He had scarcely gone a hundred yards down Southampton Row, when he heard his name called.
Mr Frank!
He turned. Bridgewater was pursuing him with something in his hand.
Mr James told me to give you this.
Leavesley took the envelope presented to him, and Bridgewater bolted back to the office like a fat old rabbit, returning to its burrow.
In the envelope was a sovereign wrapped up in a half sheet of notepaper.
Well, of all the meannesses! said the dutiful nephew, pocketing the coin. "Still, it's decent of the old boy after my cheeking him like that. I have now one pound four. I'll go now and cheek aunt."
Miss Hancock was in; she had a handkerchief tied round her head, a duster in her hand; she had just given the cook warning and was in a debatable temper. She was also in a dusting mood. She had plenty of servants, yet the inspiration came on her at times to tie a handkerchief round her head and dust.
Well? she said, as she led the way into the dining-room, and continued an attack she was making on the sideboard with her duster.
Leavesley had scarcely the slightest hope of financial assistance from this quarter. Patience had given him half-a-crown for a birthday present once when he was a little boy, and then worried it back from him and popped it into a missionary box for the Wallibooboo Islanders.
He never forgot that half-crown.
I've come round to borrow some money from you, he said.
Patience sniffed, and went on with her dusting. Then suddenly she stopped, and, duster in hand, addressed him.
Are you never going to do anything for a living? Have you no idea of the responsibilities of life? What are you going to do?
I'm going for a holiday in the country if I can scrape up money enough.
You won't scrape it up here, said his aunt, continuing her dusting; then, for she was as inquisitive as a mongoose: "And what part of the country do you propose to take a holiday in?"
Sonning-on-Thames.
And where, may I ask, is Sonning-on-Thames?
It's on the Thames. See here, will you lend me five pounds?
Five what?
Pounds.
What for?
To take a girl for a trip to Sonning-on-Thames.
Miss Hancock was sweeping with her duster round a glass arrangement made to hold flowers, in the convulsion incident on this statement she upset the thing and smashed it, much to Leavesley's delight.
He made for the door, and stood for a moment with the handle in his hand.
I'm awfully sorry. Can I help you to pick it up?
Go away, said Miss Hancock, who was on her knees collecting the fragments of glass; "I want to see nothing more of you. If you are lost to respectability you might retain at least common decency."
Decency!
Yes, decency.
I don't know that I've said anything indecent, or that there is anything indecent in going for a day on the river with a girl. Well, I'm going—— A luminous idea suddenly struck him. He knew the old maid's mind, and the terror she had of the bare idea of her brother marrying; he remembered the spruce appearance of his uncle that morning and the lavender satin necktie. "I say——"
Well?
Talking of girls, how about uncle and his girl?
What's that you say!
Nothing, nothing; I oughtn't to have said anything about it. Well, I'm off.
He left the room hurriedly and shut the door, before she could call him back he was out of the house.
His random remark had hit the target plumb in the centre of the bull's-eye, and could he have known the agitation and irritation in the mind of his aunt he would have written off as paid his debt against the Wallibooboo Islanders.
The river was impossible now, and the whole thing had shrunk to luncheon at the studio and a visit to Madame Tussaud's or the Tower.
He reached the studio before twelve, and there he found waiting for him Mr Verneede and the Captain.
The Captain was in his trousers; he had come to show them as a proof of good faith and incidentally to get a glass of whisky. Leavesley gave him the whisky and sent him off, then he turned to Verneede.
The whole thing has bust up. Miss Lambert is coming at one to go up the river and I have no money. Stoney broke; isn't it the deuce?
How very unfortunate! said Mr Verneede. "How very unfortunate!"
Unfortunate isn't the name for it.
Did Miss Lambert write?
Yes—Oh, she told me to remember her to you, sent her love to you.
Ah!
I've only got one pound four.
But surely, my dear Leavesley—one pound four—why, it is quite a little sum of money.
It's not enough to go up the river on—three of us.
Why go up the river?
Where else can we go?
I have an idea, said Mr Verneede. "May I propound it?"
Yes.
Have you ever heard of Epping Forest?
Yes.
Why not go there and spend a day amidst the trees, the greenery, the blue sky, the——
What would it cost?
A fractional sum; one takes the train to Woodford.
Leavesley reached for an A.B.C. guide and plunged into details.
There are hamlets in the forest, where tea may be obtained in cottages at a reasonable cost——
We can just do it, I think, said Leavesley, who had been making distracted calculations on paper. He darted to the bell and rang it.
Belinda, he said, when the slave of the bell made answer, "there's a lady coming here to luncheon, have you anything in the house?"
Belinda, with a far-away look in her eyes, made a mental survey of the larder, twiddling the door-handle to assist thought.
