On the last Thursday in October, Nan Barmister came to Hurstbury. The
Annarlys usually asked her to lunch about that time; they might have
done so this year, though possibly not as the invaluable Mary had given
notice, and Michael was at home. Michael had never mentioned his brief
sojourn in Soho; there had been no necessity, and somehow it had not
occurred to him to do it, so the family concluded Nan knew nothing of
his being home, when she proposed to come and see them. They had often
told her to write and propose coming when she was able, but she had
never done it before; to tell the truth, they were not very pleased
that she did now; they felt it to be an ill-chosen time. However, they
decided that it would not be kind to refuse her, although all three
sisters had engagements of some sort for the afternoon.
“Michael can entertain her,” Mabel said; “he and mother can look after
her for the afternoon. We shall all be in to lunch, and some of us to
tea, if she stops till then. After all, she is his relation really, not
ours.”
Constance hesitated. “Wouldn’t it be too tiresome for him?” she said.
Rosalind was of opinion it would. “It really isn’t fair to ask him,”
she said; “he’d simply be bored to death. She’ll be all right with
mother, and mother doesn’t mind; she will be able to tell her all about
Mary’s delinquencies. They really get on awfully well alone together,
better than if we are there. I am sure Nan likes it better.”
It is a great help towards comfort and well-being to be able to be
sure that what you wish is so by the mere fact of saying it; quite a
number of people have this creative faculty—where the tastes of others
are concerned. Rosalind had largely; her sisters may not have entirely
believed in it, but they did not contradict her now. The question
of who was to entertain Nan was left unsettled, but she herself was
informed they would be pleased to see her on the suggested Thursday.
And on that day she came.
The Annarlys’ drawing-room was a nice-sized room, with a thick pale
green carpet and rosewood cabinets, where Worcester china and Venetian
glass stood in well-kept array. There were polished tables with books
and photographs and magazines on them, quantities of fresh flowers
everywhere, and many brocade upholstered chairs—mostly looking too
large and stuffed for Nan. The whole room looked, if not that, in some
way incongruous with her. Even the recently lit fire, lit thus early on
her account, seemed to emphasise the fact that she was out of place.
And Constance, the only member of the family ready to receive her when
she arrived, did not dispel the feeling. At least, she did not for
Nan, though she was unaware of it herself, and was as agreeable as she
always was, talking pleasantly till the others came in just as lunch
was announced.
The dining-room was a nice-sized room too; it, like the drawing-room
and the three good-looking, well-dressed sisters, looked its largest
and best kept when Nan was there. She had a way of slipping quietly
into a place, of keeping so still when she was there, and, whether she
talked or was silent, of being so inconspicuous that everything in
the Annarlys’ house stood out in contrast with her; one found oneself
wondering how much it cost at Warings’ or Shoolbreds’, and how many
years ago it was bought.
Mrs. Annarly said afterwards that Nan was not so shy that day as she
sometimes was. There is a degree in shyness, as there is in fear,
which gets beyond itself and produces something which, in its outward
results, is akin to courage. Some such thing, aroused on behalf of
another, had helped Nan to invite herself to the house of these
overwhelming connections—whose house, persons, and invitations she
avoided and looked upon with dread as a rule—and helped her through
with the much worse ordeal of being there. It did not prevent her
from perceiving, as other of their friends and relatives would not,
that they rather wondered why she had come, and rather looked upon
her coming as a nuisance; but then nothing could have prevented that;
like many of the shy, she had abnormal powers of perception. It did,
however, help her to behave as though she did not perceive it, and to
talk and answer questions with a greater fluency and readiness than she
had ever before developed in their company. There was not a great deal
of opportunity given her; the sisters, and Mrs. Annarly too, found it
easier to talk about their affairs than hers, and to each other than
her. A few kind questions about her father and her health exhausted
what there was to ask her. A few cultivated comments on pictures now
on view, which as a dweller in town she might have, though had not,
seen, and on concerts recently given which similarly she might have,
though had not, heard, exhausted what there was of general interest
to say to her. After that they spoke of their own concerns—to her
principally, though with divergencies to each other. They told her of
lectures on Renaissance art now being given locally; and she did not
tell them that the man who gave them had also written a book in which
he made mistakes about the date of Flemish weapons. They told her of
a Spode dessert-service promised to Rosalind for a wedding-present;
and she did not tell them that, if their description was correct, the
designation was not. She did not think of mentioning those things,
so they naturally could not know that she knew them, and knew with
an accuracy with which they knew nothing. Rosalind spoke a good deal
about her trousseau, she did on most occasions just now, and Nan
listened with interest; when Rosalind said she must promise to come
to the wedding, she answered that she hoped she should, probably with
less sincerity than Rosalind said what she did. Rosalind always meant
pleasant things at the moment she said them; Nan did not, unless she
also meant them before and afterwards too.
