THE NAME OF GILDERSLEEVE
A square--imposing houses about a space of verdure. That was what
Christopher perceived as he looked wildly round, flung back the apron,
jumped out. His position was awful; voices of the persons alighting
from the brougham seemed to sound at his very ear; he had become one of
the party; the man in evening dress stared at him. But even in this
dread moment so bent was he on fulfilling his mission that he at once
cast an eye over the front of the house to fix it in his memory. There
was a magnificent display of flowers at every window; the houses
immediately right and left had no flowers at all.
Then he fumbled for money. Coppers, a sixpence, a shilling, no other
small change, and he durst not offer so little as eighteenpence.
(However, Heaven be thanked! the people had gone in and the brougham
was moving away.) In his purse he had half a sovereign.
"Got change?" he inquired as boldly as possible.
"How much?" returned the driver curtly, for he had noticed with
curiosity that his fare exchanged no greeting with the carriage people
and that the door was shut.
"Change for half a sovereign. Seven shillings would do."
"Ain't got it. See, fourpence in 'apence, that's all."
The man's eye began to alarm Christopher. He shook with indecision, he
gulped down his bitterness, he handed the golden coin.
"All right; never mind change."
"Thanky, sir. Good night."
And Mr. Parish was alone on the pavement. So grievously did he feel for
the loss of that half-sovereign that for some moments he could think of
nothing else. His heart burned against Polly. What had she got to do
with those people in the big house? How could he be sure that it did
not imply some shameful secret? And he must go throwing away his
hard-earned money! Gladly he would have spent it on a supper for Polly;
but to pay ten shillings for a half-crown drive! A whole blessed
half-sovereign!
Another carriage drove up and stopped at the next house. Christopher
remembered that he must discover the address, an easy matter enough. He
found that the square was called Stanhope Gardens; he noted the number
of the house with flowers. Then, weary, disgusted, he started on his
eastward walk. Omnibuses, of course, there were none. The chance of a
train at some underground station seemed too doubtful to think about;
in any case he had no more money to waste.
On he plodded, heavily, angrily--Cromwell Road, Brompton Road, at last
Piccadilly, and so into familiar districts, though he had never walked
here so late at night. Of course there would be nasty questions
to-morrow; Theodore would look grave, and Ada would be virtuously sour,
and his mother--but perhaps they would not worry her by disclosing such
things. Unaccustomed to express himself with violence, Christopher at
about half-past twelve found some relief in a timid phrase or two of
swearing.
When he reached Shaftesbury Avenue he was dog-tired. The streets had
now become very quiet; he felt a doubt as to the possibility of
knocking at a house door. But Polly had said he was to do so, be the
hour what it might. The front of the house was dark, not a glimmer in
any windows. Doubtfully he drew near and knocked thrice.
Minutes passed, nearly five, in fact, then he knocked again. He would
wait five minutes more, and then--
But the door softly opened.
"That you?" said Polly's voice.
"Yes, it is."
She opened the door wide, and he saw by the light from the street that
she was dressed as usual.
"How late you are! Well? Can't you speak?"
"I'm dead beat, that's the truth," he replied, leaning against the
door-post. "Walked back all the way from South Kensington."
"Oh, it was there, was it?" said Polly, without heed to his complaint.
"What's the address?"
"I tell you what, Polly," broke from Christopher's dry lips, "I think
you might show a bit more feeling for a fellow when he's walked himself
to death--"
"You might have took a cab just for this once."
"A cab! Why, the other one cost me half a sovereign!"
"Half a sovereign!" echoed Polly in amazement. "To South Kensington!"
It did not occur to Mr. Parish that such a detail might be left
unmentioned. In these little matters there is a difference between
class and class. Polly was not, of course, surprised at his letting her
know what the mission had cost him, but the sum made her indignant.
"Well, he had you, that cabby!"
Christopher related the circumstances, still leaning in exhaustion
against the door-post, and Miss Sparkes, who under no conceivable
stress could have suffered herself to be so "done out of" a piece of
gold, scarcely knew whether to despise or to pity him. After all, a
compassionate feeling prevailed, sure sign that there was something
disinterested in her association with this young man.
"I'm very sorry," she said; "I never thought it 'ud cost you that much."
"I shouldn't care a bit," Christopher replied, "if you treated me
better now I've got here."
Polly moved just a little nearer to him, ever so little, but the
movement was appreciable. Unfortunately Christopher was too weary to
notice it.
"What was the address?" she asked in an undertone, which, had but Mr.
Parish understood, fitly accompanied that little movement.
He told her bluntly, and Polly repeated the words
"And now I suppose I may say good night," Christopher added, still with
discontent.
"Well, thank you very much for getting me that address."
"But you won't tell me what you want it for?"
"I will some time. I can't just now. It's awful late, and we mustn't
stand talking here."
Again she came one step nearer. Now if Christopher Parish had not lost
half a Sovereign, or if he had been less worn out, or if the mystery of
the evening had not lain so heavy on his mind, assuredly he would have
noticed this onward coming; for, as a rule, the young man was sensitive
and perceptive enough, all things considered. Alas! he did not look
into Polly's face, which in the dusk of the doorway had turned towards
his.