There's a pie, sir, and sassiges, and a cold mutton chop. There's half a chicken——
That'll do, and get a salad. I'll run out and get some flowers and a bottle of claret.
They were seated in a dusty glade near a road, near Woodford, and they had lost Verneede.
The loss did not seem to affect them. Fanny had picked some daisies and was making a chain of them. Leavesley was making and smoking cigarettes.
But what I can't make out, said Leavesley—"This fellow Bevan, you said he was a beast, and now you seem quite gone on him."
I'm not, said Fanny indignantly.
Well, I can only judge from your words.
I'm not!—pouting.
Well, there, I won't say any more. He stayed to luncheon, you said?
Yes, defiantly, "and tea and supper; why shouldn't he?"
Oh, I don't see why he shouldn't, only it must have been a visitation. I should think your father was rather bored.
Fanny said nothing, but went on with her chain.
What sort of looking fellow is he?
He's very nice-looking; at least he's rather fat—you know the sort of man I mean.
And awfully rich?
Awfully.
Leavesley tore up grass leisurely and viciously.
Your uncle is awfully rich too, isn't he? asked Miss Lambert after a moment's silence.
Yes; why?
I was only thinking.
What were you only thinking?
I was thinking if I had to marry one or the other, which I'd chose.
Leavesley squirmed with pleasure: that was one for Bevan. He instinctively hated Bevan. He, little knowing the mind of Miss Lambert, thought this indecision of choice between his uncle and another man an exquisitely veiled method of describing the other man's undesirability.
Marry uncle, he said with a laugh. "And then we can all live together in Gordon Square, uncle, and you, and I, and aunt, and old Verneede. The house would hold the lot of us."
And father.
Of course, said Leavesley, thinking she spoke in fun, "and a few more—the Captain: you don't know the Captain; he's a treasure, and would make the menagerie quite complete."
And we could go for picnics, said Fanny.
Rather!
She had finished her daisy-chain, and with a charming and child-like movement she suddenly leaned forward and threw it round his neck.
Oh, Fanny, he cried, taking both her little hands in his, "what's the good of talking nonsense? I love you, and you'll never marry any one but me."
Fanny began to cry just like a little child, and he crept up to her and put his arm round her waist.
I love you, Fanny. Listen, darling, I love you——
Don't—don't—don't! sobbed the girl, nestling closer to him at each "don't."
Why?
I was thinking just the same.
What?
That I——
That you——?
Don't!
That you love me?
Silence interspersed with sobs, then—
I don't love you, but I—could——
What?
Love you—but I mustn't.
Leavesley heaved a deep sigh of content, squeezed her closer and rocked her slightly. She allowed herself to be nursed like this for a few heavenly moments; then she broke away from him, pushed him away.
I mustn't, I mustn't—don't!—do leave me alone—go away. She increased the distance between them. Tears were on her long black lashes—lashes tipped with brown—and her eyes were like passion flowers after rain—to use a simile that has never been used before.
Leavesley had got on his hands and knees to crawl closer towards her, and the intense seriousness of his face, coupled with the attitude of his body, quite dispelled Miss Lambert's inclination to weep.
Don't! she cried, laughing in a helpless sort of way. "Do sit down, you look so funny like that."
He collapsed, and they sat opposite to each other like two tailors, whilst Fanny dried her eyes and finished up her few remaining sobs.
A brake full of trippers passed on the road near by, yelling that romantic and delightful song
"Bedelia! I wants to steal yer.
"They're happy, said Fanny, listening with a rapt expression as though she were listening to the music of the heavenly choir. "I wish I was them."
Fanny, said her lover, ignoring this comprehensive wish, "why can't you care for me?"
I do care for you.
Yes, but why can't you marry me?
We're too poor.
I'll be making lots of money soon.
How much?
Oh, four or five hundred a year.
That's not enough, said Fanny with a sigh, "not nearly enough."
Leavesley gazed at the mercenary beauty before him. Had he miscalculated her? was she after all like other girls, a daughter of the horse leech?
I'd marry you to-morrow, resumed she, "if you hadn't a penny—only for father."
What about him?
I must help him. I must marry a rich man or not marry at all. There——
Do you care for him more than me?
Yes.
Leavesley sighed, then he broke out: "But it's dreadful, he never would ask you to make such a sacrifice——"
Father?
Yes.
He! why, he doesn't care a button. He believes in people marrying whoever they like. He'd like me to marry you. He said only the other day you'd make a good husband because you didn't gamble or drink, and you had no taste for going to law.
Leavesley's face brightened, he got on his hands and knees again preparatory to drawing nearer.
Sit down, said Fanny, drawing away.
But if you love me, said the lover, collapsing again into the sitting posture.
I don't.
What!
Not enough to marry you. I could if I let myself go, but I've just stopped myself in time. I can't ever marry you.
