. + </p> + <p> + “Why, ‘tis a young man,” the constable told himself; “a mere boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger; “but would you mind telling me my + way to Bloomsbury Square.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Bloomsbury Square,” explained the constable; “leastways round the + corner is. What number might you be wanting?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat + a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: “Mrs. Pennycherry. Number + Forty-eight.” + </p> + <p> + “Round to the left,” instructed him the constable; “fourth house. Been + recommended there?” + </p> + <p> + “By—by a friend,” replied the stranger. “Thank you very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” muttered the constable to himself; “guess you won’t be calling him + that by the end of the week, young—” + </p> + <p> + “Funny,” added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the + stranger. “Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old in + front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he’ll look old + all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry’s: stingy old cat.” + </p> + <p> + Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not + liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover + any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe + the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of + Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and + amiability. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of + Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a + glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate + masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow’s cap before the + looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he + prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas. + </p> + <p> + “And don’t stop gossiping, and don’t you take it upon yourself to answer + questions. Say I’ll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry’s further + instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.” + </p> + <p> + *** + </p> + <p> + “What are you grinning at?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes + later, of the dingy Mary Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t grinning,” explained the meek Mary Jane, “was only smiling to + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What at?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno,” admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. + </p> + <p> + “What’s he like then?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + “‘E ain’t the usual sort,” was Mary Jane’s opinion. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that,” ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. + </p> + <p> + “Says ‘e’s been recommended, by a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom?” + </p> + <p> + “By a friend. ‘E didn’t say no name.”</p> + <p>Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. “He’s not + the funny sort, is he?” + </p> + <p> + Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the + room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than the + stranger’s bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of old + sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw + herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor had + called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant Reality + reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, existing + precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was prepared for + contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked an + inexperienced young gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Someone has recommended me to you,” began Mrs. Pennycherry; “may I ask + who?” + </p> + <p> + But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial. + </p> + <p> + “You might not remember—him,” he smiled. “He thought that I should + do well to pass the few months I am given—that I have to be in + London, here. You can take me in?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in. + </p> + <p> + “A room to sleep in,” explained the stranger, “—any room will do—with + food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require.” + </p> + <p> + “For breakfast,” began Mrs. Pennycherry, “I always give—” + </p> + <p> + “What is right and proper, I am convinced,” interrupted the stranger. + “Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever it + is I shall be content.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his + face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious. + </p> + <p> + “At all events you will see the room,” suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, “before + we discuss terms.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” agreed the stranger. “I am a little tired and shall be glad + to rest there.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, + paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “It is very comfortable,” commented the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “For this room,” stated Mrs. Pennycherry, “together with full board, + consisting of—” + </p> + <p> + “Of everything needful. It goes without saying,” again interrupted the + stranger with his quiet grave smile. + </p> + <p> + “I have generally asked,” continued Mrs. Pennycherry, “four pounds a week. + To you—” Mrs. Pennycherry’s voice, unknown to her, took to itself + the note of aggressive generosity—“seeing you have been recommended + here, say three pounds ten.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear lady,” said the stranger, “that is kind of you. As you have divined, + I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept your + reduction with gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a + suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon that + smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. Clearly + he was as simple as he looked. + </p> + <p> + “Gas, of course, extra.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” agreed the Stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Coals—” + </p> + <p> + “We shall not quarrel,” for a third time the stranger interrupted. “You + have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I can + leave myself entirely in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put a + match to the stranger’s fire, turned to depart. And at this point it was + that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record for + sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her + career, would have deemed impossible—that no living soul who had + ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down + upon her knees and sworn it to them. + </p> + <p> + “Did I say three pound ten?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, + her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with the + stranger, with herself—particularly with herself. + </p> + <p> + “You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount,” replied the stranger; + “but if upon reflection you find yourself unable—” + </p> + <p> + “I was making a mistake,” said Mrs. Pennycherry, “it should have been two + pound ten.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot—I will not accept such sacrifice,” exclaimed the stranger; + “the three pound ten I can well afford.” + </p> + <p> + “Two pound ten are my terms,” snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. “If you are bent + on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You’ll find plenty to oblige you.” + </p> + <p> + Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. “We will not contend + further,” he smiled. “I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your + heart—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it isn’t as good as all that,” growled Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + “I am not so sure,” returned the stranger. “I am somewhat suspicious of + you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, + it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had been + the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant laugh—though + laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, + when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to the + window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and through + their bare branches of the sky beyond. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes back. + I’ll see to the door if you’d like a run out?” suggested Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + “It would be nice,” agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power of + speech; “it’s just the time of day I like.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be longer than the half hour,” added Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the drawing-room, + discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness characteristic of + Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent. + </p> + <p> + “Not what I call a smart young man,” was the opinion of Augustus Longcord, + who was something in the City. + </p> + <p> + “Thpeaking for mythelf,” commented his partner Isidore, “hav’n’th any uthe + for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith.” + </p> + <p> + “Must be pretty smart if he’s one too many for you,” laughed his partner. + </p> + <p> + There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury + Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Well it made me feel good just looking at him,” declared Miss Kite, the + highly coloured. “It was his clothes, I suppose—made me think of + Noah and the ark—all that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be clothes that would make you think—if anything,” drawled + the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the + moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined + upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only + easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine’s remark + received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it + merited. + </p> + <p> + “Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?” Miss Kite requested + to be informed. + </p> + <p> + “Both,” claimed Miss Devine. + </p> + <p> + “Myself? I must confess,” shouted the tall young lady’s father, commonly + called the Colonel, “I found him a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together,” purred his + wife, a plump, smiling little lady. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly we were,” retorted the Colonel. “Fate has accustomed me to the + society of fools.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you two,” + suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, “you’ll have nothing + left to amuse you for the rest of the evening.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t strike me as a conversationalist,” said the lady who was cousin + to a baronet; “but he did pass the vegetables before he helped himself. A + little thing like that shows breeding.” + </p> + <p> + “Or that he didn’t know you and thought maybe you’d leave him half a + spoonful,” laughed Augustus the wit. + </p> + <p> + “What I can’t make out about him—” shouted the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + The stranger entered the room. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The highly + coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, held it + coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair sofa, and + rearranged her skirts. + </p> + <p> + “Know anything?” demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the somewhat + remarkable silence. + </p> + <p> + The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for Augustus, + the witty, to advance further into that odd silence. + </p> + <p> + “What’s going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I’ll go out + straight and put my shirt upon it.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you would act unwisely,” smiled the stranger; “I am not an + authority upon the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the <i>Sporting Life</i>—in + disguise.” + </p> + <p> + It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody laughed, + though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and maybe none of + his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square Mr. + Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The stranger himself appeared + unaware that he was being made fun of. + </p> + <p> + “You have been misinformed,” assured him the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Augustus Longcord. + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing,” replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and passed + on. + </p> + <p> + “Well what about this theatre,” demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend and + partner; “do you want to go or don’t you?” Mr. Longcord was feeling + irritable. + </p> + <p> + “Goth the ticketh—may ath well,” thought Isidore. + </p> + <p> + “Damn stupid piece, I’m told.” + </p> + <p> + “Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh,” argued + Isidore, and the pair went out. + </p> + <p> + “Are you staying long in London?” asked Miss Kite, raising her practised + eyes towards the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Not long,” answered the stranger. “At least I do not know. It depends.” + </p> + <p> + An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight Bloomsbury + Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this hour. The Colonel + remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump white + hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible to say. + The lady who was cousin to a baronet had shifted her chair beneath the + gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The languid Miss + Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering softly the + tuneless keys, her back to the cold barely-furnished room. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the + vacant seat beside her. “Tell me about yourself. You interest me.” Miss + Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthful-looking + members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and + the golden hair, and fitted her about as well. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that,” answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. “I + so wish to interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very bold boy.” Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of + glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time encountered + the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss Kite + experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so ago + had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger had first bowed to her. It + seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, had she + risen and looked into it, the fly-blown mirror over the marble mantelpiece + would, she knew, have presented to her view; but quite another Miss Kite—a + cheerful, bright-eyed lady verging on middle age, yet still good-looking + in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat thin brown locks. Miss Kite + felt a pang of jealousy shoot through her; this middle-aged Miss Kite + seemed, on the whole, a more attractive lady. There was a wholesomeness, a + broadmindedness about her that instinctively drew one towards her. Not + hampered, as Miss Kite herself was, by the necessity of appearing to be + somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two, this other Miss Kite could talk + sensibly, even brilliantly: one felt it. A thoroughly “nice” woman this + other Miss Kite; the real Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit + it. Miss Kite wished to goodness she had never seen the woman. The glimpse + of her had rendered Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself. + </p> + <p> + “I am not a boy,” explained the stranger; “and I had no intention of being + bold.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” replied Miss Kite. “It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me + to make it, I can’t think. Getting foolish in my old age, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger laughed. “Surely you are not old.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thirty-nine,” snapped out Miss Kite. “You don’t call it young?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it a beautiful age,” insisted the stranger; “young enough not to + have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I daresay,” returned Miss Kite, “any age you’d think beautiful. I’m + going to bed.” Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got itself + broken. She threw the fragments into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “It is early yet,” pleaded the stranger, “I was looking forward to a talk + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ll be able to look forward to it,” retorted Miss Kite. + “Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the + glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that other Miss + Kite—the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had + been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might + not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner that evening. + </p> + <p> + The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, + seeking something to read. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite,” remarked the lady who was + cousin to a baronet. + </p> + <p> + “It seems so,” admitted the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “My cousin, Sir William Bosster,” observed the crocheting lady, “who + married old Lord Egham’s niece—you never met the Eghams?” + </p> + <p> + “Hitherto,” replied the stranger, “I have not had that pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “A charming family. Cannot understand—my cousin Sir William, I mean, + cannot understand my remaining here. ‘My dear Emily’—he says the + same thing every time he sees me: ‘My dear Emily, how can you exist among + the sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.’ But they amuse + me.” + </p> + <p> + A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage. + </p> + <p> + “Our family on my mother’s side,” continued Sir William’s cousin in her + placid monotone, “was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when King + George the Fourth—” Sir William’s cousin, needing another reel of + cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger’s gaze. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” said Sir William’s + cousin in an irritable tone. “It can’t possibly interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything connected with you interests me,” gravely the stranger assured + her. + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you to say so,” sighed Sir William’s cousin, but + without conviction; “I am afraid sometimes I bore people.” + </p> + <p> + The polite stranger refrained from contradiction. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” continued the poor lady, “I really am of good family.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear lady,” said the stranger, “your gentle face, your gentle voice, your + gentle bearing, all proclaim it.” + </p> + <p> + She looked without flinching into the stranger’s eyes, and gradually a + smile banished the reigning dulness of her features. + </p> + <p> + “How foolish of me.” She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger. + “Why, of course, people—people whose opinion is worth troubling + about—judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying + you are.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two hundred + and thirty pounds per annum,” she argued. “The sensible thing for me to do + is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these high and mighty + relations of mine as little as they have ever worried themselves about + me.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying. + </p> + <p> + “I have other connections,” remembered Sir William’s cousin; “those of my + poor husband, to whom instead of being the ‘poor relation’ I could be the + fairy god-mama. They are my people—or would be,” added Sir William’s + cousin tartly, “if I wasn’t a vulgar snob.” + </p> + <p> + She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced + preparations for a hurried departure. + </p> + <p> + “Now it seems I am driving you away,” sighed the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Having been called a ‘vulgar snob,’” retorted the lady with some heat, “I + think it about time I went.” + </p> + <p> + “The words were your own,” the stranger reminded her. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever I may have thought,” remarked the indignant dame, “no lady—least + of all in the presence of a total stranger—would have called herself—” + The poor dame paused, bewildered. “There is something very curious the + matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand,” she explained, “I + seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself.” + </p> + <p> + Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, + hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger, + hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was + contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, “how did you manage + to do it? I should like to know.” + </p> + <p> + “How did I do what?” inquired the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?” + </p> + <p> + “How well you play!” observed the stranger. “I knew you had genius for + music the moment I saw you.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you tell?” + </p> + <p> + “It is written so clearly in your face.” + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed, well pleased. “You seem to have lost no time in studying + my face.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a beautiful and interesting face,” observed the stranger. + </p> + <p> + She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. + </p> + <p> + “You can read faces?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, what else do you read in mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Frankness, courage—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted.” It was + odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. “Tell me the reverse side.” + </p> + <p> + “I see no reverse side,” replied the stranger. “I see but a fair girl, + bursting into noble womanhood.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, + of—” An angry laugh escaped her lips. “And you are a reader of + faces!” + </p> + <p> + “A reader of faces.” The stranger smiled. “Do you know what is written + upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce, + scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, + contempt of all things that are contemptible—especially of such + things as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?” + </p> + <p> + I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried from + the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in them + when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? + </p> + <p> + The idea occurred to her: “Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you + during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your mother + principally.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the + question. “I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first + evening!” + </p> + <p> + “He did try one or two,” admitted the stranger; “but I have been about the + world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I feel we + shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” commented the girl. + </p> + <p> + “He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted + it but once!” + </p> + <p> + Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died from + them. She turned aside to hide her smile. + </p> + <p> + “So he regretted it—once.” + </p> + <p> + “Only once,” explained the stranger, “in a passing irritable mood. It was + so frank of him to admit it. He told me—I think he has taken a + liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an + opportunity of talking to a man like myself—he told me that he and + your mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a + honeymoon couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really + quite amusing.” The stranger laughed at recollection of them—“that + even here, in this place, they are generally referred to as ‘Darby and + Joan.’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the girl, “that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, the + second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever—but + rather obvious I thought myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—so it seems to me,” said the stranger, “is more beautiful + than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender + blossom that flowers in the heart of the young—in hearts such as + yours—that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, + that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that + is the beginning of—of things longer.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to find all things beautiful,” the girl grumbled. + </p> + <p> + “But are not all things beautiful?” demanded the stranger. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel had finished his paper. “You two are engaged in a very + absorbing conversation,” observed the Colonel, approaching them. + </p> + <p> + “We were discussing Darbies and Joans,” explained his daughter. “How + beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” smiled the Colonel, “that is hardly fair. My friend has been + repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband’s + affection for his middle-aged and somewhat—” The Colonel in playful + mood laid his hand upon the stranger’s shoulder, an action that + necessitated his looking straight into the stranger’s eyes. The Colonel + drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet. + </p> + <p> + Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was explaining + quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself, why he was a + cad. + </p> + <p> + “That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to both + of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from the + world—not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You + are a cad, sir, a cad!” + </p> + <p> + Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not + moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like the + voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger to his + daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they had not + heard the voice—a mere hallucination. The Colonel breathed again. + </p> + <p> + Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it was + bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No gentleman + would have done so. + </p> + <p> + But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. No + gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife—certainly never + in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have exercised + self-control. