Prince Imperial, where would they be?  The Inspector’s estimate of the
right number in a family coincided with the number in his own.

“This,” said Mr. Chelsfield, with a nod in the direction of the down
line—“this is the only one we’ve got.  Only one we ever had.”

“Take care not to spoil him.  That’s always the risk when there’s only
one.  Now my six—  Here’s the train signalled.  Get to the other end of
the platform, and then you can’t miss him.”

The platform was long under its wooden roof, and Mr. Chelsfield could not
move with the celerity he had shown in the early ’sixties; some of his
colleagues at the warehouse said it was rheumatism, but he declared it to
be only a slight stiffness of the joints.  Passengers were going through
the barrier, and, flushed by anxiety, he looked about; presently made a
dash through the crowd, seized a lad who wore a mortar-board, and pinched
his ear affectionately.  On the lad turning and demanding an explanation,
Mr. Chelsfield apologised for his error, and hurried off to continue his
search.

“Three hours and a half,” said the friendly Inspector later.  “That’s
what it is before the next.  It isn’t worth while waiting if you only
live up in Holborn.  Hop into a ’bus outside the station.”

“I must,” Mr. Chelsfield admitted concernedly.  “I’m bound to go back and
tell his mother.  She’ll be out of her mind else.”

“Just my argument,” claimed the Inspector.  “Now, if you’d got six, like
I have—”

Mr. Chelsfield stepped out of the omnibus at Chancery Lane, and, paying
the conductor, went along to Bedford Row with some wisps of the straw
belonging to the conveyance attached to his boots.  He felt himself to be
on the edge of a painful scene, and wondered where he should find the sal
volatile if it happened to be wanted.  The front door of the offices,
with its elaborate knocker, was open, and he went slowly downstairs to
the living-rooms.

“Well?” said his wife.  He shook his head.  “Speak up!” she commanded; “I
can’t hear when you turn your face to the wall and mumble like that.”

He gave the explanation and waited for signs of collapse.

“You’re a pretty one to send to a railway-station, and no mistake!” she
remarked, taking off the tea-cosy.  “Another time I must go myself.”

“None for me, mother,” he said desolately.  “I couldn’t drink it even if
you poured it out.  Wonder what’s happened to the boy?”

“How should I know?”

He walked up and down the room, looked through the window at the iron
grating, and rubbed his head furiously with a red pocket-handkerchief,
the wife watching him with an amused expression.  As she took the knife
in order to cut the home-made cake, still warm from the oven, he raised
his hand as a feeble protest against asking him to taste food.

“Can we have the winder open?” he asked submissively.  “This room seems
stuffy to me, or else it is that I’m upset.  I feel—I feel as though I
can’t sit down at this table.”

“Suppose,” said his wife, with a wink—“suppose you have a look underneath
it.”

The boy crawled out, smoothed his hair, and submitted a forehead to his
parent; the mother came near to choking with delight at the success of
her elaborate scheme, and presently leaned head exhaustedly against the
antimacassar which protected the back of the horsehair easy-chair.  How
on earth had they missed each other?—that was what the delighted father
wanted to know.  Henry must have jumped out of the train and cut away
uncommonly sharp.  Henry, permitted under the special circumstances to
discard convention and begin with cake, working back through the toast to
the bread and butter, confessed that he had lost no time.

“But, my lad,” urged his father more seriously, “you knowed that I was
coming to meet you.”

“Had another fellow with me,” replied the boy.

“Oh!”—arresting a doubled piece of bread and butter on its way from the
plate—“and didn’t you want him to see me?”

“Don’t be silly, father!” interposed the mother.  “Henry, my child, ask
if you want a second piece.”

“It wasn’t exactly that,” said the boy.

“Then, perhaps, you’ll kindly tell me what was the reason.  Come on, now;
out with it!  I want an answer.”

“Thought perhaps you might kiss me, father.  And Watherston standing by.”

“Very natural on the boy’s part,” declared the mother.  “You forget that
Henry’s growing up.  He doesn’t mind it in private, but there comes a
time when a boy doesn’t want all this fuss in public.”

“If that was the only reason—” said the father.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” ordered his wife.  “You never see
Henry do it.  And one arm off the table, if you please.”  Her husband
obeyed, taking up an attitude of greater precision and obvious
discomfort.  “That sounds like Gleeson & Co. going out; I shall have to
see about my pail and flannel, and get up there and do their floor.”

“I thought—” began the boy sharply.

“We decided otherwise, my dear,” she said.  “We didn’t settle it in a
hurry by any means; your father and me talked it over night after night,
and eventually we came to a definite conclusion.”

“You see, my lad”—the father took up the explanation—“there was money
going out for your schooling, and provisions don’t get no cheaper, and we
was both anxious not to touch the little nest-egg we’ve put by.
Besides”—with spirit, on noting the crimson look of annoyance on his
son’s face—“besides, it’s purely a matter for us to settle.  If your
mother doesn’t mind going on with the housekeeper work, and if I don’t
object to her doing it, why, there’s nothing more to be said.”

The tea-table endured a silence of nearly a minute.  The two parents
examined the pattern of the oilcloth that covered it.

“Pardon me,” said the boy, with the new manner acquired at the
boarding-school, “but am I to understand that my feelings are not to be
considered in the matter?”

The mother put out her hand quickly and patted her husband’s arm,
upraised to give a gesture that would emphasise his reply.  He dropped
it, and took a long, loud drink from a saucer that trembled.

“We can talk about this,” she said hurriedly, “another time.  We shall
have a clear fortnight, Henry, before you start work.  Say grace!”  They
bowed their heads, and joined in the Amen.  “Did you make some nice new
friends at the boarding-school, my dear?  We’ve arranged all about your
party for the fifteenth, and I think, by a little scrounging and a
hand-round supper, we ought to be able to manage twelve.  Including us
three, that is.  If we go over that, there’s always the risk of having
the unlucky number, and that spoils everybody’s pleasure.  Come along
with me, and we can have a good talk over the arrangements whilst I’m
tying on my apern.  What I was wondering was whether we should have all
boys, old friends of yours about the neighbourhood, or whether to invite
a few girls.  There’s your friend Jessie,” she bustled on waggishly.  “We
mustn’t let her feel neglected.  Always asks after you, Jessie does.”
She lowered her voice.  “Your father’s got the idea into his head that
the boarding-school may have induced you to be high and mighty, and make
you look down on them and us.  But of course, my dear, I know better.”

The boy was leaning against the stout oak door later, as his mother
cleaned and hearthstoned the steps; two minutes, she remarked, and her
work would be over.  In reply to his urgent appeal, she gave a promise
that so soon as he began to earn money the work should be finished for
good.  A lad in a mortar-board came through from the direction of
Holborn, and strolled up on the other side, examining the numbers.
Attracted by the sound of voices, he crossed over and spoke.

“I say, my good woman,” he said, with cheerful condescension, to the
kneeling figure, “Number thirty-five, I want.  These figures are so
confoundedly indistinct.  Name, Chelsfield—Henry Chelsfield.  Can you
tell me where I shall find him?”

“You haven’t fur to go,” she remarked, and beckoned with her handful of
flannel.  “I must apologise for being caught in my disables,” she went
on, levering herself up with the aid of the pail.  “Shan’t hear the last
of this for a long time.  Still, as I say, we’ve all got to live.”

Her son came forward, and, waiting for the introduction, she smoothed her
grey hair with the back of a wet hand.  The boy’s father came out, too,
wearing a tasselled smoking-cap rakishly; to honour the occasion he had
lighted the fellow to the cigar given away to the friendly Inspector.

“Hullo, Chelsfield!”

The boy glanced at his mother, looked over a shoulder at his father.  He
hesitated for a moment, then cleared the damp steps at a single jump, and
taking his friend’s arm, led him across the roadway.

“Called round, Chelsfield,” the mortar-board lad said, “called round at
once to tell you that I find I’m engaged two deep for the evening you’ve
fixed for Drury Lane.  Now, what I want to suggest is this.  How about
you changing your date?”

The father and mother stood just outside the doorway, speaking no word,
but listening and waiting.  The visitor made a movement to re-cross, but
Henry detained him.  The mother coughed in order to give a reminder of
her presence.  The visitor, breaking off in the discussion, recommended
that Henry should fetch a cap and stroll with him as far as Gray’s Inn
Road and see him into a Favorite omnibus for the return to Islington.
Henry ran in, with a mumbled explanation to his parents.

“Quite an old-fashioned bit of London here,” remarked the polite boy.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Chelsfield, coming forward eagerly.  “Oh, yes, sir.
People often notice that.  Years ago, I b’lieve, quite aristocrats used
to live here.  London’s changing.”

“Improving,” suggested the lad.

“I reckon the next thirty years will show a lot of difference.  Me and
the wife,” he continued, with a jerk of the head towards her, “me and
her, we recollect ’Olborn, of course, long before the Viaduct was opened.
Previous to that—”

Their boy came out between them with a rush.

“Ready, Chelsfield?”

“Quite ready, Watherston,” he replied, nervously and briskly.

“Sorry to have missed seeing your people,” remarked the polite lad, as
they went off arm-in-arm.  “Perhaps some other time I may have the
pleasure.”

“Perhaps!” he said.

The space of time mentioned by old Chelsfield elapsed, but he prevented
himself from enjoying the content of a successful prophet by commencing
rather absurdly to break up in health almost immediately after venturing
upon the tolerably safe anticipation.  Amongst the changes of thirty
years was the fact that Chelsfield, as a name, had become better known;
even the folk who flew through the main streets of London on motor
omnibuses, and had to give nearly all their attention to the holding on
of hats, could not evade recognition of the hoardings; the Chelsfield
posters declined to be ignored.  If you closed your eyes to these, you
were nearly sure to encounter the name in your daily paper.  If you
missed it in your daily paper, it came into the letter-box, marked “Very
Important.”  If you dodged it there, it confronted you on your theatre
programme at night.  Leaving the theatre and endeavouring to forget the
name, you saw it at a popular corner, being written with great
deliberation in illuminated letters, as though some invisible giant had
made up his mind to grasp the rudiments of education.

Henry Chelsfield himself was not insensible to the determined appeals,
and, going home in his electric brougham, he counted them.  Thus one
evening he found a dreary gap between the Cobden statue and the
Britannia, and immediately made memorandum of the circumstance in his
note-book, in order that the deplorable omission might be attended to on
the following day.  All very well for the advertising agents to send him
a box for the theatre, but these people had to be kept up to the mark.

“I can be amiable enough,” he said to the clock inside the brougham, “in
private affairs, but I’m very different where money matters are
concerned.”

Chelsfield might be flattering himself, or he might be telling the truth;
anyhow he was a Londoner, with a Londoner’s weakness for orders for the
play.  That was why he had left his offices early; that was why he
proposed to eat at an unusual hour; that was why, on arriving at
Hampstead, he ordered the man to bring the brougham round again at
half-past seven.  He dined alone, with a portrait of a good-looking
woman, painted by Herkomer, facing him; at her side a lad, with small
eyes rather close to each other.  Chelsfield lifted his glass when the
two maids had left the room and said:

“Jessie!”

He did not drink a toast to the boy.

Watherston, from a house nearer the Heath, came in as Chelsfield
pretended to smoke a cigarette—he had been thinking that one man in a
private box would present a lonely figure to the audience; the gallery
would say that he had no friends—and Watherston asked to be excused for
once from joining in a game of billiards.

“Nothing could have happened better!” cried Chelsfield, arousing himself.
“You have only to run home and jump into evening dress, and—”

“My boy wants me to take him to see the conjuring people at St. George’s
Hall.”

“You’re not spoiling that lad of yours, I hope, Watherston?”

“I’m not spoiling my lad,” retorted Watherston, speaking with emphasis.
The two men gazed at each other with the sudden acerbity of manner that
comes at times to the closest friends.  Chelsfield’s eyes went presently
to the fruit on the table.  “Ever hear anything of yours?” demanded
Watherston, following up his advantage.

“There’s no doubt whatever,” replied Chelsfield testily, “that he
disappeared in South Africa.  I don’t want to discuss the matter again.
He was older than your boy.  And you know as well as I do that after his
mother died he went to the bad.”