But, look here——
Yes?
Suppose you do marry a rich man, I don't see how it will benefit your father.
Won't it! I'll never marry a man who won't help father, and he wants help. Oh! if you only knew our affairs, said Miss Lambert, picking a daisy and looking at it, and apparently addressing it, "the hair would stand up on the top of your head."
Are they so bad as all that, Fanny?
Bad isn't the word, replied Miss Lambert, plucking the petals from the daisy one by one. "He loves me—he loves me not—he loves me—he loves me not—he loves me."
Who?
You.
He got on his hands and knees again.
Sit down.
But, see here, listen to me: are you really serious in what you have just said?
I am.
Well, promise me one thing: you won't marry any one just yet.
What do you mean by just yet?
Oh, till I have a chance, till I strike oil, till I begin to make a fortune!
How long will that be? asked Miss Lambert cautiously.
I don't know, replied the unhappy painter.
If the Roorkes Drift Mines would only go up to two hundred, said the girl, plucking another daisy, "I'd marry you; father has a whole trunkful of them. He got them at sixpence each, and if they went to two hundred they'd be worth half a million of money."
Is there any chance, do you think? asked Leavesley brightening. He knew something of stock exchange jargon. The Captain was great on stock exchange matters, when he was not occupied in pawning his clothes and sending wild messages to his friends for assistance.
I think so, said Fanny. "Mr Bevan said they were going into Liqui——something."
Liquidation.
Yes—that's it.
Leavesley sighed. An old grey horse cropping the grass near by came and looked gloomily at the humans, snorted, and resumed his meal.
What's the time? asked Miss Lambert, putting on her gloves. Leavesley looked at his watch.
Half-past six.
Gracious! let's go; it will take us hours to get home. She rose to her feet and shook her dress.
I wonder where old Mr Verneede can be? said the girl, looking round as though to find him lurking amidst the foliage. "It's awful if we've lost him."
We have his ticket, too, said Leavesley. "He's very likely gone back to the station; if we don't find him there I'll leave his ticket with the station-master."
He rose up, and the daisy-chain round his neck fell all to pieces in ruin to the ground.
They found Mr Verneede waiting for them at the station, smelling of beer, and conversing with the station-master on the weather and the crops.
At Liverpool Street, having seen Miss Lambert into an omnibus (she refused to be seen home, knowing full well the distance from Highgate to Chelsea), Leavesley, filled with a great depression of spirits, went with Verneede and sat in pubs, and smoked clay pipes, and drank beer.
This sorry pastime occupied them till 12.30, when they took leave of each other in the King's Road, Leavesley miserable, and Verneede maudlin.
She sent me her love, said Mr Verneede, clinging to his companion's hand, and working it like a pump handle. "Bless you—bless you, my boy—don't take any more—Go—bless you."
When Leavesley looked back he saw Mr Verneede apparently trying to go home arm-in-arm with a lamp-post.
So, it would seem from the artless confession of Miss Lambert, that Patience Hancock had only too much reason for her fears: the lilac silk necktie had not been bought for the edification of Bridgewater and the junior clerks.
That the correct James Hancock had fuddled himself with punch, told droll stories, and lent Mr Lambert twenty pounds, were facts so utterly at variance with the known character of that gentleman as to be unbelievable by the people who knew him well.
Not by people well acquainted with human nature, or the fact that a grain of good-fellowship in the human heart exhibits extraordinary and radium-like activity under certain conditions: the conditions induced by punch and beauty and good-fellowship in others, for instance.
One morning, after the day upon which he had refused to assist Frank Leavesley to "make a fool of himself with a girl," James Hancock arrived at his office at the usual time, in the usual manner, and, nodding to Bridgewater as he had nodded to him every morning for the last thirty years, passed into the inner office and closed the door.
The closing of the door was a new departure; it had generally been left ajar as an indication that Bridgewater might come in whenever he chose, to receive instructions and to consult upon the morning letters.
The expression on Bridgewater's face when he heard the closing of the door was so extraordinarily funny, that one of the younger clerks, who caught a glimpse of it, hastily stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and choked silently behind the lid of his desk.
Quarter of an hour passed, and then the door opened.
Bridgewater!
The old gentleman stuck his pen behind his ear and answered the summons.
James Hancock was seated at his desk. On it lay an envelope addressed in a lady's handwriting; he covered the envelope with a piece of blotting paper as Bridgewater entered.
I'm going out this morning, Bridgewater, on some private business.
Out this morning? echoed Bridgewater in a tentative tone.
Yes; I leave you in charge.
But Purvis, Mr James, Purvis has an appointment with you at twelve.
Oh, bother Purvis! Tell him to call to-morrow, his affair will wait; tell him the deed is not drawn and to come again to-morrow.
