assured. Apart from the broken jaw he had suffered a slight concussion
owing to striking the back of his head against the wall when he fell. The
hospital authorities could not get out of him how the accident happened.
Annie and Isaac Rubens were regular visitors, but during the seven weeks
he remained in hospital Clara only visited him twice, and that was to
arrange about money. On the day that he was discharged he had drawn his
last five pounds from the bank.
“Never mind, never mind,” he thought to himself; “we’ll soon get that
back.”
And within a few days he was again trundling his barrow along the
streets, calling out in his rather high _tremolo_ voice, “Old iron! Old
iron!”
There followed after that a long period in the life of the Canning family
which is usually designated as “humdrum.” With the departure of Ted
Woollams, Clara settled down into a listless prosecution of her domestic
routine. She seldom spoke to her husband except to nag him, or to grumble
about their reduced circumstances, and these for a time were in a very
serious state. Debts had accumulated, and various odds and ends in the
house had disappeared while he had been in hospital. Clara was still
smartly dressed, but Annie’s clothes, particularly her boots, were in a
deplorable condition. But Jim set to work, leaving home in the morning at
seven o’clock and often not returning till eight or nine at night. For
months the financial position remained precarious. A period of hunger,
and ill-temper, and sudden ugly brawls. But gradually he began again to
get it under control. Clara had not lost her taste for good living, but
she was kept in check by the lack of means. She was furtive, sullen, and
resentful. Jim insisted that whatever they had to go without, Annie was
to continue with her schooling.
They never spoke of Ted Woollams, but Jim knew that he had only gone away
for four or five months. Jim struggled on through the winter months,
out in all weathers in his thin and battered coat. Sometimes twinges of
rheumatism distorted his face, but he mentioned it to no one, not even
Isaac.
It was in April that a sudden and dramatic change came into Jim’s life.
One morning he was alone in the shop. It was raining, and no customers
had been in for several hours. Jim was struggling with the unsolvable
problem of getting things straight and sorted out. Beneath a bed he came
across a jumble of indescribable things, bits of iron and broken pots,
odd boots, sections of brackets, nameless odd-shaped remnants covered
with dust and grime. He sighed. He remembered this lot quite well. They
had been a great disappointment to him. He had trundled his barrow all
the way down to a sale in Greenwich, where he had been given the tip
that there were some good things going. Owing to losing his way, he had
arrived late, and all the plums had been devoured by rival dealers. He
had picked up this lot at the end of the sale for a few shillings, not
that they appealed to him as a good bargain, but because he did not want
to feel that he had completely wasted his day. He had brought them back
and dumped them under the bed, intending to go through them later on.
That was many months ago, long before he had been to the hospital, and
there they had remained ever since.
Jim’s ideas of dusting were always a little perfunctory. With a small
feather brush he flicked clouds of dust from one object to another. No;
there was nothing here of any value, though that piece of torn embroidery
might fetch five shillings, and the small oblong iron box which some one
had painted inside and out a dark green might be worth a little more.
He picked it up and examined it. A ridiculous notion to paint iron; but
there! people were fools, particularly customers. Of course it might be
copper or brass. In that case it would be worth more. He pulled out a
long jack-knife and scraped the surface. The paint was old but incredibly
thick. It must have had a dozen coats or so. When he eventually got down
to the surface he found a dark-blue color.
“Um!” thought Jim. “That’s a funny thing.”
And he scraped a little more, and found some brown and white.
“That’s enamel,” he said out loud. “An enamel box. Um! I’ll show that to
Isaac. An enamel box might be worth several pounds.”
He put the box on one side, and continued tidying up. That evening, after
supper, he wrapped the box up in a piece of newspaper and took it round
to his friend.
Isaac adjusted his thickest glasses and examined the spot where Jim had
scratched. Then he went to the door and called out:
“Lizzie, bring me some turpentine.”
When the turpentine was brought, Isaac began to work away at the surface
with a rag and penknife. His face was very red, but he made no remark
except once to mutter:
“This paint alone is twenty or thirty years old.”