“You told him to stay there?”

“I can give you and your lad a lift as far as Kingsway,” said Chelsfield,
“if that’s of any use.”

“It won’t be much help to us,” replied his friend candidly; “but we shall
be company for you.”

The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic
about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his
father, enthusiastic over everything.  Chelsfield, watching him on the
way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a
cheerful son.  Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had
decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and
of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall.  As he lowered the
window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father
conferred in a whisper.

“Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve.

“What now?”

“Let us get out.  I want to speak to you privately.  Fact is”—on the
pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but
he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the
truth, I don’t want to share him this evening.  You see, he goes back to
Rugby to-morrow.”

Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of
the way.  He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled
him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a
long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night.  There
were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly
shod, hands in pockets.  He glanced along the line before replying.  The
light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all.

“Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone
of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.”

“I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation.

“Good iron!” said the man approvingly.

Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm,
and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of
distribution.  Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some
mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some
demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch.
Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he
reached the lamp.

“No, thanks!”

“You—you are not a smoker?”

“I am a smoker; but I don’t accept anything from you.”

Chelsfield took his son’s hand and tried to pull him from his place.  “I
want to speak to you, dear boy.  I’ve something important to say.”

“You said something important to me once,” retorted the other doggedly,
“and you don’t have a chance of saying anything important to me again.
Be off, before I set the others on to you.”  His attitude expressed
determination.

Chelsfield’s housekeeper, at breakfast the next morning, asked in her
respectful manner what he thought of the comedy he had seen the previous
night.  Chelsfield told her that he considered it extremely far-fetched.

XI—SCOTTER’S LUCK

HIS opponent, after a good look at the table, adjusted his cue, and,
disregarding the murmur of “Whitechapel!” sent spot white into a pocket.
Many of the spectators volunteered advice, the while Scotter stood back
and glanced self-commiseratingly at the scoring-board.

“That all I am, marker?” he inquired.

“That’s your total figure, my lad.”

Scatter’s opponent took time in aiming at the red, and the suggestion
that he had gone to sleep did not induce him to hurry.  Striking his own
ball gently and rather high up, the two travelled slowly into baulk.
Scotter remarked dismally that this was just his luck, and found spot
white; he was about to make a wild shot up and down the table when he
changed his mind, and, considering angles, drew back his cue and prepared
to send his ball at a particular point of the cushion.

“This ought to do it,” he said, “but whether it will or not is more than
I can—”

A bell rang.  On the instant the men were out of the billiard-room;
Scotter the last, because his first neat and orderly idea was to replace
his cue in the stand, the second, a time-saving notion, was to leave it
resting against the table, and in this confusion of thought a few moments
were wasted.  As the two horses plunged and reared in the yard, and made
a dash through the short avenue of people outside the gates, one or two
of his helmeted colleagues expressed the opinion that when the last trump
sounded Scotter would be the last to respond, bringing with him an
assortment of about ten good and sufficient excuses.  Above the clanging
and the noise, he was asked whether he had ever been really in time for
anything but his meals; he blushed when they declared that girls were
probably waiting for him at altars in various churches of London, growing
old and cross and tired.

“Where are we bound for?” he asked, to change the subject.

“We’re going to a fire, Scotty, my lad,” it was explained.  “Didn’t you
know?  You thought we were off to an evening party, to have a game of
postman’s knock.  But no; we’re going to a fire, and we’ve got to put it
out soon as we possibly can.  Remember that, won’t you?  Not to make it
burn brighter, but to put it out.  It’s done with the aid of a syphon of
soda.  You take the syphon like this, and you remark to the fire, ‘Say
when!’ and then—”

Southampton Row, at the narrow part, blocked with confused traffic; the
wild horses had to pretend to be tamed whilst a passage was made.
Fire-engines were also coming along Hart Street and from Kingsway;
tramcars bobbing up from the tunnel waited politely.  The engine managed
to reach the street, and a stout superintendent, glancing at his watch,
told the men they stood an excellent chance of winning the booby prize.

“For that pretty compliment,” they said, dropping from the engine, “we
have to thank you, Mister Sleepy Scotter, Esquire.”

Police keeping the people back; the street already a river, streams of
water being sent high up at two houses, neighbours’ faces out with the
nearest wearing an expression of anxiety, whilst those a few doors off
and opposite showed nothing more than interest.  Furniture hurled out of
windows, with now and again a smash.  The firemen went about their work
alertly and swiftly; when an order was given half a dozen hurried to
obey.  More engines arriving and two ladders.  On the second floor of one
of the houses a burst of flame that cracked the windows.

“Is everybody out?” demanded an official.

“All out, sir.”

“Sure?”

Mrs. Mather was called.  Mrs. Mather, found in tears on the kerb, with
children around her, was asked sharply whether these represented her
entire family; replied that if they did but stand still she would count
them.  One, two, three, four, five; yes, sir; we’re all here.  Mather
himself away on a job at Silvertown.  All the dear, blessed youngsters
safe, thanks be; might have been a good deal worse.  Mrs. Mather had
never been in a fire before, but an aunt of hers living up at Sadler’s
Wells way once had the misfortune to overturn a lamp—What was that?  Six?
No, no; the neighbour must be confusing her with another lady.  Bless
Mrs. Mather’s soul; a parent ought surely to be allowed to know how many
children she possessed.  There was Tommy, the eldest, next Ethel, next
Walter, next Gracie, and then Hubert, then Mrs. Mather, with a gesture of
self-reproof, begged to apologise.  The neighbour was correct.  Mrs.
Mather admitted she had overlooked the baby, and, whilst she thought of
it, there was the little girl from Forty-eight who came in to mind the
kid.

“You’re a light weight, Scotter,” said the Superintendent.  “Up you go,
and do your very best.”

Scotter went up the escape, bending his head to dodge flames that were
darting out from the second floor; up again, and disappeared.  There was
a crash there of something falling in; the helmeted men below gave a low
whistle.  That settled poor Scotter’s game of billiards.  That relieved
him of any difficulty of knowing what to do with plain white and the red
left in baulk.  That meant a rare old scene later on, with Scotty’s
sweetheart coming round to the station.

“Another man up!” ordered the Superintendent.

The second was half-way up, and had been drenched by error, when Scotter
reappeared at the top window.  He had the baby in a shawl that was tied
at his neck; in the left arm he carried a limp little girl; the crowd in
the street roared “Hip-pip—hooray!” and Mrs. Mather cried warningly,
“Don’t stay up there; come down!”

“That makes your little lot complete, then,” remarked the Superintendent.

“They’re all here now,” conceded the lady.  “How I come to overlook the
fact that there was one short is more than I can tell you.  I’m sure it’s
very kind of this gentleman.  When baby’s old enough he must thank him.”

“You all right, Scotter?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.  Bit singed, but nothing to brag about.”

The crowd lost all its good spirits so soon as the first engine was sent
home, and folk told each other regretfully that there were no fires now
as in the old days.  The waiting horses had recovered breath and began to
caper about to impress the crowd with a sense of their importance.
People to whom news had come tardily ran up from Clerkenwell Road
demanding to know the whereabouts of the fire, and, being told it was
out, censured the County Council, their informants, and themselves.  Two
firemen were selected to remain in charge; the others, dusting knees and
rubbing knuckles into eyes, waited for orders.

“Get off back, you lot.  Scotter, you did uncommonly well.  Just given
your name to some newspaper men.  Married man?  Not yet?  I was going to
say, if you were, your missus would be proud of you.”

The pace was good on the return journey, but not frantic, and Scotter was
told by a dozen experts what to do to the burn on his left wrist.  At the
station they assisted him in the task of washing, and made a neat
bandage; over cups of tea they went through the details of the fire, and
extinguished it again.  A move was made to the billiard-room.

“Spot white’s turn,” announced one, taking up position at the
marking-board.  “Plain white and the red both in baulk.”  Glancing at the
pegs, “Twenty-three plays forty-eight.”

“You’ve got to buck up, Scotter.”

He took careful aim.  Sent his ball against the right-hand cushion; it
went from this to the top of the table, across to the left, travelled
down, and dropped gently into the right-hand lower pocket.  Three
deducted from his score.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” said Scotter despairingly.
“Somehow or other, I can’t do anything right to-day.”

XII—MEANS OF TRANSPORT

THE indignation meeting occurred without any of the printed entreaties
usually found needful in order to induce the public to arouse.  It seems
less strange that only ladies attended, for the sex is notoriously
beginning to take an interest in public questions.

Mr. Woods, driving one of his own wagonettes, was talking to the two
passengers secured at the railway station four miles off and giving them
a short autobiography—“Begun to work, I did, afore I were twelve, I
did!”—when he caught sight of the gathering and broke off to express
amazement; he gave at once an emphatic but scarcely original declaration
that if women secured the vote they would not know what to do with it.
The passengers differed from this view, and Mr. Woods, anxious to secure
their patronage for the return journey, hastened to admit that he had not
had the time to study the question thoroughly.  A lady detached herself
from the group and, holding her tweed cap on her head, ran across.

“Whatever’s amiss, Jane?”

“It’s a missis,” she added, robbed of breath by indignation and hurry.
“That Mrs. Jarrett, as she calls herself.  She’s been and opened some Tea
Gardens.”

“News to me,” he remarked alarmedly.

“News to all of us.  She ain’t been here more than three months, and this
morning there’s playcards all over her place.”

“Thought she seemed a nicely spoken person.”

“You wait,” said Jane threateningly, “until we begin to talk to her.
She’ll get what I call some home truths if she don’t look out.”

The passengers suggested mildly that their time was limited, and Woods,
rendered silent by the extraordinary nature of the information, drove on
to the edge of the forest, contenting himself by indicating on the way
the cottage where his sister-in-law Jane resided.  In the clouded diamond
panes it exhibited shyly, as did most of the other cottages, a small card
that whispered the word “Teas”; a few bottles of ginger-beer rested on
the sill to suggest that the establishment had further resources.  After
the passengers alighted he drove around by the road that skirted the
wood, checking the horse slightly on approaching the house and lawn
occupied by the new-comer.  Tables had been placed, with striped cloths
held by shining clips; a small marquee was being fixed in the corner.
The neatly-painted board at the gate gave the title, “Forest Tea
Gardens,” adding sentences to the effect that refreshments of the best
quality could be obtained at any hour—“Large Parties and Small Parties
catered for; proprietress, Clara Jarrett.”  As Mr. Woods, unwilling to
display curiosity, allowed his horse to go on, an automatic pianoforte
started, with great vivacity, a waltz.

“Great thing is,” announced Mr. Woods, speaking from his conveyance to
the meeting as though he were a candidate for Parliament—“is not to lose
your heads.  Keep perfectly calm and cool, and everything’ll come right
in the long run.”

“Question is, how long a run is it going to be?” demanded one.

“Provided,” he went on, “provided that we all stick together, she can’t
last half-way through the summer.”

“And meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile,” interrupted Woods irritably, “you’ve got to make the best of
it.  Competition’s bound to exist in this world.”

“How would you like it, Mr. Woods, if somebody—”

“One matter at a time.  Let’s keep to the question.  What I want you to
recognise is that you’ve got a true friend in me.  I’ve no partic’lar
objection to her; as I said just now to my sister-in-law, she always
seemed a nicely spoken person, and I don’t wish to do her any harm
whatsoever.  But there’s no doubt at all in my mind that so far as we are
concerned she’s a interloper.”

The women appeared to find the description too lenient.  One announced
vehemently that, before Mr. Woods came along, they had almost decided to
go in a body and pull down the signboard, demolish the marquee, and in
other ways convey the fact that they looked upon the new Tea Gardens with
disapproval.  Goodness knew, there had never been much profit made out of
sixpenny teas; it seemed likely that in the future it would be scarcely
worth while to make cakes and keep the kettle boiling.  Woods, again
begging for moderation, urged they should cease talking for the space of
two seconds and listen to him.  He, with his cabs and wagonettes, had
full control over all the traffic from the station, excepting that small
part which took the (as he thought) mistaken course of deciding to walk.
Nearly all of these passengers put one inquiry to him or to his men.

“Now do keep quiet until I’ve finished,” prayed Woods.  “Only got half a
dozen more words to say, and I’m done.”