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid hold + of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark to him—he + could see it in her eye—which would irritate him into savage retort. + </p> + <p> + Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boarding-house + wits had dubbed them “Darby and Joan,” would grasp the fact that the + gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table + acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, “does not this room + strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl.” + </p> + <p> + It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of + both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each + other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her point + of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A wild, + fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel’s brain: If to him, why + not to her? + </p> + <p> + “Letitia,” cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her into + silence, “I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not remind you + of someone?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. “Yes,” she + murmured, turning to her husband, “he does, who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot fix it,” replied the Colonel; “I thought that maybe you would + remember.” + </p> + <p> + “It will come to me,” mused Mrs. Devine. “It is someone—years ago, + when I was a girl—in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn’t troubling + you, Harry. I left it in the dining-room.” + </p> + <p> + It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, the + colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the + trouble. “Give me a man, who can take care of himself—or thinks he + can,” declared Augustus Longcord, “and I am prepared to give a good + account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what + you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for + him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself—well, + it isn’t playing the game.” + </p> + <p> + “Auguthuth,” was the curt comment of his partner, “you’re a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, my boy, you try,” suggested Augustus. + </p> + <p> + “Jutht what I mean to do,” asserted his partner. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending the + stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with the + door shut. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t arth me,” retorted Isidore, “thilly ath, thath what he ith.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they were—how + people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. + </p> + <p> + “Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. + Thought I wath one of ‘em!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you get anything out of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn’t very well thell the + whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after that. + Didn’t theem worth it.” + </p> + <p> + There were many things Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square came gradually to the + conclusion were not worth the doing:—Snatching at the gravy; + pouncing out of one’s turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to more + than one’s fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting on the + evening paper while pretending not to have seen it—all such-like + tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really it + was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one’s food; grumbling + everlastingly at most things; abusing Pennycherry behind her back; + abusing, for a change, one’s fellow-boarders; squabbling with one’s + fellow-boarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one’s + fellow-boarders; talking scandal of one’s fellow-boarders; making + senseless jokes about one’s fellow-boarders; talking big about oneself, + nobody believing one—all such-like vulgarities. Other + boarding-houses might indulge in them: Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had + its dignity to consider. + </p> + <p> + The truth is, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good + opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as the + stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight + Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea—where obtained from + Heaven knows—that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded, + coarse-fibred occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first + water; and time and observation had apparently only strengthened this + absurd idea. The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was + coming round to the stranger’s opinion of itself. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born + and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no control to fill + an arduous but honorable position of middle-class society—a sort of + foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her + promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung to + with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages attaching, but these + Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady born and + bred cannot charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and candles they + have never burnt; a foster-mother cannot palm off upon her children New + Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper can play these + tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she cannot: Mrs. + Pennycherry felt she no longer could. + </p> + <p> + To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist of + most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was lack of + vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If Miss + Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger’s eyes, the modesty + that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms would fall from her. + The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put it to the test. + One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the drawing-room, when + the stranger only was there and before the gas was lighted, a pleasant, + good-looking lady, somewhat pale, with neatly-arranged brown hair, who + demanded of the stranger if he knew her. All her body was trembling, and + her voice seemed inclined to run away from her and become a sob. But when + the stranger, looking straight into her eyes, told her that from the + likeness he thought she must be Miss Kite’s younger sister, but much + prettier, it became a laugh instead: and that evening the golden-haired + Miss Kite disappeared never to show her high-coloured face again; and what + perhaps, more than all else, might have impressed some former habitue of + Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square with awe, it was that no one in the house + made even a passing inquiry concerning her. + </p> + <p> + Sir William’s cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any + boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing outward or + visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class family. She + herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt it. + Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, diffused an atmosphere of gentle + manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; Sir + William’s cousin gathered that he thought it, and felt herself in + agreement with him. + </p> + <p> + For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type of + business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what unfortunate + results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm + appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger’s good + opinion—had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste for honest men’s + respect—that in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we + all have our pet extravagance. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from the + necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, new + tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one + another. + </p> + <p> + “Tomfool nonsense,” grumbled the Colonel, “you and I starting billing and + cooing at our age!” + </p> + <p> + “What I object to,” said Mrs. Devine, “is the feeling that somehow I am + being made to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together + for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of them! it’s damn + ridiculous,” the Colonel exploded. + </p> + <p> + “Even when he isn’t there,” said Mrs. Devine, “I seem to see him looking + at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite haunts me.” + </p> + <p> + “I have met him somewhere,” mused the Colonel, “I’ll swear I’ve met him + somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go.” + </p> + <p> + A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a hundred + things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the Colonel. But + by the time the opportunity occurred—when nobody else was by to hear—all + interest in saying them was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Women will be women,” was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled + himself. “A man must bear with them—must never forget that he is a + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I suppose they’re all alike,” laughed Mrs. Devine to herself, + having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge in + cheerfulness. “What’s the use of putting oneself out—it does no + good, and only upsets one.” There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you + are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies of others. + Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much self-approbation. + </p> + <p> + But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger’s bigoted belief in the + innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, handsome Miss + Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a noble-souled, + high-minded young woman, something midway between a Flora Macdonald and a + Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself to be a sleek, + luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to the bidder who + could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, the most sumptuous + surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person of a retired + bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly rich and + undoubtedly fond of her. + </p> + <p> + Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done, + was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that the + stranger’s ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but inconvenienced + her. Under the very eyes of a person—however foolish—convinced + that you are possessed of all the highest attributes of your sex, it is + difficult to behave as though actuated by only the basest motives. A dozen + times had Miss Devine determined to end the matter by formal acceptance of + her elderly admirer’s large and flabby hand, and a dozen times—the + vision intervening of the stranger’s grave, believing eyes—had Miss + Devine refused decided answer. The stranger would one day depart. Indeed, + he had told her himself, he was but a passing traveller. When he was gone + it would be easier. So she thought at the time. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing by the + window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in Bloomsbury + Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another foggy + afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger’s arrival three months before. + No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and came + towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long coat + was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat and the + massive knotted stick that was almost a staff. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to say good-bye,” explained the stranger. “I am going.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not see you again?” asked the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot say,” replied the stranger. “But you will think of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered with a smile, “I can promise that.” + </p> + <p> + “And I shall always remember you,” promised the stranger, “and I wish you + every joy—the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage.” + </p> + <p> + The girl winced. “Love and marriage are not always the same thing,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Not always,” agreed the stranger, “but in your case they will be one.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I have not noticed?” smiled the stranger, “a gallant, + handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not have + gone away without knowing it was well with you.” + </p> + <p> + Her gaze wandered towards the fading light. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, I love him,” she answered petulantly. “Your eyes can see clearly + enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in our world. I + will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know.” She would + not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the dingy trees, the + mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and vehemently: “The man who can give me + all my soul’s desire—money and the things that money can buy. You + think me a woman, I’m only a pig. He is moist, and breathes like a + porpoise; with cunning in place of a brain, and the rest of him mere + stomach. But he is good enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would + go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “you will not marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who will stop me?” she cried angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Your Better Self.” + </p> + <p> + His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and look + upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very first had + haunted her. She had met him, talked to him—in silent country roads, + in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking with him her + spirit had been lifted up: she had been—what he had always thought + her. + </p> + <p> + “There are those,” continued the stranger (and for the first time she saw + that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes could + also command), “whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand and + troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too strong; + it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and it will + follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise you with + burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day to day.” The sternness + faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness crept back. He laid his hand + upon the young girl’s shoulder. “You will marry your lover,” he smiled. + “With him you will walk the way of sunlight and of shadow.” + </p> + <p> + And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would be + so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed away from her + for ever. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said the stranger, “come to the door with me. Leave-takings are but + wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door softly behind me.” + </p> + <p> + She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw no more + of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly buttoned coat, + before he faded into the gathering fog. + </p> + <p> + Then softly she closed the door. + </p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 865 ***</div> + </body> +</html> + diff --git a/865-h/images/cover.jpg b/865-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5e8071 --- /dev/null +++ b/865-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e7eb05 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #865 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/865) diff --git a/old/jjp3b10.txt b/old/jjp3b10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0695b3e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jjp3b10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,968 @@ +*** Project Gutenberg etext of Passing of the Third Floor Back *** +By Jerome K. Jerome + +Scanned and proofed by Ronald Burkey (rburkey@heads-up.com) and Amy +Thomte. + +Notes on the editing: Punctuation and hyphenation have been retained +as in the original, except words broken across lines have been joined. +Italicized text is delimited by underlines ("_"). A long break +between paragraphs is represented by "***". + + +PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK +By JEROME K. JEROME + +Author of "Paul Kelver," "Three Men in a Boat," etc., etc. + +NEW YORK +DODD, MEAD & COMPANY +1909 + + +COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY JEROME K. JEROME +COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY +Published, September, 1908 + + +PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK + +The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o'clock of a +November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of +appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. +Tibb's boy, screaming at the top of his voice that _she_ was his +honey, stopped suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble +young lady wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to +the somewhat personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he +had reached the next corner--and then more as a soliloquy than as +information to the street--did Tibb's boy recover sufficient interest +in his own affairs to remark that _he_ was her bee. The voluble young +lady herself, following some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her +wrongs in contemplation of the stranger's back. There was this that +was peculiar about the stranger's back: that instead of being flat it +presented a decided curve. "It ain't a 'ump, and it don't look like +kervitcher of the spine," observed the voluble young lady to herself. +"Blimy if I don't believe 'e's taking 'ome 'is washing up his back." + +The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, +noticed the stranger's approach with gathering interest. "That's an +odd sort of a walk of yours, young man," thought the constable. "You +take care you don't fall down and tumble over yourself." + +"Thought he was a young man," murmured the constable, the stranger +having passed him. "He had a young face right enough." + +The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read +the name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. + +"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy." + +"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me +my way to Bloomsbury Square." + +"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round +the corner is. What number might you be wanting?" + +The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned +overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs. +Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight." + +"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. +Been recommended there?" + +"By--by a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much." + +"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling +him that by the end of the week, young--" + +"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of +the stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind +and old in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. +Guess he'll look old all round if he stops long at mother +Pennycherry's: stingy old cat." + +Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for +not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to +discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured +lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the +neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of +generosity and amiability. + +Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding npon his way, had rung the bell of +Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and +catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat +effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before +the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, +should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to +light the gas. + +"And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to +answer questions. Say I'll be up in a minute," were Mrs. +Pennycherry's further instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as +much as you can." + + *** + +"What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of +minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane. + +"Wasn't grinning," explained the meek Mary Jane, "was only smiling to +myself." + +"What at?" + +"Dunno," admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. + +"What's he like then?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. + +"'E ain't the usual sort," was Mary Jane's opinion. + +"Thank God for that," ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. + +"Says 'e's been recommended, by a friend." + +"By whom?" + +"By a friend. 'E didn't say no name." Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. +"He's not the funny sort, is he?" + +Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. + +Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered +the room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler +than the stranger's bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a +rush of old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. +Pennycherry saw herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a +solicitor: a visitor had called to see her. It was but a momentary +fancy. The next instant Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, +a lodging-house keeper, existing precariously upon a daily round of +petty meannesses, was prepared for contest with a possible new +boarder, who fortunately looked an inexperienced young gentleman. + +"Someone has recommended me to you," began Mrs. Pennycherry; "may I +ask who?" + +But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial. + +"You might not remember--him," he smiled. "He thought that I should +do well to pass the few months I am given--that I have to be in +London, here. You can take me in?" + +Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger +in. + +"A room to sleep in," explained the stranger, "--any room will +do--with food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require." + +"For breakfast," began Mrs. Pennycherry, "I always give--" + +"What is right and proper, I am convinced," interrupted the stranger. +"Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With +whatever it is I shall be content." + +Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but +his face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious. + +"At all events you will see the room," suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, +"before we discuss terms." + +"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "I am a little tired and shall be +glad to rest there." + +Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third +floor, paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back +bedroom. + +"It is very comfortable," commented the stranger. + +"For this room," stated Mrs. Pennycherry, "together with full board, +consisting of--" + +"Of everything needful. It goes without saying," again interrupted +the stranger with his quiet grave smile. + +"I have generally asked," continued Mrs. Pennycherry, "four pounds a +week. To you--" Mrs. Pennycherry's voice, unknown to her, took to +itself the note of aggressive generosity--"seeing you have been +recommended here, say three pounds ten." + +"Dear lady," said the stranger, "that is kind of you. As you have +divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept +your reduction with gratitude." + +Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a +suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon +that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. +Clearly he was as simple as he looked. + +"Gas, of course, extra." + +"Of course," agreed the Stranger. + +"Coals--" + +"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted. +"You have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. +Pennycherry, I can leave myself entirely in your hands." + +The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having +put a match to the stranger's fire, turned to depart. And at this +point it was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken +record for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes +earlier in her career, would have deemed impossible--that no living +soul who had ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs. +Pennycherry gone down upon her knees and sworn it to them. + +"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the +stranger, her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling +cross, with the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself. + +"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the +stranger; "but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--" + +"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been +two pound ten." + +"I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger; +"the three pound ten I can well afford." + +"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are +bent on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You'll find plenty to +oblige you." + +Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. "We will not contend +further," he smiled. "I was merely afraid that in the goodness of +your heart--" + +"Oh, it isn't as good as all that," growled Mrs. Pennycherry. + +"I am not so sure," returned the stranger. "I am somewhat suspicious +of you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way." + +The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that +moment, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if +it had been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a +pleasant laugh--though laughing was an exercise not often indulged in +by Mrs. Pennycherry. + +Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of +her, when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close +to the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square +and through their bare branches of the sky beyond. + +"There's nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes +back. I'll see to the door if you'd like a run out?" suggested Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +"It would be nice," agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power +of speech; "it's just the time of day I like." + +"Don't be longer than the half hour," added Mrs. Pennycherry. + +Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the +drawing-room, discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness +characteristic of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent. + +"Not what I call a smart young man," was the opinion of Augustus +Longcord, who was something in the City. + +"Thpeaking for mythelf," commented his partner Isidore, "hav'n'th +any uthe for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith." + +"Must be pretty smart if he's one too many for you," laughed his +partner. + +There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension. + +"Well it made me feel good just looking at him," declared Miss Kite, +the highly coloured. "It was his clothes, I suppose--made me think of +Noah and the ark--all that sort of thing." + +"It would be clothes that would make you think--if anything," drawled +the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at +the moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort +combined upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having +secured the only easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss +Devine's remark received from the rest of the company more approbation +than perhaps it merited. + +"Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?" Miss Kite +requested to be informed. + +"Both," claimed Miss Devine. + +"Myself? I must confess," shouted the tall young lady's father, +commonly called the Colonel, "I found him a fool." + +"I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together," purred his +wife, a plump, smiling little lady. + +"Possibly we were," retorted the Colonel. "Fate has accustomed me to +the society of fools." + +"Isn't it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you +two," suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, "you'll have +nothing left to amuse you for the rest of the evening." + +"He didn't strike me as a conversationalist," said the lady who was +cousin to a baronet; "but he did pass the vegetables before he helped +himself. A little thing like that shows breeding." + +"Or that he didn't know you and thought maybe you'd leave him half a +spoonful," laughed Augustus the wit. + +"What I can't make out about him--" shouted the Colonel. + +The stranger entered the room. + +The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The +highly coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, +held it coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the +horse-hair sofa, and rearranged her skirts. + +"Know anything?" demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the +somewhat remarkable silence. + +The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for +Augustus, the witty, to advance further into that odd silence. + +"What's going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I'll go +out straight and put my shirt upon it." + +"I think you would act unwisely," smiled the stranger; "I am not an +authority upon the subject." + +"Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the _Sporting +Life_--in disguise." + +It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody +laughed, though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and +maybe none of his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square Mr. Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The +stranger himself appeared unaware that he was being made fun of. + +"You have been misinformed," assured him the stranger. + +"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Augustus Longcord. + +"It is nothing," replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and +passed on. + +"Well what about this theatre," demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend +and partner; "do you want to go or don't you?" Mr. Longcord was +feeling irritable. + +"Goth the ticketh--may ath well," thought Isidore. + +"Damn stupid piece, I'm told." + +"Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh," +argued Isidore, and the pair went out. + +"Are you staying long in London?" asked Miss Kite, raising her +practised eyes towards the stranger. + +"Not long," answered the stranger. "At least I do not know. It +depends." + +An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this +hour. The Colonel remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat +with her plump white hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it +was impossible to say. The lady who was cousin to a baronet had +shifted her chair beneath the gasolier, her eyes bent on her +everlasting crochet work. The languid Miss Devine had crossed to the +piano, where she sat fingering softly the tuneless keys, her back to +the cold barely-furnished room. + +"Sit down!" commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the +vacant seat beside her. "Tell me about yourself. You interest me." +Miss Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all +youthful-looking members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the +peach complexion and the golden hair, and fitted her about as well. + +"I am glad of that," answered the stranger, taking the chair +suggested. "I so wish to interest you." + +"You're a very bold boy." Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose +of glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time +encountered the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it +was that Miss Kite experienced precisely the same curious sensation +that an hour or so ago had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger +had first bowed to her. It seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer +the Miss Kite that, had she risen and looked into it, the fly-blown +mirror over the marble mantelpiece would, she knew, have presented to +her view; but quite another Miss Kite--a cheerful, bright-eyed lady +verging on middle age, yet still good-looking in spite of her faded +complexion and somewhat thin brown locks. Miss Kite felt a pang of +jealousy shoot through her; this middle-aged Miss Kite seemed, on the +whole, a more attractive lady. There was a wholesomeness, a +broadmindedness about her that instinctively drew one towards her. +Not hampered, as Miss Kite herself was, by the necessity of appearing +to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two, this other Miss Kite +could talk sensibly, even brilliantly: one felt it. A thoroughly +"nice" woman this other Miss Kite; the real Miss Kite, though envious, +was bound to admit it. Miss Kite wished to goodness she had never +seen the woman. The glimpse of her had rendered Miss Kite +dissatisfied with herself. + +"I am not a boy," explained the stranger; "and I had no intention of +being bold." + +"I know," replied Miss Kite. "It was a silly remark. Whatever +induced me to make it, I can't think. Getting foolish in my old age, +I suppose." + +The stranger laughed. "Surely you are not old." + +"I'm thirty-nine," snapped out Miss Kite. "You don't call it young?" + +"I think it a beautiful age," insisted the stranger; "young enough not +to have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy." + +"Oh, I daresay," returned Miss Kite, "any age you'd think beautiful. +I'm going to bed." Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got +itself broken. She threw the fragments into the fire. + +"It is early yet," pleaded the stranger, "I was looking forward to a +talk with you." + +"Well, you'll be able to look forward to it," retorted Miss Kite. +"Good-night." + +The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in +the glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that +other Miss Kite--the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown +hair had been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary +forgetfulness might not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner +that evening. + +The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, +seeking something to read. + +"You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite," remarked the lady who +was cousin to a baronet. + +"It seems so," admitted the stranger. + +"My cousin, Sir William Bosster," observed the crocheting lady, "who +married old Lord Egham's niece--you never met the Eghams?" + +"Hitherto," replied the stranger, "I have not had that pleasure." + +"A charming family. Cannot understand--my cousin Sir William, I mean, +cannot understand my remaining here. 'My dear Emily'--he says the +same thing every time he sees me: 'My dear Emily, how can you exist +among the sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.' But +they amuse me." + +A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage. + +"Our family on my mother's side," continued Sir William's cousin in +her placid monotone, "was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when +King George the Fourth--" Sir William's cousin, needing another reel +of cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger's gaze. + +"I'm sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this," said Sir +William's cousin in an irritable tone. "It can't possibly interest +you." + +"Everything connected with you interests me," gravely the stranger +assured her. + +"It is very kind of you to say so," sighed Sir William's cousin, but +without conviction; "I am afraid sometimes I bore people." + +The polite stranger refrained from contradiction. + +"You see," continued the poor lady, "I really am of good family." + +"Dear lady," said the stranger, "your gentle face, your gentle voice, +your gentle bearing, all proclaim it." + +She looked without flinching into the stranger's eyes, and gradually a +smile banished the reigning dulness of her features. + +"How foolish of me." She spoke rather to herself than to the +stranger. "Why, of course, people--people whose opinion is worth +troubling about--judge of you by what you are, not by what you go +about saying you are." + +The stranger remained silent. + +"I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two +hundred and thirty pounds per annum," she argued. "The sensible thing +for me to do is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about +these high and mighty relations of mine as little as they have ever +worried themselves about me." + +The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying. + +"I have other connections," remembered Sir William's cousin; "those of +my poor husband, to whom instead of being the 'poor relation' I could +be the fairy god-mama. They are my people--or would be," added Sir +William's cousin tartly, "if I wasn't a vulgar snob." + +She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced +preparations for a hurried departure. + +"Now it seems I am driving you away," sighed the stranger. + +"Having been called a 'vulgar snob,'" retorted the lady with some +heat, "I think it about time I went." + +"The words were your own," the stranger reminded her. + +"Whatever I may have thought," remarked the indignant dame, "no +lady--least of all in the presence of a total stranger--would have +called herself--" The poor dame paused, bewildered. "There is +something very curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot +understand," she explained, "I seem quite unable to avoid insulting +myself." + +Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, +hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The +stranger, hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind +her. + +"Tell me," laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was +contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, "how did you +manage to do it? I should like to know." + +"How did I do what?" inquired the stranger. + +"Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?" + +"How well you play!" observed the stranger. "I knew you had genius +for music the moment I saw you." + +"How could you tell?" + +"It is written so clearly in your face." + +The girl laughed, well pleased. "You seem to have lost no time in +studying my face." + +"It is a beautiful and interesting face," observed the stranger. + +She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. + +"You can read faces?" + +"Yes." + +"Tell me, what else do you read in mine?" + +"Frankness, courage--" + +"Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted." +It was odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. "Tell me the +reverse side." + +"I see no reverse side," replied the stranger. "I see but a fair +girl, bursting into noble womanhood." + +"And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of +sordidness, of--" An angry laugh escaped her lips. "And you are a +reader of faces!" + +"A reader of faces." The stranger smiled. "Do you know what is +written upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is +almost fierce, scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all +things pure, contempt of all things that are contemptible--especially +of such things as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read +aright?" + +I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried +from the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is +in them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? + +The idea occurred to her: "Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to +you during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?" + +"The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your +mother principally." + +"I am sorry," returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the +question. "I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the +first evening!" + +"He did try one or two," admitted the stranger; "but I have been about +the world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I +feel we shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. +Devine." + +"Indeed," commented the girl. + +"He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never +regretted it but once!" + +Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died +from them. She turned aside to hide her smile. + +"So he regretted it--once." + +"Only once," explained the stranger, "in a passing irritable mood. It +was so frank of him to admit it. He told me--I think he has taken a +liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get +an opportnnity of talking to a man like myself--he told me that he and +your mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a +honeymoon couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were +really quite amusing." The stranger laughed at recollection of +them--"that even here, in this place, they are generally referred to +as 'Darby and Joan.'" + +"Yes," said the girl, "that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that +name, the second evening after our arrival. It was considered +clever--but rather obvious I thought myself." + +"Nothing--so it seems to me," said the stranger, "is more beautiful +than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, +tender blossom that flowers in the heart of the young--in hearts such +as yours--that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the +young, that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the +old, that is the beginning of--of things longer." + +"You seem to find all things beautiful," the girl grumbled. + +"But are not all things beautiful?" demanded the stranger. + +The Colonel had finished his paper. "You two are engaged in a very +absorbing conversation," observed the Colonel, approaching them. + +"We were discussing Darbies and Joans," explained his daughter. "How +beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!" + +"Ah!" smiled the Colonel, "that is hardly fair. My friend has been +repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband's +affection for his middle-aged and somewhat--" The Colonel in playful +mood laid his hand upon the stranger's shoulder, an action that +necessitated his looking straight into the stranger's eyes. The +Colonel drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet. + +Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was +explaining quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for +himself, why he was a cad. + +"That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to +both of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it +from the world--not make a jest of your shame to every passing +stranger. You are a cad, sir, a cad!" + +Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had +not moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much +more like the voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from +the stranger to his daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. +Clearly they had not heard the voice--a mere hallucination. The +Colonel breathed again. + +Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it +was bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No +gentleman would have done so. + +But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. +No gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife--certainly never +in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have +exercised self-control. + +Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid +hold of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark +to him--he could see it in her eye--which would irritate him into +savage retort. + +Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why +boarding-house wits had dubbed them "Darby and Joan," would grasp the +fact that the gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation +with a table acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule. + +"My dear," cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, "does not this +room strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl." + +It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom +of both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to +each other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from +her point of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. +A wild, fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel's brain: If +to him, why not to her? + +"Letitia," cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her +into silence, "I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not +remind you of someone?" + +Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. "Yes," +she murmured, turning to her husband, "he does, who is it?" + +"I cannot fix it," replied the Colonel; "I thought that maybe you +would remember." + +"It will come to me," mused Mrs. Devine. "It is someone--years ago, +when I was a girl--in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn't troubling +you, Harry. I left it in the dining-room." + +It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, the +colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the +trouble. "Give me a man, who can take care of himself--or thinks he +can," declared Augustus Longcord, "and I am prepared to give a good +account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at +what you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is +sufficient for him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for +yourself--well, it isn't playing the game." + +"Auguthuth," was the curt comment of his partner, "you're a fool." + +"All right, my boy, you try," suggested Augustus. + +"Jutht what I mean to do," asserted his partner. + +"Well," demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending +the stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with +the door shut. + +"Oh, don't arth me," retorted Isidore, "thilly ath, thath what he +ith." + +"What did he say?" + +"What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they +were--how people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. + +"Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been +Jewth. Thought I wath one of 'em!" + +"Well, did you get anything out of him?" + +"Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn't very well thell +the whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after +that. Didn't theem worth it." + +There were many things Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square came gradually to +the conclusion were not worth the doing:--Snatching at the gravy; +pouncing out of one's turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to +more than one's fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting +on the evening paper while pretending not to have seen it--all +such-like tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of +it, really it was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at +one's food; grumbling everlastingly at most things; abusing +Pennycherry behind her back; abusing, for a change, one's +fellow-boarders; squabbling with one's fellow-boarders about nothing +in particular; sneering at one's fellow-boarders; talking scandal of +one's fellow-boarders; making senseless jokes about one's +fellow-boarders; talking big about oneself, nobody believing one--all +such-like vulgarities. Other boarding-houses might indulge in them: +Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had its dignity to consider. + +The truth is, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good +opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as the +stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea--where obtained from +Heaven knows--that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded, +coarse-fibred occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the +first water; and time and observation had apparently only strengthened +this absurd idea. The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square was coming round to the stranger's opinion of itself. + +Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady +born and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no +control to fill an arduous but honorable position of middle-class +society--a sort of foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and +gratitude of her promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. +Pennycherry now clung to with obstinate conviction. There were +disadvantages attaching, but these Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared +to suffer cheerfully. A lady born and bred cannot charge other ladies +and gentlemen for coals and candles they have never burnt; a +foster-mother cannot palm off upon her children New Zealand mutton for +Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper can play these tricks, and +pocket the profits. But a lady feels she cannot: Mrs. Pennycherry +felt she no longer could. + +To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist +of most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was +lack of vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined +beauty. If Miss Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger's +eyes, the modesty that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms +would fall from her. The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite +determined to put it to the test. One evening, an hour before dinner, +there entered the drawing-room, when the stranger only was there and +before the gas was lighted, a pleasant, good-looking lady, somewhat +pale, with neatly-arranged brown hair, who demanded of the stranger if +he knew her. All her body was trembling, and her voice seemed +inclined to run away from her and become a sob. But when the +stranger, looking straight into her eyes, told her that from the +likeness he thought she must be Miss Kite's younger sister, but much +prettier, it became a laugh instead: and that evening the +golden-haired Miss Kite disappeared never to show her high-coloured +face again; and what perhaps, more than all else, might have impressed +some former habitue of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square with awe, it was +that no one in the house made even a passing inquiry concerning her. + +Sir William's cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any +boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing +outward or visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class +family. She herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet +somehow you felt it. Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, +diffused an atmosphere of gentle manners. Not that the stranger had +said this in so many words; Sir William's cousin gathered that he +thought it, and felt herself in agreement with him. + +For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type +of business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what +unfortunate results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing +is that the Firm appeared content with the price they had paid for the +stranger's good opinion--had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste +for honest men's respect--that in the long run was likely to cost them +dear. But we all have our pet extravagance. + +The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from +the necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, +new tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with +one another. + +"Tomfool nonsense," grumbled the Colonel, "you and I starting billing +and cooing at our age!" + +"What I object to," said Mrs. Devine, "is the feeling that somehow I +am being made to do it." + +"The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke +together for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of +them! it's damn ridiculous," the Colonel exploded. + +"Even when he isn't there," said Mrs. Devine, "I seem to see him +looking at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite +haunts me." + +"I have met him somewhere," mused the Colonel, "I'll swear I've met +him somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go." + +A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a +hundred things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the +Colonel. But by the time the opportunity occurred--when nobody else +was by to hear--all interest in saying them was gone. + +"Women will be women," was the sentiment with which the Colonel +consoled himself. "A man must bear with them--must never forget that +he is a gentleman." + +"Oh, well, I suppose they're all alike," laughed Mrs. Devine to +herself, having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge +in cheerfulness. "What's the use of putting oneself out--it does no +good, and only upsets one." There is a certain satisfaction in +feeling you are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies +of others. Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much +self-approbation. + +But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger's bigoted belief in +the innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, +handsome Miss Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was +a noble-souled, high-minded young woman, something midway between a +Flora Macdonald and a Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew +herself to be a sleek, luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell +herself to the bidder who could offer her the finest clothes, the +richest foods, the most sumptuous surroundings. Such a bidder was to +hand in the person of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old +gentleman, but exceedingly rich and undoubtedly fond of her. + +Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be +done, was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was +that the stranger's ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but +inconvenienced her. Under the very eyes of a person--however +foolish--convinced that you are possessed of all the highest +attributes of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated +by only the basest motives. A dozen times had Miss Devine determined +to end the matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer's large +and flabby hand, and a dozen times--the vision intervening of the +stranger's grave, believing eyes--had Miss Devine refused decided +answer. The stranger would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her +himself, he was but a passing traveller. When he was gone it would be +easier. So she thought at the time. + +One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing by +the window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in +Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such +another foggy afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger's arrival +three months before. No one else was in the room. The stranger +closed the door, and came towards her with that curious, quick-leaping +step of his. His long coat was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he +carried his old felt hat and the massive knotted stick that was almost +a staff. + +"I have come to say good-bye," explained the stranger. "I am going." + +"I shall not see you again?" asked the girl. + +"I cannot say," replied the stranger. "But you will think of me?" + +"Yes," she answered with a smile, "I can promise that." + +"And I shall always remember you," promised the stranger, "and I wish +you every joy--the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage." + +The girl winced. "Love and marriage are not always the same thing," +she said. + +"Not always," agreed the stranger, "but in your case they will be +one." + +She looked at him. + +"Do you think I have not noticed?" smiled the stranger, "a gallant, +handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not +have gone away without knowing it was well with you." + +Her gaze wandered towards the fading light. + +"Ah, yes, I love him," she answered petulantly. "Your eyes can see +clearly enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in +our world. I will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to +know." She would not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed +upon the dingy trees, the mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and +vehemently: "The man who can give me all my soul's desire--money and +the things that money can buy. You think me a woman, I'm only a pig. +He is moist, and breathes like a porpoise; with cunning in place of a +brain, and the rest of him mere stomach. But he is good enough for +me." + +She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he +would go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh. + +"No," he said, "you will not marry him." + +"Who will stop me?" she cried angrily. + +"Your Better Self." + +His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and +look upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very +first had haunted her. She had met him, talked to him--in silent +country roads, in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in +talking with him her spirit had been lifted up: she had been--what he +had always thought her. + +"There are those," continued the stranger (and for the first time she +saw that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes +could also command), "whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand +and troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too +strong; it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and +it will follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will +chastise you with burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day +to day." The sternness faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness +crept back. He laid his hand upon the young girl's shoulder. "You +will marry your lover," he smiled. "With him you will walk the way of +sunlight and of shadow." + +And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it +would be so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed +away from her for ever. + +"Now," said the stranger, "come to the door with me. Leave-takings +are but wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door +softly behind me." + +She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw no +more of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly +buttoned coat, before he faded into the gathering fog. + +Then softly she closed the door. + +*** End of Project Gutenberg etext of Pass of the Third Floor Back *** diff --git a/old/jjp3b10.zip b/old/jjp3b10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..70674da --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jjp3b10.zip diff --git a/old/old-2024-05-09/865-0.txt b/old/old-2024-05-09/865-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f425370 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old-2024-05-09/865-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1334 @@ +Project Gutenberg’s Passing of the Third Floor Back, by Jerome K. Jerome + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Passing of the Third Floor Back + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + +Posting Date: July 26, 2008 [EBook #865] +Release Date: April 1997 +Last Updated: October 8, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK *** + + + + +Produced by Ron Burkey, and Amy Thomte + + + + + +PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK + +By Jerome K. Jerome + + +Author of “Paul Kelver,” “Three Men in a Boat,” etc., etc. + +New York + +Dodd, Mead & Company + +1909 + + +Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome + +Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company + +Published, September, 1908 + + + +The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o’clock of a +November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of +appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb’s +boy, screaming at the top of his voice that _she_ was his honey, stopped +suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady +wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat +personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached +the next corner--and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the +street--did Tibb’s boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to +remark that _he_ was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following +some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in contemplation +of the stranger’s back. There was this that was peculiar about the +stranger’s back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided +curve. “It ain’t a ‘ump, and it don’t look like kervitcher of the +spine,” observed the voluble young lady to herself. “Blimy if I don’t +believe ‘e’s taking ‘ome ‘is washing up his back.” + +The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed +the stranger’s approach with gathering interest. “That’s an odd sort of +a walk of yours, young man,” thought the constable. “You take care you +don’t fall down and tumble over yourself.” + +“Thought he was a young man,” murmured the constable, the stranger +having passed him. “He had a young face right enough.” + +The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the +name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. + +“Why, ‘tis a young man,” the constable told himself; “a mere boy.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger; “but would you mind telling me +my way to Bloomsbury Square.” + +“This is Bloomsbury Square,” explained the constable; “leastways round +the corner is. What number might you be wanting?” + +The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned +overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: “Mrs. +Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight.” + +“Round to the left,” instructed him the constable; “fourth house. Been +recommended there?” + +“By--by a friend,” replied the stranger. “Thank you very much.” + +“Ah,” muttered the constable to himself; “guess you won’t be calling him +that by the end of the week, young--” + +“Funny,” added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the +stranger. “Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old +in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he’ll +look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry’s: stingy old +cat.” + +Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for +not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to +discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured +lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the +neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of +generosity and amiability. + +Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of +Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching +a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate +masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow’s cap before the +looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he +prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the +gas. + +“And don’t stop gossiping, and don’t you take it upon yourself to answer +questions. Say I’ll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry’s further +instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.” + +*** + +“What are you grinning at?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of +minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane. + +“Wasn’t grinning,” explained the meek Mary Jane, “was only smiling to +myself.” + +“What at?” + +“Dunno,” admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. + +“What’s he like then?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. + +“‘E ain’t the usual sort,” was Mary Jane’s opinion. + +“Thank God for that,” ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. + +“Says ‘e’s been recommended, by a friend.” + +“By whom?” + +“By a friend. ‘E didn’t say no name.” Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. “He’s +not the funny sort, is he?” + +Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. + +Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the +room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than +the stranger’s bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of +old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw +herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor +had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant +Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, +existing precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was +prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked +an inexperienced young gentleman. + +“Someone has recommended me to you,” began Mrs. Pennycherry; “may I ask +who?” + +But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial. + +“You might not remember--him,” he smiled. “He thought that I should do +well to pass the few months I am given--that I have to be in London, +here. You can take me in?” + +Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in. + +“A room to sleep in,” explained the stranger, “--any room will do--with +food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require.” + +“For breakfast,” began Mrs. Pennycherry, “I always give--” + +“What is right and proper, I am convinced,” interrupted the stranger. +“Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever +it is I shall be content.” + +Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his +face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious. + +“At all events you will see the room,” suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, +“before we discuss terms.” + +“Certainly,” agreed the stranger. “I am a little tired and shall be glad +to rest there.” + +Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, +paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom. + +“It is very comfortable,” commented the stranger. + +“For this room,” stated Mrs. Pennycherry, “together with full board, +consisting of--” + +“Of everything needful. It goes without saying,” again interrupted the +stranger with his quiet grave smile. + +“I have generally asked,” continued Mrs. Pennycherry, “four pounds a +week. To you--” Mrs. Pennycherry’s voice, unknown to her, took to itself +the note of aggressive generosity--“seeing you have been recommended +here, say three pounds ten.” + +“Dear lady,” said the stranger, “that is kind of you. As you have +divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept +your reduction with gratitude.” + +Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a +suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon +that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. +Clearly he was as simple as he looked. + +“Gas, of course, extra.” + +“Of course,” agreed the Stranger. + +“Coals--” + +“We shall not quarrel,” for a third time the stranger interrupted. “You +have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I +can leave myself entirely in your hands.” + +The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put +a match to the stranger’s fire, turned to depart. And at this point it +was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record +for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her +career, would have deemed impossible--that no living soul who had ever +known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down upon +her knees and sworn it to them. + +“Did I say three pound ten?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, +her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with +the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself. + +“You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount,” replied the +stranger; “but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--” + +“I was making a mistake,” said Mrs. Pennycherry, “it should have been +two pound ten.” + +“I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice,” exclaimed the stranger; +“the three pound ten I can well afford.” + +“Two pound ten are my terms,” snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. “If you are bent +on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You’ll find plenty to oblige you.” + +Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. “We will not contend +further,” he smiled. “I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your +heart--” + +“Oh, it isn’t as good as all that,” growled Mrs. Pennycherry. + +“I am not so sure,” returned the stranger. “I am somewhat suspicious of +you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way.” + +The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, +it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had +been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant +laugh--though laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, +when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to +the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and +through their bare branches of the sky beyond. + +“There’s nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes +back. I’ll see to the door if you’d like a run out?” suggested Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +“It would be nice,” agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power +of speech; “it’s just the time of day I like.” + +“Don’t be longer than the half hour,” added Mrs. Pennycherry. + +Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the +drawing-room, discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness +characteristic of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent. + +“Not what I call a smart young man,” was the opinion of Augustus +Longcord, who was something in the City. + +“Thpeaking for mythelf,” commented his partner Isidore, “hav’n’th any +uthe for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith.” + +“Must be pretty smart if he’s one too many for you,” laughed his +partner. + +There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension. + +“Well it made me feel good just looking at him,” declared Miss Kite, the +highly coloured. “It was his clothes, I suppose--made me think of Noah +and the ark--all that sort of thing.” + +“It would be clothes that would make you think--if anything,” drawled +the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the +moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined +upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only +easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine’s remark +received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it +merited. + +“Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?” Miss Kite requested +to be informed. + +“Both,” claimed Miss Devine. + +“Myself? I must confess,” shouted the tall young lady’s father, commonly +called the Colonel, “I found him a fool.” + +“I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together,” purred his +wife, a plump, smiling little lady. + +“Possibly we were,” retorted the Colonel. “Fate has accustomed me to the +society of fools.” + +“Isn’t it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you +two,” suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, “you’ll have +nothing left to amuse you for the rest of the evening.” + +“He didn’t strike me as a conversationalist,” said the lady who was +cousin to a baronet; “but he did pass the vegetables before he helped +himself. A little thing like that shows breeding.” + +“Or that he didn’t know you and thought maybe you’d leave him half a +spoonful,” laughed Augustus the wit. + +“What I can’t make out about him--” shouted the Colonel. + +The stranger entered the room. + +The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The +highly coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, +held it coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair +sofa, and rearranged her skirts. + +“Know anything?” demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the +somewhat remarkable silence. + +The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for +Augustus, the witty, to advance further into that odd silence. + +“What’s going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I’ll go out +straight and put my shirt upon it.” + +“I think you would act unwisely,” smiled the stranger; “I am not an +authority upon the subject.” + +“Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the _Sporting Life_--in +disguise.” + +It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody +laughed, though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and +maybe none of his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square Mr. Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The +stranger himself appeared unaware that he was being made fun of. + +“You have been misinformed,” assured him the stranger. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Augustus Longcord. + +“It is nothing,” replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and passed +on. + +“Well what about this theatre,” demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend +and partner; “do you want to go or don’t you?” Mr. Longcord was feeling +irritable. + +“Goth the ticketh--may ath well,” thought Isidore. + +“Damn stupid piece, I’m told.” + +“Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh,” argued +Isidore, and the pair went out. + +“Are you staying long in London?” asked Miss Kite, raising her practised +eyes towards the stranger. + +“Not long,” answered the stranger. “At least I do not know. It depends.” + +An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this hour. The +Colonel remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump +white hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible +to say. The lady who was cousin to a baronet had shifted her chair +beneath the gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The +languid Miss Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering +softly the tuneless keys, her back to the cold barely-furnished room. + +“Sit down!” commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the +vacant seat beside her. “Tell me about yourself. You interest me.” Miss +Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthful-looking +members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and +the golden hair, and fitted her about as well. + +“I am glad of that,” answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. +“I so wish to interest you.” + +“You’re a very bold boy.” Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of +glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time encountered +the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss +Kite experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so +ago had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger had first bowed to +her. It seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, +had she risen and looked into it, the fly-blown mirror over the marble +mantelpiece would, she knew, have presented to her view; but quite +another Miss Kite--a cheerful, bright-eyed lady verging on middle age, +yet still good-looking in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat +thin brown locks. Miss Kite felt a pang of jealousy shoot through her; +this middle-aged Miss Kite seemed, on the whole, a more attractive +lady. There was a wholesomeness, a broadmindedness about her that +instinctively drew one towards her. Not hampered, as Miss Kite herself +was, by the necessity of appearing to be somewhere between eighteen and +twenty-two, this other Miss Kite could talk sensibly, even brilliantly: +one felt it. A thoroughly “nice” woman this other Miss Kite; the real +Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit it. Miss Kite wished to +goodness she had never seen the woman. The glimpse of her had rendered +Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself. + +“I am not a boy,” explained the stranger; “and I had no intention of +being bold.” + +“I know,” replied Miss Kite. “It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me +to make it, I can’t think. Getting foolish in my old age, I suppose.” + +The stranger laughed. “Surely you are not old.” + +“I’m thirty-nine,” snapped out Miss Kite. “You don’t call it young?” + +“I think it a beautiful age,” insisted the stranger; “young enough not +to have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy.” + +“Oh, I daresay,” returned Miss Kite, “any age you’d think beautiful. +I’m going to bed.” Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got itself +broken. She threw the fragments into the fire. + +“It is early yet,” pleaded the stranger, “I was looking forward to a +talk with you.” + +“Well, you’ll be able to look forward to it,” retorted Miss Kite. +“Good-night.” + +The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the +glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that other Miss +Kite--the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had +been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might +not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner that evening. + +The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, +seeking something to read. + +“You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite,” remarked the lady who was +cousin to a baronet. + +“It seems so,” admitted the stranger. + +“My cousin, Sir William Bosster,” observed the crocheting lady, “who +married old Lord Egham’s niece--you never met the Eghams?” + +“Hitherto,” replied the stranger, “I have not had that pleasure.” + +“A charming family. Cannot understand--my cousin Sir William, I mean, +cannot understand my remaining here. ‘My dear Emily’--he says the same +thing every time he sees me: ‘My dear Emily, how can you exist among the +sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.’ But they amuse me.” + +A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage. + +“Our family on my mother’s side,” continued Sir William’s cousin in her +placid monotone, “was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when King +George the Fourth--” Sir William’s cousin, needing another reel of +cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger’s gaze. + +“I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” said Sir William’s +cousin in an irritable tone. “It can’t possibly interest you.” + +“Everything connected with you interests me,” gravely the stranger +assured her. + +“It is very kind of you to say so,” sighed Sir William’s cousin, but +without conviction; “I am afraid sometimes I bore people.” + +The polite stranger refrained from contradiction. + +“You see,” continued the poor lady, “I really am of good family.” + +“Dear lady,” said the stranger, “your gentle face, your gentle voice, +your gentle bearing, all proclaim it.” + +She looked without flinching into the stranger’s eyes, and gradually a +smile banished the reigning dulness of her features. + +“How foolish of me.” She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger. +“Why, of course, people--people whose opinion is worth troubling +about--judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying you +are.” + +The stranger remained silent. + +“I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two +hundred and thirty pounds per annum,” she argued. “The sensible thing +for me to do is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these +high and mighty relations of mine as little as they have ever worried +themselves about me.” + +The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying. + +“I have other connections,” remembered Sir William’s cousin; “those of +my poor husband, to whom instead of being the ‘poor relation’ I could +be the fairy god-mama. They are my people--or would be,” added Sir +William’s cousin tartly, “if I wasn’t a vulgar snob.” + +She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced +preparations for a hurried departure. + +“Now it seems I am driving you away,” sighed the stranger. + +“Having been called a ‘vulgar snob,’” retorted the lady with some heat, +“I think it about time I went.” + +“The words were your own,” the stranger reminded her. + +“Whatever I may have thought,” remarked the indignant dame, “no +lady--least of all in the presence of a total stranger--would have +called herself--” The poor dame paused, bewildered. “There is something +very curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand,” + she explained, “I seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself.” + +Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, +hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger, +hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her. + +“Tell me,” laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was +contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, “how did you +manage to do it? I should like to know.” + +“How did I do what?” inquired the stranger. + +“Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?” + +“How well you play!” observed the stranger. “I knew you had genius for +music the moment I saw you.” + +“How could you tell?” + +“It is written so clearly in your face.” + +The girl laughed, well pleased. “You seem to have lost no time in +studying my face.” + +“It is a beautiful and interesting face,” observed the stranger. + +She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. + +“You can read faces?” + +“Yes.” + +“Tell me, what else do you read in mine?” + +“Frankness, courage--” + +“Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted.” It +was odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. “Tell me the reverse +side.” + +“I see no reverse side,” replied the stranger. “I see but a fair girl, +bursting into noble womanhood.” + +“And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, +of--” An angry laugh escaped her lips. “And you are a reader of faces!” + +“A reader of faces.” The stranger smiled. “Do you know what is written +upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce, +scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, +contempt of all things that are contemptible--especially of such things +as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?” + +I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried +from the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in +them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? + +The idea occurred to her: “Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you +during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?” + +“The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your +mother principally.” + +“I am sorry,” returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the +question. “I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first +evening!” + +“He did try one or two,” admitted the stranger; “but I have been about +the world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I +feel we shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine.” + +“Indeed,” commented the girl. + +“He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted +it but once!” + +Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died +from them. She turned aside to hide her smile. + +“So he regretted it--once.” + +“Only once,” explained the stranger, “in a passing irritable mood. It +was so frank of him to admit it. He told me--I think he has taken a +liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an +opportunity of talking to a man like myself--he told me that he and your +mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a honeymoon +couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really quite +amusing.” The stranger laughed at recollection of them--“that even here, +in this place, they are generally referred to as ‘Darby and Joan.’” + +“Yes,” said the girl, “that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, +the second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever--but +rather obvious I thought myself.” + +“Nothing--so it seems to me,” said the stranger, “is more beautiful +than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender +blossom that flowers in the heart of the young--in hearts such as +yours--that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, +that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that +is the beginning of--of things longer.” + +“You seem to find all things beautiful,” the girl grumbled. + +“But are not all things beautiful?” demanded the stranger. + +The Colonel had finished his paper. “You two are engaged in a very +absorbing conversation,” observed the Colonel, approaching them. + +“We were discussing Darbies and Joans,” explained his daughter. “How +beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!” + +“Ah!” smiled the Colonel, “that is hardly fair. My friend has been +repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband’s +affection for his middle-aged and somewhat--” The Colonel in playful +mood laid his hand upon the stranger’s shoulder, an action that +necessitated his looking straight into the stranger’s eyes. The Colonel +drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet. + +Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was +explaining quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself, +why he was a cad. + +“That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to +both of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from +the world--not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You +are a cad, sir, a cad!” + +Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not +moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like +the voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger +to his daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they +had not heard the voice--a mere hallucination. The Colonel breathed +again. + +Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it +was bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No +gentleman would have done so. + +But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. +No gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife--certainly +never in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have +exercised self-control. + +Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid +hold of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark +to him--he could see it in her eye--which would irritate him into savage +retort. + +Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boarding-house +wits had dubbed them “Darby and Joan,” would grasp the fact that the +gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table +acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule. + +“My dear,” cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, “does not this +room strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl.” + +It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of +both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each +other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her +point of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A +wild, fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel’s brain: If to +him, why not to her? + +“Letitia,” cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her +into silence, “I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not +remind you of someone?” + +Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. “Yes,” she +murmured, turning to her husband, “he does, who is it?” + +“I cannot fix it,” replied the Colonel; “I thought that maybe you would +remember.” + +“It will come to me,” mused Mrs. Devine. “It is someone--years ago, +when I was a girl--in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn’t troubling you, +Harry. I left it in the dining-room.” + +It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, +the colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the +trouble. “Give me a man, who can take care of himself--or thinks he +can,” declared Augustus Longcord, “and I am prepared to give a good +account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what +you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for +him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself--well, +it isn’t playing the game.” + +“Auguthuth,” was the curt comment of his partner, “you’re a fool.” + +“All right, my boy, you try,” suggested Augustus. + +“Jutht what I mean to do,” asserted his partner. + +“Well,” demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending +the stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with +the door shut. + +“Oh, don’t arth me,” retorted Isidore, “thilly ath, thath what he ith.” + +“What did he say?” + +“What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they +were--how people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. + +“Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. +Thought I wath one of ‘em!” + +“Well, did you get anything out of him?” + +“Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn’t very well thell the +whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after that. +Didn’t theem worth it.” + +There were many things Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square came gradually +to the conclusion were not worth the doing:--Snatching at the gravy; +pouncing out of one’s turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to +more than one’s fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting on +the evening paper while pretending not to have seen it--all such-like +tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really +it was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one’s food; +grumbling everlastingly at most things; abusing Pennycherry behind her +back; abusing, for a change, one’s fellow-boarders; squabbling with +one’s fellow-boarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one’s +fellow-boarders; talking scandal of one’s fellow-boarders; making +senseless jokes about one’s fellow-boarders; talking big about oneself, +nobody believing one--all such-like vulgarities. Other boarding-houses +might indulge in them: Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had its dignity to +consider. + +The truth is, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good +opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as +the stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea--where obtained from +Heaven knows--that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded, coarse-fibred +occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first water; and +time and observation had apparently only strengthened this absurd idea. +The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming round +to the stranger’s opinion of itself. + +Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born +and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no control to +fill an arduous but honorable position of middle-class society--a sort +of foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her +promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung +to with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages attaching, but +these Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady +born and bred cannot charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and +candles they have never burnt; a foster-mother cannot palm off upon her +children New Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper +can play these tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she +cannot: Mrs. Pennycherry felt she no longer could. + +To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist +of most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was lack +of vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If +Miss Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger’s eyes, the +modesty that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms would fall +from her. The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put +it to the test. One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the +drawing-room, when the stranger only was there and before the gas +was lighted, a pleasant, good-looking lady, somewhat pale, with +neatly-arranged brown hair, who demanded of the stranger if he knew her. +All her body was trembling, and her voice seemed inclined to run away +from her and become a sob. But when the stranger, looking straight into +her eyes, told her that from the likeness he thought she must be Miss +Kite’s younger sister, but much prettier, it became a laugh instead: and +that evening the golden-haired Miss Kite disappeared never to show her +high-coloured face again; and what perhaps, more than all else, might +have impressed some former habitue of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square +with awe, it was that no one in the house made even a passing inquiry +concerning her. + +Sir William’s cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any +boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing outward +or visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class family. She +herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt +it. Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, diffused an atmosphere of +gentle manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; +Sir William’s cousin gathered that he thought it, and felt herself in +agreement with him. + +For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type +of business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what unfortunate +results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm +appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger’s good +opinion--had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste for honest men’s +respect--that in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we all +have our pet extravagance. + +The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from +the necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, new +tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one +another. + +“Tomfool nonsense,” grumbled the Colonel, “you and I starting billing +and cooing at our age!” + +“What I object to,” said Mrs. Devine, “is the feeling that somehow I am +being made to do it.” + +“The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together +for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of them! it’s +damn ridiculous,” the Colonel exploded. + +“Even when he isn’t there,” said Mrs. Devine, “I seem to see him looking +at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite haunts me.” + +“I have met him somewhere,” mused the Colonel, “I’ll swear I’ve met him +somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go.” + +A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a +hundred things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the +Colonel. But by the time the opportunity occurred--when nobody else was +by to hear--all interest in saying them was gone. + +“Women will be women,” was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled +himself. “A man must bear with them--must never forget that he is a +gentleman.” + +“Oh, well, I suppose they’re all alike,” laughed Mrs. Devine to herself, +having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge in +cheerfulness. “What’s the use of putting oneself out--it does no good, +and only upsets one.” There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you +are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies of +others. Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much +self-approbation. + +But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger’s bigoted belief in +the innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, +handsome Miss Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a +noble-souled, high-minded young woman, something midway between a Flora +Macdonald and a Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself +to be a sleek, luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to +the bidder who could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, +the most sumptuous surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person +of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly +rich and undoubtedly fond of her. + +Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done, +was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that +the stranger’s ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but +inconvenienced her. Under the very eyes of a person--however +foolish--convinced that you are possessed of all the highest attributes +of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated by only the +basest motives. A dozen times had Miss Devine determined to end the +matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer’s large and flabby +hand, and a dozen times--the vision intervening of the stranger’s grave, +believing eyes--had Miss Devine refused decided answer. The stranger +would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her himself, he was but a +passing traveller. When he was gone it would be easier. So she thought +at the time. + +One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing +by the window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in +Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another +foggy afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger’s arrival three months +before. No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and +came towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long +coat was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat +and the massive knotted stick that was almost a staff. + +“I have come to say good-bye,” explained the stranger. “I am going.” + +“I shall not see you again?” asked the girl. + +“I cannot say,” replied the stranger. “But you will think of me?” + +“Yes,” she answered with a smile, “I can promise that.” + +“And I shall always remember you,” promised the stranger, “and I wish +you every joy--the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage.” + +The girl winced. “Love and marriage are not always the same thing,” she +said. + +“Not always,” agreed the stranger, “but in your case they will be one.” + +She looked at him. + +“Do you think I have not noticed?” smiled the stranger, “a gallant, +handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not +have gone away without knowing it was well with you.” + +Her gaze wandered towards the fading light. + +“Ah, yes, I love him,” she answered petulantly. “Your eyes can see +clearly enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in our +world. I will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know.” + She would not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the +dingy trees, the mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and vehemently: “The man +who can give me all my soul’s desire--money and the things that money +can buy. You think me a woman, I’m only a pig. He is moist, and breathes +like a porpoise; with cunning in place of a brain, and the rest of him +mere stomach. But he is good enough for me.” + +She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would +go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh. + +“No,” he said, “you will not marry him.” + +“Who will stop me?” she cried angrily. + +“Your Better Self.” + +His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and +look upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very +first had haunted her. She had met him, talked to him--in silent country +roads, in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking +with him her spirit had been lifted up: she had been--what he had always +thought her. + +“There are those,” continued the stranger (and for the first time she +saw that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes +could also command), “whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand +and troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too +strong; it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and it +will follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise +you with burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day to day.” + The sternness faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness crept back. +He laid his hand upon the young girl’s shoulder. “You will marry your +lover,” he smiled. “With him you will walk the way of sunlight and of +shadow.” + +And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would +be so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed away from +her for ever. + +“Now,” said the stranger, “come to the door with me. Leave-takings +are but wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door softly +behind me.” + +She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw +no more of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly +buttoned coat, before he faded into the gathering fog. + +Then softly she closed the door. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Passing of the Third Floor Back, by +Jerome K. 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Jerome + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Passing of the Third Floor Back, by Jerome K. Jerome + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Passing of the Third Floor Back + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + +Release Date: July 26, 2008 [EBook #865] +Last Updated: October 8, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK *** + + + + +Produced by Ron Burkey, Amy Thomte, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jerome K. Jerome + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + Author of “Paul Kelver,” “Three Men in a Boat,” etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + New York + </p> + <p> + Dodd, Mead & Company + </p> + <p> + 1909 + </p> + <p> + Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome + </p> + <p> + Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company + </p> + <p> + Published, September, 1908 + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o’clock of a November + afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of appearance + anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb’s boy, + screaming at the top of his voice that <i>she</i> was his honey, stopped + suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady + wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat + personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached the + next corner—and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the + street—did Tibb’s boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs + to remark that <i>he</i> was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, + following some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in + contemplation of the stranger’s back. There was this that was peculiar + about the stranger’s back: that instead of being flat it presented a + decided curve. “It ain’t a ‘ump, and it don’t look like kervitcher of the + spine,” observed the voluble young lady to herself. “Blimy if I don’t + believe ‘e’s taking ‘ome ‘is washing up his back.” + </p> + <p> + The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed + the stranger’s approach with gathering interest. “That’s an odd sort of a + walk of yours, young man,” thought the constable. “You take care you don’t + fall down and tumble over yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Thought he was a young man,” murmured the constable, the stranger having + passed him. “He had a young face right enough.” + </p> + <p> + The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the + name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. + </p> + <p> + “Why, ‘tis a young man,” the constable told himself; “a mere boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger; “but would you mind telling me my + way to Bloomsbury Square.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Bloomsbury Square,” explained the constable; “leastways round the + corner is. What number might you be wanting?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat + a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: “Mrs. Pennycherry. Number + Forty-eight.” + </p> + <p> + “Round to the left,” instructed him the constable; “fourth house. Been + recommended there?” + </p> + <p> + “By—by a friend,” replied the stranger. “Thank you very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” muttered the constable to himself; “guess you won’t be calling him + that by the end of the week, young—” + </p> + <p> + “Funny,” added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the + stranger. “Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old in + front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he’ll look old + all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry’s: stingy old cat.” + </p> + <p> + Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not + liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover + any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe + the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of + Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and + amiability. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of + Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a + glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate + masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow’s cap before the + looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he + prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas. + </p> + <p> + “And don’t stop gossiping, and don’t you take it upon yourself to answer + questions. Say I’ll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry’s further + instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.” + </p> + <p> + *** + </p> + <p> + “What are you grinning at?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes + later, of the dingy Mary Jane. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t grinning,” explained the meek Mary Jane, “was only smiling to + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What at?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno,” admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. + </p> + <p> + “What’s he like then?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + “‘E ain’t the usual sort,” was Mary Jane’s opinion. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that,” ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. + </p> + <p> + “Says ‘e’s been recommended, by a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom?” + </p> + <p> + “By a friend. ‘E didn’t say no name.” Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. “He’s not + the funny sort, is he?” + </p> + <p> + Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the + room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than the + stranger’s bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of old + sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw + herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor had + called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant Reality + reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, existing + precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was prepared for + contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked an + inexperienced young gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Someone has recommended me to you,” began Mrs. Pennycherry; “may I ask + who?” + </p> + <p> + But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial. + </p> + <p> + “You might not remember—him,” he smiled. “He thought that I should + do well to pass the few months I am given—that I have to be in + London, here. You can take me in?