Disappointing attitude of Ezekiel. Suggested nuptials of Miss Moonbeam.
An occasion for tact and postponement. I am obliged to write a
letter. Ezekiel accompanies me to the Empresses Theatre. We are a
little taken back by the numbers to be rescued. An apparently
delightful beverage. I address Miss Moonbeam’s friends on the
subject of temperance. Ezekiel addresses them on the evils of the
drama. We arrange a meeting. Description of meeting.
AFTERWARDS, as I have suggested, I was to discover in Miss Moonbeam an
almost incredible capacity for evil. But that night, as I emerged from
the theatre into the anxious arms of Ezekiel Stool, I could not help
feeling in the utmost agreement with him as to her character and
physical appearance. Indeed so complete was my endorsement both of his
judgment and prevision that I must confess to having been a little
surprised by his reception of my news.
“So you’re meeting her again?” he said.
“Yes, to-morrow evening,” I replied, “when I hope to draw closer to her
in every way.”
He stopped abruptly and began to peer at me suspiciously through the
dense tangle that now covered his face.
“How do you mean closer?” he said.
I waved my hand.
“She has so much to learn,” I said, “so much to understand. She’s like a
little child, Ezekiel, just as you supposed—a female child that has
never been properly taught.”
“Yes, very likely,” he said. “But why shouldn’t I teach her myself? I’m
the President of the Union after all.”
“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “undoubted as are your gifts both as
organizer and financer of our movement, do you really consider that you
have quite the personality for such intimate soul-work as Miss Moonbeam
requires?”
“Absolutely,” said Ezekiel.
“Then I can only say,” I replied, “that I fail to agree with you.”
It was an awkward moment, and it was not until the third attempt that
Ezekiel succeeded in making himself intelligible.
“And so you mean to imply,” he said, “that for the purposes of
approaching Miss Moonbeam, your personality is superior to mine?”
I touched his arm, not without affection.
“Or shall we rather say,” I replied, “that it is more attractive?”
“But I deny it,” he cried. “I deny it most passionately. I deny it with
every fibre of my being,”
I withdrew my glove for a moment from his coat-sleeve.
“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “that doesn’t alter the position.”
“The position?” he said. “What position?”
“Why, the position,” I replied, “between Mary and myself.”
For a moment the silence was almost terrifying. Then he dropped his
umbrella, and I put my foot upon it.
“Between who?” he said. “Between who?”
“Between Mary,” I repeated, “and myself.”
“But do you mean to tell me,” he cried, “that as Vice-President—as
Vice-President, I say, of a Union such as ours——”
I touched his sleeve again.
“Or shall we say _an_ Union, seeing that Union begins with a vowel?”
But he stamped his foot, evidently losing self-control.
“No, we won’t,” he screamed. “We won’t say _an_ Union. Why should we say
_an_ Union if we don’t want to? We don’t say _an_ Youth or _an_
Yew-tree.”
“Simply,” I replied, “because the two latter words happen to be
inaugurated with a consonant.”
“But I deny it,” he shouted. “I deny it most passionately. I deny it
with every fibre of my being.”
For a moment I stood aghast. Hitherto I had been conciliatory. But here
was a question upon which there could be no compromise.
“But, Ezekiel Stool,” I said, “as man to man—nay, as Xtian gentleman to
Xtian gentleman—do you mean to tell me that you are prepared to deny
that the word Yew-tree begins with a Y?”
“No, I don’t,” he said, “I deny it completely. I deny it with all the
vehemence at my command.”
But I held up my hand.
“Just a moment,” I said. “This is a matter, Ezekiel, upon which I must
be absolutely clear. Do you mean to deny that the word does begin with a
Y? Or do you mean to deny that you meant to tell me that you were
prepared to deny that it did?”
“I deny it all,” said Ezekiel. “I deny the whole thing.”
“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “that is impossible.”
“But how can it be impossible,” he said, “if I’ve just done it?”
“Because the two alternatives,” I replied, “are contradictory.”
“Then I deny them both,” he said. “I deny them utterly. I deny them to
the utmost limit of my capacity,”
“But by denying one,” I said, “you affirm the other, and by denying the
other you affirm the first.”
“Then I deny neither,” he said. “I deny neither of them. I deny neither
of them to my last breath.”
“Then you affirm both?” I asked.
“Absolutely and entirely,” he said, “to the remotest follicle of my
manhood.”
“But that leaves us,” I said, “just as we were.”