How about Isaacs?
Solomon Isaacs?
Yes, Mr James.
What time is he coming?
Half-past eleven.
Tell him to come to-morrow.
I'm afraid he won't. I'm——
If he won't, said Mr Hancock with some acerbity, "tell him to go to the devil. I don't want his business especially—let him find some one else. Now see here, about these letters."
He went into the morning letters, dictating replies to the more important ones and leaving the rest to the discretion of his clerk.
And, Bridgewater, said Mr Hancock, as the senior clerk turned to depart, "I am expecting a lady to call here at half-past ten or quarter to eleven: show her in, it's Miss Lambert."
You have had no word from Mr Charles Bevan, sir, since he called the other day?
Not a word. He is a very hot-headed young man; he inherits the Bevan temper, the Bevan temper, reiterated James Hancock in a reflective tone, tapping his snuff-box and taking a leisurely pinch. "I remember his father John Bevan at Ipswich, during the election, threatening to horsewhip my father; then when he found he was in the wrong, or rather that his own rascally solicitor was in the wrong, he apologised very handsomely and came to us. The family affairs have been in our hands ever since, as you know, and, though I say it myself, they could not have been in better."
May I ask, Mr James, how affairs are with the Lamberts?—a sweetly pretty young lady is Miss Lambert, and so nice spoken.
The Lamberts' affairs seem very much involved; but you know, Bridgewater, I have nothing to do with their affairs. I called to see Mr Lambert purely as a friend. It would be very unprofessional to call otherwise. D——n it! suddenly broke out old Hancock, as if some one had pricked him with a pin, "a man is not always a business man. I'm getting on in life. I have money enough and to spare. I've done pretty much as I liked all my life, and I'll do so to the end; yes, and I'd break all the laws of professional etiquette one after the other to-morrow if I chose."
Bridgewater's amazed face was the only amazed part of his anatomy; he was used to these occasional petulant outbursts, and he looked on them with equanimity.
Hancock had been threatening to retire from business for the last ten years, to retire from business and buy a country place and breed horses. No one knew so well as Bridgewater the impossibility of this and the extent to which his master was bound up in his business—the business was his life.
He retired, mumbling something that sounded like an assent, and going to his desk put the letters in order.
Mr Hancock, left to himself, took a letter from his breast-pocket. It was addressed in a large careless hand to
"James Hancock, Esq.
Gordon Square.
It ran:—
"Dear Mr Hancock,—I'll be delighted to come to-morrow; I haven't seen the Zoo for years, not since I was quite small. No, don't trouble to come and fetch me, I will call at the office at half-past ten or quarter to eleven, that will be simpler.—Yours very sincerely,
"Fanny Lambert."
I'll be hanged if it's simpler, grumbled James Hancock, as he returned the letter to his pocket. "Why in the name of all that's sacred couldn't she have let me call?—the clerks will talk so. No matter, let them—I don't care."
Miss Lambert, said Bridgewater, opening the door.
Mr Hancock might have thought that Spring herself stood before him in the open doorway, such a pleasing and perfect vision did Miss Lambert make. She was attired in a chip hat, and a dress of something light in texture and lilac in colour, and, from the vivacity of her manner and the general sprightliness of her appearance, seemed bent upon a day of pleasure.
I'm so awfully sorry to be so soon, said Miss Lambert. "It's only twenty minutes past ten; the clocks have all gone wrong at home. James broke out again yesterday; he went out and took far, far too much; isn't it dreadful? I don't know what we are to do with him, and he wound up the clocks last night, and I believe he has broken them all, at least they won't go. Father has gone away again; he is down in Sussex paying a visit to a Miss Pursehouse, we met her in Paris. She asked me to come too, but I had to refuse because my dressmaker—I mean, Susannah couldn't be left by herself, she smashes things so. She fell on the kitchen stairs this morning, bringing the breakfast things up—are you busy? and are you sure I'm not bothering you or interfering with clients and things? I arrived here really at ten minutes past ten, and walked up and down outside till people began to stare at me, so I came in."
Not a bit busy, said Mr Hancock; "delighted you've come so early. Is that chair comfortable?"
Quite, thanks.
Sure you won't take this easy-chair?
No, no; this is a delightful chair. Who is that nice old man who showed me in?
Bridgewater, my chief clerk. Yes, he is a very good sort of man Bridgewater; he's been with us now a number of years.
I like him, because he always smiles at me and looks so friendly and so funny. He's the kind of man one feels one would like to knit something for; a—muffler or mittens. I will, next Christmas, if he wouldn't be offended.
Offended! Good heavens, no, he'd be delighted—perfectly delighted, I'm sure, perfectly. Come in!
A telegram, sir, spoke Bridgewater's voice. He always "sir'd" his master in the presence of strangers.
