‘I am going to the village, Ada, to see Mr Beecham, but I shall not be
long,’ said Wrentham to his wife.
She in her pale, delicate prettiness was as unlike the mate of such a
man as Wrentham as a gazelle linked to a Bengal tiger would appear. But
she was fond of him, believed in him, and was as happy in her married
state as most of her neighbours seemed to be. Indeed, she believed
herself to be a great deal happier than most of them. So far as the
household arrangements were concerned, he was a model husband: he
interfered with none of them. He seldom scolded: he accepted his chop
or steak with equanimity whether it was over or under done (of course
he did not think it necessary to mention the repasts he indulged in
at the _Gog and Magog_); and he had even put on a pair of unbrushed
boots without saying anything aloud. What woman is there who would not
appreciate such a husband?
Mrs Wrentham did appreciate him, and was devoted to him. She had
brought him a few hundreds, with which her father, a country tradesman,
had dowered her, and of that Wrentham declared he was able to make a
fortune. With that intent most of his time was occupied in the City;
and she often lamented that poor Martin was so eager to make ‘hay
whilst the sun shone’—as he called it—that he was working himself to
death.
‘Never mind, dear,’ he would say: ‘there is no time like the present
for laying by a store; and we shall have leisure to enjoy ourselves
when we have made a comfortable little fortune.’
‘But if you should kill yourself in the meanwhile, Martin!’
‘Nonsense, Ada; I am too tough a chap to be killed so easily.’
Then he would go off gaily to the City (or the betting-ring). She would
sigh, and sit down to wait for the happy time when that little fortune
should be made.
The man whilst he spoke to her was sincere enough; but in the feverish
excitement of his speculations he forgot all about wife and home.
At present he was at ease, for he did not mean to go farther than the
_King’s Head_. So he made the little woman quite happy by his effusive
tenderness, and still more by the information that she might wait up
for his return. What pleasanter intimation could a loving wife receive?
The village was in darkness, for gas had not yet found its way into
Kingshope. The feeble glint of a candle here and there looked like a
dull glowworm striving to keep up a semblance of life. The half-dozen
shops with their oil-lamps were a little brighter than the houses; but
their innermost corners were dark and mysterious. Even the _King’s
Head_ and _Cherry Tree_ wore such veils upon their faces that a
stranger would have passed by without suspecting that these were
hostelries within the gates of which was to be found good entertainment
for man and beast, and where on market-days and fair-days were held
high revels.
In one of the darkest parts of the street there was a little window
illuminated by a single ‘dip:’ that ‘dip’ revealed a jumble of
sweetmeats, cheap, gaudy toys, and penny picture-books. The eager eyes
of a group of children discovered there a palace of wonder and delight,
filled with objects of surpassing interest and ambition. There was
a wooden sword which young Hodge regarded as more powerful than his
father’s spade and pick-axe: there was a gilt gingerbread man with
a cocked-hat, which was looked upon with breathless admiration as a
correct model of the Prince of Wales in all the splendour of royal
attire. There was a brief discussion as to whether the cocked-hat
should not have been a gold crown, which was undoubtedly the proper
headgear for a prince. This, however, was settled by a mite of a girl,
who suggested that the cocked-hat was worn when the Prince went out for
a walk, and the crown when he was in the palace.
Next in attractive power was a greenish bottle full of brandy-balls;
and the children’s teeth watered as they gazed upon it. A Lord Mayor’s
dinner must be a small thing compared with that window with its jumble
of sweets and toys.
‘Wouldn’t you like to have some of these nice things? How happy we
would be if life could be all gilt gingerbread and brandy-balls!’
That was exactly what they had been thinking, and an appalled silence
fell upon the little group, as they turned to stare at the wizard
who had read their desire through the backs of their heads. But they
all knew the kindly face of the gentleman who was looking at them so
pleasantly. They did not note the shade of sadness and pity that was in
his eyes. The faces of the younger children broadened into smiles of
expectation: the elder ones hung their heads a little—shy, doubting,
hoping, and vaguely fearing that they had been caught doing something
wrong.