“Very likely,” he replied. “I don’t know.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said.
“Nor do I,” he said.
We stood staring at one another in silence.
“Then we’d better go back,” I said, “to the original Yew-tree.”
“What Yew-tree?” enquired Ezekiel.
“Why, the one you referred to,” I said, “as not requiring an _an_.”
“But I’ve already told you,” he said, “that I deny that.”
“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “you can’t deny things like that.”
“I not only can,” he said, “but I do.”
“But you’ll soon be denying,” I cried, “that I’m the Vice-President of
the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union.”
“I certainly shall,” he said, “if you continue to go about referring to
actresses by their Xtian names.”
“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “it was entirely at her own request that
I referred to Miss Moonbeam as Mary.”
He stepped back a pace, obviously shaken.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that she asked you to?”
“Most certainly,” I replied, “and if you would like to hear them, I can
repeat her actual words.”
“Please do,” he said.
“‘Oh, Mr. Carp,’” I said, “‘won’t you call me Mary?’”
His face brightened a little.
“Then she didn’t call you Augustus?” he said.
“She hasn’t done so,” I answered, “as yet.”
“And perhaps she never will,” he said, “never will.”
“I don’t quite see,” I said, “why you should say that.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied. “But I do say it.”
“Of course I shouldn’t encourage her to,” I said, “until she had altered
her profession.”
“And perhaps she won’t,” he said, “perhaps she won’t.”
“Won’t what?” I asked.
“Alter her profession.”
“But don’t you want her to?” I cried.
“Oh, of course,” he said. “But they seldom do, you know, unless they
marry.”
“Precisely,” I said, “unless they marry.”
He opened his mouth for a moment, but only breathed through it.
“But you don’t mean to tell me,” he said, “that as Vice-President——?”
“It might be my duty,” I said, “to sacrifice myself.”
“So much as that?” he said. “So much as that, Augustus?”
He covered his eyes for a moment with his gloved hands. Then he suddenly
remembered that he had dropped his umbrella.
“It’s here,” I said, “under my foot.”
“Oh, thank you,” he said, “thank you.”
Then he held out his hands to me with frank contrition.
“Oh, my dear friend,” he said, “forgive me for misjudging you. But as
your President, I could never permit it.”
“But why not?” I said, trying to release my hands.
“Why, because as President,” he cried, “it is clearly the sort of
sacrifice that I ought to make myself.”
“But I don’t see why,” I said, again trying to release myself.
“But don’t you see,” he cried, still holding my hands, “how symbolic it
would then become—the marriage of one of the most prominent of our
younger ex-actresses with the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union?”
“But she wouldn’t be marrying the Union,” I said.
“Not if she married you,” he said, “who are merely the Vice-President.
But if she married me, Augustus, it would be different. It would become
the sacrifice of the whole Union.”
“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “ought you to sacrifice the whole Union
without consulting all its members?”
“Oh, but I should,” he said, “I certainly should, and any that objected
I should ask to resign.”
I reflected for a moment. Admirable as was his character, it was in many
respects singularly bigoted, while his intelligence, sometimes so
brilliant, was at others inferior even to that of his sisters. Since the
burial of his parents, too, a couple of years previously, and the
consequent augmentation of his own income, I had been conscious in him
of a rather unexpected and somewhat disturbing vein of arrogance. I
therefore decided, for the present at any rate, that the wisest policy
was one of postponement.
“But surely in that case,” I said, “they should have an opportunity of
seeing her.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, “of course.”
“Before they married her, I mean—as an Union.”
“Oh, certainly,” he said, “certainly.”
Then his hair parted for a moment, revealing his teeth.
“In fact I was just going to suggest,” he smiled, “asking her to one of
our meetings.”
“I’ll certainly do so,” I said. “I’ll ask her to-morrow.”
“Well both ask her,” he replied.
“But you won’t be there,” I said.
“Yes, I shall,” he answered. “I shall come with you.”
“But she hasn’t invited you,” I said, again trying to free my hands.
“But, my dear Augustus,” he said, gripping them a little tighter,
“surely you don’t expect me to wait for that? Does the powerful swimmer
refrain from plunging until the drowning victim has asked him to do so,
or the hurrying policeman refuse to cut the rope because the would-be
suicide has not invited it? Does the fireman hesitate before the
smouldering nightgown until the female inside it has shown him her
card?”
“Perhaps not,” I said, stepping a pace backwards.