Michael had small share in the conversation at lunch. In Hurstbury it
was essentially the woman’s meal on weekdays, a man had little part
in what was discussed, he was there—as a permanent adjunct—rather
by courtesy only. Nan, a listener, and, occasionally, answerer of
questions, did nothing to alter the usual conditions. But after lunch
Michael did not attempt a retreat, as the sisters half expected he
would—as they would have wished had the guest been one of their own
choosing. He followed them into the drawing-room, and so saved Mabel
the trouble, she certainly would otherwise have taken, of going to
fetch him to do his share in entertaining his cousin when she and the
others left for their different engagements.
She glanced behind her at the clock; she was standing on the sheepskin
rug before the fire, her large well-shaped feet planted far apart.
“I shall have to be off in a minute,” she said. “We are playing away
to-day. You don’t play hockey, do you, Nan? You should; rippin’ game.
It’d be awfully good for you, take you out a bit. You must have rather
a mouldy time, I should think.” She looked round at the clock again.
“I must go; only twelve minutes for the train. Don’t bother about tea
for me, mother; I’ll get a drink somewhere. Good-bye, Nan, I’m afraid
I shan’t see you when I get back. Take my tip about the hockey; I dare
say I could get you into some club that plays near town.”
And she swung across the room and went out, rather noisily.
“What energy!” Rosalind said. “Isn’t it wonderful? And it’s really
quite warm to-day, you know.”
“Yes,” Nan answered, she was sitting by the back window, “it is a nice
day. May I go into the garden?”
Michael rose, though neither Constance nor Rosalind thought he was the
person addressed; they knew of no other methods of address than speech,
or the direct and obvious glance.
“Oh, yes, of course, if you care to,” Constance said. “I am afraid it’s
rather damp.” She moved towards the window as she spoke. “There are
some quite nice chrysanthemums left; you must have some to take home.”
She led the way to the garden door, as if she were going out too; but
if that was her intention the sight of the wet grass, or the voluntary
presence of Michael, remitted her sense of duty; she contented herself
with telling him which were the best chrysanthemums. Having done that
and having stood a minute on the top of the steps to say a few words,
she went in, feeling free to attend her committee meeting without any
discourtesy to the guest, undue taxing of her mother, or asking a
favour of Michael. Things often befell thus with her, and she usually
deserved it. So she went to her engagement and Rosalind to hers, and
Mrs. Annarly dropped asleep over a book, until the coming of a visitor
aroused her and also put Nan out of her head.
But in spite of Constance’s thoughtful orders, Nan did not get many
chrysanthemums. Michael began cutting at the first group of plants,
while his half-sister still stood on the steps.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said. “I had no idea you were here
till lunch time.”
“No,” Nan answered, “I know.”
“There are some better ones lower down,” Constance called; “those have
been frost-bitten.”
Michael moved obediently. “It’s awfully decent of you to come,” he
said. “You must hate it so.”
“Be sure he cuts you nice ones,” Constance’s pleasant voice cried, “and
plenty; as many as ever you can carry.”
“Yes,” Nan answered, “yes; thank you.”
