Psmith, but Psmith's eyes were on his plate.
Mike felt he must venture on some answer.
'No,' he said decidedly.
Comrade Prebble seemed slightly taken aback. There was an awkward
pause. Then Mr Waller, for whom his fellow Socialist's methods of
conversation held no mysteries, interpreted.
'The mustard, Prebble? Yes, yes. Would you mind passing Prebble the
mustard, Mr Jackson?'
'Oh, sorry,' gasped Mike, and, reaching out, upset the water-jug into
the open jam-tart.
Through the black mist which rose before his eyes as he leaped to his
feet and stammered apologies came the dispassionate voice of Master
Edward Waller reminding him that mustard was first introduced into Peru
by Cortez.
His host was all courtesy and consideration. He passed the matter off
genially. But life can never be quite the same after you have upset a
water-jug into an open jam-tart at the table of a comparative stranger.
Mike's nerve had gone. He ate on, but he was a broken man.
At the other end of the table it became gradually apparent that things
were not going on altogether as they should have done. There was a sort
of bleakness in the atmosphere. Young Mr Richards was looking like a
stuffed fish, and the face of Mr Waller's niece was cold and set.
'Why, come, come, Ada,' said Mr Waller, breezily, 'what's the matter?
You're eating nothing. What's George been saying to you?' he added
jocularly.
'Thank you, uncle Robert,' replied Ada precisely, 'there's nothing the
matter. Nothing that Mr Richards can say to me can upset me.'
'Mr Richards!' echoed Mr Waller in astonishment. How was he to know
that, during the walk back from church, the world had been transformed,
George had become Mr Richards, and all was over?
'I assure you, Ada--' began that unfortunate young man. Ada turned a
frigid shoulder towards him.
'Come, come,' said Mr Waller disturbed. 'What's all this? What's all
this?'
His niece burst into tears and left the room.
If there is anything more embarrassing to a guest than a family row, we
have yet to hear of it. Mike, scarlet to the extreme edges of his ears,
concentrated himself on his plate. Comrade Prebble made a great many
remarks, which were probably illuminating, if they could have been
understood. Mr Waller looked, astonished, at Mr Richards. Mr Richards,
pink but dogged, loosened his collar, but said nothing. Psmith, leaning
forward, asked Master Edward Waller his opinion on the Licensing Bill.
'We happened to have a word or two,' said Mr Richards at length, 'on
the way home from church on the subject of Women's Suffrage.'
'That fatal topic!' murmured Psmith.
'In Australia--' began Master Edward Waller.
'I was rayther--well, rayther facetious about it,' continued Mr
Richards.
Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically.
'In Australia--' said Edward.
'I went talking on, laughing and joking, when all of a sudden she flew
out at me. How was I to know she was 'eart and soul in the movement?
You never told me,' he added accusingly to his host.
'In Australia--' said Edward.
'I'll go and try and get her round. How was I to know?'
Mr Richards thrust back his chair and bounded from the room.
'Now, iawinyaw, iear oiler--' said Comrade Prebble judicially, but was
interrupted.
'How very disturbing!' said Mr Waller. 'I am so sorry that this should
have happened. Ada is such a touchy, sensitive girl. She--'
'In Australia,' said Edward in even tones, 'they've _got_ Women's
Suffrage already. Did _you_ know that?' he said to Mike.
Mike made no answer. His eyes were fixed on his plate. A bead of
perspiration began to roll down his forehead. If his feelings could
have been ascertained at that moment, they would have been summed up in
the words, 'Death, where is thy sting?'