“Certainly not,” he said, following me.
“But on the other hand,” I said, stepping sideways, “if a powerful
swimmer has already plunged, if a hurrying policeman is already there,
if a soaring fireman has already stooped——”
“Then that is all the more reason,” he said, also stepping sideways,
“why the hero should be helped as I mean to help you.”
“Well, I can’t promise,” I said, “that she will be willing to receive
you.”
“Not when she knows,” he asked, “that I’m the Adult Gripe Water?”
“Well, she might,” I said. “I’ll do my best, of course.”
“Dear Augustus,” he replied, “I thought you would.”
Then he dropped my hands, now seriously congested, and stooping down,
picked up his umbrella.
“And I don’t want you to feel,” he added, “now that I propose to take
charge of the work, that your share in it has been unappreciated.”
Then we climbed into the omnibus that was to take us to Camberwell and
sat side by side in it in silence, parting as usual, however, with a
mutual benediction, though I could not conceal from myself that his
attitude had disappointed me. For though it would have been inevitable,
and indeed desirable, that subsequent to redemption Miss Moonbeam should
have met him, this was scarcely the moment, I felt, for the sudden
intrusion of a second deliverer. Nor were the nuptials that he had
proposed for her other than profoundly distasteful to me, though a
glance at my mirror sufficed to reassure me of their extreme
unlikelihood. Nevertheless I deemed it wise before retiring to bed to
send a brief note to Miss Moonbeam, regretting the pertinacity that
would probably result in my being accompanied by Ezekiel, but at the
same time indicating that he was not to be dismissed as a wholly
valueless acquaintance. “Nor must you forget,” I concluded, “that he is
at least the President of the great Union that has brought us together.”
A difficult letter, it had needed all the tact that I had been able to
summon to its composition, and the clock had struck eleven, I remember,
before I was able to open my nightgown bag, preparatory to taking out my
nightgown.
I was a little pale, therefore, when I arrived at the theatre at six
o’clock the next evening, and though fully confident of my ability to
control the situation, I was naturally somewhat anxious as to the effect
upon Miss Moonbeam of a night’s consideration. Had the latent thirst for
a higher life, that my person had aroused in her the night before, been
submerged again by wicked companions or quickened by my absence? Had she
gone to sleep dreaming of the footlights or of an Anti-Dramatic and
Saltatory future? And how had the poor child, reared in sin and
ignorance, received the letter that I had been obliged to write to her?
Such were the questions that occupied my mind as Ezekiel came hurrying
to meet me and we walked upstairs to the same room in which I had talked
with her the night before. For the first moment, too, I was a trifle
dazzled both by the brilliance of its illumination and the clamour of
conversation that greeted our entrance from the large number of persons
whom we found assembled in it. This died down instantly, however, when
our names were announced, and as we stood framed for a moment in the
doorway, nothing could have been more striking than the effect of our
presence upon the actors and actresses huddled before us. I say huddled
because, as so often happens when evil-doers are taken by surprise, they
had unanimously winced and drawn closer together, while at least two of
them had murmured “Help!” Moreover, it was quite clear that some of them
had been drinking, since their wine glasses were still in their hands,
and indeed I was almost certain, to my deep consternation, that Miss
Moonbeam herself had been one of these.[14] Her hands were empty,
however, when she came forward to greet us, and although Ezekiel had
abruptly stiffened, I could not see my way to refuse the manual
courtesy, to which she was evidently looking forward.
Footnote 14:
I am now, alas, convinced of this.
“Oh, Mr. Carp,” she said, “this is indeed sweet of you. I was beginning
to be afraid that you weren’t coming.”
“My dear Miss Moonbeam,” I began.
“Mary,” she said.
“My dear Mary,” I said, “I never break my word.”
“No, no, you wouldn’t,” she said, “and my friends will be so pleased.
Let me introduce you to them. This is Mr. Augustus Carp.”
I bowed to them gravely.
“And you’ve brought your friend,” she said.
“The President of our Union,” I said, “Mr. Ezekiel Stool.”
She held out her hand to him.
“I’m sure we shall be great friends,” she said. But he was still staring
suspiciously at her colleagues.
“They’ve been drinking,” he said. “What have they been drinking?”
“Oh, nothing much,” she said. “Only my health.”
“Your health?” he repeated.
“Yes, it’s my birthday,” she said.
“My dear Miss Mary,” I said. “Let me congratulate you.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Ezekiel. “But what’s the fluid?”