Excuse me, said Mr Hancock, putting on his glasses and opening the telegram. He read it carefully, frowned, then smiled, and handed it to Fanny.
Am I to read it? said the girl.
Please.
Fanny read:—
I relinquish fishing-rights. Make the best terms with Lambert you can.—Bevan.
Isn't it nice of him? she said without evincing any surprise; "he told me he would when he called."
Told you he would?
Yes.
When did you see Mr Bevan?
Why, he called—didn't I tell you?—oh no, I forgot—he called, and he was awfully nice. Quite the nicest man I've met for a long time. He stayed to luncheon and tea and supper.
Was your father at home?
No.
I would rather this had not happened, said Mr Hancock in a slightly pained voice. "Mr Bevan is a gentleman for whom I have great respect, but considering the absence of your father, the absence of a host—er—er—conventionalities, um——"
Oh, he didn't seem to mind, said Fanny; "he knew father was away, and took us just as we were. He's awfully rich, I suppose, but he was just as pleasant as if he were poor—came marketing and carried the basket; and, I declare to goodness, if I had known we had such a jolly cousin before, I'd have gone and hunted him up myself in the—'Albany,' isn't it?"
Mr Bevan lives in the 'Albany,' said the lawyer. "It is a bachelors' residence, and scarcely a place—scarcely a place for a—er—lady to call—no, scarcely a place for a lady to call. However, what's done is done, and we must make the best of it."
If I had only thought, said Fanny, who had not been listening to the humming and hawing of Mr Hancock, "I'd have asked him to come with us to-day. Gracious! it's just eleven. Shall we go?"
Mr Hancock took his hat and umbrella, opened the door, and they passed out.
Mr Bridgewater's emotions, when he saw his principal following the pretty Miss Lambert, were mixed.
He saw through the whole thing at once: she had come by appointment, and they were going somewhere together.
Now, on the day when he had called to lunch with Patience Hancock, and look over the lease of the Peckham House, the Peckham House had not been once mentioned; the whole conversation, conducted chiefly by Miss Hancock, concerned the welfare of her brother. She hinted at certain news, supposed to have been received by her, that a designing woman had her eye on her treasure; she implored her listener to let her know if he saw any indication of the truth of these reports. "For you know, Bridgewater," said she, indicating that the decanter was at his side, and that he might help himself to his third glass of port, "there is no fool like an old fool," to which axiom Bridgewater giggled assent.
He promised to keep a "sharp look-out," and inform her of what he saw from time to time. And it did not require a very sharp look-out to see what he saw this morning.
As we have indicated, his emotions were mixed. Fanny's face, her "sweetly pretty face," appealed to him; that she had fascinated Mr James, he felt sure; that he ought instantly to inform Miss Hancock he felt certain; that he had a lot of important letters to write and business to transact with Mr Purvis and Mr Isaacs were facts. Between these facts and these fancies the old man sat scratching his head with the stump of his pen, staring at the letters before him, and pretending to be busy. Born in the age of valentines and sentiment, he had carried along with him through life a "feeling" for the other sex; to be frank, the feeling was compounded mainly of shyness, but not altogether. I doubt if there lives a man in whose life's history there exists not a woman in some form or other, either living and active in the present, or dead and a memory—a leaf in amber.
In old Bridgewater's brain there lived, keeping company with other futilities of youth, a girl. The winters and the springs of forty-five years had left her just the same, red-cheeked and buxom, commonplace, pretty, with an undecided mouth, and a crinoline. As he sat cogitating, this old mental daguerreotype took on fresh colours. He saw the sunlight on a certain street in Hoxton, and heard the tinkle of a piano, long gone to limbo, playing a tune that memory had in some mysterious way bound up with the perfume of wall-flowers.
He remembered a Christmas card that pulled out like a concertina: a shocking production of art which gave a vista of a garden in filigree paper leading to a house.
A feeling of tenderness possessed him. Why should he move in a matter that did not concern him? He determined to remain neutral, and, with the object of dismissing the matter from his mind, turned to his letters.
But this kindly, though inferior being was dominated by a strong and active intelligence, and that intelligence existed in the brain of a woman.
Whilst he made notes and dictated to a clerk, this alien intelligence was voicing its commands in the sub-conscious portions of his brain. He began to hesitate in his dictation and to shuffle his feet, to pause and to dictate nonsense. Then rising and taking his hat, he asked Mr Wolf, his second in command, to take charge, as he had business which would keep him away for half an hour—and made for the door. In Southampton Row he walked twenty yards, retraced his steps, paused, blew his nose in a huge bandana handkerchief, and then, travelling as if driven by clockwork well wound up, he made for Gordon Square.
The servant said that Miss Hancock was dressing to go out, and invited him into the cave-like dining-room. She then closed the door and left him to the tender mercies of the place.