He, on his side, was prepared to guarantee that the new Tea Gardens
should never, by speech or hint, be recommended.  If any passenger,
having heard of them, mentioned the name, then Mr. Woods or his men could
be relied upon to cast discredit ingeniously without bringing themselves
within the domain of the laws of libel.  On their side, they must be
prepared for some special efforts; must make a greater show; endeavour to
engage the passing visitor by welcome smiles; take care to keep windows
open.  He feared they did not always realise the Londoner’s partiality
for fresh air.

“And,” asked his sister-in-law defiantly, “are we supposed to keep on
friendly terms with her whilst all this is going on?”

“Please yourselves,” replied Mr. Woods generously.  “So far as I’m
concerned, I shall continue to pass the time of day.”

“And go on bringing her illustrated newspapers, I suppose, from the
station?”

“You’ll allow me, Jane, to be the best judge of my own affairs.”

“But you’re setting out to be the best judge of ours as well!”

“I’ve given you good advice,” said Mr. Woods, gathering the reins, “but
it’s beyond human power to compel you to take it.”

Confidence in himself was shaken by information conveyed by the two
passengers on the return journey.  Having forgotten the exact whereabouts
of his sister-in-law’s house they had gone into the new Tea Gardens, and
their content and satisfaction with the treatment received made subject
of conversation throughout the journey.  The excellence of the
watercress, the surprising freshness of the eggs, the admirable quality
of the home-made jam—all these impressed them favourably, and they talked
of arranging with friends a picnic on a large scale and without the
inconvenience of heavy baskets.  Mr. Woods, not being asked for an
opinion, gave several; one was in favour of splitting the party up
amongst the cottages.  He declared this plan would encourage sociability
and give an insight into country life.  For almost the first time in his
professional career Woods found himself told to mind his own business.
He invented some compensation by speaking sharply to one of his men whom
he charged with the offence of keeping hands in pockets.

The members of the home syndicate received such a quick succession of
blows from the new Tea Gardens that they began to experience a kind of
dazed resignation, and it became the duty of Mr. Woods to order them to
awake.  The automatic pianoforte was followed by engagement from town of
two young nieces, who were not content with demure costume and long blue
pinafore, but must needs, if you please, wear a rather attractive lace
cap.  After this came a large rocking-horse for the pleasure of children,
or, failing children, the content of grown-ups who fancied equestrian
exercise and wished to promote digestion.  After this, a giant’s stride.
After this, a skittle-alley which drew away of an evening many of the
best and most regular customers from “The Running Stag.”  After this, a
lawn-tennis court, with rackets and balls provided without charge to
those who had taken the shilling tea.  It was in regard to the shilling
tea that Woods’s sister-in-law, ignoring him, went direct to the vicar,
from whom she received the disappointing information that the words “ad
lib.” were not, in themselves, offensive, or calculated to undermine the
morality of the village; he added some trenchant remarks concerning the
duties of parents, which Jane assumed to refer to other ladies.  Jane
assured the vicar that she did all that was possible in the distribution
of good counsel, and he remarked that it would make a useful change for
her to vary the method by accepting it.  So far as Mrs. Jarrett and
Sundays were concerned, she and her nieces came to church in the
mornings; they worked hard in the afternoon, and they rested in the
evening.  The vicar, admitting that he might be considered either very
old-fashioned or very new-fashioned, declared this a good manner of
spending the day, and gave a short account of Sundays in the early part
of the seventeenth century.  Woods, to whom this was reported, said,
guardedly, that the events referred to occurred before he came to town.

The fly-master had, at this period, troubles of his own which decreased
his interest in regard to the rivalry in the tea trade.  The first news
came from one of the nieces back from a visit to town on an occasion when
Woods, at the foot of the hill, stepped down to walk and encourage his
horse.  The detached position which he had assumed since the beginning of
the dispute had been modified because Jane’s daughter told one of his
young men (and the young man told Mr. Woods) that Jane had announced an
opinion to the effect that her brother-in-law found the money to finance
the Tea Gardens, a suggestion so unfair and so preposterous that he
declared his intention of allowing them to fight their battles without
further assistance from him; henceforth, he proposed to take up a
strictly impartial attitude.  Consequently, he had recommenced the
bringing of illustrated newspapers, and more than once he and Mrs.
Jarrett discussed impending marriages in high life, conduct of the German
Emperor, accidents caused by motor-cars, and other topical subjects.  The
niece, taking charge of the roll of journals, had distributed amongst the
passengers some of Mrs. Jarrett’s neatly printed cards, had pointed out
to them a notable church and conspicuous dwellings.  Leaning over the
side of the conveyance, she gave the information already referred to.

“You Londoners will have your lark,” he commented.  “Your aunt’s just the
same.”

“But I’m serious.”

“You don’t take me in.  When you say you’re serious is jest when you’re
trying to chaff.”

“They told me so up at Paddington, at any, rate,” she declared.  “Friend
of mine is in one of the head offices, and he assured me it was a
positive fact.”

The two held further conversation as the horse, arrived on the level,
jogged on again; she held the reins whilst he noted in his pocket-book
some names and addresses which remained in her memory.  Woods, greatly
disturbed, had to be reminded by her, when the destination was reached,
of the formality of collecting fares.

Within the space of a fortnight confirmation came.  Down at the railway
station small posters were exhibited, and quite a crowd assembled to read
them and to chaff Woods on the disaster awaiting him, it being a
notorious fact that nothing so much cheers A, B, C, and D as to discover
that E is on the edge of calamity.  On blank walls along the route the
bills appeared.  At Mrs. Jarrett’s Tea Gardens—this proved the most
stinging smack—a new board was erected bearing the words:

                       “TERMINUS FOR MOTOR OMNIBUSES.”

Woods, with a set face, ordered the full strength of his stables to
assemble at the station on the first morning to meet the train due just
before eleven.  The flies and wagonettes took up position; the large new
omnibus, on rushing up with uniformed driver and boy conductor, found
itself obliged to be satisfied with a place near the cloakroom entrance.
As passengers came out Woods and his men attacked them much in the way
that highwaymen would have behaved a hundred years before.

“Sixpence all the way!” they shouted.  “Here you are, lady!  Cheaper than
the motor!  Here you are, lady, sixpence all the way!”

Perhaps the fierce onslaught was an error in tactics.  Perhaps it would
have been wiser not to draw attention to the presence of a swifter mode
of conveyance.  Perhaps the natural independence of Londoners induced
them to consider before coming to a decision.  A messenger sent to the
new omnibus returned with the news that the fare was eightpence—fourpence
cheaper than the old fare, but obviously twopence dearer than Mr. Woods’s
new tariff.

“Oh, it’s worth it!” cried young ladies.  “Do let’s go by motor.  We
shall get there ever so much quicker.”

Woods likened them, rather bitterly, to sheep.  On the two first
passengers clambering up to the outside seats the others made a quick
rush to secure the remaining places; the inside was filled by those who
did not wish to separate from friends, and the new omnibus, after half a
minute of irresolution that almost induced Woods to believe in the
efficacy of prayer, flew away through the station gates and up the main
street of the village, and away out of sight.  His men gathered around
Mr. Woods and prophesied a breakdown; made recommendations.  He ordered
them to do nothing but obey orders, and went off to sulk in the
smoke-room of the Railway Hotel.

From which tent he was summoned an hour and a half later by a constable
of the town, who said definitely:

“Mr. Woods, sir, this won’t do.”

“Go away!” commanded the fly proprietor irritably; “I don’t want your
sympathy.”

“It isn’t sympathy I’m giving, it’s a warning.  If you don’t call your
men off, we shall end in a riot.”

Woods delivered an address after the second motor-omnibus had been
allowed to leave the yard with its passengers.  The early part of the
speech was of an intimate nature and described the treatment to be served
out in the case of the staff again disregarding instructions; the
punishments ranged from skinning alive to instant dismissal.  In the
second part, he ordered one to run up to the signwriter in the village.
Later, the procession of flies and wagonettes left the station bearing
notices, “Ruined by Unfair Competition,” and Woods had the satisfaction
of noting that shopkeepers on the line of route came out to inspect; this
would have proved more comforting if they had given any additional signs
of interest.  The procession went at a gallop on noting that away in the
distance the second omnibus had stopped, with driver and conductor busy
at the front, passengers looking over anxiously.  Mr. Woods counted it as
part of his luck that as the first wagonette arrived the new conveyance
re-started.  When, farther on, a man walking shouted an inquiry regarding
cats’ meat, he found it difficult not to make use of the whip.

The Tea Gardens had flags waving at the entrance and along by the hedge
in honour of the occasion; a photographer was giving considerable
attention to the task of securing a good picture of the motor-omnibus
with Mrs. Jarrett and her nieces at the side.  The artist said, “Now,
please!” and at that moment the horse driven by Mr. Woods became
unmanageable, causing the ladies to cry, “O—ah!”

When the animal regained self-control, Woods mentioned that it was no
doubt wise to obtain the photograph ere anything amiss happened to the
new conveyances.  The motor-man demanded to know what was meant by this.
Woods replied that he always meant what he said.  Motor-man, temper
already acutely tried, declared it would be a keen pleasure to punch Mr.
Woods’s nose.  Woods retorted that this job required the complete
abilities of a man, and was not therefore within the power of the
omnibus-driver.  The other took off his reefer jacket, ordering the
conductor, to take charge of the garment; Woods, forgetting his recent
disapproval of militant tactics, laid his hat on the grass at the side of
the road.  At the first blow, Mrs. Jarrett ran forward crying:

“Oh, you mustn’t hurt him!  You please mustn’t hurt him!”

“I’m not going to hurt him, ma’am,” said the flushed and excited Mr.
Woods; “I’m only going to kill him.”

“It isn’t him I’m nervous about,” she wailed; “it’s you!”

Woods put on his hat, looked around in a dazed, sheepish way, and, with a
jerk of his head, ordered his men to follow him back to the stables.

“No,” she said appealingly; “I don’t want you to do that.”

“Well, but,” he argued, “what else is there to do?  I’m prepared to
listen to anything reasonable.  Especially,” he added, “coming from you.”

They consulted apart, the nieces and the men and a few villagers looking
on eagerly, and evidently wishing that their powers of hearing were
finer.  Woods, pinching his under-lip, said he doubted whether there was
anything in the idea, but he felt willing to give it a trial.  And did
she—lowering his voice—did she really mean what she said just now?  Mrs.
Jarrett, pleating her apron, urged it was unfair to make any one
responsible for a remark made on the spur of the moment, and re-stated
her suggestion.  One of the nieces fetched an inkstand, and, the cards
being reversed, with a sharpened piece of wood she wrote upon them:

                       “AN HOUR’S EXCURSION THROUGH THE

                                   FOREST.

                                ONE SHILLING.”

“Put the nosebags on!” he commanded.

It was on the evening of that day that the earthquake, faintly hinted at
near the railway station, broke out in another place.  The wagonettes had
been fairly well patronised.  A few couples, down with the announced
intention of enjoying a good long walk through the forest, changed their
minds and accepted carriage exercise as a substitute.  Woods, before
going home, shook hands with the ladies, and pointed out that everything
in this world dried straight if you only gave it time and fair weather.
The motor-driver on his last journey brought, as a peace offering, two
cigars presented by a grateful passenger.  One of these Mr. Woods was
smoking near the stables as he waited for his housekeeper’s summons to
the evening meal: she was a good woman, honest and religious, but
apparently had never learned to tell the time by the clock.  He was, I
say, smoking; he was also thinking—a frequent conjunction.

When a tremendous clatter and hubbub came, arousing him, and causing him
to say distractedly:

“Whatever fresh is a ’appening of now?”

Out in the roadway a set of a dozen women, including the most notable
female inhabitants of the village, marched, his sister-in-law at the
head, banging as they went on dustpans, old teatrays, saucepans, and
other instruments of music rarely to be discovered in a first-class
orchestra.  The aim seemed to be discord, and that end was certainly
being achieved.  Some children followed, making a cloud of dust as they
slouched along.  The marchers disappeared.  Woods, regarding them as they
went, knew the incident to represent a violent outbreak of moral
indignation, and reckoned it a good answer to the complaint made by an
American that day to the effect that English country life appeared dull.
His housekeeper came, announcing, with a severe air of promptitude, the
readiness of a meal that was three-quarters of an hour late, and appeared
willing for conversation; but he told her he had enjoyed enough of talk.
What he desired now was peace and quietness.