He tilted his face a little, sniffing the air.
“Oh, I see,” said Miss Moonbeam. “How stupid of me. Reggie, come forward
and show them your glass.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and a young man, whom I instantly
recognized as the naval officer, then approached us carrying a wine
glass filled with a dark, translucent liquid.
“It’s delightful stuff,” he said. “It is really. Won’t you taste a
little before you begin your sermon?”
But Ezekiel started back, gripping my left elbow, while the hair
covering his face extended itself protectively.
“No, no,” he cried. “Augustus, keep close to me. I don’t like the smell
of it. Ask him what it’s made of.”
I drew myself up a little, facing the naval officer, while Ezekiel clung
to my elbow.
“You must pardon us,” I said, “but in addition to our connection with
the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union, we are also officials—and in this
particular work, I hold a higher position than my comrade—we are also
officials of the Society for the Prevention of the Strong Drink Traffic.
It is therefore not only important to us, since we have been invited to
rescue you, to learn whether this also is one of your vices, but doubly
necessary that we ourselves should take every possible precaution. You
will consequently perceive, I hope, the imperative necessity of our
assuring ourselves, before we partake of it, that the composition of the
liquor you have proffered us is such as our consciences can approve of.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” he said. “Just smell it.”
“Personally,” I replied, “I do not object to the smell.”
“And the taste,” he added, “is even pleasanter.”
“I can quite believe it,” I said. “But what is it made of?”
“Oh, just fruit,” said Miss Moonbeam. “It’s a sort of fruit squash, you
know—a fruit squash, made of fruit.”
Ezekiel advanced a little and put his face against it.
“I prefer the colour,” he said, “to the smell.”
“Yes, isn’t it beautiful?” said the naval officer, and several of the
other actors said the same thing.
“But what’s it called?” said Ezekiel.
“Portugalade,” said Miss Moonbeam.
“That’s because it comes from Portugal,” said the naval officer.
“And one gets used to the smell,” said Ezekiel. “But why does one drink
it out of wine glasses?”
“Oh, but one needn’t,” said Miss Moonbeam. “One can drink it out of
tumblers.”
“One just used wine glasses,” said the naval officer, “because one
happened to find them in the cupboard.”
I looked at him piercingly.
“But surely that seems to indicate,” I said, “that they have been used
for other and less innocent beverages.”
He hung his head, and as my glance swept his companions, I observed that
most of them hung theirs also.
Then he lifted it again, not without a certain honesty.
“Mr. Carp,” he said, “it’s no use deceiving you. And I’m afraid I must
confess that I haven’t confined myself to such health-giving drinks as
this Portugalade.”
“Nor we,” said his companions. “Nor we.”
“But we hope to do better,” said Miss Moonbeam, “in the future.”
“Then, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, sipping the Portugalade, which
seemed to me exceptionally agreeable, “I can only implore you—and I
speak not only for myself but for my friend Mr. Stool——”
“Of the Adult Gripe Water,” said Ezekiel. “It was invented by my late
father.”
“You don’t say so?” said the naval officer.
“Was that what made him late?” asked Miss Moonbeam.
Ezekiel stared at her over the glass of Portugalade, which I had handed
on to him before beginning my speech.
“How do you mean late?” he said.
“Wasn’t that what you said?” asked Miss Moonbeam.
“Yes, but I meant dead,” said Ezekiel. “He’s been dead some time.”
“You don’t mean it?” said the naval officer.
“Yes. It’s rather nice,” said Ezekiel.
“I see,” said Miss Moonbeam. “You didn’t get on together?”
“I meant the Portugalade,” said Ezekiel.
“—I can only implore you,” I continued, “while there’s still time—before
the craving for stimulants has finally overcome you—to cast them away
from you with both hands, to crush them under foot, to leave them for
ever.”
I glanced at Ezekiel, who was wiping his mouth.
“And, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “why should you hesitate? Have you
not here—or had you not there, rather—in the very glass that my friend
has just emptied, a drink as genial, as palatable and invigorating as
the most debauched of you could desire?”
“We have, we have,” they cried.
“Then, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “before we further address you on
the evils of the drama, may I not beg of you to make up your minds to
drink nothing less healthful than this in the future?”
“You may, you may,” they said.
I turned to Ezekiel.
“Then I’ll ask Mr. Stool,” I said, “to inaugurate our second appeal.”