Decision was not the most noteworthy characteristic of Mr Bridgewater, nor tact. He stood, consulting the clock on the mantelpiece, yet, had you asked him, he could not have told you the time. Having come into the place of his own volition he was now endeavouring to get up volition enough to enable him to leave.
Well, Bridgewater? said a voice. The old man turned. Miss Hancock, dressed for going out, stood before him.
Why, I declare, Miss Patience! said Bridgewater, as if the woman before him was the very last person on earth he expected to see.
You have found me just in time, for I was going out. I am in a hurry, so I won't ask you to sit down. Can I do anything for you?
Bridgewater rubbed his nose.
It's about a little matter, Miss Patience.
Yes?
A little matter concerning Mr James.
Yes?
I am afraid—I am afraid, Miss Patience, there is—well—not to put too fine a point upon it—a lady.
What is this you say, Bridgewater? But sit down.
A lady, Miss Patience.
You've said that before—what lady, and what about her? The recollection of Leavesley's words shot up in her brain.
Dear me, dear me! I wish I hadn't spoken now. I'm sure it's nothing wrong. I think, very possibly, I have been mistaken.
John Bridgewater, said Miss Hancock, "you have known me from my childhood, you know I hate shuffling, come to the point—there is a lady—well, I have known it all along, so you need not be afraid to speak. Just tell me all you know. You are very well aware that no one cares for Mr James as much as I do. You are very well aware that some men need protecting. You know very well there is no better-hearted man in the world than my brother."
None indeed.
And you know very well that he is just the man to fall a victim to a designing woman. Think for a moment. What would a woman see in a man of his age, except his money.
Very true; though I'm sure, Miss Patience, no man would make a better husband for a woman than Mr James.
Oh, don't talk nonsense! When a man arrives at his age, he is too old to be made into a husband, but he is not too old to be made into a fool. Now tell me all you know about this affair. First of all, what is the—person's name?
The person I suspect, Miss Patience, though indeed my suspicions may be wrong, is a Miss Lambert.
Surely not any relation of the Highgate Lamberts?
The daughter, Miss Patience.
That broken-down lot! Good heavens! Are you sure?
Perfectly sure.
The daughter of the man who is fighting with Mr Bevan about the fish pond?
Stream.
It's the same. Well, go on.
Miss Fanny Lambert called some time ago on Mr James. She called in distress about the action. Mr James interviewed her, and discovered that her father was in a very bad way, financially speaking. He took pity on them——
Idiot!
——and called at Highgate to see Mr Lambert. He became very friendly with Mr Lambert. Then Miss Fanny Lambert called again.
What about?
I don't know. And to-day, this morning, she called again.
Called at the office this morning?
Yes.
What did she call for?
Bridgewater was silent.
I repeat, said Miss Hancock, speaking as an examiner might speak to a candidate, "I repeat, what did she call for? You surely must have some inkling."
I am afraid she called about nothing. I'm afraid so, very much afraid so.
What do you mean?
I'm afraid, Miss Patience, it was an assignation.
How long did she stay?
About twenty minutes; but that is not the worst.
Go on.
They went out together.
How long was my brother out with her?
He hasn't come back; he has gone for the day—told me to take charge of the office.
You mean they went out together like that and you did not follow them to see where they went?
Yes.
Oh, you idiot!
How could I, Miss Patience?
How could you—yes, that's just it. How could you, when you had such a chance, let it slip through your fingers?
But the office?
The office—why, you have left the office to come round here. If you could leave it to come here, surely you could have left it for a more important purpose. Well, you may take this from me: soon there will be no office to leave. It's quite possible that if Mr James makes a fool of himself, he'll leave business and do what he's always threatening to do—go in for farming. When a man once begins making a fool of himself, he goes on doing so, the appetite comes with eating. Well, you had better go back to the office and remember this for your own sake, for my sake, for Mr James' sake, keep your eyes open. If you get another chance, follow them.
Bridgewater left the house walking in a very depressed manner. In Oxford Street he entered a bar and had a glass of sherry and a biscuit. As he left the bar, who should he see but James Hancock—James Hancock, and Fanny side by side. They were looking in at a shop window.
On leaving the office, the happy thought had occurred to Fanny of telegraphing at once to her father apprising him of Charles Bevan's decision. Accordingly they sought the nearest telegraph office, where Miss Lambert indited the following despatch:—
"To Lambert,
c/o Miss Pursehouse,
The Roost, Rookhurst.
"Mr Bevan has stopped the action. Isn't it sweet of him?"
Any name? asked the clerk.
Oh yes, replied Fanny, suddenly remembering that her connection with the matter ought to be kept dark. "Put Hancock."