Mr Beecham patted one of them on the head—a child of about six years.
‘Suppose you had sixpence, Totty, what would you do?’
‘Buy all the shop.’
‘And what then?’
‘Eat um,’ was the prompt and emphatic answer.
‘What! would you not share with your friends?’
Totty looked round at her friends, who were anxious about her next
reply.
‘Such a lot of ’em,’ she said with a kind of sulky greediness.
‘Well, sixpence will not buy the whole shop; but I shall give it to
your brother, and he must spend it upon something which can be easily
divided into equal parts, so that you may all share alike.’
The gift was accepted in silence; but he had only moved a few paces
away when there arose a hubbub of young voices angrily disputing as
to what should be purchased with their fortune. He turned back and
settled the matter for them. Whilst thus occupied, he was visited with
the unpleasant reflection that what we want does not cause us so much
trouble as what we possess. These children had been happy gazing at
what they had no expectation of attaining. In imagination they could
pick and choose each what he or she most fancied. Then he had come
like an evil genius amongst them and by his trifling gift had produced
discord. Had he purchased all that was in the shop there would still
have been dissatisfaction.
‘Communism will never thrive,’ he muttered as he walked away, after
pacifying his little protégés as best he could; ‘the selfish individual
will always be too strong for it. Master Philip is making a mistake.’
‘He _is_ a rum chap,’ was the comment of Mr Wrentham, who had been
watching the incident from the outside of the small semicircle of light
cast from the window of the sweet-shop. ‘In his dotage?... No. I might
have said that, if we had not spent a few evenings together. A man who
can pick up Nap and play it as he did, is no fool, however much of
a knave he may be. He is not that either.... Wonder what can be the
reason of Hadleigh’s curiosity about him.’
His first movement from the darkness in which he stood suggested that
he purposed saluting Mr Beecham at once; but he altered his mind, lit
a cigar, and strolled leisurely after him. He had found a new interest
in the stranger: it sprung out of his profound respect for Mr Hadleigh,
for he was convinced that every word spoken by that gentleman, and
certainly every act performed by him, was the result of careful
reflection and shrewd foresight. He was not a man to do anything
without a distinct view to his own advantage. Wrentham intended to
share that advantage. But as he was at present unable to conceive
what it might be, and was working entirely in the dark, with the hope
merely that he should discover the meaning of it all as he proceeded,
he considered it wise to move with caution whilst he maintained the
bearing of a most willing servant.
He had been under the impression that he had sounded the depths of Mr
Beecham’s character pretty correctly; but Mr Hadleigh’s inquiries and
the incident with the children suggested two such opposite phases, that
Wrentham could only conclude one of them must be wrong. Mr Hadleigh
had started the suspicion that Beecham had some design in hand, the
discovery of which would be useful: the scene with the children brought
Wrentham back to his first impression—that he was a simple-minded but
clear-sighted gentleman who was willing to lose a few pounds at cards
occasionally without grumbling.
Mr Beecham had so few visitors in his village quarters, that he had
not yet found it necessary to give the attendants at the _King’s Head_
the unpalatable but frequently unavoidable instruction to say ‘Not at
home.’ So that, on Wrentham’s arrival, his name was at once conveyed to
him. The message brought back was that, if Mr Wrentham would be good
enough to wait for a few minutes, Mr Beecham would be ready to receive
him.
When at length he was shown into the room, Mr Beecham was closing a
large envelope, which he placed on his desk in order to shake hands
with his visitor. At each side of the desk was a bright lamp with a
white shade, reflecting the light full upon the document he had laid
down. Wrentham had no difficulty in reading the address.
‘Hope I am not disturbing you. Got home early, and took it into my head
to come down and have a cigar and a chat. If you’re busy, I’ll bolt.’
‘No necessity. I had only to address an envelope to a friend with some
inclosures, and that is done. You are very welcome to-night, although
we are not likely to have a chat, as I have invited some young people
to a conjuring entertainment.’