18. Psmith Makes a Discovery
'Women,' said Psmith, helping himself to trifle, and speaking with the
air of one launched upon his special subject, 'are, one must recollect,
like--like--er, well, in fact, just so. Passing on lightly from that
conclusion, let us turn for a moment to the Rights of Property, in
connection with which Comrade Prebble and yourself had so much that was
interesting to say this afternoon. Perhaps you'--he bowed in Comrade
Prebble's direction--'would resume, for the benefit of Comrade Jackson--a
novice in the Cause, but earnest--your very lucid--'
Comrade Prebble beamed, and took the floor. Mike began to realize that,
till now, he had never known what boredom meant. There had been moments
in his life which had been less interesting than other moments, but
nothing to touch this for agony. Comrade Prebble's address streamed on
like water rushing over a weir. Every now and then there was a word or
two which was recognizable, but this happened so rarely that it
amounted to little. Sometimes Mr Waller would interject a remark, but
not often. He seemed to be of the opinion that Comrade Prebble's was
the master mind and that to add anything to his views would be in the
nature of painting the lily and gilding the refined gold. Mike himself
said nothing. Psmith and Edward were equally silent. The former sat
like one in a trance, thinking his own thoughts, while Edward, who,
prospecting on the sideboard, had located a rich biscuit-mine, was too
occupied for speech.
After about twenty minutes, during which Mike's discomfort changed to a
dull resignation, Mr Waller suggested a move to the drawing-room, where
Ada, he said, would play some hymns.
The prospect did not dazzle Mike, but any change, he thought, must be
for the better. He had sat staring at the ruin of the blancmange so
long that it had begun to hypnotize him. Also, the move had the
excellent result of eliminating the snub-nosed Edward, who was sent to
bed. His last words were in the form of a question, addressed to Mike,
on the subject of the hypotenuse and the square upon the same.
'A remarkably intelligent boy,' said Psmith. 'You must let him come to
tea at our flat one day. I may not be in myself--I have many duties
which keep me away--but Comrade Jackson is sure to be there, and will
be delighted to chat with him.'
On the way upstairs Mike tried to get Psmith to himself for a moment to
suggest the advisability of an early departure; but Psmith was in close
conversation with his host. Mike was left to Comrade Prebble, who,
apparently, had only touched the fringe of his subject in his lecture
in the dining-room.
When Mr Waller had predicted hymns in the drawing-room, he had been too
sanguine (or too pessimistic). Of Ada, when they arrived, there were no
signs. It seemed that she had gone straight to bed. Young Mr Richards
was sitting on the sofa, moodily turning the leaves of a photograph
album, which contained portraits of Master Edward Waller in
geometrically progressing degrees of repulsiveness--here, in frocks,
looking like a gargoyle; there, in sailor suit, looking like nothing on
earth. The inspection of these was obviously deepening Mr Richards'
gloom, but he proceeded doggedly with it.
Comrade Prebble backed the reluctant Mike into a corner, and, like the
Ancient Mariner, held him with a glittering eye. Psmith and Mr Waller,
in the opposite corner, were looking at something with their heads
close together. Mike definitely abandoned all hope of a rescue from
Psmith, and tried to buoy himself up with the reflection that this
could not last for ever.
Hours seemed to pass, and then at last he heard Psmith's voice saying
good-bye to his host.
He sprang to his feet. Comrade Prebble was in the middle of a sentence,
but this was no time for polished courtesy. He felt that he must get
away, and at once. 'I fear,' Psmith was saying, 'that we must tear
ourselves away. We have greatly enjoyed our evening. You must look us
up at our flat one day, and bring Comrade Prebble. If I am not in,
Comrade Jackson is certain to be, and he will be more than delighted to
hear Comrade Prebble speak further on the subject of which he is such a
master.' Comrade Prebble was understood to say that he would certainly
come. Mr Waller beamed. Mr Richards, still steeped in gloom, shook
hands in silence.
Out in the road, with the front door shut behind them, Mike spoke his
mind.
'Look here, Smith,' he said definitely, 'if being your confidential
secretary and adviser is going to let me in for any more of that sort
of thing, you can jolly well accept my resignation.'
'The orgy was not to your taste?' said Psmith sympathetically.
Mike laughed. One of those short, hollow, bitter laughs.
'I am at a loss, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, 'to understand your
attitude. You fed sumptuously. You had fun with the crockery--that
knockabout act of yours with the water-jug was alone worth the
money--and you had the advantage of listening to the views of a
master of his subject. What more do you want?'
'What on earth did you land me with that man Prebble for?'
'Land you! Why, you courted his society. I had practically to drag you
away from him. When I got up to say good-bye, you were listening to him
with bulging eyes. I never saw such a picture of rapt attention. Do you
mean to tell me, Comrade Jackson, that your appearance belied you, that
you were not interested? Well, well. How we misread our fellow
creatures.'
