The time had undoubtedly arrived when I must have a Private Secretary.
Kitty, for one, insisted on it. She said that I was ruining my health in
the service of an ungrateful country, and added that she, personally,
declined to be left a widow at twenty-eight-and-a-half to oblige
anybody.
"It is exactly the wrong age," she said. "If it had happened four or
five years ago, I could have done pretty well for myself. Now, I should
be out of the running among the _débutantes_, and a little too young and
flighty to suit a middle-aged bachelor."
I may add that my wife does not often talk in this unfeeling manner. But
she suffers at times from a desire to live up to a sort of honorary
reputation for sprightly humour, conferred upon her by undiscriminating
admirers in the days before she became engaged to me. As a matter of
fact, her solicitude on my behalf was largely due to an ambition to see
a little paragraph in the newspapers, announcing that "Mr Adrian
Inglethwaite, M.P., Director of the Sub-Tropical and Arctic Department
at the Foreign Office, has appointed Mr Blankley Dash to be his Private
Secretary."
Dolly and Dilly seconded the motion. They had not the effrontery to wrap
up their motives in specious expressions of concern for my health, but
stated their point of view with brutal frankness, as is their wont. I
was an old dear, they conceded, and of course Kitty was Kitty; but a
sister and brother-in-law were, to put it quite plainly, a hopelessly
dull couple to live with: and the visits of Mesdames Dolly and Dilly to
our roof-tree would, it was hinted, be more frequent and enduring if the
establishment was strengthened by the addition of a presentable young
man.
I consented. It was three to one. To any one acquainted with the trio of
sisters arrayed against me, it will at once be apparent that "these
odds" (as the halfpenny papers say) "but faintly represent the
superiority of the winning side."
Having thus dragged the reader without apology into the most intimate
regions of my family circle, I had perhaps better introduce myself and
my _entourage_ a little more formally.
My name is Samuel Adrian Inglethwaite. Why I was called Samuel I do not
know. Possibly my parents did. Samuel may have been a baptismal sprat
set to catch a testamentary whale, but if this was so no legacy ever
came my way. Personally, I am rather attached to the name, as I was
called nothing else until I encountered the lady who ultimately
consented to become Mrs Inglethwaite. Since that epoch in my career I
have been S. Adrian Inglethwaite.
I am thirty-six years of age, and hold an appointment under Government,
which, while it does not carry with it Cabinet rank--though Kitty cannot
see why--is sufficiently important to make the daily papers keep my
obituary notice handily pigeon-holed, in case I fall over the Thames
Embankment, get run over by a motor-bus, or otherwise contravene the
by-laws of the London County Council.
As no man can possibly give an unbiassed opinion of his own wife, I
shall not attempt to describe mine at this juncture, except to mention
that she is a woman with no fault that I can for the moment recall,
beyond a predilection for belonging to societies which are better known
for their aims than for their achievements, are perennially short of
funds, and seem to possess no place of meeting except my drawing-room.
Dolly and Dilly are Kitty's sisters. They are twins, and there present
age is, I think, nineteen. Though I say it who should not, they are both
astonishingly attractive young persons, and the more I see of them the
more the fact is borne in upon me. Indeed, a casual remark of mine to
that effect, uttered to my wife, by an unfortunate coincidence, on the
very morning upon which one of the numerous Deceased Wife's Sister's
Bills passed its Second Reading in the House, gave rise to a coldness of
demeanour on her part which was only dispelled by an abject apology and
a dinner for two at the Savoy on mine.
To return to Dolly and Dilly. I never know them apart, and I do not
think Kitty does either. Both are divinely tall and divinely fair; they
are exactly like each other in form, voice, and feature; and they
possess the irritating habit, not uncommon with twins, of endeavouring
to exaggerate their natural resemblance by various puzzling and, I
consider, unsportsmanlike devices. They wear each other's clothes
indiscriminately, and are not above taking turn and turn about with the
affections of unsuspecting young men, of whom they possess a
considerable following. They attract admiration without effort, and, I
honestly believe, without intention. Of the meaning of love they know
nothing,--they are female Peter Pans, and resolutely refuse to grow up,
except outwardly,--and the intrusion of that passion into their dealings
with persons of the male gender is regarded by them at present as a
contingency to be discouraged at all costs. The conditions under which
they admit their admirers to their friendship are commendably simple and
perfectly definite. If a man is adjudged by them to have attained all
the complicated and inexplicable standards by which women judge the
opposite sex, he is admitted into the ranks of the Good Sorts; and as
such, provided that he keeps his head, has an extremely pleasant time of
it. If, however, any obtuse and amorous youth persists in mistaking what
Nanki-Poo once described as "customary expressions of affability" for an
indication that his infatuation is reciprocated, the Twins act promptly.
They have "no use" for such creatures, they once explained to me; and
they proceed to rid themselves of the incubus in a fashion entirely
their own.