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in. + </p> + <p> + “A room to sleep in,” explained the stranger, “—any room will do—with + food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require.” + </p> + <p> + “For breakfast,” began Mrs. Pennycherry, “I always give—” + </p> + <p> + “What is right and proper, I am convinced,” interrupted the stranger. + “Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever it + is I shall be content.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his + face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious. + </p> + <p> + “At all events you will see the room,” suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, “before + we discuss terms.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” agreed the stranger. “I am a little tired and shall be glad + to rest there.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, + paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “It is very comfortable,” commented the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “For this room,” stated Mrs. Pennycherry, “together with full board, + consisting of—” + </p> + <p> + “Of everything needful. It goes without saying,” again interrupted the + stranger with his quiet grave smile. + </p> + <p> + “I have generally asked,” continued Mrs. Pennycherry, “four pounds a week. + To you—” Mrs. Pennycherry’s voice, unknown to her, took to itself + the note of aggressive generosity—“seeing you have been recommended + here, say three pounds ten.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear lady,” said the stranger, “that is kind of you. As you have divined, + I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept your + reduction with gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a + suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon that + smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. Clearly + he was as simple as he looked. + </p> + <p> + “Gas, of course, extra.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” agreed the Stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Coals—” + </p> + <p> + “We shall not quarrel,” for a third time the stranger interrupted. “You + have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I can + leave myself entirely in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put a + match to the stranger’s fire, turned to depart. And at this point it was + that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record for + sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her + career, would have deemed impossible—that no living soul who had + ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down + upon her knees and sworn it to them. + </p> + <p> + “Did I say three pound ten?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, + her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with the + stranger, with herself—particularly with herself. + </p> + <p> + “You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount,” replied the stranger; + “but if upon reflection you find yourself unable—” + </p> + <p> + “I was making a mistake,” said Mrs. Pennycherry, “it should have been two + pound ten.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot—I will not accept such sacrifice,” exclaimed the stranger; + “the three pound ten I can well afford.” + </p> + <p> + “Two pound ten are my terms,” snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. “If you are bent + on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You’ll find plenty to oblige you.” + </p> + <p> + Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. “We will not contend + further,” he smiled. “I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your + heart—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it isn’t as good as all that,” growled Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + “I am not so sure,” returned the stranger. “I am somewhat suspicious of + you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, + it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had been + the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant laugh—though + laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, + when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to the + window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and through + their bare branches of the sky beyond. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes back. + I’ll see to the door if you’d like a run out?” suggested Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + “It would be nice,” agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power of + speech; “it’s just the time of day I like.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be longer than the half hour,” added Mrs. Pennycherry. + </p> + <p> + Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the drawing-room, + discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness characteristic of + Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent. + </p> + <p> + “Not what I call a smart young man,” was the opinion of Augustus Longcord, + who was something in the City. + </p> + <p> + “Thpeaking for mythelf,” commented his partner Isidore, “hav’n’th any uthe + for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith.” + </p> + <p> + “Must be pretty smart if he’s one too many for you,” laughed his partner. + </p> + <p> + There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury + Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Well it made me feel good just looking at him,” declared Miss Kite, the + highly coloured. “It was his clothes, I suppose—made me think of + Noah and the ark—all that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be clothes that would make you think—if anything,” drawled + the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the + moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined + upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only + easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine’s remark + received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it + merited. + </p> + <p> + “Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?” Miss Kite requested + to be informed. + </p> + <p> + “Both,” claimed Miss Devine. + </p> + <p> + “Myself? I must confess,” shouted the tall young lady’s father, commonly + called the Colonel, “I found him a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together,” purred his + wife, a plump, smiling little lady. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly we were,” retorted the Colonel. “Fate has accustomed me to the + society of fools.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you two,” + suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, “you’ll have nothing + left to amuse you for the rest of the evening.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t strike me as a conversationalist,” said the lady who was cousin + to a baronet; “but he did pass the vegetables before he helped himself. A + little thing like that shows breeding.” + </p> + <p> + “Or that he didn’t know you and thought maybe you’d leave him half a + spoonful,” laughed Augustus the wit. + </p> + <p> + “What I can’t make out about him—” shouted the Colonel. + </p> + <p> + The stranger entered the room. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The highly + coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, held it + coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair sofa, and + rearranged her skirts. + </p> + <p> + “Know anything?” demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the somewhat + remarkable silence. + </p> + <p> + The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for Augustus, + the witty, to advance further into that odd silence. + </p> + <p> + “What’s going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I’ll go out + straight and put my shirt upon it.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you would act unwisely,” smiled the stranger; “I am not an + authority upon the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the <i>Sporting Life</i>—in + disguise.” + </p> + <p> + It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody laughed, + though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and maybe none of + his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square Mr. + Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The stranger himself appeared + unaware that he was being made fun of. + </p> + <p> + “You have been misinformed,” assured him the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Augustus Longcord. + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing,” replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and passed + on. + </p> + <p> + “Well what about this theatre,” demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend and + partner; “do you want to go or don’t you?” Mr. Longcord was feeling + irritable. + </p> + <p> + “Goth the ticketh—may ath well,” thought Isidore. + </p> + <p> + “Damn stupid piece, I’m told.” + </p> + <p> + “Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh,” argued + Isidore, and the pair went out. + </p> + <p> + “Are you staying long in London?” asked Miss Kite, raising her practised + eyes towards the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Not long,” answered the stranger. “At least I do not know. It depends.” + </p> + <p> + An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight Bloomsbury + Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this hour. The Colonel + remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump white + hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible to say. + The lady who was cousin to a baronet had shifted her chair beneath the + gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The languid Miss + Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering softly the + tuneless keys, her back to the cold barely-furnished room. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the + vacant seat beside her. “Tell me about yourself. You interest me.” Miss + Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthful-looking + members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and + the golden hair, and fitted her about as well. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that,” answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. “I + so wish to interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very bold boy.” Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of + glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time encountered + the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss Kite + experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so ago + had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger had first bowed to her. It + seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, had she + risen and looked into it, the fly-blown mirror over the marble mantelpiece + would, she knew, have presented to her view; but quite another Miss Kite—a + cheerful, bright-eyed lady verging on middle age, yet still good-looking + in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat thin brown locks. Miss Kite + felt a pang of jealousy shoot through her; this middle-aged Miss Kite + seemed, on the whole, a more attractive lady. There was a wholesomeness, a + broadmindedness about her that instinctively drew one towards her. Not + hampered, as Miss Kite herself was, by the necessity of appearing to be + somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two, this other Miss Kite could talk + sensibly, even brilliantly: one felt it. A thoroughly “nice” woman this + other Miss Kite; the real Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit + it. Miss Kite wished to goodness she had never seen the woman. The glimpse + of her had rendered Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself. + </p> + <p> + “I am not a boy,” explained the stranger; “and I had no intention of being + bold.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” replied Miss Kite. “It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me + to make it, I can’t think. Getting foolish in my old age, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger laughed. “Surely you are not old.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thirty-nine,” snapped out Miss Kite. “You don’t call it young?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it a beautiful age,” insisted the stranger; “young enough not to + have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I daresay,” returned Miss Kite, “any age you’d think beautiful. I’m + going to bed.” Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got itself + broken. She threw the fragments into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “It is early yet,” pleaded the stranger, “I was looking forward to a talk + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ll be able to look forward to it,” retorted Miss Kite. + “Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the + glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that other Miss + Kite—the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had + been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might + not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner that evening. + </p> + <p> + The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, + seeking something to read. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite,” remarked the lady who was + cousin to a baronet. + </p> + <p> + “It seems so,” admitted the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “My cousin, Sir William Bosster,” observed the crocheting lady, “who + married old Lord Egham’s niece—you never met the Eghams?” + </p> + <p> + “Hitherto,” replied the stranger, “I have not had that pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “A charming family. Cannot understand—my cousin Sir William, I mean, + cannot understand my remaining here. ‘My dear Emily’—he says the + same thing every time he sees me: ‘My dear Emily, how can you exist among + the sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.’ But they amuse + me.” + </p> + <p> + A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage. + </p> + <p> + “Our family on my mother’s side,” continued Sir William’s cousin in her + placid monotone, “was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when King + George the Fourth—” Sir William’s cousin, needing another reel of + cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger’s gaze. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” said Sir William’s + cousin in an irritable tone. “It can’t possibly interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything connected with you interests me,” gravely the stranger assured + her. + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you to say so,” sighed Sir William’s cousin, but + without conviction; “I am afraid sometimes I bore people.” + </p> + <p> + The polite stranger refrained from contradiction. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” continued the poor lady, “I really am of good family.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear lady,” said the stranger, “your gentle face, your gentle voice, your + gentle bearing, all proclaim it.” + </p> + <p> + She looked without flinching into the stranger’s eyes, and gradually a + smile banished the reigning dulness of her features. + </p> + <p> + “How foolish of me.” She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger. + “Why, of course, people—people whose opinion is worth troubling + about—judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying + you are.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two hundred + and thirty pounds per annum,” she argued. “The sensible thing for me to do + is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these high and mighty + relations of mine as little as they have ever worried themselves about + me.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying. + </p> + <p> + “I have other connections,” remembered Sir William’s cousin; “those of my + poor husband, to whom instead of being the ‘poor relation’ I could be the + fairy god-mama. They are my people—or would be,” added Sir William’s + cousin tartly, “if I wasn’t a vulgar snob.” + </p> + <p> + She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced + preparations for a hurried departure. + </p> + <p> + “Now it seems I am driving you away,” sighed the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Having been called a ‘vulgar snob,’” retorted the lady with some heat, “I + think it about time I went.” + </p> + <p> + “The words were your own,” the stranger reminded her. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever I may have thought,” remarked the indignant dame, “no lady—least + of all in the presence of a total stranger—would have called herself—” + The poor dame paused, bewildered. “There is something very curious the + matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand,” she explained, “I + seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself.” + </p> + <p> + Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, + hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger, + hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was + contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, “how did you manage + to do it? I should like to know.” + </p> + <p> + “How did I do what?” inquired the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?” + </p> + <p> + “How well you play!” observed the stranger. “I knew you had genius for + music the moment I saw you.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you tell?” + </p> + <p> + “It is written so clearly in your face.” + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed, well pleased. “You seem to have lost no time in studying + my face.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a beautiful and interesting face,” observed the stranger. + </p> + <p> + She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. + </p> + <p> + “You can read faces?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, what else do you read in mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Frankness, courage—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted.” It was + odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. “Tell me the reverse side.” + </p> + <p> + “I see no reverse side,” replied the stranger. “I see but a fair girl, + bursting into noble womanhood.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, + of—” An angry laugh escaped her lips. “And you are a reader of + faces!” + </p> + <p> + “A reader of faces.” The stranger smiled. “Do you know what is written + upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce, + scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, + contempt of all things that are contemptible—especially of such + things as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?” + </p> + <p> + I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried from + the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in them + when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? + </p> + <p> + The idea occurred to her: “Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you + during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your mother + principally.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry,” returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the + question. “I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first + evening!” + </p> + <p> + “He did try one or two,” admitted the stranger; “but I have been about the + world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I feel we + shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” commented the girl. + </p> + <p> + “He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted + it but once!” + </p> + <p> + Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died from + them. She turned aside to hide her smile. + </p> + <p> + “So he regretted it—once.” + </p> + <p> + “Only once,” explained the stranger, “in a passing irritable mood. It was + so frank of him to admit it. He told me—I think he has taken a + liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an + opportunity of talking to a man like myself—he told me that he and + your mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a + honeymoon couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really + quite amusing.” The stranger laughed at recollection of them—“that + even here, in this place, they are generally referred to as ‘Darby and + Joan.’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the girl, “that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, the + second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever—but + rather obvious I thought myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—so it seems to me,” said the stranger, “is more beautiful + than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender + blossom that flowers in the heart of the young—in hearts such as + yours—that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, + that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that + is the beginning of—of things longer.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to find all things beautiful,” the girl grumbled. + </p> + <p> + “But are not all things beautiful?” demanded the stranger. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel had finished his paper. “You two are engaged in a very + absorbing conversation,” observed the Colonel, approaching them. + </p> + <p> + “We were discussing Darbies and Joans,” explained his daughter. “How + beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” smiled the Colonel, “that is hardly fair. My friend has been + repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband’s + affection for his middle-aged and somewhat—” The Colonel in playful + mood laid his hand upon the stranger’s shoulder, an action that + necessitated his looking straight into the stranger’s eyes. The Colonel + drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet. + </p> + <p> + Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was explaining + quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself, why he was a + cad. + </p> + <p> + “That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to both + of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from the + world—not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You + are a cad, sir, a cad!” + </p> + <p> + Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not + moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like the + voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger to his + daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they had not + heard the voice—a mere hallucination. The Colonel breathed again. + </p> + <p> + Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it was + bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No gentleman + would have done so. + </p> + <p> + But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. No + gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife—certainly never + in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have exercised + self-control. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid hold + of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark to him—he + could see it in her eye—which would irritate him into savage retort. + </p> + <p> + Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boarding-house + wits had dubbed them “Darby and Joan,” would grasp the fact that the + gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table + acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, “does not this room + strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl.” + </p> + <p> + It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of + both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each + other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her point + of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A wild, + fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel’s brain: If to him, why + not to her? + </p> + <p> + “Letitia,” cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her into + silence, “I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not remind you + of someone?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. “Yes,” she + murmured, turning to her husband, “he does, who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot fix it,” replied the Colonel; “I thought that maybe you would + remember.” + </p> + <p> + “It will come to me,” mused Mrs. Devine. “It is someone—years ago, + when I was a girl—in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn’t troubling + you, Harry. I left it in the dining-room.” + </p> + <p> + It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, the + colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the + trouble. “Give me a man, who can take care of himself—or thinks he + can,” declared Augustus Longcord, “and I am prepared to give a good + account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what + you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for + him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself—well, + it isn’t playing the game.” + </p> + <p> + “Auguthuth,” was the curt comment of his partner, “you’re a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, my boy, you try,” suggested Augustus. + </p> + <p> + “Jutht what I mean to do,” asserted his partner. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending the + stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with the + door shut. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t arth me,” retorted Isidore, “thilly ath, thath what he ith.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they were—how + people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. + </p> + <p> + “Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. + Thought I wath one of ‘em!