It took him nearly half-an-hour to reveal a complete corner of the
box. Then he sat back and examined it through a microscope. Jim waited
patiently. At last Isaac put it down and tapped the table.
“This,” he said deliberately, “is a Limoges enamel box of the finest
period. An amazing find! Where did you obtain it?”
“I bought it at a sale of the effects of an old lady named Brandt, at
Greenwich. She died intestate, and had no relatives.”
“You are in luck’s way, Jim Canning.”
“But why was it painted dark-green?”
“There are many mysteries in our profession. It was probably stolen many
years ago—possibly a century ago. The thief knew that the piece was too
well-known to attempt to dispose of for some time. So for security be
painted it in order to hide it. Then something happened. He may have died
or been sent to prison. The box passed into other bands. Nobody worried
about it. It was just an old iron box. It has probably been lying in a
lumber-room for years.”
“It’s been lying in my shop for five months. Is it worth a great deal,
Isaac?”
Isaac thoughtfully stroked his chin.
“I am of opinion that if it is undamaged, and if the rest of it is up to
the standard of this part we have disclosed, it is worth many thousand
pounds.”
Jim looked aghast.
“But I only gave six-and-sixpence for the lot!”
“It is the fortune of our profession.”
The upshot of it was that Jim left the box in Isaac’s hands to deal
with as he thought fit. At first Isaac wished to waive the question
of commission, but when Jim pointed out that but for Isaac’s superior
knowledge he would probably have sold it for a five-pound note, the Jew
agreed to sell it on a ten per cent. basis. Fair bargaining on both sides.
Jim returned home, almost dazed by the news. Was it fair to obtain such
a large sum of money in such a way? He had done nothing to deserve it.
And yet—who should have it, if not he? The old lady had not even any
relations. She was an eccentric who lived alone with a crowd of cats. An
enamel box has no attraction to a cat.
He said nothing about his find to his wife or to Annie. He did not wish
to buoy them up with false hopes. Perhaps, after all, Isaac might be
mistaken, or he may have over-valued the object. A thousand pounds! A
dazzling sum. Why, he could almost retire upon it to—Shorwell Green,
where it was so quiet and peaceful. But no! Clara would not agree to
that—the Camden Road! He detested the Camden Road, but still, there
it was. Clara was his wife. It was only fair to consider her wishes,
although they were so unhappy together. In any case, it would be a great
relief; security for years to come.
He went back to his work as though nothing had happened. Weeks went by,
and Jim heard nothing about the enamel box; and then, one morning, he
received a note from Isaac asking him to call round at once.
When he entered his friend’s shop he knew that something exceptional had
happened. Isaac was excited. He glowed and smiled, and was almost jocular.
“Come into my little room,” he said.
When they were seated, he elaborately produced a cheque from his vest
pocket, and handed it across the table to Jim.
“Here is your little share. I have kept my commission.”
It was a cheque for £4,140. Isaac had sold it for £4,600 to a well-known
collector.
The rest of that day was like a dream to Jim. Truly, he returned and
pretended to be busy. In the afternoon, he even went out and trundled his
barrow, calling out, “Old iron! Old iron!” but he did it more by force of
habit.
“I need not do this any more,” he kept on thinking. His mind was occupied
with many visions. It was a bright spring day, with light fleecy clouds
scudding above the chimney-pots. How beautiful it would be in that Sussex
vale! The flowers would be out, and the young pollard-willows reflected
in the cool streams. Pleasant to lie on the bank and fish, and forget
this grimy life. And Annie, racing hither and thither, picking the
buttercups and marguerites, and nestling by his side. He could do all
this! Freedom, by one of those queer twists of fate.
The day wore on, and he still continued his work in a dazed, preoccupied
manner. When the evening came, a feeling of exhaustion crept over him.
Yes, probably he was tired. He wanted a rest and change. How fortunate he
was. And yet he dreaded breaking the news to Clara. She would immediately
demand a complete social upheaval. A new house, new furniture, luxuries,
and parties, and social excitements. He arrived home late. During supper
he was very silent.
