GUY FINDS A NEW HOME
In the days that followed the conversation between Guy and Meriel,
the young man's disquiet strengthened, though he hid his perturbation
successfully enough from the eyes of his daily companions. He met the
Marvens frequently, for he could not resist the fascination Meriel
exercised upon him. He could see that he was a welcome visitor at the
Marvens' house, and yet every time he accepted their hospitality he
felt a twinge of regret that Captain Marven should have been a victim
of his predatory philosophy, even though the victim had not been
personally injured thereby. Instinctively he loathed himself for the
treacherous part he appeared to be playing, even though he argued that
he had but played a man's part in avenging his father's wrongs.
He would have felt more satisfied if he could have been made acquainted
with the nature of those wrongs. But when he had ventured a question
on the subject Lynton Hora's brow had wrinkled into a heavy frown,
and he had harshly bidden Guy to refer no more to the subject. Nor
could he gain the least enlightenment from Meriel, though he had
discreetly questioned her regarding her uncle's early life. No
suspicion as to his real parentage ever crossed his mind. Meriel had
merely referred to the great grief of her relatives' lives in terms
which had produced in Guy's mind the idea that their only
child had died in infancy. "Poor auntie and uncle lost their only
child when he was three years old," she had said, "and even now no one
ever dares mention his name in their presence, they feel the loss so
acutely. His name was Guy, like yours, and I think that is partly why
they seem to like you so much."
From his acquaintance with Captain Marven, Guy could not conceive
that the kindly hearted man had ever done anyone a deliberate injury.
He began to question the possibility of Hora being possessed of
some delusion on the subject and longed the more to be acquainted
with the facts in order that he might be in a position to put the
misunderstanding right. Since that was hopeless, however, he was
profoundly thankful that Hora had insisted upon his taking a residence
apart. He had found chambers which suited him in the "Albany," and
there he was free to brood over his own mental problems without the
possibility of having to meet Lynton Hora's enquiring glance. He no
longer felt satisfied with his tutor's philosophy. He was almost afraid
to lay bare his new-born doubts to the scorn which the Commandatore
would pour upon his heart-searchings. He imagined that the Commandatore
had no idea that any conflict was taking place in his mind. He
flattered himself that he had long since obtained complete mastery
over the expression of his thoughts, that his face was no dial of his
emotions but a mask for their concealment. But he did less than justice
to his master's perceptive powers. He was not conscious that it needed
an effort to remain in the company of the Commandatore, but Lynton Hora
perceived it, and realising that Guy was concealing something from
him determined to become acquainted with the details of the matter
concealed. He had not lost confidence in Guy. He did not imagine that
the truth of principles he had so carefully instilled was likely to be
questioned. But Captain Marven was so associated with the black days,
marked indelibly in his life's calendar, that he could not feel easy
in his mind now that he had once more crossed his path. Besides, for
the consummation of the revenge he was planning, it was imperative
that no nook or corner of Guy's life should be veiled from his sight.
That was the real reason why he had suggested Guy's finding an abode
for himself. He desired to be made acquainted with Guy's movements,
the houses he visited and the companions he affected when away from
home. It would have been difficult to set such a watch on Guy, if he
had remained at the flat in Westminster, without subjecting himself to
inconvenience; but installed in chambers of his own, it would be easy
to obtain information.
Hora's first intention had been to keep watch himself on Guy's
movements, but consideration decided him to employ some tool for the
purpose. His thoughts had lingered for a moment on Myra, but that
suggestion also was speedily put aside; she was too passionately
interested in Guy to prove a trustworthy spy upon his actions. Hora
knew where to look for a reliable tool, for, secretive though he was,
averse to allowing any outsider to co-operate with him in the execution
of any of his enterprises, yet he had kept in touch with certain of
the companions who had worked beside him, groaned under the same
harsh discipline, in the days of his expiation. None of them knew him
by name. But his face was known to them, and welcomed, for he never
appeared amongst them without bringing largesse for their debauches,
and, more welcome still, suggestions of places where booty awaited the
skilful craftsman with bold heart, and wise words of advice as to the
means by which it might be acquired. These denizens of the lower world
guessed that their unknown benefactor was of themselves, though moving
on a higher plane. The suggestions he made were invariably audacious,
but when put into practice they almost as invariably proved successful,
so that the unknown became known amongst them as the Master.
Guy had not been settled in his new abode for more than three days when
Hora set out in search of someone who would undertake the business.
He took all his usual precautions in order to avoid identification,
though he relied more upon the assumption of a new character than
upon any physical disguise. He entered a train which carried him
away to London's most beautiful possession, the Royal Gardens of
Kew. He entered the gates a bright, alert personality. He had an
appreciative eye for the beauties of the trees and the flowers, but
he did not linger amongst them, seeking a retired spot amongst the
trees in the wild portion of the demesne. When half an hour later he
retraced his steps nothing but the curious limp in his gait would have
hinted at his identity. The overcoat which he had carried on his arm
was now worn on his back. Its threadbare seams and worn cuffs were
an eloquent testimony of poverty. The sprucely folded umbrella had
become baggy, and instead of carrying it on his arm he leaned heavily
upon it. A pair of steel spectacles were fixed upon his nose. His
hat had been exchanged for another much the worse for wear.
