IX

As Willy would not pay the extra fare, Frank had to travel second class.

He was telling his friend of the Stock Exchange, and his losses--nearly

four thousand pounds. He had suspected that the firm of which he was

junior partner had not played fair with him. Anyhow, he was going to

get out of the business, having something better in view--a shop in

Brighton. Yes, a shop in Brighton, a greengrocer's shop. No one had any

idea, until they went into the calculation, of the amount of profit that

was made on vegetables. Lord This and Lord That, every one who had a

handsome place with large gardens, counted on being able to pay his

gardener's wages by the sale of the surplus carrots, artichokes,

potatoes, parsley, onions, tomatoes, especially tomatoes--every one

nowadays ate tomatoes. He had it all down in figures, and was perfectly

astonished at the sums of money that could be made. Grapes had been

overdone, that was true; but a profit could be made out of everything

else. Flowers, especially gardenias, were sold in the London market at

two shillings apiece. Now, there was he within five miles of a large

town like Brighton; the rent of a shop in the Western Road would not

come to more than seventy or eighty pounds a year; the missus he would

put in as shopwoman, and, there was no doubt of it, she would make as

good a shopwoman as you could find, after a little practice; the child

could run on errands, so it should be all profit. “I shall have none of

the expenses that other people have to contend with. In the garden at

the Manor House about three times as much stuff is grown as required. I

shall buy all the fruit, vegetables, and flowers from my father at cost

price, or a little over, and shall sell in my shop at retail price, that

is, twenty or thirty per cent more. There is, therefore, no reason

why the shop should not bring in from three to four hundred a year.

And--would you believe it?--my father, who will be benefited by my

scheme, if not more, quite as much as I shall be, is opposed to it; he

will get a fair price for a lot of things for which he now gets nothing.

But no. He cannot, or will not, see it. I never saw any one like my

father. He will not help himself and you can do nothing to help him. The

distillery business is going very badly. He had a bad year last year.

I know for a fact that he did not make five per cent on his capital.

Putting these things together, I should have thought that he would have

been glad to make a little money to retrench; but no! he prefers to go

on in the old way. He made money in the old way, and he doesn't see

why he shouldn't make money again in the old way. Odd man my father is,

isn't he?”

It appeared to Frank that Mr. Brookes had managed to help himself very

liberally indeed to all the good things in life; but with his false,

facile, Celtic nature, he had no difficulty in re-adjusting his ideas

and adopting a view of Mr. Brookes more in harmony with Willy's. He was,

as usual, enthusiastic about his friends, and was effervescing with love

and goodwill. He saw nothing of their faults--they were the best and

truest people he had ever known, and he could not love them too much.

Indeed he was angry, and regretted the limitations that nature has

set on the human heart, and would if he could have lost himself in one

immense and eternal love of the Brookeses.

When he bade Willy good-bye at London Bridge, and wished him well with

his shop, these sentiments ceased to be active forces in him, and they

lay latent in his life of restaurants and bar rooms until the summer

returned, and he received an invitation from the Manor House to come

down for a garden party at Mrs. Berkins's. When he opened the letter he

basked in thoughts of them--of Maggie and her fascinating subtleties, of

Sally's blunt speech and sturdy good looks, of Willy, and all the quiet

talks they would have together. He counted the tunnels, and, striving

to recall the landscape, guessed extravagantly the number of miles that

separated him from them. He walked up the drive with a beating heart,

looking for the girls between the laurel bushes. He found them, and

their habits which endeared them to him, unchanged; and to slip back

into the old ways without experiencing the slightest difficulty or jar

was like waking from a dream and entering again on a pleasant reality.