Consequently, news only came to him at six in the morning when his men
arrived at the stables.  Having gathered the fact that Jane had locked
her daughter out the previous evening, he left them at once and ran
across to his sister-in-law’s cottage: there the dogged, sulky,
half-dressed woman refused to share responsibility for her actions with
any one, and he expressed, not for the first time, an earnest wish that
his brother had been spared.  He hurried agitatedly down to the Tea
Gardens, where Mrs. Jarrett was whitening, at this early hour, the steps.

“It’s all right,” she said, rising.  “Fancy you catching me like this,
with my hair in curlers!  The girl came here last night, and we hadn’t
gone to bed because of the noise.”

“The noise going by?”

She swallowed something.  “No, stopping here.”

Woods expressed a desire to engage in the wholesale trade of breaking
necks.

“And I let her come in, and if her mother doesn’t want her back, why, she
can stay here.”

He glanced up at the signboard.

“Clara Jarrett, proprietress,” he said deliberately, “you’re the best
little woman I’ve ever come across as yet, and if you think I shall make
a pretty fair sort of a husband I wish you’d just say the word.”

“It’s a pity, dear, about the motor-omnibuses,” she remarked later.

“Wrote off last night,” said Mr. Woods, with the wink of a business man,
“to buy some shares in the concern!”

XIII—IRENE MERCER

THE general feeling was that Jane would be more convenient, that Mary
made less demand on the brain, that Ellen had the advantage of having
been the title of her immediate predecessor, but she proved stern and
adamant in regard to the detail, and the graceful thing to do was to give
in for the moment with a secret promise to make an alteration later on.
When the time came for revision, it was found that no other title but
that of Irene could possibly be given.  The name fitted as though she had
been measured for it.  An impression that it could only belong to stately
and slightly offended young women on the pages of sixpenny fashion
journals, vanished.

“Previous to me coming here,” Irene sometimes explained in the minute and
a half given to conversation whilst clearing breakfast, “I was in a
business establishment.  Two year I put in there, I did, and then my
’ealth give way.  Otherwise I should never have dreamt of going into
domestic service.  I’ve been used to ’aving my evenings to myself!”

By chance, it was ascertained that the time which elapsed after leaving
school had been devoted to a mineral water manufactory: this discovery
reflected no credit upon any of the boarders, being indeed the result of
a chance remark made by her on seeing a two-horse cart belonging to the
firm go through the square.  A closer reticence was shown in regard to
her family; Irene did, however, convey, at times, a hint that the members
had seen better and more prosperous days, and that distinguished
ancestors would betray signs of restlessness did they become aware that
she occupied a position that brought in but £12 a year, giving freedom
only on Thursday evening and alternate Sunday afternoons.  “But we never
know what’s in store for us,” she remarked, with a touch of fatalism.
“It’s all ordained, I suppose.  What I mean to say is, everything’s
planned out, only that we don’t know it.  Just as well, perhaps.”

Her appearance in the earlier days gave no signal of noble birth.  She
wore the corkscrew curls fashionable in her neighbourhood, and her
efforts in hairdressing ceased at about half-way to the back of her head;
the rest being a casual knot insecurely tied.  Many things go awry in
this world, but few were so unlucky as Irene’s apron, which appeared to
be the sport and play of chance, going to various points of the compass,
sometimes becoming fixed due west.  She seemed to have a prejudice
against safety pins.  With her, hooks and eyes lived indiscriminately,
and never as precise, well-ordered couples.  On first assuming the white
cap (against the use of which she made desperate opposition), she wore it
rakishly over one eye, and being reproved, answered lightly that this was
one of those matters which would be forgotten a hundred years hence.  A
girl more completely furnished with the easy platitudes that turn away
wrath surely never existed.  In generous mood, she gave them away by the
dozen.

“One ’alf of the world doesn’t know how the other ’alf lives; it’s a poor
’eart that never rejoices; there’s none so blind as them that won’t see;
a bird in the ’and’s worth two in the bush; and that’s all about it!”

You must not assume that Irene gave up a large amount of her time to
conversation.  She started work at twenty to seven in the morning, and if
half-past four in the afternoon found her ready (in her own phrase) to
pop upstairs and change, she counted she had scored a victory.  After tea
came duties of a more leisurely nature such as ironing, and later
still—if luck favoured—a brief opportunity for the study of literature,
from which she came in such a dazed, confused state of mind, that for the
subsequent twenty minutes she could only give answers that possessed a
conspicuous amount of incoherence.  Those who have seen her with a number
of “The Belgravia Novelette” report that her lips moved silently as she
read the lines, that her features indicated, unconsciously, the emotions
affecting each character: when a lady had to reject the advances of some
unwelcome suitor (a frequent occurrence in the world of fiction where Mr.
A., liking Miss B., finds this converted into ardent love when she
announces she hates him with a hate that can never die), then Irene’s
face showed stern and uncompromising decision: when a landscape artist
proclaimed an affection he had hitherto concealed, her eyes half closed,
and her head went gently to and fro.

It is likely the pictures which accompanied these agreeable stories had
some influence, although the fact that the people always wore evening
dress prevented Irene from imitating every detail.  The corkscrew curls,
brought forward at each side of the face from a definite and decided
parting, were brushed back.  Irene was observed one night at about eight,
on her return from commissariat duties in connection with next morning’s
breakfast, staring earnestly at the head which, in a window, revolved
slowly, vanishing and re-appearing with a fixed, haughty smile.  A youth
came up and made some remarks.

“Don’t you address conversation to any one what you haven’t been
introduced to,” she ordered, warmly.

“Carry your parcel for you?”

“Thanks,” replied Irene, “but I don’t want to lose it.”

The youth, declining to take this as a repulse, followed, and Irene’s
mistress reproved her for entering the house at the front door when the
area gate was open.  The very next day a fresh and daring experiment was
made by fixing a white collar around the neck, and this was succeeded in
the evening by a pair of cuffs.  She seemed pleased with the general
effect, and hastened to answer some knocks and rings at the front door
instead of compelling every caller to repeat the summons.  One of these
she received with great curtness.

“No, the name don’t live here.”

“Beg pardon!” said a youth’s deep voice.  “Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”

“Quite likely.  Judging from your appearance.”

“Doing any shopping to-night, miss?”

Her mistress appealed to her by name, and she closed the door, explaining
a few minutes later that she could not help feeling sorry for the poor
fellows who had to sell combs and hair-brushes; at the same time, they
had no right to annoy people who had work to do beside answering knocks.
Later, her mistress asked her to refrain from singing.  Irene’s voice
would never have taken her to the concert platform, but her theory of
music was so excellent that it may be worth while to give some
particulars here.  When affairs of the world went crooked, with her
mistress temporarily short in temper, streets becoming muddy directly
that the front step had been whitened, disaster on the stairs with a
breakfast tray, then Irene selected airs of the cheeriest description,
bursting into:

    “When Jones, my friend, came round to me,
    He said, ‘Will you go on the spree?’
    I answered ‘Yes, of course I will,
    That is, if you will pay the bill.’”

and other songs of a rollicking nature.  On the other hand, when the
world went smoothly and nothing happened of a contrary nature and her
mistress had given her an egg with her tea, then Irene’s voice came
lugubriously up from the basement:

    “Oh I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower,
    For I’m leaving her and Britain’s gallant shower,
    Though my tears are gently falling, yet I hear her voice a-calling,
    But I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower.”

Changes had, as mentioned, been coming over the girl, but they proved
more obvious at the period when the young man referred to adopted the
procedure of waiting outside the house of an evening, sometimes offering
three stamps with the foot, sometimes giving a whistle, sometimes playing
on the railings a mandoline solo, sometimes, after a wait of
three-quarters of an hour, affecting in an ostentatious way to leave—when
all other plans had failed—and bringing Irene up the steps of the area at
a run, and with a call of “Hi!”

The interesting detail about the acquaintance was the perfect and
complete decision arrived at without delay, by Irene.  Other girls, in
like case, would probably have assumed an attitude of indifference in
speaking of their young man; might have suggested that they would require
much persuasion before consenting to give their hand; would certainly
have conveyed the impression that the capture of their heart was a task
not easily effected.  Irene, from a fortnight after the meeting outside
the hairdresser’s shop, made no attempt to hide the fact that she fully
intended to marry Mr. Easter.  I have often wondered whether he made a
formal proposal, or whether it was assumed on both sides that this could
be taken for granted: there are some matters on which one cannot
interrogate a lady, and, if she does not give the information
spontaneously, the particulars have to be guessed.  In other respects,
there seemed no reason to complain of want of candour.  Irene chaffed
herself quite openly.  If she forgot to furnish a cup and saucer with a
spoon:

“That’s the worst of being in love!”

If she omitted to place the toast-rack on the breakfast table:

“Sooner I get married and settled down the better for all parties!”

Irene, on the Sunday afternoon when he proposed to take her for the first
time to see his people, started out looking like a composite photograph,
for every lady in the boarding-house, from her mistress in the basement
upward, had made some loan or gift, and many of the adornments had a
familiar appearance.  No one could blame her for opening the striped
parasol, although the sun was absent; a muff carried by the other hand
and wrist showed that no weather would find her unprepared.  Young Easter
stood at the corner of the first turning, and, in his case, a necktie
showed a vivacious spirit of adventure.  A row of white caps watched from
area railings as they met, noted that a bowler hat was lifted, polite
offer to carry the muff, consultation regarding the method of conveyance.
They went off arm-in-arm, Irene tripping in the effort to keep step, and
any one, starting out five minutes later, could have followed the scent,
and tracked both to the destination by the combined odour of
lavender-water and eau de cologne.

“Oh yes,” reported Irene, the next day, “I can always make myself at ’ome
with strangers.  The old lady—his mother—seemed inclined to be a bit
stand-offish at the start, but I said something pleasant about the jam
and after that—well, you can generally get over ’em with a little
artfulness.  Tact is everything in this world.  Besides, civility costs
nothing.  At any, rate, he seemed satisfied.”

A new independence of manner appeared, but only on Friday mornings, and
this was probably due to the increased conceit effected by young Easter’s
compliments of the night before.  Her curtness towards messengers from
shops on these occasions was painful to regard: postmen offering remarks
as she knelt at the steps in the early hours went on with the abashed air
of those who have incurred severe reproof.

A dramatic shock came when the month’s notice had nearly expired, that
must have reinforced the girl’s confidence in “The Belgravia Novelette,”
and its amazing habit of altering the situation by the wave of a fairy
wand.  She made a slight blunder by reading the letter without any
exhibition of an agonised mind, but a moment’s consideration remedied
this, and, if all I heard was true, she eventually overdid the tragic
intensity required.

“Oh heavens!” she murmured brokenly.  “Oh my!  Oh dear!  Has it come to
this?  What is there to live for now?  Oh! I think I shall go out of my
mind!”

“Be quiet, child!” ordered her mistress, sharply.  “You’ll make yourself
ill if you go on like this.”

“Oh, go away and leave me to die.  Oh, only leave me alone!  Frank,
Frank!”

“If you carry on in this fashion,” declared her mistress, “I shall simply
take you by the shoulders and give you a thorough good shaking.  That’s
what I shall give to you, miss!”

“Read it, ma’am, read it, read it!”

Her mistress, having complied with this request, assured her that, so far
as she could understand, the letter contained important news, but nothing
to justify the hysterical outburst.  Irene, recovering partial serenity
of manner, explained, and the other, reading the letter again, admitted
there was something in the girl’s view, and that the fact of young Easter
being taken into partnership by an uncle whose health was failing, might
well result in the breaking off of the engagement; the two found common
ground in condemning the variability of man, and the pernicious influence
of success upon some minds.  The girl gave a brief rehearsal of her share
in the interview that was to take place that evening, from which it
appeared that young Easter would have little to do but listen, to mumble
ineffective excuses, to retire finally carrying the knowledge that Irene
would not now consent to marry him, though he should come to her on hands
and knees.