“I will tell her afterwards,” he thought. Annie was in bed. She should be
told to-morrow. But to-night it must be broken to Clara. After all, it
was true, she _was_ his wife. It was the fair thing to do. He tried to
recall the moments of passion and tenderness of the early days of their
honeymoon, but all the other ugly visions kept dancing before his eyes.
He lighted his pipe and gazed around the untidy room. Perhaps she would
improve. Perhaps the changed conditions would soften her, and make her
more amenable. But still, she was his wife, and if she wished to live in
the Camden Road, well....
It was nearly dark, and Clara went out of the room, humming. She seemed
peculiarly cheerful to-night. Almost as if she knew.... He fingered the
cheque in his breast-pocket. She had gone upstairs—probably to fetch a
novel. She adored a certain kind of novel. When she came down, he would
lay the cheque on the table, and say:
“Look, Clara; see what has happened to us!”
And then he would be a little tender with her, try and make her
understand how he felt. They would start all over again.
And then happened a variant of that hypothetical case described at the
beginning of this story. Only, in this case it was the woman who went out.
Jim was sitting there with his fingers on the cheque that was to be
their means of reconciliation, and with the tears already banked in his
unuttered speech, when Clara put her head in the door. She had her hat
on. She said:
“I’m going to the post.”
Jim removed his hand from his breast-pocket. He sat back, and heard the
door slam.
“I’ll tell her when she comes in.”
Clara never came in. He waited half-an-hour, and then he thought:
“She’s gone to some dissipation with a friend. Oh, well, I must wait up
till she returns, I suppose. I’m sorry she has disappointed me on—a night
like this, though.”
He sat dreaming in the chair, till he became suddenly painfully aware of
cold. It was quite dark. He lighted the gas. It was one o’clock. He felt
his heart beating with a physical dread. Something had happened to Clara.
Perhaps she had been run over, at the very moment when everything was
going to change for the better for her. He blundered his way out into the
hall, where a gas-jet flickered feebly, and groped for his overcoat. On
it he found a note pinned. He turned up the gas higher, and read:
“I’m going off to Ted Woollams. I’m sick of you, and the
stinking little house. Ted’s made a bit in America, and I give
you the address. You can do what you like about it, but it’s no
good you ever trying to get me back.
“CLARA.”
It was characteristic of Jim Canning that this note made him cry. He was
so sensitive to its utter callousness and ingratitude. Then he dabbed
his eyes with his old red handkerchief, and went upstairs. He tapped on
Annie’s door, then he opened it and said quietly:
“Annie, it’s all right, my dear. It’s only me. May I come in?”
The sleeping child was awake abruptly. She held out her arms.
“I ought not to have woken you up, my love, only I felt a little—lonely.
Annie, would you like to come away with me to a beautiful place in the
country, where it’s all woods and flowers, and little streams?”
“Oh, Daddy, yes! And would there be lambs, too, and little black pigs,
and brown calves?”
“Yes, my dear; all those things; and birds, too, and quietness, and
freedom.”
“But, Daddy, could we?”
“Yes, dear; I’ve had some good fortune.”
Annie was very wide awake now, and she sat up and clapped her hands.
“Oh, Daddy, when can we go?”
“Quite soon, my dear. Perhaps in a few weeks.”
When he had closed the door, he dabbed his eyes again, and thought:
“It was unthinking of me. I oughtn’t to have woken her up, but—she is all
I have.”
A week later he wrote to Clara:
“Dear Clara,
“I understand that for the last week you have been living with
Ted Woollams. I do not critticize your action. We are all as
God made us. I shall in the dew course take divorse proceedings
not as an act of hostility to you but that you may marry the
man of your choice and be respectable. I also shall share with
you the result of a good deal last week in order that you may
not want and so close with check for £2020. I think this fair.
“JIM.”