The face she turned in the direction of the speaker, who could not see
her now by reason of screening shrubs, was grateful. “It’s kind of
her,” she said to Michael, as if explaining.
“Is it?” he answered harshly; though afterwards he said, “I suppose
that is what she is; what they all are—kind.”
Nan ignored the words, and turned to the subject which was really
uppermost. “Did you write to Sir Joseph Harte?” she asked.
“About that statement we sent to the directors from town? Yes, I wrote
and asked him if he had received it.”
“What did he say?”
Michael felt in his pockets, and found a letter which he handed to her.
It was in the crabbed handwriting of Sir Joseph himself, and it was
marked _confidential_.
DEAR MR. ANNARLY (it ran),
_I have carefully considered your letters of the 2nd and 20th,
and the statement enclosed in the former. I find nothing in them
to alter the conclusion I had come to in this deplorable matter;
nor do I find anything which would warrant me in asking my
co-directors to reopen, or reconsider, your case. I am, however,
able to tell you that we have now decided to take no further steps.
Out of consideration for the work you did while with us, and
the temptations to which you appear to have been subjected, the
other members of the Board have consented to abandon any idea of
prosecution._
_Speaking personally, I much regret the unhappy termination of your
connection with Galhardy’s—a connection which promised to be useful
to us and brilliant for you. But I still hope that, warned by this
lesson, and saved by the generosity of the directors from the full
penalty of publicity, you may yet use your gifts to do valuable
work in some other branch of your profession._
_I am,_
_Yours sincerely,_
_JOSEPH P. HARTE._
So she read, Michael mechanically cutting chrysanthemums the while.
“I suppose it is as much as one could expect,” he said when she had
finished; “at least, he writes himself, and he writes kindly, one could
hardly look for more if he believes the tale—as he certainly does.”
“Yes,” Nan said, although she did not herself quite like the letter;
she did not know why, unless, perhaps, it was that she had a feeling it
did not ring true. But it was only a feeling, and possibly groundless;
certainly not a thing to mention to Michael, whose present attitude of
spiritless acquiescence was the best in the circumstances.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered indifferently.
They moved on slowly, stopping by a few of the chrysanthemums as they
went. Nan noticed how tired and ill he looked, and with what patient
inattention he cut the flowers, obeying Constance’s orders, but
automatically, and without observing what he did.
“I don’t want any more,” she said, and led the way down a damp path
away from the plants.
“I suppose,” she said, “since the directors have decided not to
prosecute, you will be able to get some similar work in time?”
He shook his head. “As easily get back to Galhardy’s as get into any
similar work. There are only a few of those firms in existence, and
they’re a close ring in some respects: the word has gone round about me
long before this; not one of them would have me at any price.”
“But surely it would be to their interest to do so?” she protested.
“They would never act against their own interests to please Galhardy’s?
They must know that you can do work which no one else can, and which
they want.”
“And,” he said, “when it was done, have Galhardy’s claim it, and say it
was what I had already done for them, or based on it, or near enough to
be reckoned the same!”
“But it would not be; you surely have not done for them all there is to
do?”
“All?” he laughed. “No! nor a tithe, nor a hundredth! But that would
not make any difference. If it was worth having, Galhardy’s would claim
it, and the other people would have to fight them for it, and there’s
few who could afford to fight Galhardy’s like that.”
“What an iniquitous thing!”
“There’s plenty of it in the world,” he said indifferently. “There are
some big firms that have a fund on purpose for that sort of thing and
for fighting patents—not defending their own patents, but defending
themselves when they are had up for infringing other people’s.
Galhardy’s can knock most others out, if it comes to law, they are so
rich; no one could afford to fight them—or to employ me to any purpose.”
They had come to the end of the path now, and reached the old workshop.
The door stood ajar, so that one saw the neglected interior and a
single garden-chair drawn up to the burnt-out stove; Nan half stopped.
“Will you come in?” Michael asked. “It’s rather damp inside, I’m
afraid, though drier than out.”