“Let him ’ave it straight, I will!” cried Irene.  “They can’t play about
and make a fool of me.  May think they can, but I’ll jolly soon let ’em
know they’ve made a mistake.  Shan’t talk much, mind you, but what I do
say will go right ’ome.  Least said, soonest mended!”

It was expected she would return within twenty minutes after leaving the
house; instead, ten o’clock struck as her knock came, and this was not
her usual single knock, but represented the music of a triumphant dance.
The fault for imagining disaster she imputed to her mistress, who seemed
to lack the gift of comprehending a well and clearly expressed letter.
Mr. Easter had no idea of backing out of the engagement; on the contrary,
he wished her, in the new circumstances, to make some more elaborate
investments at certain of the best shops in the neighbourhood, and this
represented his uncle’s desire as well as his own.

Irene’s mistress tells me she had given up all thoughts and hopes of
seeing her again when, being away in the north of London, and desiring to
return with all despatch, she managed by standing in front of a
conveyance to stop it.  Passengers on the left reluctantly made room: the
young woman next to whom she sat begged pardon coldly, and carefully
shielded skirts.  Recognition came.

“What a very small world it is!” said Irene, in a high voice.  “How most
extraordinary you and I should run across each other again!  And tell
me,” condescendingly, “you are getting on pretty well?  So glad!  What a
great convenience these motor omnibuses must be to poor people; I suppose
you often travel in them.  Do you know, I couldn’t get a taxi when I
wanted one just now, couldn’t get one for love or money.  My husband will
be so annoyed when I tell him about it.  I get out here.  Three At Homes
to go to.  Goodbye!”

XIV—YOUNG NUISANCES

THE three had done nearly everything forbidden by the company’s notices,
and as the train slowed in order to stop at a junction, they expressed a
fierce determination to reserve the compartment for the rest of the
journey.  If any one touched the handle they would fetch him (or her)
such a rap across the knuckles as wouldn’t make him (or her) half scream.
They were still discussing plans of defence when the train came to a
crowded platform; the three rushed to the door and side windows, shouting
an assurance that there was no room, that the door was locked, that the
compartment had been specially reserved.  A short struggle, and
determined travellers made their way in.

“Young hussies!” exclaimed a brown-faced woman wrathfully.  “Never saw
such impudence in all my life before.”

“They come down,” said another, “these yer London schoolchildren, and
they kick up such a deuce and all of a shindy that everybody in the
village begs and prays they’ll never be allowed to come again.”

“And the manners they learn our youngsters!” remarked a third.  “The
expressions!  The sayings!  The tunes!”

“The country’s no fit place for ’em,” declared the brown-faced woman
emphatically.  “I’m strongly in favour of every one keeping themselves to
themselves.  I’ve never so much as thought of going up to London myself.
Sooner see myself dead and in my grave and buried, I would.”

One admitted she went up twice a year, but pleaded, in extenuation, that
she had a sister in service at Highbury, and invariably brought home
enough small suits and dresses to enable her eight children to attract a
fair amount of attention at the Congregational Chapel.  Conversation went
on to safer grounds.

“All finished?” asked the shortest of the three London children
presently.  The ladies sniffed and declined to answer.  “’Cos if so,
perhaps you won’t mind if we say a word.  We don’t come here for a week’s
’oliday to please ourselves; we don’t come down here for the benefit of
our ’ealth; we come down so as to brighten you up a bit, and give you a
chance of—”

“Mixing with intelligent people.”

“Be quiet!” she ordered to her companions.  “Leave it to me.”  She
addressed the women again.  “To give you a chance of seeing what a lot of
pudden-headed fools you are.”

The passengers, trembling with annoyance, whispered a recommendation that
no notice should be taken of these remarks; the brown-faced woman could
not, however, refrain from hinting at a course of procedure which would
be adopted were the child one of hers.

“The idea is this,” went on the short girl, with the patient air of
endeavouring to make a complicated matter clear to defective intellects.
“You dawdle about every day of your lives, seeing nothing, ’earing
nothing, doing nothing.  You very seldom speak, and when you do you talk
in such a peculiar style that you can’t possibly understand one another.
So the County Council comes to us and it says, ‘Miss Parkes,’ or whatever
our name happens to be, ‘sorry to trouble, but you’ll shortly be taking
your ’olidays, and will you be so kind and so obliging as to go down to
such-and-such a place, and do all you can to liven it up.  It’s asking
you a great deal,’ says the County Council, ‘but the Fund is very keen
about it, and if you can spare the time, and if you’ve got the
willingness, why,’ says the County Council, ‘we shall look on it as a
great favour!’”

“‘And make it worth your while,’” suggested her companions.

“I’ll biff you two,” she threatened, “if you can’t keep quiet when I’m
talking!”

“The daringness of the child!” exclaimed the rest of the compartment,
amazedly and heatedly.  “Don’t believe there’s a single word of truth in
what she says!  The trollops!”

“Facts are facts,” she said, smoothing her brief skirt, “and it’s very
little use pretending you can get away from them.  It’s no pleasure to me
to have to tell you all this, but it’s only right you should know.  As
for us finding any satisfaction coming to these ’eaven-forsaken places—”

She laughed scornfully, and because her two companions did not join in
this ordered them to wake up and sing something.

“If you do,” threatened the brown-faced woman solemnly, “I shall most
certainly report you to the guard at the next station.  It’s agenst the
by-laws, and you can be punished for doing it.  Punished well.  My eldest
boy is going on the line when he leaves school, and it stands to reason I
know what I’m talking about.  So you just dare, that’s all!”

They allowed one station to go before beginning, and during the
half-minute of rest there chaffed an official until he became scarlet
with confusion.  On the train re-starting, the three lifted their voices
to shrill music, singing a satirical melody with, for last line of the
refrain, “Oh, what a jolly place is Engeland.”  This was followed by a
song that caused the other passengers to gaze steadily at the roof of the
compartment; the girls did not conceal their diversion at the sensitive
nature of the country mind.

“What shall we give ’em next?” asked the eldest girl.

“Wait a bit and let me think,” answered the youngest.

The women said that by rights Parliament ought to step in.  If Parliament
once decided that these common, vulgar children were not to be allowed,
even once a year, to come down into the country and make themselves a
nuisance, then it would be stopped.  It only needed that Parliament
should say the word.  Parliament would have to be spoken to about it.
Parliament busied its head concerning a lot of things which did not
matter; but here was a subject Parliament might well tackle, and thus
earn the grateful thanks of a nation.

“Let’s give ’em,” said the youngest, “one of them songs we’ve been
learnin’ at school lately.  There isn’t room, or else we’d do one of the
Morris dances.  That’d make ’em open their eyes!”

At the first verse the brown-faced woman put down her basket and gave all
her attention.  As the refrain began she unconsciously nodded her bonnet
to the rhythm.

    “‘Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
       Where are you going, my honey?’
    ‘Going over the hills, kind sir,’ she said,
       ‘To my father a-mowing the barley!’”

“Why, do you know,” she cried, “I ’ent heard that not since—”

“Order, there!” commanded the girl imperatively.  “Some of you’ll get
chucked out if you don’t keep quiet.”

The last verse came to the deeply interested compartment:

    “And now she is the lawyer’s wife,
       And dearly the lawyer loves her;
    They live in a happy content of life
       And well in the station above her.”

The women clapped hands.  One remembered her grandmother singing it years
and years and years ago; another had heard it once and only once, at a
Foresters’ fête; a third had always recollected the air, but the words
she could not have recalled though you offered her a pension.  The London
children, touched by the genuine enthusiasm, sang “Blow Away the Morning
Dew” and “The Two Magicians.”  The audience pressed apples upon them.

“You’re never getting out here, my dears?” protested the brown-faced
woman.  They assured her this was their destination.  “Well, then,”
taking up her heavy basket, “dang it all—it only means a extra fowermile
walk for me—if I don’t get out with you, just for the pleasure of your
company!”

XV—MY BROTHER EDWARD

THE case of my brother Edward is typical of many, and I set the facts
down here, partly as reminder to myself, mainly for the information of
the public.  I said once, when in the company of some other bright
spirits, that the pupils of yesterday are the teachers of to-morrow, by
which remark I meant to convey that we learn in our youth, and in our
middle age become, in turn, the instructors.  Poor Edward had the same
advantages that came to me in school days, the very same advantages.  Our
mother consulted us in turn; I, the elder, decided, without hesitation,
to go into the City; Edward, a year later, suggested that he should go
into an engineering place at Wandsworth, on the other side of the river.

“No, no,” I said when I reached home that night.  “This won’t do at all.
Choose a refined occupation.  We don’t want all Fulham to think that the
sweeps are continually coming in and going out of the house.  We may have
our faults, but no one can say that we haven’t always worn a clean
collar.”

“I’ll keep mine for Sundays,” remarked Edward.

“Mother,” I went on, “please let it be understood that this is a matter
which concerns me to some extent.  Supposing I wished to bring home a
friend from Bucklersbury, and supposing that just as I opened the front
gate Edward came along.  How should I be able to explain—”

“Say,” suggested Edward, “that I was going in for Christy Minstrel
business in my spare time.  Say I was just off to St. James’s Hall.”

“I place my veto on the scheme.”

“You can place whatever you like,” he retorted, “and it won’t make any
difference.”

“Very well,” I said, “very well.  In that case I consider myself relieved
of all responsibility.  I’ve done with it.  Only, mind this, don’t come
to me in after years—”

“I promise that.”

“And complain that I omitted to give you advice.  Mother, you’re a
witness.”

I put my silk hat on and went out of the house.  I have always been
willing to give people the benefit of my counsel, but the moment I find
they cease to be receptive I—to use a vulgarism—dry up.

I discovered a certain amount of satisfaction in observing that events
shaped somewhat in accordance with my prophecy.  So soon as my voice
settled down I was asked to join a Choral Union in Walham Green; and on
the second evening, as I escorted two ladies in the direction of their
home, I met Edward—Edward on the way from work, and presenting the
appearance of a half-caste nigger.  He raised his cap, and I had to
explain to my companions that he was a lad to whom my people had been
able to show some kindness, taking him in hand when he was quite young.
Unfortunately, one of the ladies knew him, and knew his name, and I found
it advisable not to go to any more rehearsals of “The Wreck of the
_Hesperus_.”  Months afterwards, when I had left home and was living in
lodgings owing to a dispute with mother about coming home late at night,
he and some of his fellow-workmen arrived at the offices in Bucklersbury
to fit up the electric light, which had then just come in, and I had to
take an early opportunity of mentioning to him, privately, that if he
claimed relationship with me he would be doing the very worst turn that a
man could do to another.

“See you hanged first!” said Edward, taking his coat off to begin work.
I turned cold at the sight of his shirt-sleeves of flannel.

“That makes it necessary that I should appeal to your better instincts.
I implore you, Edward, to remember that the ties of relationship can
exist, but need not—”

“I mean,” he explained, “that I’ll see you hanged first before I confess
to any one here that you are a brother of mine.  Providing, of
course”—here he threw back his head and laughed in a loud, common
way—“providing the Governor of Newgate allows me to be present at the
ceremony.”

I felt greatly relieved at this, but now and again, while the work was
going on in the office, Edward gave me a start by talking in an audible
voice to the other workmen about his relatives, and I knew he did this
purposely.  What I feared was that his companions might speak to him by
his surname; it proved reassuring to find that they called him Teddy.  On
the night they finished the work, I happened to be staying overtime, and,
taking him aside, I tried to talk pleasantly to him, asking how he
progressed in the new business to which he had transferred himself, and
pointing out that a rolling stone gathered no moss, but he seemed quite
off-hand in his manner.  I offered him sixpence that he might go out and
get a drink.  He said that I had better keep it and buy something to put
in my face; he added that I appeared to be spending all my money on
clothes, and expressed doubts whether I had enough to eat.

“Pardon me, Edward,” I said, “you are now trespassing on grounds that do
not belong to you.”

“A family weakness,” he remarked.  “Good-night, old man!  Good luck to
you!”