There was the excellent dinner and the usual complaints about the

Southdown Road, the cigars in the billiard-room, conversation about

pictures and investments, gin and water, and then a long yarn with

Willy in his bedroom. Life moved at the Manor House without any spring

creaking, without jolt or jar, and it was this beautiful regularity that

made Frank feel so healthily and so unexpectedly happy. He loved the

desolation of Ireland. This was the stronger sense, but there was

another sense, a half stifled sense, that found an echo in these

southern downs interwoven with suburban life--in other words, a faint

resurrection of the original English mind in him. He enjoyed and he grew

akin to this Saxon prosperity; he learned to recognise it as manifested

in the various prospects of the weald and the wold, and he loved this

medley of contradictory aspects--the spires of the village churches,

the porches of the villas, the rich farmhouses and their elm trees, the

orchards jammed between masses of chalk, the shepherds seen against the

sky of the Downs. It is true that he felt that this country was alien

to him, but he was not individually conscious that his love of suburban

Sussex was a morbid affection, opposed to the normal and indissoluble

bonds of inherited aspirations and prejudices, and the forms and colours

that had filled his eyes in childhood. Consciousness in Frank Escott was

always slow, and always so governed and coloured by the sentiment of

the moment that his comprehension of things were always deformed or

incomplete. In his mind the phenomenon of life was ever in nebulae, and

though very often one thought would define itself, no group of

thoughts, or part of a group, ever became clear, so there was no abiding

principle, nothing that he might know and steer by. He was, of course,

aware that the Brookes were not equal to him in rank, but he did not

know, or, rather, he would not know, that they were vulgar; nor did he

think that Mount Rorke might marry again, if he were to marry Maggie or

Sally. All that was really alive and distinct in him was love of

them; and this love thrived in a sensation of class which he would not

acknowledge, even to himself, had any existence. The glass-houses, and

swards, and laurels had a meaning and fascination for him that he could

not account for or describe, and he found these feelings, which were

mainly class feelings of an unusual kind, not only in the aspect of the

country but in the accent and speech of his friends, in the expression

of their eyes and very hands. The English servants pleased him, and he

strove to detect qualities in the carriage and horses, and he compared

them to their advantage with Mount Rorke's. He loved to wrap the rug

about the young ladies' knees, and they seemed to him quite perfect and

delightful as they lay back in their carriage, driving beneath a sky

full of blue, and through the changing views of the Downs, all distinct

with light and shade. Sally and Maggie made much of him, covered him up,

and addressed to him pleasant speeches. His eyes and ears were open and

eager for new impressions, and his heart panted with readiness to admire

and praise all he saw. He was ready to think that he had never seen

anything so lovely as the laurels and the numerous glass-houses; and he

wondered why he had ever thought so little of Berkins, and he listened

with interest to that gentleman's explanation of the superiority of his

possessions over everybody else's possessions. He even allowed himself

to be persuaded that there was no pheasant shooting in the kingdom--for

its size--equal to that in the little wood. Sally, who did not attempt

to conceal her dislike of her brother-in-law, whispered: “That's the way

to bring them down,” and Frank was obliged to laugh. Then she and Maggie

disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them for several hours. The

Grenadier Guards played on the lawn, and Frank was introduced to ladies

of all ages and sizes; and as these bored him, he began to see that the

place was vulgar and the people shoddy, and he wondered what Mount Rorke

would say if he were to come suddenly across him. Grace was the subject

of much concern, and obviously _enceinte,_ she passed through the

different groups. She had introduced Frank as Lord Mount Rorke's son,

then as his nephew, then as his heir, and, fearing she might succumb to

the temptation of introducing him as Mount Rorke himself, Frank escaped

from her, and joined a party that Berkins was personally conducting

through the grounds.

The stables had been built by So-and-so on the most approved principles.

There were no stables like them in Sussex--the fittings of the

harness-room alone had cost him three hundred. The horses he had bought

at the Duke's sale, the Duke would not have thought of parting with

them had he known how they would turn out. He had driven them along the

Brighton road at the rate of fifteen miles an hour; he would back them

to do fifteen miles in the hour. There was not a pair of horses in

England equal to them. That was Mrs. Berkins's riding horse--was it

possible to imagine a more perfect cob? He could get a hundred for him

any day, he did not know of anything like him. “Did any of you gentleman

ever see anything like him?” They went to the kennels. A brace of

Irish setters were declared to be the finest dogs that Ireland had

ever produced, they had taken two prizes, one in Dublin and another in

Brighton--and the little fox terrier was the gamest dog in Sussex. She

would go into any hole after a fox, and never leave him till she

brought him out. You couldn't find her equal. Then the glass-houses were

perfect. They contained all the latest improvements, and all these were

fully explained. “Berkins is excelling himself to-day,” thought Frank.

