THE WHEELS OF CHANCE
Meg was out walking with the children in Kensington Gardens, and Hannah
was paying the tradesmen's books. It was the only way to make Hannah
take the air, to send her, as she put it, "to do the messages." She
liked paying the books herself, for she always suspected Jan of not
counting the change.
Jan was alone in the flat and was laying tea for the children in the
dining-room when "ting" went the electric bell. She opened the door to
find upon the threshold an exceedingly tall young man; a well-set-up,
smart young man with square shoulders, who held out his hand to her,
saying in a friendly voice: "You may just happen to remember me, Miss
Ross, but probably not. Colonel Walcote's my uncle, and he's living in
your house, you know. My name's Middleton ... I _hope_ you remember me,
for I've come to ask a favour."
As he spoke he gave Jan his card, and on it was "Captain Miles
Middleton, R. H. A.," and the addresses of two clubs.
She led him to the little drawing-room, bracing herself the while to be
firm in her refusal if the Walcotes wanted the house any longer, good
tenants though they were.
She was hopelessly vague about her guest, but felt she had met him
somewhere. She didn't like to confess how slight her recollection was,
for he looked so big and brown and friendly it seemed unkind.
He sat down, smoothed his hat, and then with an engaging smile that
showed his excellent teeth, began: "I've come--it sounds rather
farcical, doesn't it--about a dog?"
"A dog?" Jan repeated vaguely. "What dog?"
"Well, he's my dog at present, but I want him to be your dog--if you'll
have him."
"You want to give me a dog--but why? Or do you only want me to keep him
a bit for you?"
"Well, it's like this, Miss Ross; it would be cheek to ask you to keep a
young dog, and when you'd had all the trouble of him and got fond of
him--and you'll get awfully fond of him, if you have him--to take him
away again. It wouldn't be fair, it really wouldn't ... so...."
"Wait a bit," said the cautious Jan. "What sort of a dog is he ... if it
is a he...."
"He's a bull-terrier...."
"Oh, but I don't think I'm very fond of bull-terriers ... aren't they
fierce and doesn't one always associate them with public-houses? I
couldn't have a fierce dog, you know, because of the two children."
"They're always nice with children," Captain Middleton said firmly. "And
as for the pothouse idea--that's quite played out. I suppose it was that
picture with the mug and the clay pipe. He'd _love_ the children; he's
only a child himself, you know."
"A puppy! Oh, Captain Middleton, wouldn't he eat all our shoes and
things and tear up all the rugs?"
"I think he's past that, I do really--he'll be a year old on Monday.
He'll be a splendid watchdog, and he's not a bit deaf--lots of 'em are,
you know--and he's frightfully well-bred. Just you look at the
pedigree ..." and Captain Middleton produced from his breast-pocket a
folded foolscap document which he handed to Jan.
She gazed at it with polite interest, though it conveyed but little to
her mind. The name "Bloomsbury" seemed to come over and over again.
There were many dates and other names, but "Bloomsbury" certainly
prevailed, and it was evident that Captain Middleton's dog had a long
pedigree; it was all quite clearly set down, and, to Jan, very
bewildering.
"His points are on the back page," Captain Middleton said proudly, "and
there isn't a single one a perfect bull-terrier ought to have that
William Bloomsbury hasn't got."
"Is that his name?"
"Yes, but I call him William, only he is of the famous Bloomsbury
strain, you know, and one can't help being a bit proud of it."
"But," Jan objected, "if he's so well-bred and perfect, he must be
valuable--so why should you want to give him to me?"
"I'll explain," said Captain Middleton. "You see, ever since they've
been down at Wren's End, my aunt kept him for me. He's been so happy
there, Miss Ross, and grown like anything. We're stationed in St. John's
Wood just now, you know, and he'd be certain to be stolen if I took him
back there. And now my aunt's coming to London to a flat in Buckingham
Gate. Now London's no life for a dog--a young dog, anyway--he'd be
miserable. I've been down to Wren's End very often for a few days'
hunting, and I can see he's happy as a king there, and we may be ordered
anywhere any day ... and I don't want to sell him ... You see, I know if
you take him you'll be good to him ... and he _is_ such a nice beast."
"How do you know I'd be good to him? You know nothing about me."
"Don't I just! Besides, I've seen you, I'm seeing you now this
minute ... I don't want to force him on you, only ... a lady living
alone in the country ought to have a dog, and if you take William you
won't be sorry--I can promise you that. He's got the biggest heart, and
he's the nicest beast ... and the most faithful...."