They went in. The place smelt mouldy and smoky too, and struck chilly
with the chill of disuse. There were a lathe and a certain number
of tools in racks and on shelves, but most damaged or obsolete, and
all red with rust. A few odd bits of metal work and turning lay
about, of amateur workmanship and no meaning or use now that even
the long-forgotten design of their making was gone. The place spoke
aloud of a dead hobby, a pastime that was outlived. To one who was an
engineer, in the first and last meaning of the elastic word, and who
was used to working on abstruse problems and seeing his theories put
into practice by the best appliances that could be evolved, it might
speak with a grimly pathetic voice.
Nan crossed the little untidy place to the cold stove.
“May I light a fire?” she asked.
“I’ll light it,” Michael said; “it’s a brute of a stove; half the time
it won’t light, and if there’s any wind it smokes furiously.”
There was no wind that day, and the stove lit comparatively easily; Nan
lighted it, Michael bringing coke from the stokehole.
“I don’t often have it,” he explained; “it hasn’t been very cold yet.
When it is, I expect I shall still do without. After all, the fire
isn’t much loss as a rule, and there would be trouble about the coke if
I had it often.”
Nan looked up with inquiry, and he explained. “The coke for the
hot-water boiler and the conservatory stove is allowanced; a load is
reckoned to last so many weeks; if I take it, it won’t.”
At Galhardy’s the directors had been induced to supply a private room
with an open grate for their genius, because a steam-heated atmosphere
tried his head. If Michael remembered this, he did not compare it with
the present situation. He accepted that as he accepted all the other
things just now.
Nan drew up to the stove when she had the fire alight. “What are you
going to do?” she asked again.
“You had better say, ‘What can I do?’” he answered. “Oh, yes, there are
other branches of engineering, I know that, and know something about
some of them. It was only by chance I stumbled into this one. I was not
trained to it specially.”
He spoke as if the astonishing ability, which showed rare proficiency
and original genius in several widely different branches of one of the
widest sciences, were an ordinary and not remarkable thing. It was not
remarkable to him, it was a matter-of-course fact of existence, and
one which he supposed, if he ever thought about it, he shared with
others—only, perhaps, most of those he had come across were too idle or
too stupid to use the powers which they, no doubt, possessed in common
with himself. That would have been his view had he ever evolved one.
But the fact, so far as it concerned himself, was of no particular
value now. “I have got no reputation in any but the one line,” he said;
“naturally, with the choice of applicants for any job there is, the
preference is given to a man with a reputation on that subject. That
militates against me for a post of any size in any but the now closed
branch; and for a small one, the circumstances that I have had a good
thing in one line, and am now offering for a small one in another,
tells quite as much. Not to mention that I have been at Galhardy’s,
and left for no explained reason, which would pretty well prevent me
getting anything anywhere.”
“Have you tried?”
He had, his experience, though small, had been bitter. “It is true I
have only been home three weeks,” he said, “and so you may say have not
had the chance of making many attempts. But one can learn a good deal
in a short time, especially of that sort of thing.”
They had taken much, these directors of Galhardy’s. They may have been
entitled to it, Nan did not know, and she did not concern herself to
think or concern herself to condone or to justify either them or the
sufferer; the bare facts were enough. And the facts, as they stood
now, were that they had the man’s invention and the results of some
years of his best work; and in taking them they had, incidentally,
also taken his reputation and his nerve, and, at one time it seemed,
possibly his balance of mind too. The last danger was past, but another
loss was made plainer than it had been before—they had, also no doubt
incidentally, taken his chance of earning a living in any other way.
They certainly had much and had left little.
“Surely,” she protested aloud, “surely there is something!”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” she was obliged to answer, and again sat staring into
the little open doorway of the stove. There must be something! He
was in collapse now: nerve gone, energy gone, ability in eclipse, the
whole immaterial man shattered; but there was still something there;
she felt it. She knew nothing of technical facts, little by practical
experience of him; but she knew, with the unerring knowledge of women
(some women), that there was still something there, and believed it
with that faith which not merely removes mountains, but sometimes makes
men. So long as there was something in him there was still something
which could be done, though it might take long to find out what it was,
and how to do it.