Presently they came upon a basket of peaches.

“These peaches were, of course, grown under glass, but I think I am

right in saying, Jackson, that they were produced without artificial

heat.”

“Yes, sir, quite right, sir. It couldn't be done nowhere else, sir,

but all the sun in Sussex seems to come down here--a regular little sun

trap, I think that's what you called it the other day, sir, when you

were speaking to me about them there peaches.”

“Yes, I did. If you move nearer the sea you get fogs and cold winds,

further inland you lose the sun, but just here the climate is equal

to the south of Europe! I ask you to look at these peaches, it seems

impossible--does it not?--to have peaches like these at the end of May,

and without any heat, merely glass.”

“It seems to me quite impossible,” declared a little fat man with flaxen

hair. “I am devoted to peach-growing, and I confess I am quite at a

loss. Gardener, did you say that those peaches were grown entirely

without artificial heat?”

The gardener pretended not to hear, and tried to slip away, but the

little man, who had been taken on his hobby, was not to be baulked, and

he pursued the wretched horticulturist.

“You mean to say that these peaches ripened without any artificial heat,

any?”

“You have no idea what a sun we get here, sir. I have never seen

anything like it. In my last situation, when I was living with Lord

----, we couldn't get our fruit forward, use whatever heat he might,

and Houghton is not more than fifty miles from here--the difference of

climate is positively wonderful.”

Jackson had reckoned that Mr. Berkins would move on, and that the

inquisitive little man would find himself obliged to follow, but

chance was against him, for Berkins, with his guests around him, stood

listening to the discussion.

“You mean to say that these peaches were grown without heat. I wouldn't

mind giving you five-and-twenty pounds for the recipe for doing it.”

“You must take a small place down here, sir, and then you will be able

to do it.”

This raised a laugh, but the little man was not to be beaten, and he

said: “I should like to see some of those peaches of yours on the trees.

You haven't plucked them all; let me see them.”

“Yes, Jackson, show us the trees. Some will not believe without seeing;

let us see the peaches on the trees.”

Jackson appeared to be a little disconcerted; he murmured excuses, and

strove to escape. Driven to bay he brought them into a glass-house where

there were hot water-pipes, and when his tormentor pointed triumphantly

to the pipes he attempted a faint explanation--he had meant to say that

heat had only been used within the last three weeks.

“So you see, Berkins,” exclaimed little flaxen-haired fatty, “your south

of Europe is no better than my south of Europe, or anybody else's south

of Europe.”

“Jackson, you have told me many deliberate falsehoods about these

peaches. I keep no one in my employment whose word cannot be depended

upon. You take your warning.”

“Falsehoods! What do you want a man to do, if you will have everything

better than anybody else's?”

Berkins turned suddenly on his heel, he drew himself up to his full

height, and stood speechless with indignation. Never, not even on the

most important Board meetings, did his friends wait to hear him speak

with more anxiety; but at that moment a crash of flower pots was heard,

and Sally and a young man were discovered hiding in the potting shed;

and to make matters worse, in the very next house they visited, they

suddenly came upon Maggie sitting with another young man in strangely

compromising circumstances. Explanations were attempted, and some stupid

remarks were made. Berkins was seriously annoyed, and he took the first

opportunity of taking Mr. Brookes's arm and leading him away to a quiet

path. Frank saw the men pass through the laurels, and ten minutes after

he saw them return. Evidently Berkins had read Mr. Brookes an exhaustive

lecture on the conduct of his daughters.

“Now, Mr. Brookes, now Mr. Brookes, I must beg of you--calm yourself.

What would my guests think if they found you in tears? What would

they think I had been saying to reduce you to such a condition? It

is veryunfortunate that Sally and Maggie should act as they do,

particularly at my place; but really you must not give way.”

“Since the death of their poor mother I am all alone. My position is

a very trying one.” Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, “However, I

suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence!”

X

The girls walked to the station with Escott. A fleecy evening, with the

clouds growing pale towards the sea, the sun like fire in the elms, and

the woods showing upon a purple tinge.