Then they sought Oxford Street, where Fanny remembered that she had some shopping to do.
I won't be a minute, she said, pausing before a draper's. "Will you come in, or wait outside?"
Mr Hancock elected to wait outside, and he waited.
It was an unfortunate shop for a man to wait before: there was nothing in the windows but lingerie; the shop on the left of it was a bonnet shop, and the establishment on the right was a bar.
So he had to wait, standing on the kerbstone, in full view of mankind. In two minutes three men passed who knew him, and in the middle of the fourth minute old Sir Henry Tempest, one of his best clients, who was driving by in a hansom, stopped, got out and button-holed him.
Just the man I want to see, what a piece of luck! I was going to your office. See here, that d——d scamp of a Sawyer has sent me in a bill for sixteen pounds—sixteen pounds for those repairs I spoke to you about. Why! I'd have got 'em done for six if he had left them to me. But jump into the cab, and come and have luncheon, and we can talk things over.
I can't, said Mr Hancock, "I am waiting for a lady—my sister, she has just gone into that shop. I'll tell you, I will see you, any time you like, to-morrow."
Well, I suppose that must do. But sixteen pounds!—people seem to think I am made of money. I tell you what, Hancock, the great art in getting through life is to make yourself out a poor man—go about in an old coat and hat; you are just as comfortable, and you are not pestered by every beggar and beast that wants money.
Decidedly, decidedly—I think you are right, said his listener, standing now on one foot, now on the other.
Once you get the reputation of being rich you are ruined—what's the matter with you?
Twinges of gout, twinges of gout. I can't get rid of it.
Gout? Have you been to a doctor for it?
Yes.
Well, don't mind what he says; try my remedy. Gout, my dear sir, is incurable with drugs, I've tried 'em. You try hot air baths and vegetarianism; it cured me. I don't say a strictly vegetarian diet, but just as little meat as you can take. I get it myself. Hancock, we're not so young as we were, and the wine and women of our youth revisit us; yes, the wine and women——
He stopped. Fanny had just emerged from the shop.
The cabman who drove Sir Henry Tempest that day from Oxford Street to the Raleigh Club has not yet solved the problem as to "what the old gent, was laughing about."
I'm awfully sorry to have kept you such a time, said Fanny, as they wandered away, "but those shopmen are so stupid. Who was that nice-looking old gentleman you were talking to?"
That was Sir Henry Tempest; but he never struck me as being especially nice-looking. He is not a bad man in his way—but a bore; yes, very decidedly a bore.
Come here, said Fanny, from whose facile mind the charms of Sir Henry Tempest had vanished—"Come here, and I will buy you something." She turned to a jeweller's shop.
But, my dear child, said James, "I never wear jewellery—never."
Oh, I don't mean really to buy you something, I only mean make belief—window-shopping, you know. I often go out by myself and buy heaps of things like that, watches and carriages, and all sorts of things. I enjoy it just as much as if I were buying them really; more, I think, for I don't get tired of them. Do you know that when I want a thing and get it I don't want it any more? I often get married like that.
Like what? asked the astonished Mr Hancock.
Window-shopping. I see sometimes such a nice-looking man in the street or the park, then I marry him and he's ever so nice; but if I married him really I'm sure I'd hate him, or at least be tired of him in a day or two. Now, see here! I will buy you—let me see—let me see—that! She pointed suddenly to an atrocious carbuncle scarf-pin. "That, and that watch with the long hand that goes hopping round. You can have the whole window," said Fanny, suddenly becoming lavishly generous. "But the scarf-pin would suit you, and the watch would be useful for—for—well, it looks like a business man's watch."
Mr Hancock sighed. "Say an old man's watch, Fanny—may I call you Fanny?"
Of course, if you like. But you're not old, you're quite young; at least you're just as jolly as if you were. But come, or we will be late for the Zoo.
Wait, said Mr Hancock; "there is lots of time for the Zoo. Now look at the window and buy yourself a present."
I'll buy that, said Miss Lambert promptly, pointing to a little watch crusted with brilliants.
Mr Hancock noted the watch and the name and number of the shop, and they passed on.
Mr Hancock found that progress with such a companion in Oxford Street was a slow affair. The extraordinary fascination exercised by the shops upon his charge astonished him; everything seemed to interest her, even churns. The normal state of her brain seemed only comparable to that of a person's who is recovering from an illness.
It was after twelve when they reached Mudie's library.
Now, said Mr Hancock, pausing and resting on his umbrella, "I am rather perplexed."
What about?
Luncheon. If we take a cab to the Zoo now, we will have to lunch there or in the neighbourhood. I do not know whether they provide luncheons at the Zoo or whether there is even a refreshment room there.
You can buy buns, said Fanny; "at least, I have a dim recollection of buns when I was there last. We bought them for the bears; but whether they were meant for people to eat, or only made on purpose for the animals, I don't know."