As soon as the pressure of the _affaire_ rises to danger-point--_i.e._,
when the youth begins to pay markedly more attention to one Twin than
the other--he is asked, say, to lunch. Here he is made much of by the
object of his affections, who looks radiant in, let us say, white
_batiste_; while the unemployed Twin, in (possibly) blue poplin, holds
discreetly aloof. After lunch the Twins, leaving their victim to smoke a
cigar, retire swiftly to their room, where they exchange costumes, and
descend again to the drawing-room. There Dolly, now arrayed in white
_batiste_, enters upon the path of dalliance where Dilly left off; and
Dilly, relieved from duty, crochets in a window-recess, and silently
enjoys her sister's impersonation.
One of two things happens. Romeo either does not notice the difference,
or else he does. If he does not, he continues to flounder heavily along
in pursuit of the well-beloved, oblivious of the fact that he is wasting
his efforts on an understudy. After an appropriate interval the cold
truth is revealed to him in a hysterical duet, and he goes home, glaring
defiantly, but feeling an entire and unmitigated ass.
Or he may actually recognise that Dilly has been replaced by
Dolly,--this is what happens when the case is a really serious one,--and
if this occurs he is more sorrowful than angry, poor fellow, for he sees
that he is being trifled with; and your true lover is the most
desperately earnest person in the world. In either case the _affaire_
terminates then and there. And that is how my sisters-in-law, with
adroitness and despatch, return immature and undesirable suitors to
their native element. The whole proceeding reminds me irresistibly of
the Undersized Fish Bill, a measure whose progress I once assisted in
its course through a Committee of the House.
However, having been bidden to procure a Private Secretary, I meekly set
about looking for one. One night at dinner we held a symposium on the
subject, and endeavoured to evolve an outline of the kind of gentleman
who was likely to suit us. The following is a _précis_ of the result. I
leave the intelligent reader to trace each item to its author; also the
various parenthetical comments on the same:--
(a) He must be a 'Varsity man.
(b) He must be able to keep accounts, and transact business generally.
(c) He must be content with a salary of two hundred a-year, with
board and residence in the house. ("He can have that little
room off the library for a sitting-room, dear, and sleep in
the old night-nursery.")
(d) He must not wear celluloid collars or made-up ties. ("But he'll
_have_ to, poor dear, if the Infant Samuel only gives him two
hundred a-year.")
(e) He must be prepared to run through my speeches before I deliver
them. ("I suppose that means _write_ them!"), look up my
subject-matter, verify my references, and so on. ("That _will_
be an improvement. But what will the halfpenny papers do then,
poor things?")
(f) He must be the sort of man that one can have in to a dinner-party
without any fear of accidents. ("Yes. He _must_ be all right about
peas, asparagus, and liqueurs. _And_ finger-bowls, dearest. You
remember the man who drank out of his at that queer political
dinner to the constituents?")
(g) He must be nice to my Philly.
(h) He must be dark. ("Pshaw!")
(i) He must be fair. ("Ugh!")
(j) He must be able to waltz and play bridge.
At this point I suggested that a prepaid telegram to the Celestial
Regions would alone procure the article we required. However, we
ultimately descended to an advertisement in the _Morning Post_, and in
due course I obtained a secretary. In fact, I obtained several. We had
them _seriatim_, and none stayed longer than a month. I do not propose
to write a detailed history of the dynasty which I now found it my
privilege to support. A brief _résumé_ of each will suffice.
_Number One_.--Cambridge Football Blue. Big and breezy. Spelling
entirely phonetic. Spent most of his time smoking in the drawing-room,
and laboured under the delusion that, as my amanuensis, he was at
liberty to forge my signature to all documents, including cheques. He
used my official note-paper to back horses on, and was finally requested
to leave, after an unseemly brawl with a book-maker's tout on my
doorstep.
_Number Two_.--Oxford: a First in Greats. A heavy manner, usually
beginning his observations with "Wherewithal" or "Peradventure." The
Twins suffered severely from suppressed giggles in his presence.
Regarded my superficial ideas of statesmanship with profound contempt,
but left after a fortnight, having allowed a highly confidential and
extremely personal pencil note, written in the margin of a despatch by
the Premier himself, to blossom forth in large type in the text of a
Blue Book.
_Number Three_.--Rather elderly for the post--nearer forty than
thirty--but highly recommended. Reduced my chaotic papers to order in
twenty-four hours, charmed my wife and her sisters, drafted a speech
which won me quite a little ovation in the House, suggested several
notable improvements in the "Importation of Mad Dogs Bill," with which I
was to be entrusted next session--and was found lying dead drunk in his
bedroom, at eleven o'clock in the morning, on the second Sunday after
his arrival. Half a dozen empty brandy bottles were afterwards
discovered on the top of his wardrobe. Poor devil!
_Number Four_.--(Subsequently handed down to posterity as "The Limit").
Small, spectacled, and nervous. Came from a Welsh University, and was
strong on "the methodical filing of State and other documents." He
stayed two days. On the first night (after inquiring whether we were
expecting guests that evening, and receiving an answer in the negative)
he came down to dinner in a sort of alpaca smoking-jacket and a tartan
tie. On the second, having evidently decided to treat us to all the
resources of his wardrobe as soon as possible, he appeared in more or
less ordinary evening attire. He wore a small white satin bow-tie,
attached to his collar-stud by a brass clip. The tie fell off the stud
into his soup almost immediately, and its owner, after furtively chasing
it round the plate with his forefinger, finally fished it out with the
aid of a fork; and, having squeezed as much soup as possible back into
the plate, put the bow into his waistcoat pocket and resumed his meal
with every appearance of enjoyment.