“Edward,” I said, “it is not luck which counts in this world, but rather
a steady, dogged determination to do one’s duty; a persistent effort to
keep one’s position in society; to mingle, so far as possible, with those
of a superior station in life.”

“Do you know what I think of you?” he interrupted sharply.  “You’re
nothing more nor less than—  Perhaps I’d better not say what I was going
to say.  After all, we’re brothers.”

“That, Edward,” I said, in my quiet way, turning to go, so that it might
finish the discussion—“that is a fact which I sometimes find it difficult
to realise.”

“You needn’t try,” he retorted.

On reflection, I perceived that, disturbing as this argument had been,
there was no reason to allow it to cause regret, for it meant a final
breaking up of friendship, and enabled me to find good plea for not
acknowledging his existence should we ever meet again.  Moreover,
increases had been stopped in the office, and it appeared likely that I
might remain at £110 a year for a time.  Unless I could find some one of
a fairly attractive appearance, with a little money of her own, it would
inconvenience me greatly to contribute anything towards the support of my
mother.  This difference of opinion with Edward provided me with a good
answer if ever the application should be made.  “After what Edward
remarked to me some time ago,” I should say, “I must decline to have
anything to do with domestic expenses.  He is living in the house: let
him provide the sums necessary for the upkeep of the establishment.”  As
it proved, no necessity existed for this statement, because they very
wisely refrained from making any appeal.

I heard of Edward occasionally by the medium of Miss Charlesworth; she
also brought me news of my mother.  I was living then in Jubilee Place,
and Miss Charlesworth’s people kept a large dairy in King’s Road,
Chelsea.  I called in sometimes on my way home for a couple of fresh
eggs.  Eggs can be carried in the pocket without observation, and, if
folk are careful not to crowd, without damage, whilst other eatables have
to be conveyed in a parcel.  I had strong objections to be seen carrying
a package of any kind.

Miss Charlesworth took music-lessons from my mother in the old days when
there was not much money about, and I always spoke pleasantly when I
called at the dairy, answering her when she asked whether there was
anything special in the evening papers; I talked to her across the
milk-pans, if I could spare the time, about Gilbert and Sullivan’s new
play at the “Savoy.”  Her mother beamed through the glass half of the
door at the back, and on one occasion asked me to step in and have a bite
of supper.  I declined the first invitation, and this caused Miss
Charlesworth’s mother to become exceedingly anxious that I should honour
them with my company.

“Fix your own evening,” urged the old lady: “we’re plain people, but we
always keep a good table.”

I found that, in the interests of economy, the plan, once started,
answered very well.  At first, when Miss Charlesworth’s mother found that
I walked into the shop-parlour nearly every night at supper-time, she
exhibited signs of impatience, putting an extra plate down with a bang,
and throwing a thick tumbler towards me with the word:

“Catch!”

But the attentions I paid to her plump daughter mollified her, and she
always cried when I sang “The Anchor’s Weighed.”  From Lily—one could but
smile at the ludicrous inappropriateness of the name—I heard that my
brother Edward had been foolhardy enough to start an electric light
business on his own account; and, in spite of the differences that had
taken place between us, I could not help feeling annoyed that he had
omitted to ask my advice before taking such a step.  It would be of no
advantage to me for people to find the name of my brother in the list of
bankruptcies.

I can never understand how it was that I allowed myself to be imposed
upon by the Charlesworths.  In the City at that time I had the reputation
of being as keen as any one in the office, where my own interests were
concerned; there were complaints that I shirked some of my duties, and
that I often shifted responsibility from my own shoulders, but no one
ever accused me of being a fool.  These two women at the dairy-shop in
King’s Road, as nearly as possible, took me in.  It hurt me very much
afterwards to think of the time I had wasted.  If I took Lily
Charlesworth to one place of interest, I took her to a dozen; the
National Gallery on a free day, the Tower, the outside of the Lyceum
Theatre, the South Kensington Museum—any man, young at the time, and in
receipt of a stationary income can fill in the list.  Now and again she
wanted to talk about my brother Edward; I changed the subject adroitly,
for I could not trust my temper where he was concerned.  It was near the
Albert Memorial one evening (she had seen it before, but, as I said, it
could do her no harm to see it again) that I directed conversation to the
subject of profits made on milk and cream; the discussion began at a
quarter past seven, and the information I obtained was satisfactory
enough to induce me, at twenty minutes to eight, to make a definitely
worded offer.

“Very kind of you to ask me,” she said nervously, “but I think my answer
must be ‘No.’”

“Come, come,” I said pleasantly, “there’s no occasion for all this
coyness.  We’re friends.”

“Yes,” she said rapidly, “friends.  That’s just it.  And there’s no
reason why we shouldn’t go on being friends.  But nothing more, please.”

“That,” I remarked, “if you will allow me to say so, Lily, verges on
stupidity.  I dare say you feel that you are not worthy of me.”

“It isn’t that.”

“May, I ask what other reason can possibly exist?”

“There are several.”

“Give me one,” I insisted.

“I think,” she said deliberately—“I rather think I am going to marry your
brother Edward.”

I threw up my hands with a gesture of sympathy.

“You poor, silly girl!” I said.  “What ever has induced you to think
that?”

“Your brother Edward.”

I turned away from her.

“It was because he asked us to be kind to you,” she went on, “that me and
mother took the trouble to look after you of an evening.  It’s kept you
out of mischief.”

“I suppose you’re aware that he’s marrying you for the sake of your
money.”

“Don’t think he is,” she replied.  “I haven’t got any.”

“But you will have?”

“No!”

I must say this for myself: that I kept wonderfully calm, considering the
trying nature of the circumstances.  It appeared that, although her
mother’s name showed over the dairy, she was only the manager, working at
a salary.  I pointed out that this should have been mentioned to me
before.  She answered that Edward was acquainted with the fact, and there
existed no reason why the information should be communicated to me.

I saw the uselessness of arguing the point, and left her to make her way
home alone, congratulating myself on a narrow escape.

That night I wrote a rather clever letter to my brother Edward, the
wording of which gave me trouble, but brought satisfaction; my only fear
was that he might not have the intelligence to read between the lines.  I
said that I felt sure Lily Charlesworth would grow up to be the woman her
mother was; he would no doubt be as happy as he deserved to be; I trusted
it would be many weeks ere he discovered the mistake he had made.  For
myself, I had long since decided to remain a bachelor; I hinted that the
courage of the family appeared to have centred itself in him.  Begged him
to convey my best regards to my mother, and to express my regret that, on
his marriage, I could not see my way to offering her a home.

Edward sent no answer to this, and he forwarded no invitation to the
wedding.  I should not have accepted it; indeed, I had drafted out a
satirical reply, but I do think he might have sent me a card.  I
transferred my custom to a dairy in Brompton Road; and, at about that
period, I spoke to a young lady in Hyde Park, mentioning that it was a
fine evening, and that the days were drawing in.

I may say at once this lady became my wife.  It is unnecessary also that
I should delay the information that her account of relatives, of her
position in society, and of herself, given to me during the days of
courtship, differed to a considerable extent from the details proffered
during our honeymoon at Littlehampton, and this made it easy for me to
explain that one or two exaggerations had somehow crept into the
particulars which I had furnished concerning myself.  For one day, after
this, we exchanged no word with each other; and I have since been
inclined to wish that she, at any rate, had continued this policy of
silence, for, later on, she made remarks which (as I believe I pointed
out at the time) proved her to be wanting in that fine and glorious
attribute of women—the ability to forgive and forget.

“Suppose we must make the best of it,” she said, “but I can foresee that
the best won’t be very good.  And if ever I allow a day to go by without
reminding you of what a bounder you are, then you can assume that I am
going off my head.”

She must have begun at once, for I remember that when I had struck some
items off the bill, and settled with the Littlehampton boarding-house,
the landlady told me that she had never found herself making such a
mistake in the whole course of her existence: when we first arrived in
the cab, she could have sworn we had not been married long; on
retrospection she perceived that we had been man and wife for at least
ten years.  I told her we should never by any chance patronise her
boarding-house again, and she said this assurance robbed the future of
half its terrors.  No doubt she thought she had had the last word, but
she little knew the kind of man she was dealing with; I got the better of
her later by recommending some of my economical friends to go there.

I mention all this because the incident is typical of others which
happened at about this time.  At office I detected a disposition on the
part of the firm to promote younger men over my head, and, when I
insisted on knowing the reason, they fenced with me for some time.

“Fact is,” said one of the partners at last, “you show no interest in
your work.”

“Make it worth my while, sir.”

“We’re paying you your full value.  You wouldn’t get more for your
services anywhere else.”

“I doubt that, sir.”

“Quite easy for you to test the truth of the statement,” snapped the
partner.

“I suppose,” I retorted, “that means you can do without me!”

“It means we are ready to try.”

I told the wife when I reached home, and, after she had expressed some
opinions concerning my conduct, she said that my best plan would be to
write to my brother Edward, and ask him to use his influence in obtaining
for me a new berth.  I told her plainly that I would rather cease work
for ever than feel myself under any obligation to him.  When, after
replying to several advertisements, it became clear that some exceptional
step would have to be taken, I submitted an alternative for her
consideration.  To show what a difficult woman she was to deal with (and
to throw a light on much that happened afterwards), I wish to record that
she went into one of her fits of temper, calling me everything but my
proper name.  Using diplomacy, I went away for a day or two, and on my
return she told me she had decided to act upon my suggestion.

“Very well,” I said; “but why not have agreed to it at first?  However,
it’s satisfactory to see that you have come to your senses.  Perhaps
another time that we have a difference of opinion—”

“It won’t happen again.”

“I can’t trust you,” I said severely.  “These promises of yours mean
nothing.”

“I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“We will leave it at that,” I said.  “What it all amounts to is this:
that you are willing to go back to your former occupation as lady’s-maid
in a family.”

“That’s it!”

“In which capacity you will be able to earn enough to keep the home
going.”

“What home?”

“This home.”

“Oh, no!” said my wife.  “Oh, dear me, no!  I shall earn enough to keep
myself going, but I shan’t bother about you.  Understand that, once for
all.”

“Do you mean to look me in the face—”

“Sha’n’t allow you a penny,” she declared.  “And if you find out where
I’m engaged, and call round and begin kicking up a row—”

“What then?”

“I shall simply come back again,” she announced deliberately, “and make
you keep me.”

It must have been in consequence of this blow, administered by one who
had sworn to love, honour, and obey me, that I began to lose heart.  I
went into a single room, on the other side of the water, and for a time
became interested in political life, devoting myself more particularly to
the Sugar Bounty Question.  To my astonishment, I found that my brother
Edward was paying some attention to a constituency in South London; as I
remarked, rather cleverly, he appeared to have succeeded in the world as
much as I deserved to do.  It became my duty at one of his meetings to
put a few searching questions to him.  Some of his supporters objected,
and cried out to me: “Who are you; who are you?”  I shouted back that the
candidate could give the information if he cared to do so.

“Oh, yes,” said Edward; “he is my brother.”

I spoke to him after the meeting, and he introduced me to a slim,
good-looking woman—his wife.  I remarked, in her presence, that he
appeared to have found out Miss Charlesworth, as I had done; he replied
that he had not only found her out, but that he had married her.  My
amazed look caused Mrs. Edward to declare she had rarely received such a
genuine compliment, and that it more than repaid her for the course of
persistent exercise on which she had engaged.  She added they had made
efforts to discover me—I knew how much to believe of that—and exhibited
surprise on hearing that I was married.

“We particularly wanted to find you,” remarked my brother Edward, “about
six months ago.”

“Let me see,” I said.  “Where was I six months ago?  Busy, I expect.
What did you want me for?”

“Mother died.”

“Wish I’d known,” I said.  “I would have sent a wreath.  Got a
cigarette?”

He turned away rather sharply, and then turned to me again.  “She wanted
to see you,” he remarked.  And they both gave their attention to some one
else.

It occurred to me afterwards that they perhaps expected me to show more
signs of distress; if I had thought this at the time I could have obliged
them.  But that trifling detail makes no excuse whatever for Edward’s
subsequent conduct towards me, conduct which has compelled me to write
this account of his behaviour.  I put it briefly, and I wish to add that
I put it truthfully; there may have been times in my career when it has
been necessary to step with care beyond the confines of exactitude, but,
in regard to this matter, I am telling you nothing that can be
contradicted.