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you get anything out of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn’t very well thell the + whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after that. + Didn’t theem worth it.” + </p> + <p> + There were many things Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square came gradually to the + conclusion were not worth the doing:—Snatching at the gravy; + pouncing out of one’s turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to more + than one’s fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting on the + evening paper while pretending not to have seen it—all such-like + tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really it + was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one’s food; grumbling + everlastingly at most things; abusing Pennycherry behind her back; + abusing, for a change, one’s fellow-boarders; squabbling with one’s + fellow-boarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one’s + fellow-boarders; talking scandal of one’s fellow-boarders; making + senseless jokes about one’s fellow-boarders; talking big about oneself, + nobody believing one—all such-like vulgarities. Other + boarding-houses might indulge in them: Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had + its dignity to consider. + </p> + <p> + The truth is, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good + opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as the + stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight + Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea—where obtained from + Heaven knows—that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded, + coarse-fibred occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first + water; and time and observation had apparently only strengthened this + absurd idea. The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was + coming round to the stranger’s opinion of itself. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born + and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no control to fill + an arduous but honorable position of middle-class society—a sort of + foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her + promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung to + with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages attaching, but these + Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady born and + bred cannot charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and candles they + have never burnt; a foster-mother cannot palm off upon her children New + Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper can play these + tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she cannot: Mrs. + Pennycherry felt she no longer could. + </p> + <p> + To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist of + most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was lack of + vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If Miss + Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger’s eyes, the modesty + that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms would fall from her. + The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put it to the test. + One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the drawing-room, when + the stranger only was there and before the gas was lighted, a pleasant, + good-looking lady, somewhat pale, with neatly-arranged brown hair, who + demanded of the stranger if he knew her. All her body was trembling, and + her voice seemed inclined to run away from her and become a sob. But when + the stranger, looking straight into her eyes, told her that from the + likeness he thought she must be Miss Kite’s younger sister, but much + prettier, it became a laugh instead: and that evening the golden-haired + Miss Kite disappeared never to show her high-coloured face again; and what + perhaps, more than all else, might have impressed some former habitue of + Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square with awe, it was that no one in the house + made even a passing inquiry concerning her. + </p> + <p> + Sir William’s cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any + boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing outward or + visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class family. She + herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt it. + Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, diffused an atmosphere of gentle + manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; Sir + William’s cousin gathered that he thought it, and felt herself in + agreement with him. + </p> + <p> + For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type of + business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what unfortunate + results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm + appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger’s good + opinion—had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste for honest men’s + respect—that in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we + all have our pet extravagance. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from the + necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, new + tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one + another. + </p> + <p> + “Tomfool nonsense,” grumbled the Colonel, “you and I starting billing and + cooing at our age!” + </p> + <p> + “What I object to,” said Mrs. Devine, “is the feeling that somehow I am + being made to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together + for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of them! it’s damn + ridiculous,” the Colonel exploded. + </p> + <p> + “Even when he isn’t there,” said Mrs. Devine, “I seem to see him looking + at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite haunts me.” + </p> + <p> + “I have met him somewhere,” mused the Colonel, “I’ll swear I’ve met him + somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go.” + </p> + <p> + A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a hundred + things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the Colonel. But + by the time the opportunity occurred—when nobody else was by to hear—all + interest in saying them was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Women will be women,” was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled + himself. “A man must bear with them—must never forget that he is a + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I suppose they’re all alike,” laughed Mrs. Devine to herself, + having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge in + cheerfulness. “What’s the use of putting oneself out—it does no + good, and only upsets one.” There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you + are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies of others. + Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much self-approbation. + </p> + <p> + But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger’s bigoted belief in the + innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, handsome Miss + Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a noble-souled, + high-minded young woman, something midway between a Flora Macdonald and a + Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself to be a sleek, + luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to the bidder who + could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, the most sumptuous + surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person of a retired + bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly rich and + undoubtedly fond of her. + </p> + <p> + Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done, + was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that the + stranger’s ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but inconvenienced + her. Under the very eyes of a person—however foolish—convinced + that you are possessed of all the highest attributes of your sex, it is + difficult to behave as though actuated by only the basest motives. A dozen + times had Miss Devine determined to end the matter by formal acceptance of + her elderly admirer’s large and flabby hand, and a dozen times—the + vision intervening of the stranger’s grave, believing eyes—had Miss + Devine refused decided answer. The stranger would one day depart. Indeed, + he had told her himself, he was but a passing traveller. When he was gone + it would be easier. So she thought at the time. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing by the + window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in Bloomsbury + Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another foggy + afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger’s arrival three months before. + No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and came + towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long coat + was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat and the + massive knotted stick that was almost a staff. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to say good-bye,” explained the stranger. “I am going.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not see you again?” asked the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot say,” replied the stranger. “But you will think of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered with a smile, “I can promise that.” + </p> + <p> + “And I shall always remember you,” promised the stranger, “and I wish you + every joy—the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage.” + </p> + <p> + The girl winced. “Love and marriage are not always the same thing,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Not always,” agreed the stranger, “but in your case they will be one.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I have not noticed?” smiled the stranger, “a gallant, + handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not have + gone away without knowing it was well with you.” + </p> + <p> + Her gaze wandered towards the fading light. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, I love him,” she answered petulantly. “Your eyes can see clearly + enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in our world. I + will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know.” She would + not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the dingy trees, the + mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and vehemently: “The man who can give me + all my soul’s desire—money and the things that money can buy. You + think me a woman, I’m only a pig. He is moist, and breathes like a + porpoise; with cunning in place of a brain, and the rest of him mere + stomach. But he is good enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would + go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “you will not marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who will stop me?” she cried angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Your Better Self.” + </p> + <p> + His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and look + upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very first had + haunted her. She had met him, talked to him—in silent country roads, + in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking with him her + spirit had been lifted up: she had been—what he had always thought + her. + </p> + <p> + “There are those,” continued the stranger (and for the first time she saw + that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes could + also command), “whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand and + troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too strong; + it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and it will + follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise you with + burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day to day.” The sternness + faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness crept back. He laid his hand + upon the young girl’s shoulder. “You will marry your lover,” he smiled. + “With him you will walk the way of sunlight and of shadow.” + </p> + <p> + And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would be + so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed away from her + for ever. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said the stranger, “come to the door with me. Leave-takings are but + wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door softly behind me.” + </p> + <p> + She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw no more + of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly buttoned coat, + before he faded into the gathering fog. + </p> + <p> + Then softly she closed the door. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Passing of the Third Floor Back, by +Jerome K. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Passing of the Third Floor Back + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + +Posting Date: July 26, 2008 [EBook #865] +Release Date: April 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK *** + + + + +Produced by Ron Burkey, and Amy Thomte + + + + + +PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK + +By Jerome K. Jerome + + +Author of "Paul Kelver," "Three Men in a Boat," etc., etc. + +New York + +Dodd, Mead & Company + +1909 + + +Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome + +Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company + +Published, September, 1908 + + + +The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o'clock of a +November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of +appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb's +boy, screaming at the top of his voice that _she_ was his honey, stopped +suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady +wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat +personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached +the next corner--and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the +street--did Tibb's boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to +remark that _he_ was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following +some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in contemplation +of the stranger's back. There was this that was peculiar about the +stranger's back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided +curve. "It ain't a 'ump, and it don't look like kervitcher of the +spine," observed the voluble young lady to herself. "Blimy if I don't +believe 'e's taking 'ome 'is washing up his back." + +The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed +the stranger's approach with gathering interest. "That's an odd sort of +a walk of yours, young man," thought the constable. "You take care you +don't fall down and tumble over yourself." + +"Thought he was a young man," murmured the constable, the stranger +having passed him. "He had a young face right enough." + +The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the +name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. + +"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy." + +"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me +my way to Bloomsbury Square." + +"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round +the corner is. What number might you be wanting?" + +The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned +overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs. +Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight." + +"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. Been +recommended there?" + +"By--by a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much." + +"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling him +that by the end of the week, young--" + +"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the +stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old +in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll +look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry's: stingy old +cat." + +Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for +not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to +discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured +lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the +neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of +generosity and amiability. + +Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of +Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching +a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate +masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the +looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he +prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the +gas. + +"And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer +questions. Say I'll be up in a minute," were Mrs. Pennycherry's further +instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as much as you can." + +*** + +"What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of +minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane. + +"Wasn't grinning," explained the meek Mary Jane, "was only smiling to +myself." + +"What at?" + +"Dunno," admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. + +"What's he like then?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. + +"'E ain't the usual sort," was Mary Jane's opinion. + +"Thank God for that," ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. + +"Says 'e's been recommended, by a friend." + +"By whom?" + +"By a friend. 'E didn't say no name." Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. "He's +not the funny sort, is he?" + +Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. + +Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the +room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than +the stranger's bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of +old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw +herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor +had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant +Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, +existing precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was +prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked +an inexperienced young gentleman. + +"Someone has recommended me to you," began Mrs. Pennycherry; "may I ask +who?" + +But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial. + +"You might not remember--him," he smiled. "He thought that I should do +well to pass the few months I am given--that I have to be in London, +here. You can take me in?" + +Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in. + +"A room to sleep in," explained the stranger, "--any room will do--with +food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require." + +"For breakfast," began Mrs. Pennycherry, "I always give--" + +"What is right and proper, I am convinced," interrupted the stranger. +"Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever +it is I shall be content." + +Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his +face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious. + +"At all events you will see the room," suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, +"before we discuss terms." + +"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "I am a little tired and shall be glad +to rest there." + +Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, +paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom. + +"It is very comfortable," commented the stranger. + +"For this room," stated Mrs. Pennycherry, "together with full board, +consisting of--" + +"Of everything needful. It goes without saying," again interrupted the +stranger with his quiet grave smile. + +"I have generally asked," continued Mrs. Pennycherry, "four pounds a +week. To you--" Mrs. Pennycherry's voice, unknown to her, took to itself +the note of aggressive generosity--"seeing you have been recommended +here, say three pounds ten." + +"Dear lady," said the stranger, "that is kind of you. As you have +divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept +your reduction with gratitude." + +Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a +suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon +that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. +Clearly he was as simple as he looked. + +"Gas, of course, extra." + +"Of course," agreed the Stranger. + +"Coals--" + +"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted. "You +have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I +can leave myself entirely in your hands." + +The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put +a match to the stranger's fire, turned to depart. And at this point it +was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record +for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her +career, would have deemed impossible--that no living soul who had ever +known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down upon +her knees and sworn it to them. + +"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, +her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with +the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself. + +"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the +stranger; "but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--" + +"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been +two pound ten." + +"I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger; +"the three pound ten I can well afford." + +"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are bent +on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You'll find plenty to oblige you." + +Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. "We will not contend +further," he smiled. "I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your +heart--" + +"Oh, it isn't as good as all that," growled Mrs. Pennycherry. + +"I am not so sure," returned the stranger. "I am somewhat suspicious of +you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way." + +The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, +it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had +been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant +laugh--though laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, +when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to +the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and +through their bare branches of the sky beyond. + +"There's nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes +back. I'll see to the door if you'd like a run out?" suggested Mrs. +Pennycherry. + +"It would be nice," agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power +of speech; "it's just the time of day I like." + +"Don't be longer than the half hour," added Mrs. Pennycherry. + +Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the +drawing-room, discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness +characteristic of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent. + +"Not what I call a smart young man," was the opinion of Augustus +Longcord, who was something in the City. + +"Thpeaking for mythelf," commented his partner Isidore, "hav'n'th any +uthe for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith." + +"Must be pretty smart if he's one too many for you," laughed his +partner. + +There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension. + +"Well it made me feel good just looking at him," declared Miss Kite, the +highly coloured. "It was his clothes, I suppose--made me think of Noah +and the ark--all that sort of thing." + +"It would be clothes that would make you think--if anything," drawled +the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the +moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined +upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only +easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine's remark +received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it +merited. + +"Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?" Miss Kite requested +to be informed. + +"Both," claimed Miss Devine. + +"Myself? I must confess," shouted the tall young lady's father, commonly +called the Colonel, "I found him a fool." + +"I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together," purred his +wife, a plump, smiling little lady. + +"Possibly we were," retorted the Colonel. "Fate has accustomed me to the +society of fools." + +"Isn't it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you +two," suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, "you'll have +nothing left to amuse you for the rest of the evening." + +"He didn't strike me as a conversationalist," said the lady who was +cousin to a baronet; "but he did pass the vegetables before he helped +himself. A little thing like that shows breeding." + +"Or that he didn't know you and thought maybe you'd leave him half a +spoonful," laughed Augustus the wit. + +"What I can't make out about him--" shouted the Colonel. + +The stranger entered the room. + +The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The +highly coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, +held it coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair +sofa, and rearranged her skirts. + +"Know anything?" demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the +somewhat remarkable silence. + +The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for +Augustus, the witty, to advance further into that odd silence. + +"What's going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I'll go out +straight and put my shirt upon it." + +"I think you would act unwisely," smiled the stranger; "I am not an +authority upon the subject." + +"Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the _Sporting Life_--in +disguise." + +It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody +laughed, though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and +maybe none of his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square Mr. Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The +stranger himself appeared unaware that he was being made fun of. + +"You have been misinformed," assured him the stranger. + +"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Augustus Longcord. + +"It is nothing," replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and passed +on. + +"Well what about this theatre," demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend +and partner; "do you want to go or don't you?" Mr. Longcord was feeling +irritable. + +"Goth the ticketh--may ath well," thought Isidore. + +"Damn stupid piece, I'm told." + +"Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh," argued +Isidore, and the pair went out. + +"Are you staying long in London?" asked Miss Kite, raising her practised +eyes towards the stranger. + +"Not long," answered the stranger. "At least I do not know. It depends." + +An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight Bloomsbury +Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this hour. The +Colonel remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump +white hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible +to say. The lady who was cousin to a baronet had shifted her chair +beneath the gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The +languid Miss Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering +softly the tuneless keys, her back to the cold barely-furnished room. + +"Sit down!" commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the +vacant seat beside her. "Tell me about yourself. You interest me." Miss +Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthful-looking +members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and +the golden hair, and fitted her about as well. + +"I am glad of that," answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. +"I so wish to interest you." + +"You're a very bold boy." Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of +glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time encountered +the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss +Kite experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so +ago had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger had first bowed to +her. It seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, +had she risen and looked into it, the fly-blown mirror over the marble +mantelpiece would, she knew, have presented to her view; but quite +another Miss Kite--a cheerful, bright-eyed lady verging on middle age, +yet still good-looking in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat +thin brown locks. Miss Kite felt a pang of jealousy shoot through her; +this middle-aged Miss Kite seemed, on the whole, a more attractive +lady. There was a wholesomeness, a broadmindedness about her that +instinctively drew one towards her. Not hampered, as Miss Kite herself +was, by the necessity of appearing to be somewhere between eighteen and +twenty-two, this other Miss Kite could talk sensibly, even brilliantly: +one felt it. A thoroughly "nice" woman this other Miss Kite; the real +Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit it. Miss Kite wished to +goodness she had never seen the woman. The glimpse of her had rendered +Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself. + +"I am not a boy," explained the stranger; "and I had no intention of +being bold." + +"I know," replied Miss Kite. "It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me +to make it, I can't think. Getting foolish in my old age, I suppose." + +The stranger laughed. "Surely you are not old." + +"I'm thirty-nine," snapped out Miss Kite. "You don't call it young?" + +"I think it a beautiful age," insisted the stranger; "young enough not +to have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy." + +"Oh, I daresay," returned Miss Kite, "any age you'd think beautiful. +I'm going to bed." Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got itself +broken. She threw the fragments into the fire. + +"It is early yet," pleaded the stranger, "I was looking forward to a +talk with you." + +"Well, you'll be able to look forward to it," retorted Miss Kite. +"Good-night." + +The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the +glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that other Miss +Kite--the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had +been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might +not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner that evening. + +The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, +seeking something to read. + +"You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite," remarked the lady who was +cousin to a baronet. + +"It seems so," admitted the stranger. + +"My cousin, Sir William Bosster," observed the crocheting lady, "who +married old Lord Egham's niece--you never met the Eghams?" + +"Hitherto," replied the stranger, "I have not had that pleasure." + +"A charming family. Cannot understand--my cousin Sir William, I mean, +cannot understand my remaining here. 'My dear Emily'--he says the same +thing every time he sees me: 'My dear Emily, how can you exist among the +sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.' But they amuse me." + +A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage. + +"Our family on my mother's side," continued Sir William's cousin in her +placid monotone, "was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when King +George the Fourth--" Sir William's cousin, needing another reel of +cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger's gaze. + +"I'm sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this," said Sir William's +cousin in an irritable tone. "It can't possibly interest you." + +"Everything connected with you interests me," gravely the stranger +assured her. + +"It is very kind of you to say so," sighed Sir William's cousin, but +without conviction; "I am afraid sometimes I bore people." + +The polite stranger refrained from contradiction. + +"You see," continued the poor lady, "I really am of good family." + +"Dear lady," said the stranger, "your gentle face, your gentle voice, +your gentle bearing, all proclaim it." + +She looked without flinching into the stranger's eyes, and gradually a +smile banished the reigning dulness of her features. + +"How foolish of me." She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger. +"Why, of course, people--people whose opinion is worth troubling +about--judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying you +are." + +The stranger remained silent. + +"I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two +hundred and thirty pounds per annum," she argued. "The sensible thing +for me to do is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these +high and mighty relations of mine as little as they have ever worried +themselves about me." + +The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying. + +"I have other connections," remembered Sir William's cousin; "those of +my poor husband, to whom instead of being the 'poor relation' I could +be the fairy god-mama. They are my people--or would be," added Sir +William's cousin tartly, "if I wasn't a vulgar snob." + +She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced +preparations for a hurried departure. + +"Now it seems I am driving you away," sighed the stranger. + +"Having been called a 'vulgar snob,'" retorted the lady with some heat, +"I think it about time I went." + +"The words were your own," the stranger reminded her. + +"Whatever I may have thought," remarked the indignant dame, "no +lady--least of all in the presence of a total stranger--would have +called herself--" The poor dame paused, bewildered. "There is something +very curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand," +she explained, "I seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself." + +Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger good-night, +hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger, +hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her. + +"Tell me," laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was +contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, "how did you +manage to do it? I should like to know." + +"How did I do what?" inquired the stranger. + +"Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?" + +"How well you play!" observed the stranger. "I knew you had genius for +music the moment I saw you." + +"How could you tell?" + +"It is written so clearly in your face." + +The girl laughed, well pleased. "You seem to have lost no time in +studying my face." + +"It is a beautiful and interesting face," observed the stranger. + +She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met. + +"You can read faces?" + +"Yes." + +"Tell me, what else do you read in mine?" + +"Frankness, courage--" + +"Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted." It +was odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. "Tell me the reverse +side." + +"I see no reverse side," replied the stranger. "I see but a fair girl, +bursting into noble womanhood." + +"And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, +of--" An angry laugh escaped her lips. "And you are a reader of faces!" + +"A reader of faces." The stranger smiled. "Do you know what is written +upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce, +scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, +contempt of all things that are contemptible--especially of such things +as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?" + +I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried +from the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in +them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours? + +The idea occurred to her: "Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you +during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?" + +"The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your +mother principally." + +"I am sorry," returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the +question. "I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first +evening!" + +"He did try one or two," admitted the stranger; "but I have been about +the world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I +feel we shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine." + +"Indeed," commented the girl. + +"He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted +it but once!" + +Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died +from them. She turned aside to hide her smile. + +"So he regretted it--once." + +"Only once," explained the stranger, "in a passing irritable mood. It +was so frank of him to admit it. He told me--I think he has taken a +liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an +opportunity of talking to a man like myself--he told me that he and your +mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a honeymoon +couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really quite +amusing." The stranger laughed at recollection of them--"that even here, +in this place, they are generally referred to as 'Darby and Joan.'" + +"Yes," said the girl, "that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, +the second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever--but +rather obvious I thought myself." + +"Nothing--so it seems to me," said the stranger, "is more beautiful +than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender +blossom that flowers in the heart of the young--in hearts such as +yours--that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, +that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that +is the beginning of--of things longer." + +"You seem to find all things beautiful," the girl grumbled. + +"But are not all things beautiful?" demanded the stranger. + +The Colonel had finished his paper. "You two are engaged in a very +absorbing conversation," observed the Colonel, approaching them. + +"We were discussing Darbies and Joans," explained his daughter. "How +beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!" + +"Ah!" smiled the Colonel, "that is hardly fair. My friend has been +repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband's +affection for his middle-aged and somewhat--" The Colonel in playful +mood laid his hand upon the stranger's shoulder, an action that +necessitated his looking straight into the stranger's eyes. The Colonel +drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet. + +Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was +explaining quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself, +why he was a cad. + +"That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to +both of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from +the world--not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You +are a cad, sir, a cad!" + +Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not +moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like +the voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger +to his daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they +had not heard the voice--a mere hallucination. The Colonel breathed +again. + +Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it +was bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No +gentleman would have done so. + +But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. +No gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife--certainly +never in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have +exercised self-control. + +Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid +hold of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark +to him--he could see it in her eye--which would irritate him into savage +retort. + +Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boarding-house +wits had dubbed them "Darby and Joan," would grasp the fact that the +gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table +acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule. + +"My dear," cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, "does not this +room strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl." + +It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of +both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each +other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her +point of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A +wild, fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel's brain: If to +him, why not to her? + +"Letitia," cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her +into silence, "I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not +remind you of someone?" + +Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. "Yes," she +murmured, turning to her husband, "he does, who is it?" + +"I cannot fix it," replied the Colonel; "I thought that maybe you would +remember." + +"It will come to me," mused Mrs. Devine. "It is someone--years ago, +when I was a girl--in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn't troubling you, +Harry. I left it in the dining-room." + +It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, +the colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the +trouble. "Give me a man, who can take care of himself--or thinks he +can," declared Augustus Longcord, "and I am prepared to give a good +account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what +you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for +him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself--well, +it isn't playing the game." + +"Auguthuth," was the curt comment of his partner, "you're a fool." + +"All right, my boy, you try," suggested Augustus. + +"Jutht what I mean to do," asserted his partner. + +"Well," demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending +the stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with +the door shut. + +"Oh, don't arth me," retorted Isidore, "thilly ath, thath what he ith." + +"What did he say?" + +"What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they +were--how people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. + +"Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. +Thought I wath one of 'em!" + +"Well, did you get anything out of him?" + +"Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn't very well thell the +whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after that. +Didn't theem worth it." + +There were many things Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square came gradually +to the conclusion were not worth the doing:--Snatching at the gravy; +pouncing out of one's turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to +more than one's fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting on +the evening paper while pretending not to have seen it--all such-like +tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really +it was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one's food; +grumbling everlastingly at most things; abusing Pennycherry behind her +back; abusing, for a change, one's fellow-boarders; squabbling with +one's fellow-boarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one's +fellow-boarders; talking scandal of one's fellow-boarders; making +senseless jokes about one's fellow-boarders; talking big about oneself, +nobody believing one--all such-like vulgarities. Other boarding-houses +might indulge in them: Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had its dignity to +consider. + +The truth is, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good +opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as +the stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight +Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea--where obtained from +Heaven knows--that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded, coarse-fibred +occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first water; and +time and observation had apparently only strengthened this absurd idea. +The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was coming round +to the stranger's opinion of itself. + +Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born +and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no control to +fill an arduous but honorable position of middle-class society--a sort +of foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her +promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung +to with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages attaching, but +these Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady +born and bred cannot charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and +candles they have never burnt; a foster-mother cannot palm off upon her +children New Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper +can play these tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she +cannot: Mrs. Pennycherry felt she no longer could. + +To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist +of most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was lack +of vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If +Miss Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger's eyes, the +modesty that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms would fall +from her. The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put +it to the test. One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the +drawing-room, when the stranger only was there and before the gas +was lighted, a pleasant, good-looking lady, somewhat pale, with +neatly-arranged brown hair, who demanded of the stranger if he knew her. +All her body was trembling, and her voice seemed inclined to run away +from her and become a sob. But when the stranger, looking straight into +her eyes, told her that from the likeness he thought she must be Miss +Kite's younger sister, but much prettier, it became a laugh instead: and +that evening the golden-haired Miss Kite disappeared never to show her +high-coloured face again; and what perhaps, more than all else, might +have impressed some former habitue of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square +with awe, it was that no one in the house made even a passing inquiry +concerning her. + +Sir William's cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any +boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing outward +or visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class family. She +herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt +it. Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, diffused an atmosphere of +gentle manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; +Sir William's cousin gathered that he thought it, and felt herself in +agreement with him. + +For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type +of business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what unfortunate +results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm +appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger's good +opinion--had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste for honest men's +respect--that in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we all +have our pet extravagance. + +The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from +the necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, new +tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one +another. + +"Tomfool nonsense," grumbled the Colonel, "you and I starting billing +and cooing at our age!" + +"What I object to," said Mrs. Devine, "is the feeling that somehow I am +being made to do it." + +"The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together +for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of them! it's +damn ridiculous," the Colonel exploded. + +"Even when he isn't there," said Mrs. Devine, "I seem to see him looking +at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite haunts me." + +"I have met him somewhere," mused the Colonel, "I'll swear I've met him +somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go." + +A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a +hundred things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the +Colonel. But by the time the opportunity occurred--when nobody else was +by to hear--all interest in saying them was gone. + +"Women will be women," was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled +himself. "A man must bear with them--must never forget that he is a +gentleman." + +"Oh, well, I suppose they're all alike," laughed Mrs. Devine to herself, +having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge in +cheerfulness. "What's the use of putting oneself out--it does no good, +and only upsets one." There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you +are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies of +others. Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much +self-approbation. + +But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger's bigoted belief in +the innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, +handsome Miss Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a +noble-souled, high-minded young woman, something midway between a Flora +Macdonald and a Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself +to be a sleek, luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to +the bidder who could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, +the most sumptuous surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person +of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly +rich and undoubtedly fond of her. + +Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done, +was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that +the stranger's ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but +inconvenienced her. Under the very eyes of a person--however +foolish--convinced that you are possessed of all the highest attributes +of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated by only the +basest motives. A dozen times had Miss Devine determined to end the +matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer's large and flabby +hand, and a dozen times--the vision intervening of the stranger's grave, +believing eyes--had Miss Devine refused decided answer. The stranger +would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her himself, he was but a +passing traveller. When he was gone it would be easier. So she thought +at the time. + +One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing +by the window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in +Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another +foggy afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger's arrival three months +before. No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and +came towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long +coat was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat +and the massive knotted stick that was almost a staff. + +"I have come to say good-bye," explained the stranger. "I am going." + +"I shall not see you again?" asked the girl. + +"I cannot say," replied the stranger. "But you will think of me?" + +"Yes," she answered with a smile, "I can promise that." + +"And I shall always remember you," promised the stranger, "and I wish +you every joy--the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage." + +The girl winced. "Love and marriage are not always the same thing," she +said. + +"Not always," agreed the stranger, "but in your case they will be one." + +She looked at him. + +"Do you think I have not noticed?" smiled the stranger, "a gallant, +handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not +have gone away without knowing it was well with you." + +Her gaze wandered towards the fading light. + +"Ah, yes, I love him," she answered petulantly. "Your eyes can see +clearly enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in our +world. I will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know." +She would not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the +dingy trees, the mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and vehemently: "The man +who can give me all my soul's desire--money and the things that money +can buy. You think me a woman, I'm only a pig. He is moist, and breathes +like a porpoise; with cunning in place of a brain, and the rest of him +mere stomach. But he is good enough for me." + +She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would +go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh. + +"No," he said, "you will not marry him." + +"Who will stop me?" she cried angrily. + +"Your Better Self." + +His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and +look upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very +first had haunted her. She had met him, talked to him--in silent country +roads, in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking +with him her spirit had been lifted up: she had been--what he had always +thought her. + +"There are those," continued the stranger (and for the first time she +saw that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes +could also command), "whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand +and troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too +strong; it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and it +will follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise +you with burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day to day." +The sternness faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness crept back. +He laid his hand upon the young girl's shoulder. "You will marry your +lover," he smiled. "With him you will walk the way of sunlight and of +shadow." + +And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would +be so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed away from +her for ever. + +"Now," said the stranger, "come to the door with me. Leave-takings +are but wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door softly +behind me." + +She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw +no more of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly +buttoned coat, before he faded into the gathering fog. + +Then softly she closed the door. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Passing of the Third Floor Back, by +Jerome K. 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