“How delightful!” exclaimed Frank. “How charming this is--this old

English green, the horse pond at one end, the various houses, the inn,

the grocery business, the linen drying in that yard, the smith, and the

wheelwright. I don't like that modern Queen Anne school-house, and I

wish I could remove the dead level of the embankment and see the sea.

The green is better from this side with the view of the Downs--those

lines waving against the sky, where the gorse grows and the sheep feed,

and inclining to the road all the fields pale green and deep green. But

what game are those men playing--what game do you call that?”

“Bat and trap.”

“I have passed the green twenty times before, and I never really saw it

till now. It is charming--so thoroughly English. I should like to live

here for a month--for two months. How nice it would be to breakfast in

the morning looking out on the green, to see the cocks and hens and all

the children and all this English life! How different from Pump Court!

I am sick of Pump Court--dirt and smoke, a horrid servant, stale eggs.

I suppose you can always get fresh eggs and new bread here? I would give

anything to spend a month on the green.”

“Well, you can!” cried Sally. “I wish you would, and you could come and

play tennis with us every afternoon. Mrs. Heald has some rooms to let;

why it was only last week I heard that she hadn't let her rooms this

season, and was most anxious to do so.”

“There's no use my coming here until I begin to write my novel. I am

painting now, and I must see if I can get my picture finished for one of

the autumn exhibitions.”

“I knew you would find some excuse.”

“No, I assure you, but I can't do anything without a studio, and I'm not

likely to find a studio on Southwick Green.”

“I don't suppose Mrs. Heald has a room large enough for a studio,” said

Maggie; “but I don't see why you shouldn't find a place where you can

paint.”

“Where? Not in that eighteenth-century house where the two old ladies

are standing! Supposing I were to go and ask them if they would let

me have their drawing-room to paint in! That is the only house on the

green, all the rest are cottages.”

“I suppose you are not very particular where you paint,” said Maggie

reflectively. “You don't mind appearances, I suppose? I wonder if you

could manage to fit up a farm building.”

“There is the famous barn where Charles the First hid himself, I don't

suppose the authorities would allow me to turn that into a studio.”

“No, probably not; but I think you might find a house that would do.”

“What nonsense, Maggie,” said Sally, who began to grow jealous of her

sister.

“Why is it nonsense? I see no reason why Frank shouldn't come to some

arrangement with the smith, and turn his house into a studio.”

“Which is the smith's house? I'll tell you in a moment if it could be

turned into a studio.”

“That house standing quite by itself in the corner of the green.”

“That tall narrow house with the bit of broken wall and the elder

bushes?”

“Yes.”

“I daresay I could rig up a very nice studio out of that place, indeed

it looks quite picturesque amid its elder bushes. There is the stile,

and there is the cornfield. But I couldn't live there.”

“No, you would live at Mrs. Heald's, and you could walk over every

morning to the studio.”

“Yes, I could do that. I prefer to live with my work. There is nothing

like walking from the breakfast table across the room to the easel.”

“Of course you can find fault with everything; nothing is perfect.”

“There goes the train!” cried Sally. “No use in running now, you've

missed it.”

“How very provoking; the next isn't till half-past seven--just an hour

to wait.”

“Well,” said Maggie, “if you have missed the train we may as well go at

once and ask Mrs. Heald if she has let her rooms.”

They walked towards a block of cottages--at one end the “Cricketer's

Arms,” at the other the grocery business; and the cottage that joined

the grocery business was remarkable for a bit of green paling and wooden

balcony, now covered with Virginia creeper. Frank thought at once

of new-laid eggs, and the sunlight glancing through a great mass of

greenery, and he resolved if a sacrifice were necessary to live at

Southwick, he would put his picture aside and begin his novel. The

people in the house pleased him, and he ran on in his way thinking how

English and trustworthy they seemed, liking the green parrot that rubbed

its head affectionately against the grey ringlets of a very ladylike old

person; and Mrs. Heald, brisk as a bee, notwithstanding her lame leg,

who led the way up the ladder-like cottage staircase.