Just so. I think we had better defer our visit till after luncheon; but, meanwhile, what shall we do? It is now ten minutes past twelve; we cannot possibly lunch till one. Shall we explore the Museum?
Oh! not the Museum, said Fanny; "it always takes my appetite away. I suppose it's the mummies. I'll tell you what, we will go and have ices in that café over there."
They crossed to the Vienna Café, and seated themselves at a little marble table.
Father and I come here often, said Fanny, "when we are in this part of the town; we know every one here." She bowed and smiled to the lady who sits in the little glass counting house, who smiled and bowed in return. "That was Hermann—the man who went for our ices; and that's Fritz, the waiter, over there, with the bald head." She caught Fritz's eye, who smiled and bowed. "I don't see Henri—I suppose he's married; he told us he was going to get married the last time we were here, to a girl who keeps the accounts in a café in Soho, somewhere, and I promised him to send them a wedding present. He was such a nice man, like a Count in disguise; you know the sort of looking man I mean. What shall I send him?"
James Hancock ran over all the wedding presents he could remember in his mind; he thought of clocks, candlesticks, silver-plated mustard pots.
Send him a—clock.
Yes, I'll send him a clock. Wait till I ask where they live.
She rose and approached the lady at the counting-house; a brisk conversation ensued, the lady speaking much with her hands and eyes, which she raised alternately to heaven.
Fanny came back looking sorrowful. "He's gone," she said; "I never could have thought it!"
Why should he not go?
Yes, but he went with the spoons and forks and things, and there was no girl at Soho.
Never trust those plausible gentlemen who look like Italian Counts, said James Hancock, not entirely displeased with the melodramatic news.
Whom is one to trust? asked Fanny, with the air of a woman whose life's illusion is shattered.
James Hancock couldn't quite say. "Trust me," rose to his lips, but the sentiment was not uttered, partly because it would have been too previous, and partly because Hermann had just placed before him an enormous ice-cream.
You are not eating your ice!
It's too hot—ah, um—I mean it's too cold, said Mr Hancock, waking from a moment's reverie. "That is to say, I scarcely ever eat ices." The fact that a sweet vanilla ice was simply food and drink to the gout was a dietetic truism he did not care to utter.
If, said Fanny, with the air of a mother speaking to her child, "if you don't eat your ice I will never take you shopping with me again. Please eat it, I feel so greedy eating alone."
Mr Hancock seized a spoon and attacked the formidable structure before him.
I hope I'll never grow old, sighed Miss Lambert, as Hermann approached them with a huge dish of fantastic-looking cakes—cakes crusted with sugar and chocolate, Moscow Gateaux simply sodden with rum, and Merangues filled with cream rich as Devonshire could make it.
We must all grow old, said Hancock, staring with ghastly eyes at these atrocities. "But why do you specially fear age? Age has its beauties, it must come to us all."
I don't want to grow old, said his companion, "because then I would not care for sweets any more. Father says the older he grows the less he cares for sweets, and that every one loses their sweet tooth at fifty. I hope I'll never lose mine; if I do I'll—get a false one."
Mr Hancock leisurely helped himself to one of the largest and sweetest-looking of the specimens of "Italian confectionery" before him; Fanny helped herself to its twin, and there was silence for a moment.
It is strange that whilst a man may admit his age to a woman he cares for, by word of mouth, he will do much before he admits it by his actions.
Of all places in the world the Zoo is, perhaps, the most uninspiring to your diffident lover, but Mr Hancock was fond of zoology. It was a mild sort of hobby which he cultivated in his few leisure moments, and he was not displeased to air his knowledge before his pretty friend, and to show her that he had a taste for things other than forensic. Accordingly in the Bird House he began to show off. This was a mistake. If you have a hobby, conceal it till after marriage. The man with a hobby, once he lets himself loose upon his pet subject or occupation, always bores. He is like a man in drink, he does not know the extent of his own stupidity; lost in his own paradise he is unconscious of the trouble and weariness he is inflicting on the unfortunates who happen to be his companions—unlike a man in drink, he is rarely amusing.
There were birds with legs without end, and birds apparently with no legs at all, nutcracker-billed birds, birds without tails, and things that seemed simply tails without birds.
Before a long-tailed bird that bore a dim resemblance to himself, Mr Hancock paused and began to instruct his companion. When he had bored her sufficiently they passed to the great Ape House, and from there to the Monkey House.
They had paused to consider the Dog-faced Ape, when Fanny, whose eyes were wandering about the place, gave a little start and plucked her companion by the sleeve. "Look," she said, "there's old Mr Bridgewater!"
Why! God bless my soul, so it is! cried Hancock. "What the—what the—what the——"