I then stood aside while Ezekiel cleared his throat preparatory to
delivering his usual oration, and it was during the course of this that
Miss Moonbeam drew me aside and informed me how much she had appreciated
my letter.
“I thought it was so dear of you,” she said, “to let your friend down
without seeming to want to do anything of the kind.”
“It was certainly difficult,” I said.
“But you managed it so beautifully,” she said. “How long do you suppose
he will go on speaking?”
“Twenty minutes,” I said. “This is his half-hour harangue.”
She was looking a little pale, I thought. But she smiled bravely.
“Well, I suppose we deserve it,” she said.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” I replied, “and he wants you to attend one of our
meetings.”
“What—all of us?” she asked.
“You would all be welcome,” I said.
“And would you be there too?” she asked, pressing my hand.
“Why, of course,” I said, permitting her to continue pressing, “I am the
Vice-President.”
“Yes, I know,” she whispered.
Here Ezekiel paused for a moment and glanced at us keenly. But Miss
Moonbeam at once smiled at him and clapped her hands.
“You don’t think he’s jealous?” she said, as he continued.
“Jealous of what?” I asked.
“Why, of you and me,” she said.
She was pressing my hand again and endeavouring to draw closer to me.
“Well, I’m rather afraid,” I said, “that he may be.”
“You see,” said Miss Moonbeam, “if I’m to be rescued by anybody, I
should so like it to be by you.”
“Dear Mary,” I said, “and so it shall, at whatever cost, at whatever
sacrifice.”
“Dear Augustus,” she said. “May I call you Augustus? It sounds so
ungrateful to say Mr. Carp.”
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I can quite understand it. But I would rather you
suppressed the familiarity in public.”
Then Ezekiel concluded, and after some words from myself, a special
meeting of the Union was arranged, at which all our listeners, including
Miss Moonbeam, solemnly engaged themselves to be present. It was to take
place, we agreed, on the following Sunday week, at the Porter Street
Drill Hall in Camberwell, and at Miss Moonbeam’s suggestion, Mr.
Chrysostom Lorton was to be invited to say a few words.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” I said.
“Nor I do,” she replied. “But as he’s the publisher of all these
beautiful booklets, I thought it would be so nice if he would just stoop
for a moment to mingle with the sinners for whom they are intended.”
“A splendid idea,” I said, “and a most intelligent one, and we’ll
circularize the churches and chapels, and hold the meeting at nine in
the evening, when the congregations will be able to be present.”
“Oh, that’ll be capital,” she said. “I should love to see a
congregation.”
“And Ezekiel and myself,” I said, “will be the chief speakers.”
She clapped her hands and looked at Ezekiel.
“Oh, Mr. Stool,” she cried, “what a meeting.”
Ezekiel beamed at her.
“Yes, it ought to be worth going to,” he said, “and I shall reserve a
chair for you next the President.”
Then she drew me aside again.
“And you must have supper with me first,” she said, “just you and me and
a few of my friends.”
“My dear Mary,” I said, “nothing would delight me more.”
“I feel a whole new world,” she said, “opening before me.”
Upon the following Sunday week, therefore, at half-past seven, I stood
outside her house in Bedford Square, and the next moment I was being led
upstairs by a modestly dressed parlourmaid in a white cap. Clad myself
in a well-fitting morning coat with a hand-knitted waistcoat and a
velveteen tie, I found Miss Moonbeam with her men and women companions
eagerly awaiting me in evening dress. About a dozen in all, they
included the naval officer and two young men, whom she introduced as her
brothers, while there were several females who greeted me with
deference, but whose chests, as I pointed out to them, were inadequately
covered. They begged my pardon, however, with the not unreasonable
excuse that the standards I had set them were not easily reached, and at
my urgent request, Miss Moonbeam provided them with napkins to make good
the deficiency. This having been attended to, we then went downstairs to
a capacious dining-room on the ground floor, where an excellent meal was
ushered in with some admirably prepared chicken soup.
Followed by fish, partridges and salad, bowls of stewed fruit and
Devonshire cream, it was concluded with a savoury consisting of stuffed
eggs mounted on triangular pieces of toast, and I was gratified to
observe that, apart from water, the only other beverage was Portugalade.