“How nice and clean everything is; books and engravings along the

passages. How unlike Ireland!”

But the sitting-room was full of horsehair sofas and chairs. These

displeased Frank, but some handsome china--an entire tea service in

Crown Derby--reconciled him to the room. In the bedroom they found

a huge four-poster of old time, with a lengthy bolster and imposing

pillows, and they were shown into another and a similar room. One looked

out on the green, the other on the fields that lay between the green and

the Manor House.

“If that elm were cut down you could see my window,” said Sally.

“Which room do you like the best?” said Maggie.

“It is hard to say. The other room looks on the green, but here there

is a nice large wardrobe, and I don't see how I can get on without a

wardrobe.”

“If you like the other room best, sir, I can turn out the chest of

drawers.”

“Oh, that would be very nice if you can manage it, the room will do very

well. I can have a bath every morning?”

“Yes, sir; there will be no difficulty about that.”

Maggie had taken off her hat and was settling her hair before the glass.

Sally opened the wardrobe, revealing various petticoats and skirts, but

she thought of it as full of Frank's light overcoats, the scarves he

wore round his throat when he went out in evening clothes, the patent

leather shoes in the corner. Suddenly the conversation dropped, and

after a pause Frank said: “I think these rooms suit me very well, but I

can do nothing; it is impossible for me to say if I can take them until

I find out if there is any place in the immediate neighbourhood that I

could convert into a studio. Do you know of any such place?”

“No, I do not, sir.”

“Mr. Escott was thinking of seeing the smith about his house. I wonder

if Town would let it to Mr. Escott for a consideration,” said Maggie.

“Of course, I should have to get leave to make what alterations I

pleased.”

“I don't suppose the house belongs to Town, sir; I don't think he is

more than a weekly tenant.”

“If that's the case, we must see the landlord. Do you know who is the

landlord?”

“I can't say I do, sir.”

“Well, Mrs. Heald, I will let you know in a day or two if I can take

your rooms--you can give me a day or two?”

“Yes, sir, but I should like to know as soon as possible; several people

have been asking after my rooms.”

“I'll let you know in a day or two.”

“If Town is only a weekly tenant, you'll be able to get his house by

paying a little more for it,” said Maggie, as they walked down the green

towards the smith's forge.

“That would be hardly fair; I should like to act squarely by the smith.

What is his name?”

“Town.”

Town was cutting out the hoof of a shaggy grey cart horse when his

visitors entered the cindery blackness.

“Town, this gentleman would like to speak to you,” said Maggie, raising

her voice above the wheezy bellows. He threw the hoof out of his apron,

and, drawing his blackened arm across his forehead, he came forward.

“Town, I am anxious to find a place on the green that I could convert

into a studio; I think your house would suit my purpose very well. Do

you think we could come to some arrangement? Of course I would give you

a reasonable compensation.”

“Well, I really hardly know, sir; I dunno that I hardly understand. You

want my house to turn into a--”

“A studio--a place where I can paint pictures.”

“I don't see how I can do without my 'ouse.”

“But I will compensate you--make it worth your while.”

“You see it is so near my work. Was I to go and live at Ada Terrace,

I should, you see, be out of the way. If people want a job done they

always knows where to find me.”

“Yes, but if I compensate you?”

Seeing that Frank was exciting the smith with too wild hopes of wealth,

Sally thought fit to interpose. “Mr. Escott would require permission

to make any alterations in the building he thought proper--you couldn't

give him permission; he would in any case have to see your landlord. Who

is your landlord?”

“I don't see how I can give up my 'ouse to be turned into a painting

place; it wouldn't suit me at all.”

“If I make you sufficient compensation--”

Again the smith was reduced to silence. He scratched his head, and Frank

watched the sparks fly, and heard the rhythmical sledge. “I wish he

wouldn't talk so much about compensation,” thought Sally. “I don't know

what the man won't be asking if Frank doesn't shut up.”

“Do you think we shall be able to come to an understanding? I want to

know.”

“Well, you see, sir, my wife is delicate, and I'm that afraid she

wouldn't like to give up her 'ome. But I'll speak to 'er if you like

to-night, sir.”