I wrote to him, you must know, immediately after the meeting, and offered
to stop my opposition to his candidature, and to help him, heart, body,
and soul, if he would allow me—say, two pounds a week.  He replied
curtly.  I did not apply to him again for quite ten days, and then I
wrote saying that, although he could not see his way to accepting my
first proposition, perhaps he could let me have a loan.  I said I was
temporarily out of a situation, and that several excellent offers were
being made to me.

To keep myself to the truth, I am bound to say that I obtained from him,
at various times, amounts which, totted up, would come to a respectable
figure.

Mark what follows.

This morning—this very morning—I receive a letter.  Headed “House of
Commons.”

“I find,” he writes, “that for some years past you have done no work of a
creditable nature.  I am always willing to help those who are making some
effort to earn a living, but I do nothing for the indolent.  I can give
you no further assistance until you obtain work and show some clear
intention of sticking to it.”

Apart from the wording of the letter—inexcusable in one who had equal
educational advantages with myself—I desire to point out the callousness
of its tone; the disregard of family ties.  I leave the matter for the
world to judge.  In the meanwhile, if you know of any one who can be
persuaded to assist by spontaneous gifts, I shall not only be saved the
necessity of looking for employment, but I shall be enabled to write a
sharp, stinging note to my brother Edward.

XVI—SAVOIR FAIRE

“AUNT kept on saying I ought to bring her up to London with me.”  The
perturbed lad examined closely the peak of his cap.  “What the others
seeggested was that I should get you to go down to Railway Terrace and
argy it all out with my late landlady.  One of the ticket collectors said
there wasn’t nobody on the station who could make himself so unpleasant
as you, Mr. Swan, when you felt so inclined.”

“I do my best,” admitted Porter Swan.

“’Nother one recommended you should go down there and knock at the door
and pretend to have had a drop or two too much.”

“Why pretend?”

The new porter had endured a hard week; all the tricks of an inventive
staff had been played upon him, and Porter Swan took a lively interest in
these, prompting colleagues to further efforts.  Now that young Mannering
arrived with his troubles and appealed for help, games were set aside.

“She’s evidently a terror,” admitted Porter Swan presently.  “If you’d
only come and asked me at the outset I might have told you where to go.
’Pon me word, I don’t know quite now what to be up to!”

“If you don’t,” said young Mannering hopelessly, “then no one does.”

“Why not go back and make the best of it for a while?”

“Mr. Swan,” declared the youth tearfully, “I do assure you her chops are
worse than her vegetables, and her vegetables worse than her chops.  I
was bound to leave.”

“And you want your property, then, without paying too much?”

“I’d rayther get it without paying nothing at all.”

Porter Swan went off duty at seven, having first washed with unusual
vigour and changed his official headgear for the bowler hat of private
life.  Near the suburban station he bought a cigar, and, lighting it,
strode towards Railway Terrace, rehearsing the coming debate on the way.
At the door of No. 17 he gave a sharp, definite knock and frowned at some
children who ran up to watch the course of events.  He had to knock
again, and this time also rattled the flap of the letter-box to express
impatience.

“Well?” asked the trim, determined woman at the open doorway.  “What are
you kicking up all this row for?”

“I don’t want to make any unpleasantness, or any un-anything else,” he
began truculently, “but you’ve got a tin box belonging to one of our
young men, and I have to request, ma’am, that you hand it over to me at
your early convenience.”

“Pay me his week’s board and lodging, and you can take not only the tin
box, but all that’s in it.”

“Goes against the grain,” he said loudly, “to argue with a lady, but I
ask you one simple question.  Have you, since you’ve taken to letting,
ever had a lodger that stayed so long as a month?”

“The last two,” she replied calmly, “stayed until they got married.”

“They must have had iron constitutions,” he argued.

“Martha!” she called, turning her head.

“Yes, mother.”

“Did you hear what this gentleman said?”

“Yes, mother.”

“It’s as well,” she remarked to him, “to have a witness.  Makes all the
difference in a court of law.”  She found her handkerchief.  “I’ve always
made it a special boast that I never had to tell a lodger to go, and I do
think it’s hard—”

“Look here, ma’am,” said Porter Swan, still in aggressive tones, “we
don’t want to quarrel.  We want to arrange this trifling affair in a
nice, sensible, amicable way.”

“If you’re going to settle it,” she said, “I’ll go and make out the
bill.”

“Let me understand first of all,” repressing annoyance.  “What does your
claim actually amount to?”

She mentioned the sum.

“And you’ve got the assurance to stand there and demand all that for
keeping this young country lad for three days!  Why, it’s my opinion
you’re nothing more nor less than a female swindler.”

“Martha!” she called.  “Are you still listening, dear?”

Porter Swan went on to the house of his own landlady, where he complained
with bitterness of the absence of a mat and the condition of the
wallpaper; she soothed him with a cup of tea so excellent that it stood
outside the pale of criticism.  In his room he used the hair-brush with
considerable fierceness, a process that seemed to arouse ideas, for after
a few moments’ consideration he changed his collar and fixed a necktie
hitherto reserved for Sundays, Good Friday, and Christmas Day.  Then he
set out, whistling as he went, announcing cheerfully to his landlady that
he would return in less than half an hour.  If her husband came in, she
was to beg him to stay up: Porter Swan would have something to relate to
him.  In Douglas Street he purchased a threepenny bunch of
chrysanthemums—all white.

At the door of the house in Railway Terrace he gave this time a
deferential knock.  The child answered it, crying to her mother that the
man with the red face had called again.  Swan asked the little girl
whether she cared for flowers, and made a genial presentation.

“Sorry to trouble you once more, ma’am,” he said, taking off his hat and
throwing away the end of the cigar, “but I’ve come round to apologise.
In the heat of argument I used one or two remarks I’d no business to use
to any lady, and if you’ll kindly dismiss them from your mind I shall
esteem it a favour.”

“Look what he’s give me, mother,” said the child.

“A sweet-faced little thing,” mentioned Swan, gazing down at the
youngster sentimentally.  “I’ve often thought that if ever I did get
married—  Only”—with a regretful shrug of the right shoulder—“I’ve never
been lucky enough to find any one that cared for me.  That accounts for
my want of good manners.”

“It is a bit noticeable,” she agreed.

“It’s partly, too,” he contended, “the result of good nature.  This young
chap, he appealed to me to help him, and I, foolish like, consented to do
my best.  Never occurred to me that I should be no use at all when I set
myself against the sharpness of a woman.  When a woman’s got a clear head
and a certain amount of good looks, no man has the leastest chance.”  He
looked around the passage for a new subject.  “Is this the late lamented,
may I ask, ma’am?”

“That’s Lord Kitchener,” she answered, not displeased.  “Would you care
to come in and sit down for a bit?  I expect you’re tired, running about
all over the place.  Martha dear, you come in, too, and let us see how
nicely you can arrange the flowers.  That,” entering the front room and
pointing to a large, tinted photograph, “that was Mr. Rickards.”

“Sensible sort of forehead,” said Porter Swan guardedly.

“More than could be said of what was inside it.  He was always talking
about what he’d put by in the Railway Savings Bank, and every pay day he
used to come home and say, ‘It’s adding up rapidly,’ and ‘You won’t want
for nothing, my love, if I should be took away.’  And,” with acerbity,
“when he did go off, I found that instead of having about forty pounds
there—enough to give me the chance of opening a little business—he hadn’t
put by as many shillings.  Not as many pence.”

“Some men are like that.”

“All men are like that,” she insisted.

“No, no, no!” protested Swan.  “We’ve got our faults, but we haven’t got
the same kind of faults.  Most of us are straightforward.  How do you
manage to rub along, ma’am, if it isn’t a rude question?”

“It is a rude question; but I do dressmaking, and I take lodgers.”

“You take in lodgers?”

She smiled, and Swan could not help thinking that only trouble interfered
with her good looks.  She sent the child to the scullery for a jug of
water.

“Not for me,” he insisted.  “I shall have something with my supper, later
on.”

“It’s for the flowers,” as the child obeyed.  “And I didn’t want her to
hear what I was about to tell you,” she went on confidentially.  “The
fact is—  As you say, it has been an extraordinary autumn.  The sun
to-day was enough to make people’s eyes ache.”

“Ain’t spilt a drop,” announced the child, who had returned swiftly.

Swan moved his chair nearer.

“You’ve got eyes,” he said, lowering his voice, “eyes like the
head-lights on an engine.”

She tried to frown, and gave a meaning glance in the direction of the
occupied little girl.

“I shall be dreamin’ of ’em for weeks,” he whispered earnestly.  “I’m not
one to take much notice of females in a general way—a woman hater; that’s
what they call me in the porters’ room—but as I was going to say, I can
quite well imagine a chap like myself, going on for years just racketing
about and then coming across a pair of eyes like yours and saying to
himself, ‘Swan, old man, it’s time you began to take matters seriously!’”

“Martha, my dear, go on with your work.  Me and Mr. Swan are only talking
business!”

“You must have been a decent-looking girl in your day,” Swan went on.
“Of course, time doesn’t stand still with any of us, and very few can
weather the storm, as you may say, without showing some signs of wear and
tear.”

“I’ve had more of a struggle than most,” she said, glancing at the
mirror.

“You want somebody to take you out for walks, and now and again an
evening at the theatre.  Sometimes I get pit orders for two, and I tear
’em up, because,” said Swan, with a touch of melancholy, “simply because
I can’t get no one to go with.”

“That is a shame!” she cried.  “Surely your landlady—”

“You know what landladies are,” he interposed.  “Always on the make.  So
long as they can over-charge you, that’s all they want.  I don’t mean
anything personal,” he added quickly, and rose from the easy chair.
“It’s a fine moonlight night,” he went on; “I shall just take a turn
round and get a mouthful of fresh air.”

“I haven’t been outside the front door to-day.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, “a few houses off.”

“Martha,” she cried severely, “do you see what the time is?  Pack off to
bed this minute, and I’ll come up and hear you say your prayers.  Bid
‘Good-night’ to Mr. Swan, and thank him prettily for what he gave you.”

“Bring a bigger bunch next time,” said the child shrilly.

Swan, walking up and down on the pavement, was hailed by one or two
colleagues on their way home, who asked to be informed whether he had
succeeded in recovering young Mannering’s box: he contented himself by
replying to the effect that negotiations were in progress, and that a
full report would be made in the morning.  They predicted that he had for
once bitten off more than he could chew.

“This takes me back,” she remarked brightly, as she came up, “I shouldn’t
like to say how long.  Wonder whether I can get your step?”

“You’ll get accustomed to it,” he replied.  “Any objection to me
smoking?”

“I love a pipe!  Oh, but,” with sudden agitation, “I didn’t say you could
take my arm!  Whatever will the neighbours think?”

“They’ll think what a lucky one I am.”

“Mr. Swan, you seem to have an answer ready for everything!”

She announced half an hour later that she did not feel in the least
tired, adding a belief that she could go on walking for ever; but Swan,
who needed his supper, was firm, and at her door mentioned that he was
early duty all the current week.  She offered her hand and thanked him
for his kindness; he held it and asked determinedly where and when could
he see her again.  Surely, she retorted, surely once was enough!  Once,
Swan announced, was by no means enough—twenty thousand times would not,
in his opinion, be reckoned sufficient.

“You must think I’m simple to believe that!” she said.

“What about to-morrow?” he asked, ignoring the assertion.

“Would you care to come in the evening and have something to eat before
the child goes to bed?”

Porter Swan, in a moment of inspiration, kissed her hand, thus striking
the exactly right note, and she declared she seemed to have known him for
years.  Would Mr. Swan do her one favour?

“Command me!” he begged.

Would he mind taking that lad’s box away with him, and leaving it at the
station or somewhere?  The sight of it on the morrow would recall bitter
words that she wished to drive from her memory.

“I don’t mind obliging you,” said Swan, feigning reluctance, “to that
extent.”