"Are you sure he'll be quite gentle with the children?"
"He's gentle with everybody, and they're well known to be particularly
good with children ... you ask anyone who knows about dogs. He was given
me when he was three weeks old, and I could put him in my pocket."
Captain Middleton was rather appealing just then, so earnest and big and
boyish. His face was broad though lean, the features rather blunt, the
eyes set wide apart; clear, trustworthy, light-blue eyes. He looked just
what he was--a healthy, happy, prosperous young Englishman without a
real care in the world. After all, Jan reflected, there was plenty of
room at Wren's End, and it was good for the children to grow up with
animals.
"I had thought of an Airedale," she said thoughtfully, "but----"
"They're good dogs, but quarrelsome--fight all the other dogs round
about. Now William isn't a fighter unless he's unbearably provoked,
then, of course, he fights to kill."
"Oh dear!" sighed Jan, "that's an awful prospect. Think of the trouble
with one's neighbours----"
"But I assure you, it doesn't happen once in a blue moon. I've never
known him fight yet."
"I'll tell you what, Captain Middleton; let me keep him for the present,
till you know where you're going to be stationed, and then, if you find
you can have him, he's there for you to take. I'll do my best for him,
but I want you to feel he's still your dog...."
"It's simply no end good of you, Miss Ross. I'd like you to have him
though ... May I put it this way? If you don't like him, find him a
nuisance or want to get rid of him, you send for me and I'll fetch him
away directly. But if you like him, he's your dog. There--may I leave it
at that?"
"We'll try to make him happy, but I expect he'll miss you dreadfully....
I know nothing about bull-terriers; do they need any special
treatment?"
"Oh dear, no. William's as strong as a young calf. Just a bone
occasionally and any scraps there are. There's tons of his biscuits down
there ... only two meals a day and no snacks between, and as much
exercise as is convenient--though, mind you, they're easy dogs in that
way--they don't need you to be racing about all day like some."
The present fate of William Bloomsbury with the lengthy and exalted
pedigree being settled, Jan asked politely for her tenants, Colonel and
Mrs. Walcote, heard that it had been an excellent and open season, and
enjoyed her guest's real enthusiasm about Wren's End.
After a few minutes of general conversation he got up to go. She saw him
out and rang up the lift, but no lift came. She rang again and again.
Nothing happened. Evidently something had gone wrong, and she saw people
walking upstairs to the flats below. Just as she was explaining the
mishap to her guest, the telephone bell sounded loudly and persistently.
"Oh dear!" she cried. "Would you mind very much stopping a young lady
with two little children, if you meet them at the bottom of the stairs,
and tell her she is on no account to carry up little Fay. It's my
friend, Miss Morton; she's out with them, and she's not at all strong;
tell her to wait for me. I'll come the minute I've answered this
wretched 'phone."
"Don't you worry, Miss Ross, I'll stop 'em and carry up the kiddies
myself," Captain Middleton called as he started to run down, and Jan
went back to answer the telephone.
He ran fast, for Jan's voice had been anxious and distressed. Five long
flights did he descend, and at the bottom he met Meg and the children
just arrived to hear the melancholy news from the hall porter.
Meg always wheeled little Fay to and from the gardens in the funny
little folding "pram" they had brought from India. The plump baby was a
tight fit, but the queer little carriage was light and easily managed.
The big policeman outside the gate often held up the traffic to let Meg
and her charges get across the road safely, and she would sail serenely
through the avenue of fiercely panting monsters with Tony holding on to
her coat, while little Fay waved delightedly to the drivers. That
afternoon she was very tired, for it had started to rain, cold, gusty
March rain. She had hurried home in dread lest Tony should take cold. It
seemed the last straw, somehow, that the lift should have gone wrong.
She left the pram with the porter and was just bracing herself to carry
heavy little Fay when this very tall young man came dashing down the
staircase, saw them and raised his hat. "Miss Morton? Miss Ross has just
entrusted me with a message ... that I'm to carry her niece upstairs,"
and he took little Fay out of Meg's arms.
Meg looked up at him. She had to look up a long way--and he looked down
into a very small white face.