“Mr. Escott will have to see your landlord; he will have to arrange with

him about the alterations.”

“There will be no difficulty about the alterations.”

“Very probably; but you are only a weekly tenant. It is a question

your landlord must decide. If he agrees to allow Mr. Escott to make the

alterations, Mr. Escott will no doubt compensate you for disturbance.”

“It is all very well to talk about compensation. How do I know what your

compensation will be? How do I know you will make it worth my while? I

don't want no compensation. I want my 'ouse. Cheek I calls it, to come

down here wanting to muck me out of my house.”

“Now, sir, we want no impertinence. I shall do exactly as I please in

the matter. Your landlord is the person I should have spoken to.”

“Spoken to! Who are you, I should like to know, coming round here

interfering in my business?”

All Frank's discussions ended in angry words, and he never came to terms

with any one without threatening blows. Town returned to the forge;

Frank and the young ladies made their way across the green. At the

corner of Southdown Road they found the General, the schoolmaster, and a

retired farmer ardently gossiping; Mrs. Horlock, prim in her black gown

and poke bonnet, waited with admirable patience, and Angel, the blind

pug, in horrible corpulence, waddled and sniffed the grass. The story

of Town's impertinence was told. The General was shocked--it was

surprising. What are we coming to? The retired farmer said that Town was

a hot-tempered man, but not a bad sort when you knew how to take him,

and all, except Mrs. Horlock, agreed that the landlord was the person

who should be consulted.

“I really don't see why you should turn the poor man out of his house if

he doesn't want to go. How would you like some one to come and turn you

out of your house?” she said, turning to her husband.

The General laughed. “My dear Lucy, whatever you say must be right.

So you are coming to live at Southwick. Very glad to hear it. You know

where to find us, the gate's always open; lunch at half-past one, dinner

at eight--old Indians, you know; come in when you like. Pretty place

I have here, everything I want--stables and horses, and (the General

looked to see if Lucy was out of hearing) plenty of dogs, you know--a

few too many; but my wife, you know--” The rest was lost in a burst of

good-natured laughter.

They bade the Horlocks good-night and walked up the Southdown Road,

looking with its line of trees along the pavement like a little mock

boulevard. Frank was particularly severe in his remarks on the trim

privet hedges and the little bronze sphinxes standing before the portico

of yellow glass; he declared that a man must be born to put up such

things, and he clearly thought this sneer a very happy one, for he

repeated it, fearing that Sally had not understood. The grocer who had

placed a bas-relief of himself over his door was greatly wondered at,

and Sally told an amusing anecdote regarding the invitations he sent

out for the first dinner party. The conversation turned on the Measons.

Jack's ship had gone to China, and he was not expected back much before

Christmas.

“That's very sad, Sally. How will you be able to live through so many

months?”

“I don't care for him. I don't care if I never saw him again--it was

Fanny who was my friend. Some nice people have come to live in that

corner house--a young man, who is learning farming. Mr. Berkins insists

on father not allowing us to visit any one in the Southdown Road, and

Mr. Berkins can turn father round his finger, he is so much richer. I'm

not allowed to see Fanny at the Manor House. As for Jack, I daresay you

won't believe me, but I shouldn't care if I never saw him again.”

Maggie shrugged her shoulders. The gesture exasperated Sally, and she

turned on her sister.

“You needn't shrug your shoulders at me, miss; I never flirted with him;

you did, and then you set father against me.”

“Well, for goodness' sake don't quarrel; what does it matter? The idea

of Berkins telling your father whom he should visit; and the idea of

your father permitting it merely because he makes two or three thousand

a year more! He surely doesn't object to your visiting Mrs. Horlock?”

“No, he couldn't do that.”

Still engaged in discussion, they entered the gates of the Manor House,

and Mr. Brookes was told that Frank would stay at Southwick a few days

longer, so that he might arrange about a studio. The news was not

at first wholly pleasing to the old gentleman, but he remembered the

anecdotes he should hear concerning his favourite painters, and was

consoled. The evening passed away in the security and calm of habit,

sweetened by the intimacy of familiar thoughts and customs. There was

the usual expensive dinner; Mr. Brookes lit a cigar, handed the box to

Frank, and said, puffing lustily, “That's a good picture, paid a lot of

money for it, too much money, mustn't do it again. You were a pupil of

Bouguereau; great painter; you have seen him paint; you would know his

touch amid a thousand, I suppose?”