It was again, to my annoyance, however, served in wine glasses, although
Miss Moonbeam immediately apologized, pouring out a tumblerful for me
with her own hand, just as I was beginning my second partridge. Nor did
I find it any less agreeable than upon my first acquaintance with it at
the theatre, and indeed I had seldom experienced such a sense of warmth
and comfort as it very quickly began to endow me with. Peculiarly
attractive to the nostril, it was no less grateful to the tongue, while
upon its downward passage, it lent an extraordinary balm to a naturally
irritable digestive system.
Nay, it did more, for as it enriched the blood mounting to an always
responsive brain, I found myself the vehicle of a delightful flow of new
and most valuable ideas. I say valuable, and this was indeed the case,
but many of them were also outstandingly humorous, and time after time I
was obliged to call for silence so that none of those present might fail
to hear them. I was glad to perceive, too, that they met with an instant
response both in laughter and rapt attention, and I was soon convinced
that, beneath the trappings of guilt, there was a spark of goodness in
most of my listeners. Nor had Miss Moonbeam, who kept my tumbler filled,
ever appeared to me to be so well worth saving, and when I accidentally
upset my fruit, she was solicitude’s self as she wiped my waistcoat.
By a second mischance, too, I spilt my coffee, which was served at the
supper-table just before we rose; and on this occasion also she was
instantly at hand to remove the stains from the upper part of my
trousers. Then we rose for grace, which I proposed should be sung, and
into the singing of which I threw my whole being; and when I found
myself swaying a little, owing to the consequent fatigue, both she and
the naval officer kindly supported me. Indeed so acute was the resulting
vertigo that I was not only obliged for a moment to sit down, but I
found myself only too glad to rely on their aid as we descended the
front steps to the waiting vehicles. Glad as I was, however, they both
assured me that they were gladder even than I was, while the others
assured us, as we glanced across the pavement, that they were gladder
even than we were. In fact we were all glad, and although I had been a
little perturbed by the physical disability to which I have referred, I
was soon restored by the night air, the motion of the vehicle, and the
prospects of the meeting. Moreover the naval officer had brought with
him a large bottle of the Portugalade, and a further draught of this at
once completed, and indeed augmented, my sense of well-being.
“Yes, it ought to be grand,” I said, “a grand meeting, the grandest
meeting we’ve ever had,” and I remember putting my head out of the
right-hand window and inviting the passers-by to come and join us.
“Yes, there’s no doubt of it,” I said, “it’ll be a grand meeting, a
grand, grand meeting, grander and grander.”
“As grand as grand,” said the naval officer.
“Yes, and grander than that,” I said, “ever so grand.”
Then I started a hymn just to clear my chest again, and finding, to my
satisfaction, that it was surprisingly supple, I led my companions
through chorus after chorus of a brisk but devotional character. Indeed
we were in the middle of one when we arrived at the Drill Hall, and so
intent had I become on the music that I unfortunately tripped as I
alighted upon the pavement and struck my abdomen rather violently. Two
of Miss Moonbeam’s brothers, however, who were waiting to receive us, at
once readjusted me upon my legs, while the naval officer came to their
assistance in conducting me to my chair upon the platform.
Nor had I been in error in foreseeing an audience that filled the hall
to its utmost capacity, Miss Moonbeam herself and several of her
companions being audibly recognized on their way to their seats. Many of
our members, too, in different parts of the hall, were standing on their
feet, I noticed, to give me a personal welcome; and no sooner had I
hailed these in affectionate terms than others took their places to be
hailed in turn. So prolonged, in fact, did these greetings become, and
to such a pitch of heartiness did they climb, that Ezekiel’s own arrival
upon the platform, accompanied by Mr. Chrysostom Lorton, was scarcely
noticed.
That was probably the reason, I inferred, why his expression was almost
less pleasant than I had ever known it, and why he obviously resented
the attentions of Miss Moonbeam’s brothers, who were still standing, one
on each side of me. Mr. Chrysostom, too, seemed curiously distant, I
thought, as I swung round and clasped his hand, although I assured him,
in tones that rang through the hall, of my intense delight at his
presence.
“Simply overwhelmed,” I said, “simply overwhelmed, Mr. Chrysostom. Let
me introduce you to Miss Moonbeam. Miss Moonbeam, Mr. Chrysostom Lorton.
Mr. Chrysostom Lorton, Miss Moonbeam.”
Then I turned to the audience with a great shout.
“Three cheers,” I cried, “for Mr. Chrysostom Lorton. Hip—hip——”
But Ezekiel held up his hand.
“I propose to open this meeting,” he said, “with prayer.”