'I think you might have come and lent a hand with Prebble. It was a bit
thick.'
'I was too absorbed with Comrade Waller. We were talking of things of
vital moment. However, the night is yet young. We will take this cab,
wend our way to the West, seek a cafe, and cheer ourselves with light
refreshments.'
Arrived at a cafe whose window appeared to be a sort of museum of every
kind of German sausage, they took possession of a vacant table and
ordered coffee. Mike soon found himself soothed by his bright
surroundings, and gradually his impressions of blancmange, Edward, and
Comrade Prebble faded from his mind. Psmith, meanwhile, was preserving
an unusual silence, being deep in a large square book of the sort in
which Press cuttings are pasted. As Psmith scanned its contents a
curious smile lit up his face. His reflections seemed to be of an
agreeable nature.
'Hullo,' said Mike, 'what have you got hold of there? Where did you get
that?'
'Comrade Waller very kindly lent it to me. He showed it to me after
supper, knowing how enthusiastically I was attached to the Cause. Had
you been less tensely wrapped up in Comrade Prebble's conversation, I
would have desired you to step across and join us. However, you now
have your opportunity.'
'But what is it?' asked Mike.
'It is the record of the meetings of the Tulse Hill Parliament,' said
Psmith impressively. 'A faithful record of all they said, all the votes
of confidence they passed in the Government, and also all the nasty
knocks they gave it from time to time.'
'What on earth's the Tulse Hill Parliament?'
'It is, alas,' said Psmith in a grave, sad voice, 'no more. In life it
was beautiful, but now it has done the Tom Bowling act. It has gone
aloft. We are dealing, Comrade Jackson, not with the live, vivid
present, but with the far-off, rusty past. And yet, in a way, there is
a touch of the live, vivid present mixed up in it.'
'I don't know what the dickens you're talking about,' said Mike. 'Let's
have a look, anyway.'
Psmith handed him the volume, and, leaning back, sipped his coffee, and
watched him. At first Mike's face was bored and blank, but suddenly an
interested look came into it.
'Aha!' said Psmith.
'Who's Bickersdyke? Anything to do with our Bickersdyke?'
'No other than our genial friend himself.'
Mike turned the pages, reading a line or two on each.
'Hullo!' he said, chuckling. 'He lets himself go a bit, doesn't he!'
'He does,' acknowledged Psmith. 'A fiery, passionate nature, that of
Comrade Bickersdyke.'
'He's simply cursing the Government here. Giving them frightful beans.'
Psmith nodded.
'I noticed the fact myself.'
'But what's it all about?'
'As far as I can glean from Comrade Waller,' said Psmith, 'about twenty
years ago, when he and Comrade Bickersdyke worked hand-in-hand as
fellow clerks at the New Asiatic, they were both members of the Tulse
Hill Parliament, that powerful institution. At that time Comrade
Bickersdyke was as fruity a Socialist as Comrade Waller is now. Only,
apparently, as he began to get on a bit in the world, he altered his
views to some extent as regards the iniquity of freezing on to a decent
share of the doubloons. And that, you see, is where the dim and rusty
past begins to get mixed up with the live, vivid present. If any
tactless person were to publish those very able speeches made by
Comrade Bickersdyke when a bulwark of the Tulse Hill Parliament, our
revered chief would be more or less caught bending, if I may employ the
expression, as regards his chances of getting in as Unionist candidate
at Kenningford. You follow me, Watson? I rather fancy the light-hearted
electors of Kenningford, from what I have seen of their rather acute
sense of humour, would be, as it were, all over it. It would be very,
very trying for Comrade Bickersdyke if these speeches of his were to
get about.'
'You aren't going to--!'
'I shall do nothing rashly. I shall merely place this handsome volume
among my treasured books. I shall add it to my "Books that have helped
me" series. Because I fancy that, in an emergency, it may not be at all
a bad thing to have about me. And now,' he concluded, 'as the hour is
getting late, perhaps we had better be shoving off for home.'