About ten o'clock steps in the passage, then the squeak-squeak of the

cork; then the goggle-guggle of the water, and the young ladies came in

with their grog. They kissed their father and brother, shook hands with

Frank, and went to bed. Further anecdotes concerning the painters were

told; further condemnations of the Southdown Road were pronounced; the

house was locked up; Mr. Brookes retired, and the young men continued

the conversation in their rooms. Willy told Frank all about his shop,

Frank told Willy all about his studio, and they went to sleep delighted

with each other and at peace with the world.

Mr. Brookes had gone when the young men came down next morning. Willy

was down first, and when Frank finished breakfast he found him busy in

the garden making purchases for his shop.

“How much am I to charge for these peaches, sir?” said the gardener.

“I intend to pay the market price for everything. I don't know what

peaches are selling at in Covent Garden. I will look it up and let you

know. I am taking two dozen.”

“Yes, sir, there are only very few more ripe.”

“It is a pity I can't have them all,” Willy whispered to Frank. “There

is a tremendous profit to be made on peaches. Now, I want some new

potatoes. How many can you let me have?”

“Really, sir, we are very short; you see it is so early in the year. We

have only a few, none too many for the house.”

“I must have some, if it is only a sample. How much are potatoes selling

at now?”

“Well, sir, I hardly know. Last year we bought some off Hooper at--”

“These are the things I have to contend with. How am I to keep my books

right if I don't know exactly the price things are selling for? I may be

paying more for his potatoes than they are selling in Brighton for. My

father gets more out of the shop than any one, and he isn't satisfied.”

The woes of this suburban Lear amused Frank. No sooner was the arch

enemy Meason on the high seas, and the Southdown Road had quieted down,

than another demon had risen up against him; his garden was ravished of

its fairest fruits and vegetables, his carriages were turned into market

carts, and all, as he said, for the sake of practising an elaborate

system of book-keeping. Maggie, who had finished her house-keeping, came

into the garden, and she went with Frank down the town in search of the

landlord of the tall house amid the elder bushes. For a small increase

in the rent, and a promise to undo all alterations before leaving,

putting the house back in the same arrangement of rooms as it at present

stood, the landlord agreed to allow Frank to do his will with the place.

For twenty pounds the smith was silenced, and Frank explained to the

local builder that the house was to be thrown into one room, and the

ceilings of the upper rooms were to be removed. He had thought of having

the rafters painted, but at the builder's suggestion he decided to have

them lined with fresh timber and stained. This would look very handsome.

A large window, some six feet by eight, would have to be put in the

north wall. Of course, all the doors, windows, etc., would have to be

taken away and replaced by new. He would have a book-case in stained

wood. An estimate was drawn up. It came to a good deal more than he had

intended to lay out, and Frank dreaded the expense. But he must live

somewhere, he was sick of Pump Court, and his friends and this little

south-coast village were now ardent in his mind; why not live here? True

that the country was in no way beautiful and offered no temptations to a

landscape painter, but he seldom painted landscapes, and if he wanted a

bit of woodland he would find it over the Downs. Then there was the sea,

and that was always interesting. Perhaps Mount Rorke would let him have

the money. The old fellow had never refused him an extra hundred when he

asked for it. Yes, he would risk it. So the order was given, and all

the delays and broken promises of a builder began to be experienced and

endured. Frank, who now lodged at Mrs. Heald's, hung around the workmen,

counting each brick, and commenting on every piece of woodwork. He at

once took to grumbling at their slowness, and he soon declared that all

hopes of his being able to finish his picture for the Academy were at

an end, and he paraded his misfortunes at the Manor House, at Mrs.

Horlock's, and, indeed, at all the houses he went to for tea or tennis

parties. The painters especially annoyed him, and he even went so far as

to threaten them with an action.

