IT was the first week in October when Harold Wynne found himself in
London. He had got a letter from Beatrice in which she told him that she
and her father would return to London from Holland that week. Mr. Avon
had conscientiously followed the track of an Irish informer in whom he
was greatly interested, and who had, at the beginning of the century,
found his way to Holland, where he was looked upon as a poor exile from
Erin. He had betrayed about a dozen of his fellow-countrymen to their
enemies, and had then returned to Ireland to live to an honoured old age
on the proceeds of the bargain he had made for their heads.
The result of Harold’s consideration of the position that he occupied in
regard to Beatrice, was this visit to London. He made up his mind that
he should see her and tell her that, like Mrs. Browning’s hero, he loved
her so well that he only could leave her.
He could bring himself to do it, he felt. He believed that he was equal
to an act of heroic self-sacrifice for the sake of the girl--that
was how he put the matter to himself when being soaked on the Scotch
mountain. Yes, he would go to her and tell her that the conclusion
to which he had come was that they must forget one another--that only
unhappiness could result from the relationship that existed between
them. He knew that there is no more unsatisfactory relationship between
a man and a woman than that which has love for a basis, but with no
prospect of marriage; and he knew that so long as his father lived
and continued selfish--and only death could divide him from his
selfishness--marriage with Beatrice was out of the question.
It was with this resolution upon him that he drove to the address in the
neighbourhood of the British Museum, where Beatrice said she was to be
found with her father.
It was one of those mansions which at some period in the early part of
the century had been almost splendid; now it was simply large. It
was not the house that Harold would have cared to occupy, even rent
free--and this was a consideration to him. But for a scholar who had a
large library of his own, and who found it necessary to be frequently
in the neighbourhood of the larger Library at the Museum, the house must
undoubtedly have had its advantages.
She was not at home. The elderly butler said that Mr. Avon had found it
necessary to visit Brussels for a few days, and he had thus been delayed
on the Continent beyond the date he had appointed for his return.
He would probably be in England by the end of the week--the day was
Wednesday.
Harold left the gloom of Bloomsbury behind him, feeling a curious
satisfaction at having failed to see Beatrice--the satisfaction of a
respite. Some days must elapse before he could make known his resolution
to her.
He strolled westward to a club of which he was a member--the Bedouin,
and was about to order dinner, when someone came behind him and laid a
hand, by no means gently, on his shoulder. Some of the Bedouins thought
it _de rigueur_ to play such pranks upon each other; and, to do them
justice, it was only rarely that they dislocated a friend’s shoulder or
gave a nervous friend a fit. People said one never knew what was
coming from the moment they entered the Bedouin Club, and the prominent
Bedouins accepted this statement as embodying one of the most agreeable
of its many distinctive features.
Harold was always prepared for the worst in this place, so when
the force of the blow swung him round and he saw an extremely plain
arrangement of features, distorted by a smile of extraordinary breadth,
beneath a closely-cropped crown of bright red hair, he merely said,
“Hallo, Archie, you here? I thought you were in South Africa
lion-hunting or something.”
The smile that had previously distorted the features of the young man,
was of such fulness that it might reasonably have been taken for granted
that it could not be increased; the possessor showed, however, that
that smile was not the result of a supreme effort. So soon as Harold had
spoken he gave a wink, and that wink seemed to release the mechanical
system by which his features were contorted, for in an instant his
face became one mouth. In plain words, this mouth of the young man had
swallowed up his other features. All that could be seen of his face was
that enormous mouth flanked by a pair of enormous ears, like plantain
leaves growing on each side of the crater of a volcano.
Harold looked at him and laughed, then picked up a _menu_ card and
studied it until he calculated that the young man whom he had addressed
as Archie should have thrown off so much of his smile as would enable
him to speak.
He gave him plenty of time, and when he looked round he saw that some of
the young man’s features had succeeded in struggling to the surface, as
it were, beneath the circular mat of red hair that lay between his ears.
“No South Africa for me, tarty chip,” said Archie. (“Tarty chip” was
the popular term of address that year among young men about town. Its
philological significance was never discovered.)
“No South Africa for me; I went one better than that,” continued the
young man.
“I doubt it,” said Harold. “I’ve had my eye on you until lately. You
have usually gone one worse. Have you any money left--tell the truth?”
“Money? I asked the tarty chips that look after that sort of thing for
me how I stood the other day,” said Archie, “and I’m ashamed to say that
I’ve been spending less than my income--that is until a couple of months
ago. I’ve still about three million. What does that mean?”
“That you’ve got rid of about a million inside two years,” said Harold.
“You’re going it blind,” said Archie. “It only means that I’ve spent
fifty decimals in eighteen months. I can spare that, tarty chip.” (It
may possibly be remembered that in the slang of the year a decimal
signified a thousand pounds.) “That means that you’ve squandered a
fortune, Archie,” said Harold, thinking what fifty thousand pounds would
mean to him.
“There’s not much of a squander in the deal when I got value for it,”
said Archie. “I got plenty of value. I’ve got to know all about this
world.”
“And you’ll soon get to know all about the next, if you go on at this
rate,” said Harold.
“Not me; I’ve got my money in sound places. You heard about my show.”
“Your show? I’ve heard about nothing for the past year but your shows.
What’s the latest? I want something to eat.”
“Oh, come with me to my private trough,” cried the young man. “Don’t lay
down a mosaic pavement in your inside in this hole. Come along, tarty
chip; I’ve got a _chef_ named Achille--he knows what suits us--also some
‘84 Heidsieck. Come along with me, and I’ll tell you all about the show.
We’ll go there together later on. We’ll take supper with her.”
“Oh! with her?”
“To be sure. You don’t mean to say that you haven’t heard that I’ve
taken the Legitimate Theatre for Mrs. Mowbray? Where on God’s footstool
have you been for the past month?”
“Not further than the extreme North of Scotland. It was far enough. I
saw a paragraph stating that Mrs. Mowbray, after being a failure in a
number of places, had taken the Legitimate. What has that got to say to
you?”
“Not much, but I’ve got a good deal to say to it. Oh, come along, and
I’ll tell you all about it. I’m building a monument for myself. I’ve got
the Legitimate and I mean to make Irving and the rest of them sit up.”