He left next morning. As the Twins pathetically observed: "It had to be
him or us!" I was sorry, for he was a tidy little creature away from
table.
After that I did a rash thing. I engaged a Private Secretary on the spur
of the moment and without consulting my household.
One morning I had occasion to visit the British Museum. That mausoleum
of learning is not an habitual resort of mine, but on this occasion I
had found it necessary to refresh my memory on the subject of a small
principality situated somewhere in the Pacific, and reported to be in a
state of considerable unrest, concerning which the member for Upper
Gumbtree, an unpleasantly omniscient young man with a truculent manner,
had been asking questions in the House. It seemed that British interests
in that quarter were not being adequately protected by our Department,
and this extremely pushing gentleman was now gaining much cheap applause
in the columns of those low-priced organs which make a living by
deriding his Majesty's Ministers, by bombarding us with fatuous
inquiries on the subject. My Chief had only the most hazy notion about
the place--as a matter of fact I do not believe that either he or any of
the permanent officials had ever heard of it--and I was in a precisely
similar condition. I was accordingly bidden to get up the subject, and
accumulate a mass of information thereon which would not only satiate
the appetite of the honourable member, but choke him off for all time.
Finding myself in want of a particular Gazetteer which was not to be
found in the office, and being in no mood to take a clerk, however
uncritical, into my confidence, I called a hansom and drove straight to
the Museum; where, having ensconced myself in the reading-room with the
work in question, I prepared to devote a dusty and laborious morning to
the service of State.
Immediately opposite me sat a gigantic young man of a slightly
threadbare appearance, who was copying some screed out of a bulky tome
before him. I regarded him in a reminiscent sort of way for a few
minutes, and presently found that my scrutiny was being returned
fourfold. Next came an enormous hand that was suddenly thrust across the
table towards me, and I remembered him.
We had met six years ago in a railway train, under circumstances which
made me extremely glad to make his acquaintance at any price. Kitty and
I were on our honeymoon, and happened to be travelling on a Saturday
afternoon from Edinburgh to Perth in a train packed to suffocation with
the supporters of a football team of the baser sort. We were bound for
Inchellan, the Scottish residence of my Chief, who was sending to meet
us at Perth.
As the first-class carriages were all occupied by gentlemen with
third-class tickets, we travelled third with a company who did not seem
to possess any tickets at all. Just before the train started the door
was thrown open and two inebriated Scots, several degrees further gone
than the rest of the company--which is saying a good deal--were hurled
in. If the assemblage had all been of one way of thinking we might have
reached Perth with nothing worse than bad headaches, but unfortunately
some supporters of the other team were present, and in the midst of a
heated and alcoholic debate on the rights and wrongs of the last free
kick, two rival orators suddenly arose, clinched, and continued their
argument at close grips on the floor. In a moment the party divided
itself into two camps, and the conflict became general. As there were
ten people in the compartment, of whom seven were engaged in a
life-and-death struggle, the movements of the non-combatants--Kitty,
myself, and a gigantic youth of gawky appearance--were, to put it
mildly, somewhat restricted. Kitty became thoroughly frightened, and
hampered my preparations for battle by clinging to my arm. The gigantic
youth, seeing this, suddenly took command of the situation.
"Watch you the young leddy!" he bellowed in my ear, "and I'll sort
them."
With that he hurled himself into the tumult. The exact details of his
performance I could not see, the scientific dusting of railway cushions
not having penetrated any further north of the Forth than it has south
of the Thames; but the net result was that each combatant was pulled
off, picked up, shaken until his teeth rattled, and banged down on to
his seat with a brief admonition to mind his manners, until seven
bewildered, partially sobered, and thoroughly demoralised patrons of
sport sat round about in various attitudes of limp dejection, leaning
against one another like dissipated marionettes; while our rustic
Hector, bestriding the compartment like a Colossus, dared them to move a
finger under penalty of being "skelped."
He bundled them all out at the next stopping-place, without inquiring
whether they desired to alight there or no, and I am bound to say that
they all seemed as anxious to leave the carriage as he was to expel
them. He then shut the door, pulled up the window, and turned to my wife
with a reassuring smile.
"Yon was just a storrm in a teapot," he remarked affably.
He accepted my thanks with indifference, but blushed in a gratified
manner when Kitty addressed him. He was her bond-slave by the time that
we bade him farewell at Perth. I presented him with my card, which he
carefully placed inside the lining of his hat; but he forbore, either
from native caution or excessive shyness, to furnish us with any
information as to his own identity.
Well, here he was, sitting opposite to me in the Reading Room of the
British Museum, and seemingly none too prosperous. Six years ago he had
looked like a young and healthy farm lad. Now, fourth-rate journalism
was stamped all over him.