"'E lay quiet enough when the music started. Did you notice?"
"Yes," I said, "I noticed."
"They're funny devils," said the man.
*XV*
*INGRATES*
"DR. BRINK. Important.
"DEAR DOCTOR,--Ther is a lady keeps on coming in a motor car, and her
names is Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our place, and we
think she 'as got a good intention, but my husband says he has had
enough, and he thinks if we was to speak to you then perhaps you was to
speak to her so perhaps she would stop it. She is a real lady, and
always civil and polite, but my husband says we've had ennough. His
mates has got to hear about it, and they call him Gordon Bennett, and he
is a hardworking man.
"It is my daughter Kate she takes the interest in, the same what you
give the light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite. She wants to
put her in a home at Margate, but my daughter has got a good home of her
own, and she do not want to be beholding. And if a person goes to
Margate you always bring back vermin, and there is enough work to keep a
decent home without anybody need go to Margate and bring back vermin.
And further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank book of her own, thank God,
and when she wants to take a fortnight she can do it independent, and
her young fellar the same, him what has the bottles of red from you for
spots on the face.
"And so it is kindly to be hoped as you will kindly talk about it to the
lady, you being reguly engaged by us for all these year, and knowing
well that we are hardworking and independent, and not the kind as would
wish to be beholding. And she come 4 times a week from Sat., and now it
is only Tue., and she has been twice. It is no wonder as my daughter
loose her appetite.
"And thanking with compts,
"Your faithl,
"SARAH BENNET,
13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy.
"P.S.--Boy got 6d. Please send a bot. light brown for my daughter. Did
my daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of vineger? They tell me it
is good.
"The lady has always acted civil, so I hope you'll be the same.
"S. BENNETT."
* * * * *
It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which
caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She
came in immediate response to the doctor's invitation; she came with a
rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring
car.
"And, oh, _dear_ Dr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to
meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this
shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies
you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you
must _revel_ in your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!"
"About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with
them."
The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "_Pigs_,
Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "_Pigs_! He! he! And you
call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I'm not a Socialist myself.
One's husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that.
But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now,
need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh,
Doctor, can one do _nothing_?"
"One _can_," replied the doctor; "but one won't. That, madame, is the
difficulty."
"I don't quite understand you," said the lady.
"You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I
reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one--to do nothing."
"To do _nothing_? _D-o-c-t-o-r_!"
"It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is
really true. We ask one to do _nothing_. We ask one to be so kind as to
sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But
not to leave one's blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The
pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned by dirty
people. Nice people--manicured people---are best out of it. See?"
"I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don't---- What
is it all about, Doctor?"
"This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett's letter. And she
read it silently. And she stood up.
"Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn't quite know what to say.
I'm sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I'll
go home and draw threads.
"Don't trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his
chair. "Don't trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I've
ever met. Please don't trouble to get up."
She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him
again. "You are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she said again.
"Quite the rudest.... I'll send you some money for your pigs."
*XVI*
*BAFFIN'S FIND*
Baffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation.
He had found _the_ face for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence
Croft.
It was coming to sit next day, and certain brothers of the brush were
coming also to inspect and criticise Prudence.
Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me. I invited myself to join the
party and my invitation was accepted.
So that I first saw Prudence under romantic circumstances. She was
sitting on a sugar-box with her bodice off. The combination of her
charms and a red flannel under-garment was startling to the eye.
Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a proceeding called "sitting for
the neck and shoulders." The process was not a restful one, for
Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets" and a constant flow of anecdote.
Mr. Baffin made free with expressions of entreaty, disapprobation, and
despair.
For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence, being consumed with a great
wonder. It wasn't the flannel which provoked this wonder. Red flannel
is a hideous material, and highly moral and depressing at that. And I
am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anaemic rat of an artist's model
seated in "half-costume" on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an attractive
one. But Prudence fascinated me as no human being had fascinated me for
many days.
If any of you have felt the poignant, horrible appeal of Ophelia during
the "mad scene," you will know how I felt about Prudence. Her spare,
consumptive body was crowned by a neck and face and head as beautiful as
any that ever were. But it was a beauty that was monstrous in its
perfection, and that, therefore, hurt like some monstrosity of ugliness.
Prudence's beauty was the beauty of imbecility--that which Rossetti
loved so much to draw. To look at her for long was like looking at some
exotic, over-nurtured lily in a hot-house: one felt sick and restless
and unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster blossom on a
hedgerow.
She had the genuine Rossetti neck--a thing which rose and swelled and
died away in exquisite, maddening curves. She had the genuine Rossetti
nose--straight, and small, and delicate, and sinful. She had hair, a
full arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed and floated like the
tendrils of a vine. She had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a
child's, yet filled with an awful something that was not of childhood.