For a moment I was staggered. Indeed I almost fell down. It was the
directest insult I had ever received. And it was not only an insult to
myself, but to Mr. Chrysostom, who was deprived of his cheers.
“Oh, how dare you?” I cried. “How dare you, Ezekiel? Oh, Mr. Chrysostom,
how dare he? Hip, hip, I say—Hip, hip,” but the audience remained silent
and evidently confused. In fact the effect upon them of Ezekiel’s
proposal must have been exasperating in the extreme, since they had all
opened their mouths and protruded their upper lips preparatory to
cheering, as I had suggested. They had then been obliged, just as they
had taken their breaths, to retract their upper lips again and close
their mouths, and were naturally reluctant, in spite of my further
exhortation, to resume a process once frustrated. Nevertheless many of
them did so, although they failed in its final consummation, with the
lamentable result that they resembled nothing so much as goldfish
breathing in a bowl.
“Goldfish,” I cried. “That’s what they are. Poor lost goldfish, without
a shepherd. Oh, Ezekiel, Ezekiel Stool! How could you do such a thing as
that?”
With incredible determination, however, he was already on his knees and
in the second paragraph of his supplication; and it was only after I had
shaken him several times that he sprang to his feet with a sort of yelp.
“Oh, Ezekiel,” I said, “what a horrible noise.”
“Leave me alone,” he snarled. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Horrible noise,” I said, “horrible, horrible. Isn’t it a horrible
noise, Mr. Chrysostom?”
Then I turned to the audience again.
“Let’s say it all together,” I said. “One, two, three, horrible noise.
That’s better. Now let’s say it again. One, two——”
Then I stopped abruptly, for as I advanced to the brink of the platform,
with Miss Moonbeam’s brothers at my elbows, I suddenly became aware of a
solitary grey eye regarding me objectionably from the front row. Its
fellow was of glass, and the face that contained them, with its high
cheek-bones and gaunt cheeks, was that of none other than Mr. Archibald
Maidstone, the show-room manager whom I had succeeded.
For a moment I could scarcely believe it. But hardly had I recovered
myself than I found myself in his arms, with Miss Moonbeam’s brothers
left upon the platform, each holding a moiety of the tail of my coat.
“Well, laddie,” he said, “it’s your turn now.”
I endeavoured to push myself away from him.
“Take him away,” I shouted. “Take that man away. Where’s Mr. Chrysostom?
Where’s Miss Moonbeam?”
The tumult in the hall was now indescribable. Glasses of water were on
every side of me. But I thrust them all aside and shouted to the naval
officer to bring me the bottle that he had placed upon the table.
“The bottle,” I cried. “Bring me the bottle. Never mind the glass. Give
me the bottle.”
But the naval officer, evidently at his request, had handed the bottle
to Mr. Chrysostom. I saw him examine it through his spectacles in his
usual pompous and deliberate fashion and then, with a heightened colour
and protuberant eyes, exhibit it to Ezekiel and the members of the
committee.
“Disgraceful,” he said, “perfectly disgraceful. The fellow’s drunk, I
say. Just look at that. Vintage Port, and he’s been drinking it out of a
tumbler. Perfectly disgraceful. Show me the way out.”
I rose to my feet and caught sight of Miss Moonbeam’s brothers.
“Give me that bottle,” I cried. “Give me the tails of my coat. Who says
I’m drunk? Where’s the Portugalade? Take that man away. Where’s Miss
Moonbeam?”
“But he’s my father,” she said.
I tried to stare at her. But her face kept advancing and retreating.
“Stand still, woman,” I cried. “But his name’s Maidstone.”
“So’s mine,” she said, “when I’m not acting.”
I snatched at her wrist, but it proved to be my own.
“Do you mean to say,” I asked, “that you’re Mary Maidstone?”
“Polly Maidstone,” she said. “Don’t you remember? The same Polly that
made a face at you.”
I sank to the floor for a moment, but rose on my hands again.
“Throw her out,” I yelled. “Throw that woman out.”
She looked at Ezekiel.
“Hadn’t we better take him home?” she asked.
“But I haven’t made my speech,” I said, “speech to the meeting.”
Ezekiel stared at me with incredible bitterness.
“There isn’t a meeting left,” he said, “to make a speech to.”
I pointed at the clocks. They were all at half-past nine.
“But we’ve hardly begun,” I said. “Where’s the platform?”
Mr. Maidstone bent over me——[15]
Footnote 15:
See conclusion of Chapter VIII.
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