The buffeting wind that had given little Fay the loveliest colour, and
Tony a very pink nose, only left Meg pallid with fatigue; but she smiled
at Captain Middleton, and it was a smile of such radiant happiness as
wholly transfigured her face. It came from the exquisite knowledge that
Jan had thought of her, had known she would be tired.
To be loved, to be remembered, to be taken care of was to Meg the most
wonderful thing in the world. It went to her head like wine.
Therefore did she smile at Captain Middleton in this distracting
fashion. It started tremblingly at the corners of her mouth, and
then--quite suddenly--her wan little face became dimpled and beseeching
and triumphant all at once.
It had no connection whatsoever with Captain Middleton, but how was he
to know that?
It fairly bowled him, middle stump, first ball.
No one had ever smiled at him like that before. It turned him hot and
cold, and gave him a lump in his throat with the sheer heartrending
pathos of it. And he felt an insane desire to lie down and ask this
tiny, tired girl to walk upon him if it would give her the smallest
satisfaction.
The whole thing passed in a flash, but for him it was one of those
illuminating beams that discovers a hitherto undreamed-of panorama.
He caught up little Fay, who made no objection, and ran up all five
flights about as fast as he had run down. Jan was just coming out of the
flat.
"Here's one!" he cried breathlessly, depositing little Fay. "And now
I'll go down and give the little chap a ride as well."
He met them half-way up. "Now it's your turn," he said to Tony. "Would
you like to come on my back?"
Tony, though taciturn, was not unobservant. "I think," he said solemnly,
"Meg's more tired nor me. P'raps you'd better take her."
Meg laughed, and what the rain and wind could not do, Tony managed. Her
cheeks grew rosy.
"I'm afraid I should be rather heavy, Tony dear, but it's kind of you to
think of it."
She looked up at Captain Middleton and smiled again. What a kind world
it was! And really that tall young man was rather a pleasant person. So
it fell out that Tony was carried the rest of the way, and he had a
longer ride than little Fay; for his steed mounted the staircase
soberly, keeping pace with Meg; they even paused to take breath on the
landings. And it came about that Captain Middleton went back into the
flat with the children, showing no disposition to go away, and Jan could
hardly do less than ask him to share the tea she had laid in the
dining-room.
There he got a shock, for Meg came to tea in her cap and apron.
Out of doors she wore a long, warm coat that entirely covered the green
linen frock, and a little round fur hat. This last was a concession to
Jan, who hated the extinguisher. So Meg looked very much like any other
girl. A little younger, perhaps, than any young woman of twenty-five
has any business to look, but pretty in her queer, compelling way.
That she looked even prettier in her uniform Captain Middleton would
have been the first to allow; but he hated it nevertheless. There seemed
to him something incongruous and wrong for a girl with a smile like that
to be anybody's nursemaid.
To be sure, Miss Ross was a brick, and this queer little servant of hers
called her by her Christian name and contradicted her flatly twice in
the course of tea. Miss Morton certainly did not seem to be downtrodden
... but she wore a cap and an apron--a very becoming Quakerish cap ...
without any strings ... and--"it's a d----d shame," was the outcome of
all Captain Middleton's reflections.
"Would the man never go?" Jan wondered, when after a prolonged and
hilarious tea he followed the enraptured children back to the
drawing-room and did tricks with the fire-irons.
Meg had departed in order to get things ready for the night, and he hung
on in the hope that she would return. Vain hope; there was no sign of
her.
He told the children all about William Bloomsbury and exacted promises
that they would love him very much. He discussed, with many
interruptions from Fay, who wanted all his attention, the entire
countryside round about Wren's End; and, at last, as there seemed really
no chance of that extraordinary girl's return, he heaved his great
length out of his chair and bade his hostess a reluctant farewell
several times over.
In the passage he caught sight of Meg going from one room to another
with her arms full of little garments.
"Ah," he cried, striding towards her. "Good night, Miss Morton. I hope
we shall meet again soon," and he held out his hand.
Meg ignored the hand, her own arms were so full of clothes: "I'm afraid
that's not likely," she said, with unfeeling cheerfulness. "We all go
down to the country on Monday."
"Yes, yes, I know. Jolly part of the world it is, too. I expect I shall
be thereabouts a good deal this summer, my relations positively swarm in
that county."
"Good-bye," said Meg, and turned to go. Jan stood at the end of the
passage, holding the door open.
"I say, Miss Morton, you'll try and like my William, won't you?"
"I like all sensible animals," was Meg's response, and she vanished into
a bedroom.