Chapter V: Part 5

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!”

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UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, WOKING AND LONDON.