It had cost a deal of thought and of trouble, but good repayment came the
next morning.  He conducted Mannering to the Up Parcels Office, and there
formally presented him with the tin box, sent free from the suburban
station as “Luggage Left Behind.”  The staff of the Up Parcels Office
cheered Swan, and, clustering around, begged to be informed how the feat
had been accomplished, and had to interpret a wink given as reply.
Porter Swan waved aside the lad’s thanks, declined the grateful offer of
refreshments, and walked out with the air of a successful diplomatist
leaving the Guildhall after receiving in a gold casket the freedom of the
City.  During the day he found a new regard paid to him; colleagues came
for private conference on knotty points of law, ranging from difficulties
with a neighbour concerning cats to the regaining of engagement rings
held by lady bailees.  It was all very pleasant and gratifying, and, in
order to enjoy it to the full, he gave less than his usual energy to the
collection of tips, actually leaving one leisurely passenger without
allowing her time to find her purse.

Not until a client, searching for sound legal advice, and finding it
impossible to state his case amidst the puffing and whistling of engines,
inquired: “What are you doing with yourself this evening, old man?”—not
until then did he recall the circumstance that he had promised to eat a
meal on the occasion of his ensuing visit.  He wanted to see her
again—just once more, at any rate—and he knew domestic authorities were
not too well pleased when disappointed in regard to a guest.  To arrive
after the supper hour would mar the warmth and geniality of his
reception.

“Mannering!”

“Yes, Mr. Swan.  Anything I can do for you?”

“Want a little more information out of you, my lad.  You gave me a vague
sort of description of the food that was given you at that last place;
just let me have a few more details—the exact truth about, say, the last
meal you had there.”

As the lad complied Swan’s forehead took an extra crease; young Mannering
spoke with the fluency of one dealing with a subject on which he felt
deeply.

“Steady on!” protested Swan.  “It couldn’t possibly have been so awful as
all that.”

“It was worse!” declared the other.  “A jolly sight worse!  At first it
seemed all right; but the third day—  You ought to have been there!  If
you ’appen to have a taste for tough meat—they say there’s nothing like
leather; but that’s a mistake—overdone and all black at the edges, why,
you would have enjoyed yourself!”

“She doesn’t look like a woman who can’t cook.”

“She’s a very nice person,” agreed the lad judicially, “and I’ve got no
other fault to find whatsoever.  Horrible particular, though, about late
hours.  Old-fashioned and out of date, I call her.”

“What do you mean,” roared Swan impetuously, “by talking in that way
about a lady?  Keep a civil tongue in your head, will you?  Who are you,
I should like to know, to find fault?”

The lad begged for pardon.

“What do you know about food?” he raved on.  “Accustomed to nothing but
raw turnips hitherto, how can you possibly tell whether cooking is good
or not?  Be off and see about your work, or else I’ll get you shifted
back to that toad-in-the-hole station in the country.  Coming up here,”
continued Swan aggrievedly, “and dictating to Londoners about food—I
never heard of such impudence!”

He strode to the porters’ room’, and, flinging off his jacket, sat at the
desk and took a penholder, assuming the attitude of mental stress common
to those who start upon literary efforts.  Like many others in similar
position, he found himself baulked at the very start.  Should he, in
writing to excuse himself from paying his call until after the hour of
supper, begin, “My dear Madam” or “Dear Friend,” or, his memory going
back to the days of youth, dare to write “Sweetest”?  He tried all of
these, and others, and could not persuade himself to feel satisfied with
any.  The old remedy of shining boots gave him an idea that brought back
contentment to his features, and he went about his tasks for the
remainder of the day humming cheerfully.  At six o’clock he ran around to
the eating-house near to the station and ordered a special eightpenny
steak, with chipped potatoes.

“That’ll save me!” remarked Porter Swan.

In marching down towards Railway Terrace he could not help thinking of
his soldier days when there was never a dearth of housemaids, and never a
one who did not, sooner or later, betray some defect which led to
cessation of amiabilities.  Here, again, was a case of a trim little
woman who, if she but knew how to cook, might well be either highly
commended or, perhaps, awarded the prize of second marriage.  He had
enjoyed his meal at the eating-house, and felt willing to look on the
world with an indulgent air; nevertheless, he could not help seeing the
drawback was serious.

“Hullo, my dear!” as the child opened the door.  “How are we this time?”

“Brought me anythink?”

“What do you say to a few chocolates?”

“Mr. Swan,” called a pleasant voice from the kitchen, “don’t you go
spoiling her.  She’s not been behaving nicely.”

“Hand ’em over!” ordered the youngster.

The mother came through the passage, slightly flushed by the fire or from
confusion, reproved her daughter for want of manners, gave a welcome to
Mr. Swan, and expressed a hope that he had a good appetite.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he replied anxiously.  “If I
don’t get better I shall have to see a chemist.  I could no more touch
food at the present moment than I could swim the Channel.  I’m very
sorry, but you must excuse me, reelly.”

“It’s a pity,” she said with distress.  “You don’t mind sitting down and
watching us eat, I hope.”

“That’ll suit me,” declared Swan, entering the room.

The table was neatly set out for three, with glasses, shining knives and
forks, an attractive roll of bread at each plate.  She went to the
kitchen.

“We’ve got a fowel,” whispered the child importantly.  “Roast fowel!”

“You’re welcome to my share,” he answered.

This, repeated with some extravagance, caused the child’s mother to stop
as she came in with the dish.  She said “Oh!” in such a pained way that
he hastened to assure her no reflection upon her culinary skill was
intended; the internal complaint from which he was suffering had to take
the responsibility.  The child said grace.

“You’re a first-rate carver,” he said interestedly.

“It’s a tender bird,” she remarked.

“Looks to me as though it’s beautifully done,” declared the astonished
Swan, his mouth watering.

“I was cook in a good family before I married my first,” she explained.
“If you’ve once learnt, you never forget.  When I get a lodger who keeps
good hours I take a pride in preparing his meals.  When he doesn’t, I
know enough about cooking to cook so that he doesn’t want to stop.”

The staff subscribed threepences, and bought a fish knife and fork.
Porter Swan sent in an application for leave, and for passes—passes for
two: self and wife.

XVII—MAGNIFICENT REMEDIES

“DON’T want to bother you,” remarked the toddling baby, catching the hem
of the other’s overcoat; “but if you could spare a minute!”

“Now, let me see,” said the Deep Thinker, looking down sideways at the
small child and giving the pull-up of the cuffs preparatory to the making
of an arch with two hands.  “Let me see, now.  Where are we?”

“In Notting Dale.”

“I mean, how far have we advanced?  At what stage have we arrived?”

“Haven’t arrived at all,” answered the baby shortly.  “I’m just starting,
and it seems to me I’m starting in rather unfortunate circumstances.  I’m
not going to say anything against my father and mother; but, really,
unless some one else steps in and—”

“Not so fast!” interrupted the Deep Thinker, taking off pince-nez and
shaking it reprovingly at the child.  “Let us consider this case of yours
fully, in all its various aspects.  We must hasten slowly.  I’m fully
prepared to help you in every possible manner, and you can safely leave
the case in my hands.”

“Fire away, then!” said the infant.

The Deep Thinker, turning up the collar of his overcoat, found a
sheltered space near the Sirdar Road schools, and opened the discussion,
picking phrases so carefully that sometimes when the right word came
first he rejected it, substituting one which represented second thoughts.
The question to be decided—this he offered truculently as his humble
opinion—was that nothing could be done for the Notting Dale baby until a
large, momentous, important point received satisfactory settlement.

“Now, the Act of 1870, you will remember—”

The child protested that it knew nothing of events happening so long ago;
the Deep Thinker lifted a warning forefinger as insistent demand for
silence.  Warming to the arguments, he began to wave arms, to adopt
emphatic forms of gesture; the boy stood clear, watching, and
endeavouring to follow the involved and tortuous reasoning.  “Shall we,”
said the Deep Thinker, “or shall we not reimpose tests?”  The youngster
gave the sigh of one struggling to understand and unable to see light.
“Ought we or ought we not to oppose with all the force and strength we
possess undenominational religion; and, if so, why?”  The other muttered,
“Because it’s ajar!” and, turning, found a little pack of grubby cards in
his pocket.

“We proceed now to consider the point of full popular control, and here
is a subject on which I shall take the liberty of speaking at some
length.  It is a difficult point, and I beg you to give me your complete
and absolute attention.”

“That I jolly well sha’n’t!” replied the other definitely.

It appeared an audience was not indispensable so long as the Deep Thinker
could be permitted to talk without interruption; he found so much
pleasure in the task that he gave a high giggle of satisfaction when,
having set up a limp argument made of straw with the preface “But then my
opponents will say—,” he knocked it down and jumped exultantly upon it
with “I rather think that answers the other side!”  As time went on, he
became slightly hoarse, and the other standing near (whose manners really
seemed to be getting worse and worse) warned him that his throat would
presently resemble a nutmeg-grater; the Deep Thinker took a voice
lozenge, gaining from this enough refreshment to enable him to proceed.
Public speakers can be divided into two sets—one not knowing where to
begin, and the other not knowing where to leave off; it was evident to
which party the Deep Thinker belonged, for whenever it seemed he was
approaching finality and nothing remained but to take definite action, he
always managed to discover a new and another branch on which he could
perch himself and twitter.

“For each individual, after due consideration of the convictions of
others, the final authority as to the right or wrong of any opinion or
action should be his own conscientious and well-reasoned judgment.”

Policemen came up and interfered between the lad and the girl who was
suffering from his blows; the Deep Thinker, his attention distracted by
the incident, begged the constables not to arrest the youth until the
arguments that were being delivered should come to an end; and the two
members of the F Division, touching helmets, went off reluctantly, taking
good note of the features of the combative parties.  The young man now
made no pretence of listening.  As quiet folk went by he made a snatch at
their watches or at their purses, or at both, and when success attended
his efforts he was absent for a time, returning with a slight hiccough
and a flushed countenance.

He had developed during the discussion from a round-eyed, attractive
infant to a bulgy, sullen youth with a shifting expression that never
escaped aggressiveness.  As the Deep Thinker announced that only a few
brief words remained to be said, the youth temporarily gave up the task
of incommoding his fellows, and offered a look of hopefulness.

“I am warned,” said the Deep Thinker, blinking around, “that time does
not stand still, and I propose therefore to put my remaining arguments
into the briefest possible space.  I flatter myself I am a man of action,
rather than a man of words.  The time has come to be up and doing.  We
must gird on our sword for the fray.  The trumpet call is sounding, and
it is the hour for coming to close quarters.  First of all, however, I
should like to run over the various heads of the arguments I have used,
and freshen them, if I may say so—freshen them in your memory.”

What the Deep Thinker meant by this proved to be that he should give
himself an encore and accept it, for he went through the whole of his
exhaustive address again, adding to it considerably here and there, and
whenever he became involved in a thick undergrowth of words, laboriously
retraced his footsteps and recommenced the journey.  The lad, become a
man, short and defiant, with a stubbly beard, made a very satisfactory
haul from two well-dressed people, returning later with a revolver, that
gave him a great amount of interest; the Deep Thinker broke off to urge
him to be careful.

“The crux of the whole question,” said the Deep Thinker, resuming, “put
shortly is simply this.  The moral life involves neither acceptance nor
rejection of belief in any deity, personal or impersonal, or in a life
after death!”

Possibly the bearded man did not fully comprehend the intention of this
remark; probable, too, that, having been talked to for a considerable
length of time, his sense of appreciation had become dulled.  At any
rate, a City gentleman, hurrying home, found himself at his last
destination sooner than he expected.  The police wanted the Deep Thinker
to come along to the station; his evidence as witness would be required,
but the Deep Thinker assured them earnestly that, absorbed by a
particular topic, he had seen nothing of the affair.

“Thus we see,” went on the Deep Thinker, when they had disappeared,
“that, whilst on the one side it may be fairly argued that—”

He had not finished when there occurred a shock that genuinely pained and
annoyed him.  The rate-collector presented a demand for payment of the
Deep Thinker’s share of the cost of keeping the Sirdar Road criminal in
prison for the remainder of what was termed his natural life.

“Almost enough,” cried the Deep Thinker aggrievedly, “to make a man
threaten to give up completely his interest in public questions!”

               UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, WOKING AND LONDON.