His collar had been replaced by one of clerical cut. A Bible, much
worn, was under his arm. He looked like a mild, inoffensive clergyman
who had fallen upon evil days, or a curate who had never fallen upon
good ones, and anyone who spared him a single glance would have been
ready to stake a good round sum that the contents of the bag he carried
consisted mainly of tracts. Returning to the railway station he asked
in the mildest of voices for a ticket to Latimer Road, and bungled over
counting the change while the people waiting behind him impatiently
snorted at his clumsiness.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon for detaining you," he said when the
coppers were safely put away in a shabby old purse. He was always
authentic in his impersonations.
No one took the slightest heed of him when he reached the station to
which he had booked, and, alighting, set his face in the direction
of Notting Dale. He walked steadily on, turning now to the left
now to the right again. Each street he entered seemed to worsen in
some indefinable manner. The main road into which he had passed
from the station had been merely one of London's characterless
thoroughfares, with rows of struggling shops, each flaunting the
banner of cheapness in the face of passers-by. A sign of a poor
neighbourhood this, and off the main road the signs were more
pronounced. The open doors, the women sitting at open windows, the
babies on the stairs and the pavements, the voice of the coal hawker,
were all unmistakable signs. Presently the dress of the women became
more blowsy, the children dirtier, men were to be seen lolling from
the windows and gathered in groups outside the doors of
the public houses; when policemen were to be seen at all, they were in
couples. Hora's face wore an air of positive benevolence. A boy of five
or six years ran beside him with outstretched hand.
"Spare us a copper, guvnor?" he asked.
Hora paused. "I have no coppers to spare, my child," he remarked.
"I ain't had no breakfus," said the child.
Hora's eyes twinkled.
"I'm afraid you are not speaking the truth, my boy," he remarked
blandly. "Still"--he opened his bag carefully and extracted therefrom a
packet of sticky sweets and a bundle of tracts. "I don't expect you get
many sweeties. Hold out your hand."
The youngster did as he was bidden. Hora counted four sugary lumps into
the eager palm. "Never tell a lie, my boy," he said solemnly.
The child seemed unimpressed. "I say, is that all, guvnor?" he asked as
Hora replaced the paper of sweets in his bag.
The incident had not passed unobserved. From a doorway close at hand a
bullet-headed man, whose cranial outline was the more strongly marked
because of the closely cropped hair, was looking on with a grin on his
countenance, while across the road a couple of policemen were also
watching. The bullet-headed person spoke suddenly.
"You run away and stop worriting the good gen'l'man," he said.
The boy looked up, caught sight of the policemen, and whirling on
his heels disappeared like a rabbit into its burrow.
"The very kids in this street learn to tell the tale afore they can
walk," remarked the round-head pleasantly.
"I'm afraid it's a very wicked street," said Hora with a sigh. "The
devil has many disciples in Fancy Lane."
"Guess you're right there, guvnor," replied the man. "There's two on
'em comin' across the road to talk to you now." There was a shadow of a
wink in his eye.
"Let me hope you will have nothing to do with them," said Hora
earnestly, "any more than I should myself. You must know where
companionship of that sort leads."
"I know that right enough," said the man passing his hand over his
closely cropped hair. "I don't have no more truck with that sort than I
can help."
Hora reopened his bag and took from it a tract.
"You may find some helpful words here," he said. "This little story is
called 'The Downward Path.' Take it and it may prove a blessing to you."
He turned away, and, for the first time, appeared to become aware of
the presence of the two policemen.
"I am afraid that I did not rightly apprehend that good man's meaning,"
he said aloud as if talking to himself.
One of the policemen looked down upon the bent figure.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "I just wanted to make sure it was you,
because this street, as you know, isn't too safe for strangers."
"Thank you, my friend," replied Hora. "But you know that I am as safe
here as at my own home." The policemen passed on.
"There won't come no harm to him," said the elder to his companion.
"They knows he's a harmless old crank, an' they chy-ikes him a bit for
comin' to convert 'em with a packet of tracts for the men and a packet
of sweets for the kids, but he's safe enough, for he never has anything
about him to make it worth while anyone knocking him on the head."
"He comes pretty reg'lar, I suppose then?" asked the second constable.
"I've not seen him before."
"Three or four times a year, may be. There's plenty knows him in the
street."
They passed out of sight and Hora went on his way, stopping now and
then to speak to a man or a woman or to bestow a sweet on some urchin
in the gutter. So, progressing slowly, he reached an archway which
had once formed an entrance to a builder's yard. He passed beneath it
and crossed the open space to a shed which stood at the far end. The
ground was littered with rubbish of all sorts, dirty wisps of straw,
dirty pieces of newspaper, rotting cabbage stalks and decomposing
remains of fish. Reaching the shed he gave no knock but pushed the
door open and entered. Outside, the July sun was shining brightly and
within the darkness was so dense that he stood still until his eyes
grew accustomed to it. The shed was provided with one small window, but
three of its four panes were glazed with brown paper and the remaining
pane of glass was so begrimed that only a feeble light forced entrance
through it.