She had, above all else, a mouth which stung you with its
beauty--blood-red lips that were open and moist and eager, like a
lover's wound.
To all these charms she added the mind and speech of a mud-lark: the
intelligence of a backward infant.
"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin,
you _do_ frighten me when you swear so. I _will_ keep still: I will,
reely. I won't fidget or move or talk--I won't even breathe--for a 'ole
ten minnits. On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister an' the
penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was
washin' day, an'---- ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin. Down't be
angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an' I _will_ keep
still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of me when my mother dies, an'
everybody 'ates me, an' I _am_ un'eppy."
The remainder of Prudence's observations were mingled with the sound of
noisy sobs.
Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I'll
wait," he said, "until you are dry again."
"Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I'll be a good
gel now--I will, reely--if on'y yew wown't be engry with me."
"Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl
now. I 'm not angry with you _any_ more, and if only you keep still for
five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I'll let you
talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold
your head up."
So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up--for
five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting
thought occurred to her.
"It'll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling
delightedly. "I'm gownter give my muvver something _sow_ nice fur
Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a---- Ow, Mr. Baffin, you're angry with
me agen. I _am_ a bad gel, I know I am; but----"
"You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly.
"I've got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now.
What is this about Christmas?"
"I got two guineas comin' to _me_ fur Christmas--per'aps. I sat to Mr.
Baker fur 'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e is gointer
gimme two guineas!"
Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance.
Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent
Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his
tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now
being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry--Mr. Wilberforce
Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose.
Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show.
"I shouldn't count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence.
"... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?"
"Ow, _ever_ so lung!" answered Prudence. "Down't know why 'tis, I'm
sure, on'y I down't seem to be able to get now sittin's _now_'ow. They
all say I'm pretty an' that; an' they all rave about me neck: an' they
all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can't make it
out at _all_, I can't?"
"You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained
Baffin.
"Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.
"I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are lacking--that you are damned
slow at seeing things!"
"Ow, Mr. Baffin, you _are_ a naughty man. Fancy usin' such wicked words.
My mother says it is on'y bad people what uses words like that. My
mother cut 'er finger yesterday, makin' toast. We got the drains up in
_our_ 'ouse. Ugly things, them little kittens, ain't they? I 'ates 'em
when they're crawly, like those."
Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to a basket beside the sugar-box.
This contained a family of illegitimate kittens which James had adopted
out of Christian charity.
"I _'ate_ cats," continued Prudence in her childish, sing-song voice.
"I ate all animals. I like goin' to the theayter, though. I like goin'
to church too. I like----"
She would have provided us, doubtless, with an exhaustive list of her
enthusiasms; but the door of the studio opened, and gave entrance to
those brothers of the brush whose coming was expected.
They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered.
"Where in Hell did you find her?" they inquired of Baffin, and
discharged a volley of most wonderful expletives in evidence of their
surprise and appreciation and envy. And they hanked her off the
sugar-box, and turned her this way and that way, inspecting her "form"
in much the same manner as that adopted by farmers when buying
horseflesh.
"Chin up, please; more to the right. Now to the left. Ah! Get over
there, under that top light. Profile, please. Ah! How about shoulders:
salt-cellars, I expect; they always have. Pull that thing down. Ah!
Not so bad as I feared. No good for the figure, but--but that neck!
Trust old Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"
There was to me something inexplicably delightful in the utter
sexlessness of this admiration. To say the least, it was ungallant and
sane. And Prudence evidently shared this feeling. The childish vanity
in her eyes was unmistakable, and she walked back to her throne on the
sugar-box with a strut that real queens might have envied.
Baffin tried to resume work on the picture; but Prudence's gifts of
anecdote were as yet unexhausted, and she found it necessary to tell
what Mr. Wilberforce Baker had said to Mr. Jerningham Jukes, and what
Mr. J. J. had said to Mr. W. B., and what she had said to both of them,
and what her mother had suffered under chloroform. And she giggled, and
she wriggled, and she apologised, and she wept, and she wriggled and she
giggled again. And Comrade of Brush No. 1 observed to Comrade of Brush
No. 2 that this sort of thing would not be good enough at any price.
Comrade No. 2 sniffed assentingly. "And what the blazes," he inquired,
"does she want to wear that beastly flannel for?"
"Ah!" grunted No. 1. "I say, Baffin, why does she wear red flannel?
Makes chaps sick."
Baffin referred the matter to headquarters. "What do you dress yourself
up like a sore throat for, Prudence?" he inquired. "Why do you wear red
flannel?"
Prudence's eyes were wide with amazement. "Ow, Mr. Baffin," she
tittered, "yew _are_ a funny men! ... I got pretty things at 'owm. But
what's the good o' wearin' 'em out in the studios?"