‘I am afraid you will find me an ungracious guest,’ said Wrentham,
laughing, ‘for I had made up my mind to have a quiet evening with you
alone, and I have no fancy for jugglers—their tricks are all so stale.’
‘You will find this man particularly amusing. He is clever with his
tongue as well as his hands, and is remarkably well-mannered, although
you will be astonished, perhaps, to learn that he is only a street
performer. I ought not to have told you that until after you had seen
him. However, my chief pleasure will be—and I am sure yours will be—in
seeing how the children enjoy the magician’s wonders. Mr Tuppit tells
me that he never has so much delight in his work as when he has an
audience of young people. We have got the large dining-room for the
performance, and it is likely to turn out a brilliant affair. You must
stay.’
At the mention of the conjurer’s name, Wrentham made a curious
movement, as if he had dropped something—it was only the ash of his
cigar which had fallen on his sleeve. He dusted it into the fender.
‘I wish I could go into things of this sort like you,’ he said, smiling
admiringly at Mr Beecham’s enthusiasm; ‘but I can’t. I don’t believe
you could do it either, if you had heavy and anxious work on hand.
But you belong to the lucky ones who have successfully passed the
Rubicon of life. You have made your hay, and can amuse yourself without
thinking about to-morrow. I am never allowed to get to-morrow out of my
head.’
‘Most people say that,’ was Mr Beecham’s response, with one of his
quiet smiles; ‘and I always think it is because we waste to-day in
thinking of to-morrow.’
‘Hit again,’ exclaimed Wrentham with a frank laugh. ‘I believe you are
right; but we cannot all be philosophers. Nature has most to do in
forming us, whatever share education may have in it. Where the dickens
did you pick up your philosophy? In the east, west, north, or south?
Have you been a traveller for pleasure or on business? Where have
you been? What have you done, that you should be able always to see
the sunny side of life? There’s a string of questions for you. Don’t
trouble to answer them, although I should like if possible to learn how
you became what you are—so calm, so happy.’
All this was spoken so good-humouredly—as if it were the outcome of
nothing more than jesting curiosity—that Wrentham fancied he had very
cleverly turned to useful account a passing observation. His host could
not avoid giving him some direct information about his career now.
Mr Beecham appeared to be amused—nothing more.
‘I have travelled in many directions of the compass, partly on
business, partly on pleasure. Everywhere I have found that although
the scenes are different, men are the same. Those who have had a
fortune made for them spend it, wisely or unwisely as may be; those who
have not, strive or wish to strive to make one for themselves. Some
succeed, some fail: but the conditions of happiness are the same in
either case—those who are the most easily content are the most happy.’
‘Beaten,’ thought Wrentham. ‘What a clever beggar he is in answering
the most direct questions with vague generalities.’ What he said was
this:
‘I suppose that you had a fortune made for you, and so could take
things easy?’
‘A little was left to me, but I am glad to say not enough to permit me
to be idle. I cannot say that I have worked hard, but I worked in the
right direction, and the result has been satisfactory—that is, so far
as money is concerned.’
‘Wish you would give me a leaf out of your book: it might start me in
the right direction too.’
‘Some day you shall have the whole book to read, Mr Wrentham, and I
shall be delighted if you find it of service.’
‘But what line were you in? I should like to know.’
‘So you shall, so you shall—by-and-by.—You have allowed your cigar to
go out. Try one of these Larranagas; and excuse me for a minute—I want
to send this away.’
He took up the packet which Wrentham had observed lying on the desk,
and quitted the room.
‘Wish I could make him out,’ was Wrentham’s reflection, as, after
lighting his cigar, he stood on the hearth with his back to the fire
and glared round the room in search of something that might help to
satisfy his curiosity. ‘Maybe there is nothing to make out.... But
what does he want sending off letters to Madge Heathcote at this time
of evening? I saw the address plainly enough, and that letter was for
her.... There _is_ something to find out.’
(_To be continued._)