While he stood in the doorway striving to penetrate the gloom a human
voice, though it was so far unlike the ordinary human voice that it
might have belonged to any creature but one made in God's image, began
to mutter and gurgle in the darkest corner.
"Ma Norton?" asked Hora.
The answer came like a wheeze of a dropsical spider.
"Get out of this. I don't want no ant'em cacklers round my place."
By this time Hora's vision had grown accustomed to the semi-darkness.
He took off his hat and laid it on the table. He saw that but for
one old woman seated in a corner there was no one else present.
"Your eyesight's failing, Ma," he remarked composedly. The old woman
struggled to her feet. "Blimy! If it ain't the Master hisself," she
wheezed. "What's brought you down here again so soon?"
"What else should but the desire to see you a reformed character,
the desire to read the Bible to you, pray with you with the object
of ending your days in the workhouse like a decent Christian woman.
Ha--ha--ha!" He laughed at his own ribaldry.
"He! He! He!" the old woman cackled in response. Her pallid, pendulous,
flabby cheeks flapped as she shook with merriment. Her enormous frame,
held loosely together about the waist and shoulders with untidy tapes,
threatened to collapse like a half-cooled jelly shaken too soon from
the mould. The tears started from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
She gasped and choked until reaching for a bottle standing handily on
a shelf she poured something from it into a tumbler standing by and
tossed off the draught.
"That's better," she remarked. "You shouldn't make me laugh, Master.
Laughing shakes me so that I'm afraid it'll be the death of me some
day."
"No fear," answered Hora. "You will finish yourself off with the gin
bottle first."
"Lord! What a man it is for making game of an old
woman's little weakness," she replied composedly. "But what's brought
you here to-day out of your time? Nothin's happened to my gal, has
there?"
"Getting anxious to have her home again?" remarked Hora sardonically.
"I'm not sure that she would appreciate the home you could give her."
He looked round him and smiled at the thought of Myra transported
into such surroundings. The bare walls of the shed with the plaster
broken and crumbling away; the filthy floor with a grimy sack thrown
before the fenderless fireplace to do service as rug; the two stained
deal tables littered with old articles of crockery, remnants of food,
articles of attire, all mixed up together; the broken chairs; the
grubby bed and bedding in the corner, would make a strange setting for
the exotic beauty who at that very moment would probably be stepping
from her perfumed bath to don a dainty dressing gown before submitting
to the ministrations of her maid.
The old woman watched his glance distrustfully. "You ain't thinking of
turning her out, Master?" she whined. "I know very well she's well off
where she is, an' you know this ain't no place for the likes of her."
"I might bring her here to see you one day. I'm sure she would be glad
to see her mother," he remarked.
The woman rose again from the chair. She spoke with ill-concealed
agitation.
"Don't you go for to do it, Master. Don't you do it. I'm quite
satisfied so long as I knows she's all right. There ain't no call for
her to set eyes on the likes of me. Why, it might happen that she would
sick at the sight." Her voice died away and she repeated dully, "Don't
you go for to do it!"
"I don't think she would be exactly pleased," remarked Hora. "But make
you mind easy, Ma. It's nothing to do with Myra that I want to see
you about. You hear a lot of things in this part of the world, and I
wondered whether by any chance you have heard lately of Corny Jessel. I
have a job for him."
The old woman reseated herself and helped herself thoughtfully to
another allowance of gin. "When did I last hear tell of him?" she
murmured. "Not so long ago, for certain. The shadder-man, you mean,
ain't it, Master? Corny Jessel, the shadder-man?"
"Yes," said Hora. "The shadow-man."
"My memory ain't what it was," said the old woman disconsolately, "but
I'm sure I heard about him only the other day."
Hora lit a cigarette and smoked calmly while the woman racked her
memory. At last he was rewarded for his patience.
"It was Bully Hagan telled me he'd seen him only the other day."
"The round-headed man who's just come out of prison?" asked Hora.
"Lives at 27 in the Street, first floor front," said the woman.
"I met him on my way here," said Hora. "I'll go and find him." He rose
to go.
"You haven't told me how my gal's lookin'," said the woman.
Hora laughed, but he good naturedly complied with the request, and for
five minutes poured into the greedy ears of the woman a description
of the dresses and the jewels her daughter wore at the theatres and
dinners and dances to which she had recently been. Then he took his
departure, leaving behind him a couple of gold pieces in the old
woman's palm. In the street he resumed his missionary demeanour and
passing along from house to house found Bully Hagan at the same spot
where he had parted from him, and in exchange for another piece of gold
was soon put in possession of the address he sought. He wrote it down
on a piece of paper.
Cornelius Jessel, Woodbine Cottage, Melpomene Road, Wimbledon.
And, resuming his progress, came at last to the more respectable
streets and finally to the railway station again.