"You are lacking, my dear girl, in the quality of perception." Baffin
uttered these words with an oracular air.
The Comrades made their adieux. "Not if she _paid_ me to paint her,"
whispered No. 1, with a jerk of the head towards Prudence. "But, Lord,
_what_ a profile! A tricky man could work wonders with that head."
"Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade No. 2. And they departed.
"Hear what those gentlemen said?" demanded Baffin, as the door
closed.... "You are too talkative, and you giggle too much, and you
wriggle too much. And you should leave off red flannel, and make
yourself nice. You could make a lot of money if you took care of
yourself. Think of the nice things you could give your mother then!"
"My mother's got a abscess," moaned Prudence, "an' I believe she'll die,
an' then I'll starve, 'cause I'm a good-for-nothin' gel, an' I wown't
sit still, an'--an' me figure's too flat. But I'm learnin' to croshy,
an' I _will_ be better. Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?"
"Come on Friday," answered Baffin. "And," he added, "come in a nice,
unwrigglesome frame of mind. You shall have cream and tea and muffins
if you are a good girl."
"Ooer!" cried Prudence. "I like muffins. And I like cream, and I like
claret... 'Ere"--her face suddenly grew grave, grave as a child's at
play with toys--"'ere, Mr. Baffin, do you believe in auctioneers?"
"Do I believe in _what_?" shouted Baffin.
"Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a pout. "Don't be angry with me;
I won't ask agen, if you don't like.
"On'y ... what you want to look at me so queer for? I can't 'elp bein'
silly. I _am_ silly. On'y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is the sort of
man that anybody ought to trust?"
*XVII*
*MR. WEST'S WIFE*
"Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, sitting up
in bed and shading a very white face with a very hot hand. "Oh, I
daresay 'e'll do! 'Tain't much, I'm told. No doubt 'e'll manage it."
That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, thus coldly confided to
my management was the witnessing of her will. Dr. Brink had volunteered
to execute this document for her; and a sniggering youth had haled me
from the snugness of the doctor's waiting chariot to come upstairs and
sign.
After my formal presentation to Mrs. West, there was an interval of
silence, broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the doctor's pen, as he
hastily constructed a form of bequest.
I employed this interval in taking stock of the testator's estate, the
whole of which was contained within her room. There were two bedsteads,
one (a little folding thing) being devoted to the uses of the sniggering
boy who, be it stated, figured in the document which was now being
prepared as sole legatee. The other bedstead--that on which the patient
lay--was obviously a veteran bedstead which had seen much of the world.
It was a circumstantial, ponderous bedstead, and wore still a pompous
air, although its ironwork was rusted and its lacquered parts had quite
lost their complexion. This bedstead also bore a superstructure
designed to carry a canopy; but all that hung there now were certain
moth-eaten petticoats. There was a chest of drawers among the assets,
and a cork model of the Tower of London, and a wash-basin and two soap
dishes, and two dumb clocks and the mechanism of another, and a work of
art designed in multi-coloured wools, and having reference to the
parable of the fig tree.
"Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West; "all what I, the undersigned,
may die possessed of. I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister touch a stick of
it. 'E's bin a good boy to me, Bert 'as. It'll be a 'ome for 'im.
"It's bin a near touch for me, what, Doctor?" pursued the testator.
"Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still writing rapidly, "you're not going
this time."
"I know that," said the woman. "Not as I take any notice what _you_
say--you an' your soft soap. But I know in _meself_ as it's all right
this time. On'y you never know what's gointer 'appen with the next
attack, do you, now? And it'll be a 'ome for the boy. 'E's gettin'
good money at the dye works now. 'E'll be all right if 'e's got a 'ome.
You ain't puttin' it so's _she_ can touch a share, I 'ope, Doctor?"
"Who's she?"
"'Er what I spoke about--what calls 'erself my daughter. 'Er what's
married into the perlice. 'Er what's ashamed of 'er own father!"
"I am putting it," explained the doctor, "so that you leave all of which
you may die possessed to your son Albert. It's quite definite. You may
sign now. This gentleman and myself will witness your signature."
"Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.
She signed her name in a shaky but accomplished hand. "Be careful,
young man," she admonished me, when my turn arrived.
All the formalities being concluded, Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow
with a grunt of contentment. "It'll be a 'ome for the boy," she said.
"And if 'is father _should_ turn up----"
"Has he got a father, then?" questioned the doctor, rather, I think,
with the object of displaying an intelligent interest than from any
genuine curiosity. You _are_ apt to lose your genuine curiosity when
this sort of confidence is thrust upon you ten times daily.