It was Isaac who helped him over all the difficult problems which
occurred at that time, and it was Isaac who persuaded him that he was
overdoing the “fairness” to Clara. He said that under the circumstances
he had no moral obligation to Clara, and that £500 would be lavish. So
in the end Jim altered the cheque to that amount. It was Isaac who took
over the little shop, which he used as a kind of dumping-ground of his
superfluous stock. And it was Isaac who, a year after, returned letters
addressed to Jim in a handwriting he recognized, “Gone away. Address
not known.” And it was he who in later years bore the brunt of the wild
invective of a drunken harridan who said that her husband had deserted
her, and would not hand her any of the fortune he must have inherited. He
shook his head sadly, and replied that he knew nothing. Mr. Canning and
his daughter had left London. He thought they had gone to Australia.
When she had gone, he said to himself:
“It would distress Jim to know that a woman who had once been his wife
had sunk to such a condition.”
As he passed through to the room at the back he smiled and thought:
“How fortunate she did not come in here!”
On the table was a large bowl of red and white roses, with the label and
card still lying on the table. On the card was inscribed, “With love to
Uncle Isaac. A.”
The postmark on the label was a village in Sussex.
LITTLE WHITE FROCK
LITTLE WHITE FROCK
When their careers are finished, the painter, the author, the architect,
the sculptor, may point to this or that, and say, “Lo, this is my
handiwork. Future generations shall rejoice in me.”
But to the actor and the executive musician there is nothing left
but—memories.
Their permanence lies in the memories of the people who loved them. They
cannot pass it on. Some one may say to you, “Ah, my boy, you should have
heard Jean de Reszke,” or, “You should have seen Macready play that
part.” And you are bound in all politeness to accept this verdict, but
if you have not heard Jean de Reszke, nor seen Macready, it leaves no
definite impression on you at all. Indeed, the actor is in worse case
than the musician. For at the present time there are ingenious mechanical
devices for caging the performance of a musician with varying degrees
of success, but no mechanism could ever imprison the electric thrill of
Joseph Jefferson or Henry Irving on their great nights of triumph. They
are gone forever, cast away among the limbo of the myths.
These melancholy reflections occurred to me on the first occasion when
I visited Colin Brancker. I met the old chap first of all in the public
library. He had a fine, distinguished head, with long, snow-white hair.
He was slim, and in spite of a pronounced stoop, he carried himself with
a certain distinction and alertness. I was a fairly regular visitor
to the library, and I always found him devouring the magazines and
newspapers which I particularly wanted to read myself. A misunderstanding
about a copy of the _Saturday Review_ led to a few formal expressions of
courtesy, on the following day to a casual nod, later on to a few words
about the weather; then to a profound bow on his part and an inquiry
after his health from me. Once we happened to be going out at the same
time, and I walked to the end of the road with him.
He interested me at once. His clear, precise diction, with its warm
_timbre_ of restrained emotion, was very arresting. His sympathy about
the merest trifles stirred you to the depths. If he said, “What a
glorious day it is to-day!” it was not merely a conventional expression,
but a kind of pæan of all the joy and ecstasy of spring life, sunshine
and young lambs frisking in the green meadows.
If he said, “Oh! I’m so sorry,” in reply to your announcement that you
had lost your ’bus ticket coming along and had had to pay twice, the
whole dread incident appeared to you envisaged through a mist of tears.
The grief of Agamemnon weeping over the infidelity of Clytemnestra seemed
but a trite affair in comparison.
One day, with infinite tact, he invited me to his “humble abode.” He
occupied the upper part of a small house in Talbot Road. He lived alone,
but was apparently tended by a gaunt, middle-aged woman who glided about
the place in felt slippers.
The rooms were, as he expressed it, “humble,” but not by any means
poverty-stricken. He had several pieces of old furniture and bric-à-brac,
innumerable mementoes and photographs. It was then that I realized the
peculiar position of the actor. If he had been a painter I could have
looked at some of his work and have “placed” him; but what could you do
with an old actor who lived so much in the past? The position seemed to
me pitiable.
Doubtless in his day he had been a fine and distinguished actor, and
here was I, who knew nothing about him, and did not like to ask what
parts he had played because I felt that I ought to know. Neither was he
very informing. Not that he was diffident in speech—he talked well and
volubly—but I had to gather what he had done by his various implications.