19. The Illness of Edward
Life in a bank is at its pleasantest in the winter. When all the world
outside is dark and damp and cold, the light and warmth of the place
are comforting. There is a pleasant air of solidity about the interior
of a bank. The green shaded lamps look cosy. And, the outside world
offering so few attractions, the worker, perched on his stool, feels
that he is not so badly off after all. It is when the days are long and
the sun beats hot on the pavement, and everything shouts to him how
splendid it is out in the country, that he begins to grow restless.
Mike, except for a fortnight at the beginning of his career in the New
Asiatic Bank, had not had to stand the test of sunshine. At present,
the weather being cold and dismal, he was almost entirely contented.
Now that he had got into the swing of his work, the days passed very
quickly; and with his life after office-hours he had no fault to find
at all.
His life was very regular. He would arrive in the morning just in time
to sign his name in the attendance-book before it was removed to the
accountant's room. That was at ten o'clock. From ten to eleven he would
potter. There was nothing going on at that time in his department, and
Mr Waller seemed to take it for granted that he should stroll off to
the Postage Department and talk to Psmith, who had generally some fresh
grievance against the ring-wearing Bristow to air. From eleven to half
past twelve he would put in a little gentle work. Lunch, unless there
was a rush of business or Mr Waller happened to suffer from a spasm of
conscientiousness, could be spun out from half past twelve to two. More
work from two till half past three. From half past three till half past
four tea in the tearoom, with a novel. And from half past four till
five either a little more work or more pottering, according to whether
there was any work to do or not. It was by no means an unpleasant mode
of spending a late January day.
Then there was no doubt that it was an interesting little community,
that of the New Asiatic Bank. The curiously amateurish nature of the
institution lent a certain air of light-heartedness to the place. It
was not like one of those banks whose London office is their main
office, where stern business is everything and a man becomes a mere
machine for getting through a certain amount of routine work. The
employees of the New Asiatic Bank, having plenty of time on their
hands, were able to retain their individuality. They had leisure to
think of other things besides their work. Indeed, they had so much
leisure that it is a wonder they thought of their work at all.
The place was full of quaint characters. There was West, who had been
requested to leave Haileybury owing to his habit of borrowing horses
and attending meets in the neighbourhood, the same being always out of
bounds and necessitating a complete disregard of the rules respecting
evening chapel and lock-up. He was a small, dried-up youth, with black
hair plastered down on his head. He went about his duties in a costume
which suggested the sportsman of the comic papers.
There was also Hignett, who added to the meagre salary allowed him by
the bank by singing comic songs at the minor music halls. He confided
to Mike his intention of leaving the bank as soon as he had made a
name, and taking seriously to the business. He told him that he had
knocked them at the Bedford the week before, and in support of the
statement showed him a cutting from the Era, in which the writer said
that 'Other acceptable turns were the Bounding Zouaves, Steingruber's
Dogs, and Arthur Hignett.' Mike wished him luck.
And there was Raymond who dabbled in journalism and was the author of
'Straight Talks to Housewives' in _Trifles_, under the pseudonym
of 'Lady Gussie'; Wragge, who believed that the earth was flat, and
addressed meetings on the subject in Hyde Park on Sundays; and many
others, all interesting to talk to of a morning when work was slack and
time had to be filled in.
Mike found himself, by degrees, growing quite attached to the New
Asiatic Bank.
One morning, early in February, he noticed a curious change in Mr
Waller. The head of the Cash Department was, as a rule, mildly cheerful
on arrival, and apt (excessively, Mike thought, though he always
listened with polite interest) to relate the most recent sayings and
doings of his snub-nosed son, Edward. No action of this young prodigy
was withheld from Mike. He had heard, on different occasions, how he
had won a prize at his school for General Information (which Mike could
well believe); how he had trapped young Mr Richards, now happily
reconciled to Ada, with an ingenious verbal catch; and how he had made
a sequence of diverting puns on the name of the new curate, during the
course of that cleric's first Sunday afternoon visit.
On this particular day, however, the cashier was silent and
absent-minded. He answered Mike's good-morning mechanically, and
sitting down at his desk, stared blankly across the building. There
was a curiously grey, tired look on his face.
Mike could not make it out. He did not like to ask if there was
anything the matter. Mr Waller's face had the unreasonable effect on
him of making him feel shy and awkward. Anything in the nature of
sorrow always dried Mike up and robbed him of the power of speech.