"Got a father!" echoed Mrs. West, with evident amazement at the doctor's
ignorance. "Ain't you 'eard, then?"
"Heard what?" demanded Dr. Brink.
"About my 'usband. The Midland Malt Comp'ny, you know!'
"Well, really now," replied the doctor, looking painfully confused,
"upon my word, I _don't_ know."
"You must go about your business in a very funny way, then," reflected
Mrs. West. "It's bin the talk o' Limus. 'E done 'em in for eight
'undred quid--'im an' another man."
"Done 'em in!" repeated the doctor. "Who? What?"
"The Midland Malt Company, same's I told you," expounded Mrs. West. "'E
was night watchman, Mr. West was--'im an' another man--an' they took
eight 'undred quid. 'E got away with 'arf of it, too. The perlice 'as
bin investigatin' ever since."
Dr. Brink still looked a little puzzled. "You mean, in fact--do I
understand that your husband stole eight hundred pounds?"
"Mr. West an' another man--yes," responded the woman, quite without
feeling. "'Im an' 'is mate, they done in eight 'undred. On'y 'is mate,
I'm sorry to say, 'e never got 'is share. The perlice got that. They
got 'im, too. But they never got Mr. West."
"How did he escape?" demanded the doctor. And I held my breath. I
wondered that the desperado's wife could talk so quietly. "How did he
escape?" asked the doctor again.
"Mr. West?" queried the woman. "Oh," she said, with great simplicity,
"'e went away.
"It was like this yere," said Mr. West's wife:--
"I was asleep, you see--in this bed yere, an' it was dark--all in the
middle o' the night, you see. An' he struck a match an' he woke me up.
"'What's that?' I says, with a start like, an' when I see it was Mr.
West I lay down again.
"'Ann,' 'e says, 'wake up. I've got some money 'ere,' 'e says. An' 'e
lights a bit o' candle, an' I sits up, an' there on the table--that very
table--there was a 'eap o' sovereigns what 'e'd rolled out of a sack.
'I've took these from the company. I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West.
"An' 'e gets into 'is Sunday shoot an' 'e shaves 'isself. An' 'e puts a
lot o' the money more'n four 'undred pounds--into a little brown bag,
an' 'e puts the rest in the coal cupboard. 'The perlice 'll come for
that in the mornin',' says Mr. West. 'Let 'em find it there. An' you,'
'e says, 'you don't know nothink.'
"'An' what about you?' I says.
"'I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West. 'I'll write you when it's safe. Give
my love to Rosa.'
"Rosa is my sister's niece, what 'e'd always carried on with--innocent
like, in a jokin' sort o' way, if you understand me.
"'An' remember,' says Mr. West to me again, 'as you don't know a thing.
They'll find the money in the coal 'ole, so don't you try to stop 'em.'
"An' then Mr. West, 'e kissed me same as usual, an' 'e blowed out the
light. An' 'e went away."
* * * * *
"I suppose that the police turned up all right?" suggested Dr. Brink,
when he had duly considered this simple story.
"The perlice," responded the woman, who had talked more than was good
for her, and now looked paler, if possible, than before--"the perlice
was very rude an' rough to me. They found the money in the coal
cupboard, an' they took it away. But that didn't satisfy them. It on'y
seemed to aggerivate them. An' night after night they come round 'ere,
an' they was very rough to me. But they ain't got 'old o' Mr. West.
"'E's bin gone a year now, all but five weeks. An' they ain't caught
'im, an' they never will. I believe it would please that daughter o'
mine--the wicked, vain, unfeelin' thing--if they _was_ to catch 'm.
"Mr. West, 'e 'aven't wrote me, nor I don't suppose 'e will. Mr. West
is a careful sort. I _did_ send round the other day to a place where I
thought there might be noos o' 'im; but there wasn't no noos o' 'im.
"Not that I worry meself about _'im_, if you understand. Mr. West would
be all right, wherever it was. 'E's the sort that kin take care o'
'isself, 'e is. It's the boy--young Bert--I'm thinkin' of. Mr. West
would be very cut up, 'e would, to think as Bert should come to any
'arm."
This reference to the nice paternal feeling of Mr. West affected us both
strangely.
"But," continued Mrs. West, "I'm leavin' 'im the 'ome, at all events.
Bert can't come to no pertickler 'arm so long's 'e's got a home.
"Mr. West 'isself was always a rare one for 'ome. The boy takes arter
'im."
*XVIII*
*THREE DIALOGUES*
The Mission of the Healer is a fine and a noble one, and I have often
confided this original thought to my friend Doctor Brink, who declares
that such confidences are helpful to him. And I now desire to record,
without comment, three dialogues which drifted in to me at intervals one
Sunday, when I was sitting on the doctor's gas-stove.