There was a signed photograph of himself in the character of Malvolio,
and in many other Shakespearean parts. There were also signed photographs
of J. L. Toole and Henry Irving, and innumerable actors, some of whom
were famous and others whose names were unfamiliar to me. By slow degrees
I patched together some of the romantic tissues of his life. Whatever
position he may have held in the theatrical world, he certainly still had
the faculty of moving one person profoundly—myself. Everything in that
little room seemed to vibrate with romance. One of Irving’s photographs
was inscribed “To my dear old friend, Colin Brancker.” On the circular
table was an enamel snuff-box given him by Nellie Farren.
When he spoke of his mother his voice sounded like some distant organ
with the _vox humana_ stop pulled out. I gathered that his mother had
been a famous French actress. On the piano was a fan given her by the
Empress Eugénie. He never spoke of his father. Nearly everything had some
intimate association.
I formed a habit of calling on old Brancker on Thursday evenings, when
my wife usually visited an invalid aunt. The experience was always a
complete entertainment. He knew nothing of my world and I knew nothing
of his. I came completely under the spell of his imagery. I had only
to touch some trinket on the mantelpiece to set the whole machinery of
retrospection on the move. He came haltingly to his subject as though he
were feeling for it through the lavender-scented contents of some old
drawer. But when the subject was discovered, he brought the whole picture
vividly before my mind. I could see those people strutting before the
footlights, hear them laugh and joke in their stuffy lodgings and their
green-rooms, follow their hard life upon the road, their struggles, and
adversities, and successes, and above all the moving throb of their
passions and romances.
And then the picture would die out. It had no beginning and no end. It
was just an impression. The angle of vision would alter. Something else
would appear upon the scene.
After a time, touched with pity for this lonely and derelict old actor,
my wife and I occasionally sent him little presents of game and port
wine, when such things came our way. I would like to explain, at this
point, that my wife is younger than I. Her outlook is less critical and
introspective. To use her own expression, she is out to have a good
time. She enjoys dances and theaters and gay parties. And, after all,
why shouldn’t she? She is young and beautiful and full of life. Her
hair—but I digress! In spite of the pheasants and the port, she had never
met old Brancker. But one day we all happened to meet at the corner of
the Talbot Road. I then enjoyed an entirely novel vision of my hero. He
was magnificent. The bow he made, the long sweep of the hat, would have
put d’Artagnan to shame. When I introduced them, he held her hand for a
moment, and said:
“It is indeed a great pleasure.”
It doesn’t sound very much in print, but Alice completely went under.
She blushed with pleasure, and told me afterwards that she thought he
was “a perfect old dear.” The affair lapsed for several weeks. I still
continued to call upon him, and we nearly exhausted the whole gamut of
his belongings. We even routed through old drawers where faded remnants
of ancient fustian would recall some moving episode of the past. I became
greedy for these visionary adventures.
One night, rather late, I found the little white frock. So familiar had
I become with my old friend that I was allowed to poke about his room on
my own, and ask him questions. It was a child’s frock, and it lay neatly
folded on the top of a chest in the passage. I brought it into the room,
where he was sipping his rum-and-water, and said:
“What’s this, Mr. Brancker?”
He fixed his eyes upon the frock, and instantly I was aware that he was
strangely moved. At first an expression of surprise and bewilderment
crept over his face; then I observed a look of utter dejection and
remorse. He did not speak, and rather confusedly I went up to him and
touched him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Doubtless there is some story.... I ought not to
have....”
Instantly he patted my arm in return, and muttered:
“No, no. It’s all right, old boy. I will tell you. Only, not to-night.
No, not to-night.”
He stood up and took one or two turns up and down the room in silence. I
did not dare to intrude into the secret chamber of his memories. Suddenly
he turned to me, and putting his arm round my shoulder, he exclaimed:
“Old boy, come in to-morrow. Come to dinner. Bring the wife. Yes, you
must both come. Come to dinner at seven-thirty. And then—I will tell you
the story of that little white frock.”