Being naturally sympathetic, he had raged inwardly in many a crisis at
this devil of dumb awkwardness which possessed him and prevented him
from putting his sympathy into words. He had always envied the cooing
readiness of the hero on the stage when anyone was in trouble. He
wondered whether he would ever acquire that knack of pouring out a
limpid stream of soothing words on such occasions. At present he could
get no farther than a scowl and an almost offensive gruffness.
The happy thought struck him of consulting Psmith. It was his hour for
pottering, so he pottered round to the Postage Department, where he
found the old Etonian eyeing with disfavour a new satin tie which
Bristow was wearing that morning for the first time.
'I say, Smith,' he said, 'I want to speak to you for a second.'
Psmith rose. Mike led the way to a quiet corner of the Telegrams
Department.
'I tell you, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, 'I am hard pressed. The
fight is beginning to be too much for me. After a grim struggle, after
days of unremitting toil, I succeeded yesterday in inducing the man
Bristow to abandon that rainbow waistcoat of his. Today I enter the
building, blythe and buoyant, worn, of course, from the long struggle,
but seeing with aching eyes the dawn of another, better era, and there
is Comrade Bristow in a satin tie. It's hard, Comrade Jackson, it's
hard, I tell you.'
'Look here, Smith,' said Mike, 'I wish you'd go round to the Cash and
find out what's up with old Waller. He's got the hump about something.
He's sitting there looking absolutely fed up with things. I hope
there's nothing up. He's not a bad sort. It would be rot if anything
rotten's happened.'
Psmith began to display a gentle interest.
'So other people have troubles as well as myself,' he murmured
musingly. 'I had almost forgotten that. Comrade Waller's misfortunes
cannot but be trivial compared with mine, but possibly it will be as
well to ascertain their nature. I will reel round and make inquiries.'
'Good man,' said Mike. 'I'll wait here.'
Psmith departed, and returned, ten minutes later, looking more serious
than when he had left.
'His kid's ill, poor chap,' he said briefly. 'Pretty badly too, from
what I can gather. Pneumonia. Waller was up all night. He oughtn't to
be here at all today. He doesn't know what he's doing half the time.
He's absolutely fagged out. Look here, you'd better nip back and do as
much of the work as you can. I shouldn't talk to him much if I were
you. Buck along.'
Mike went. Mr Waller was still sitting staring out across the aisle.
There was something more than a little gruesome in the sight of him. He
wore a crushed, beaten look, as if all the life and fight had gone out
of him. A customer came to the desk to cash a cheque. The cashier
shovelled the money to him under the bars with the air of one whose
mind is elsewhere. Mike could guess what he was feeling, and what he
was thinking about. The fact that the snub-nosed Edward was, without
exception, the most repulsive small boy he had ever met in this world,
where repulsive small boys crowd and jostle one another, did not
interfere with his appreciation of the cashier's state of mind. Mike's
was essentially a sympathetic character. He had the gift of intuitive
understanding, where people of whom he was fond were concerned. It was
this which drew to him those who had intelligence enough to see beyond
his sometimes rather forbidding manner, and to realize that his blunt
speech was largely due to shyness. In spite of his prejudice against
Edward, he could put himself into Mr Waller's place, and see the thing
from his point of view.
Psmith's injunction to him not to talk much was unnecessary. Mike, as
always, was rendered utterly dumb by the sight of suffering. He sat at
his desk, occupying himself as best he could with the driblets of work
which came to him.
Mr Waller's silence and absentness continued unchanged. The habit of
years had made his work mechanical. Probably few of the customers who
came to cash cheques suspected that there was anything the matter with
the man who paid them their money. After all, most people look on the
cashier of a bank as a sort of human slot-machine. You put in your
cheque, and out comes money. It is no affair of yours whether life is
treating the machine well or ill that day.
The hours dragged slowly by till five o'clock struck, and the cashier,
putting on his coat and hat, passed silently out through the swing
doors. He walked listlessly. He was evidently tired out.
Mike shut his ledger with a vicious bang, and went across to find
Psmith. He was glad the day was over.
20. Concerning a Cheque