“They have not taken your brains,” she ventured at last.
“My brains are not much use,” he answered. But he spoke gently, his
brains were at a discount now, their existence as an asset and a
marketable commodity was even in some doubt; he was grateful for the
assumption of them and their value.
“They are not really of much value,” he told her. “Even if I could
still deal with problems—we’ll say I could, if you like, though I am
not at all sure of it myself, I don’t think I shall ever do anything
again. If I could, what better off am I, if no one wants their problems
dealt with by me? One can’t set up as a consulting engineer without
capital or reputation. My reputation would blast the best capitalised
concern, and my capital would not float the best reputation, for it is
non-existent.”
“Have you no money at all?” she asked.
“None. No doubt I ought to have saved, but I didn’t; it cost me a good
lot to live, and I didn’t bother; also, no doubt, I was a fool. I have
managed to clear up what was owing, but that is all, and I should not
have been able to do that, if I hadn’t had an offer for my car just
before—just before this all happened. At present, I have a five-pound
note and”—he put his hand in his pocket and took out some coins—“about
enough to pay my fare to town third class another six times. Those
are my assets, and my prospects—_nil_. I have hardly enough to buy a
plumber’s outfit or the wherewithal to start the hawking of tools in
the Whitechapel Road.”
The position did not show hopefully, Nan saw that; nevertheless, she
led him to talk of the work and chances of consulting engineers, and
other freelances of the profession.
But what he said did not show the prospect any brighter. For success
in such ways business ability of the highest order was the first and
last requisite: that and the capacity to live on little and wait, and,
incidentally, the little to live on while waiting. For a man to work
out his own inventions and profitably dispose of them much more was
needed: much capital, much space, much plant, and, if he was to make
even the barest margin of profit, the rare fortune to light upon a
moderate proportion of honest men.
“Unless one has enough money not to need to make more, one can hardly
make it by working out inventions or any of the problems which want
working out,” so he said.
Yet, either because of her silent attention, or because the thing was
so strong in him, in a little he began to talk of some of the problems.
They were always floating about at the back of his mind, complex and
simple, of practical importance and theoretical interest, equally dear
to him, and ready under normal conditions to come to the forefront
of consideration at the provocation of a word. Of late, they, like
everything else, had been in abeyance; it was only for a minute or two
the old passion reasserted itself now; in a little the interest was
gone.
“What I have to consider,” he said “is, not what might be worked out,
but how to get a living, and there doesn’t seem much prospect of my
being able to do that, for I can’t do anything but this one sort of
thing.”
“You can draw,” Nan suggested; “can’t you do something with that?”
“Be a draughtsman?”
The idea of following that branch of his profession had no more
occurred to him than the idea of being a plumber; his tone showed it,
but after a second he said quietly, “Yes, I suppose I could do that;
I could draw out other people’s designs, and work out things for
contractors—if I could get the work.”
“Would you do it? Would you, if you could get it?”
He considered a moment, and the pause more than words showed the gulf
for him between the past and the present. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I
think so; I think I would. After all, one thing is much the same as
another now. I could do that, I suppose I should, if I could get it. I
dare say it might come to it that I should be thankful to get it.”
“Could you?”
“I should say not.”
“Why?”
“Because after what has happened no one would trust me to work out
his design, for fear I should steal the idea. Oh, I don’t mean that
would be said exactly, or that anything definite will ever be reported
against me, nothing so clearly to be met as that; but there will be a
feeling, a sort of doubt, and that is enough, more than enough. Why
should confidential work be given to a man with a doubt about him, when
there are plenty without able to do it?”
Nan realised the difficulty. “And the other work you spoke of?” she
said. “The contractors; you said draughtsmen did things for them. Would
the doubt tell there?”
“Probably not; the work they want is not confidential; it is merely
drawings to meet technical difficulties in putting up plant on a large
scale. But most contractors have their own draughtsman, or the one to
whom they always go; it is difficult for an outsider to get the work.”