"I'll be going then," he muttered. "Good night. Jolly long walk before
me still."
"I'm very sorry. I am, really."
"Oh, never mind! When shall I see you again?"
The crucial moment was past. Polly drew a step back and held the door.
"I'll write before long. Good night, and thank you."
Mr. Parish plodded away down the avenue, saying to himself that he was
blest if he'd be made a fool of like this much longer.
The next morning Polly wrote a line to Mr. Gammon, and two days later,
on Sunday, they met in that little strip of garden on the Embankment
which lies between Charing Cross Station and Waterloo Bridge. It was
the first week of October; a cold wind rustled the yellowing plane
trees, and open-air seats offered no strong temptation. The two
conversed as they walked along. Polly had not mentioned in her letter
any special reason for wishing to see Mr. Gammon, nor did she hasten to
make known her discovery.
"Why do you wear a 'at like that on a Sunday?" she began by asking,
tartly.
"Because it's comfortable, I suppose," answered Gammon, reflecting for
the first time that it was not very respectful to come to this
rendezvous in a "bowler." Polly had never mentioned the matter before,
though she had thought about it. "You like the chimney-pot better?"
"Why, of course I do. On a Sunday, too, who wouldn't?"
"I'll bear it in mind, my dear. My chimney-pot wants ironing. Have it
done to-morrow if I can find time."
Polly scrutinized the costume of a girl walking with a soldier, and
asked all at once indifferently:
"Do you know anybody called Gildersleeve?"
"Gildersleeve? Don't think so. No. Why?"
She searched his face to make sure that he did not simulate ignorance.
"Well, you wanted me to find out where that lady lived--you know--her
as was with Mr. C--at the theatre."
"And you've got it?" cried Gammon excitedly.
Yes, she had got it, and by consulting a directory at a public-house
she had discovered the name of the family residing at that address.
Gildersleeve? The name conveyed nothing to Mr. Gammon; none the less he
was delighted.
"Good for you, Polly! But how did you do it?"
She put on an air of mystery. Never mind how; there was the address, if
he could make any use of it. Gammon smiled provokingly.
"Some friend of yours, eh? You're well off for friends, Polly. I ask no
questions, my dear; no business of mine. Much obliged to you, all the
same."
"If you're so particular about who it was," said Polly, with her air of
pique and propriety, "well, it's a boy. So you needn't look at me like
that."
"A boy, eh?"
"Well, that's what _I_ think him. He's a young clurk in the City as
I've known long enough, and _I_ think him a boy. Of course you're
always ready to believe harm of me--that's nothing new. And if the
truth was known, you go talkin' to Mrs. Bubb and them Cheesemans."
"I don't! I told you I shouldn't, and I don't!"
"You do!"
"It's a lie!"
"You're one yourself!" retorted Polly with heat.
Thereupon Mr. Gammon turned about and walked off. Polly could not
believe that he would really go. Scorning to look back she paced on for
some minutes, but no familiar step approached her; when at length she
looked round Mr. Gammon was nowhere to be seen. This extraordinary
behaviour she attributed to jealousy, and so was not entirely
displeased. But the idea of leaving her in the middle of the street, as
one might say! Did one ever! And just after he'd got what he wanted.
"All right, old fellow! Wait till you want to see me again, that's all."
To have his word disbelieved was the one thing fatal to Gammon's
temper. He strode off in a towering rage, determined to hold no more
communication with Miss Sparkes, and blaming himself for having got
into such an ambiguous position towards her. As if he had ever really
cared one snap of the fingers for the red-headed spitfire! She to tell
him to his face that his word was not to be trusted! He had never stood
that yet, from man or woman!
At this rate he would presently have no female friends at all. Mrs.
Clover he had not once seen since the evening at Mrs. Bubb's, and every
day that went by put a greater distance between them. He understood her
unfriendliness; she thought this the best way of destroying any hopes
he might still entertain with reference to Minnie; yes, that was the
only possible explanation of her silence. It was too bad; Mrs. Clover
might have put more faith in him. Now he would not visit her; he would
not write. If she wished to see him again, let her acknowledge the
wrong she had done him.
As for the muddle about her husband, be hanged to it! He would think no
more about the business. Ten to one this address that Polly had
obtained would be quite useless. How could he go to strangers (named
Gildersleeve) and coolly inquire of them whether they knew a man named
Clover? Of course they would have him kicked into the street, and Serve
him right.
Polly and her boy! A young City clerk, eh? Old enough to wear a
chimney-pot, he'd be bound. Polly was fond of chimney-pots. There, he
had done with her, and with Clover and Quodling and Gildersleeve, and
all the rest of the puzzle.
As he suddenly entered the house Moggie ran to him up the kitchen
stairs.
"There's been a gentleman for you, Mr. Gammon."
"Oh! Who was it?"
"Mr. Greenacres, driving a trap, and the 'orse wouldn't stand still,
and he said he'd see you some other time."
"Greenacre, eh? All right."
He sat for a quarter of an hour in his bedroom, unable to decide how he
should spend the rest of the day. After all, perhaps, he ought not to
have abandoned Polly so abruptly. In her own way she had been doing him
a kindness, and as for her temper, well, she couldn't help it.
He would go to Dulwich and see the bow-wows.