“Still, possible, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, in time, quite possible.”
“And some, once got, would lead to more?”
“It might—probably would.”
“Would that eventually lead to the other kind—the better kind? I
suppose in that sort of work, as in everything else, there are degrees
of proficiency, and the man who can do the best in the best way is
rare. So rare that once found he must be employed in spite of his
drawbacks?”
Michael admitted it was so; he had had enough experience in employing
draughtsmen to know it true. It did not occur to him to deny that he
could do work of such quality; he could do it, it was the quality of
all his work. He did not himself think of it exactly as such; he had no
standard of best or worst in work; one did what one wanted, or what was
wanted; there was nothing less, nothing more. Some men, of course, did
not do what was wanted; again it was not a question of best or worst,
it was not anything; if it was not done, it was nothing. One did not
criticise it, one mentally called them wasters, and took the work away
and did it oneself. (It is possible to see that such an attitude of
mind might make more enemies than any realisation of superior personal
ability or human conceit about it.)
The afternoon was gloomy and overcast, the gleam of sunshine which
had brightened the garden when Nan first proposed going out had long
vanished. By mid-afternoon it was grey without and greyer still in the
small shed; the discarded tools and scraps of metal which littered
it, became mere lumps, with here and there one standing out with the
unnatural distinctness things assume in half lights. Nan noticed them;
she had an eye for such details even when preoccupied. Michael did
not, perhaps, because all, actual and spiritual, was, as it were, of a
piece to him. They drew up closer to the stove, talking fitfully now
of the possibilities of draughtsman’s work and its difficulties and
drawbacks. And though they spoke of the obvious drawback, that it was
out of the question for one without a connection to expect to make even
pocket-money out of it for some time, they did not speak of the utter
distastefulness of such work to a man of Michael’s calibre. Nor yet
did they speak of the bitterness for such a one having to solicit as a
favour work inferior to the crudest of that which he used to delegate
to subordinates. Such things were too personal to be spoken of and too
obvious. Besides, the other drawback was enough: the fact that it was
impossible to expect to make a living at it for long.
“My father is not a rich man,” Michael said, towards the end of the
afternoon. “He had losses last year, and he pretty well lives up to
his income, I believe; he naturally looks to provide for his daughters
too, so far as he can; I can expect nothing from him. Theoretically, I
imagine, I am at liberty to live here until I get something to do——”
“But practically you can’t do it,” she concluded for him. “You can’t do
it for long. No, I know.”
Unconsciously, as she spoke, she glanced over her shoulder to where,
through the smeary little window, one could see the house, the
curtained drawing-room window and the corner of the conservatory. The
tea-gong sounded as she looked. She rose instantly, the idea of not
obeying a summons to meals here, or venturing to keep anyone waiting,
never occurred to her. It apparently did not occur to Michael either;
he rose too, and they went into the drawing-room.
A second visitor had taken the place of the first, her presence, and
the recent return of Constance, and later return of Rosalind, prevented
any comment on their long absence; indeed, probably no one had noticed
it at the time or thought of it now. Tea, with sweet cakes and talk,
filled the short time before Nan left; and if she herself contributed
little to the conversation, little was expected of her, and nothing of
Michael, except to hand cups and plates.
Almost directly after tea Nan left. Michael walked to the station with
her; so did Constance, who said they seemed to have seen so little
of her this time. During the walk the small bunch of chrysanthemums,
which were fetched in at the last minute, was criticised; Constance
told Michael he should have cut more, and Nan that she should have
helped herself, if he was too lazy. She also said kindly that Nan must
come again soon, some day when they were all at home. Nan answered
rather shyly, Constance made her shyer than any of the Annarlys, and
more aware of her own deficiencies in comparison with so many social
gifts. Michael also said little; he really knew nothing of the topics
discoursed upon, but apparently he was not expected to; he was there
for form’s sake merely, and to put Nan into the train.