Long before they had finished his pictures had arrived from London, and

several pieces of furniture from Brighton. The ideas of this young

man were now in full revolt against oriental draperies and things from

Japan. The furniture was, therefore, to consist of large cane sofas with

pillows covered with a yellow chintz pattern which pleased him much.

The selection of a carpet was a matter of great moment. He received with

scornful smiles his upholsterer's suggestions of Persian rugs. Turkey,

Smyrna, and Axminster were proposed and rejected, he even thought of

an Aubusson--no one knew anything about Aubusson at Southwick, and the

vivid blues and yellows and symmetrical design would have at least the

merit of disturbing if not of wrecking the artistic opinions of

his friends. He discovered one of these carpets in a back street in

Brighton, and with some cleaning and mending he felt sure it could be

made to look quite well. But no, if you have an Aubusson carpet you must

have Louis XIV. furniture in the room, and Louis XIV. in Southwick would

be too absurd. Clearly the Aubusson scheme must be abandoned--he would

have a rich grey carpet, soft and woolly, and there should be a round

table covered with a dark blue cloth, set off with a yellow margin, and

the chairs drawn about the table should be covered with dark blue and

painted yellow. A grand piano was indispensable in Frank's surroundings,

both for its appearance in the studio and the relaxation it afforded in

the various interludes. Several journeys to London were made before the

lamps to be used were determined on (a modern design was essential), and

the brass fittings to hang candles from the rafters required still more

delicate and cautious consideration; at last it was decided to have

none.

All this while Willy was busy with his shop. He had taken a whole house,

and at first he had thought of letting a room, but for many reasons this

scheme had to be abandoned. He did not know who might take the room.

“Who knows--perhaps one of my own friends, a member of my club, for

instance?” Then it would give the missus a lot of bother and worry, and

she had all she could do in looking after the shop. To make a thing a

success you must think of nothing else. It was a pity, but it wasn't to

be thought of. Otherwise he seemed fairly well satisfied. There was

a back door leading on to a back lane, in turn leading on to a back

street, so with his latch-key he could pop in and out unobserved. All

his books and papers in the drawing-room, the ledger, the day-book,

the cash-book all ready, all to hand, so that after dinner, when he had

smoked his pipe, he could go to work. Frank alone was in the secret.

And how the young men enjoyed going to Brighton together. Frank worried

Willy, who ran up and down stairs collecting his brown paper parcels,

calling upon him to make haste. They set forth, Willy firm and

methodical, his shoulders set well back: Frank loose and swaggering,

over-dressed. How to get to the shop was a matter of anxious

consideration. Willy was fearful of detection, and all sorts of

stratagems were resorted to. Sometimes they would walk down to the Old

Steyne, and suddenly double and get back through a medley of obscure

streets, or else they would publicly walk up and down the King's

Road, and when they thought no one was looking, hurry up one of the

by-streets, and so gain their haven, the lane. Once they were in the

lane they slackened speed, all danger was then over, and they laughed

consumedly at their escapes, and delighted in telling each other how

So-and-so and his daughter had been successfully avoided. Willy always

had his latch-key ready; in a moment they were inside, and Frank would

rush upstairs and throw himself into the armchair, crying: “Here we

are!” One day they were at the window, when, to their amazement, the

Manor House carriage pulled up before the shop, and they had only just

time to dodge behind the curtain and escape Sally's eyes. Never before

had the carriage arrived later than five o'clock, and now it was nearly

six. What could be the meaning of this? Begging of Frank not to move,

Willy went out on the landing and listened to his sisters talking to his

wife. The girls--who were, of course, ignorant of their relationship to

the shop-woman--liked Mrs. Brookes very much, and were fond of a chat

with her; and, looking through the blinds, Frank saw the footman in

all the splendour of six feet and grey livery carrying a small pot of

flowers worth sixpence from the carriage to the shop.

On ordinary days the shop was shut at eight, but when Willy and Frank

dined there it was closed an hour earlier. Frank enjoyed his evenings

there; he enjoyed it all--the homeliness and the quiet. He enjoyed

seeing Willy nurse the missus after dinner, and he found no difficulty

in pretending a certain interest in the book-keeping, and an admiration

for the lines of figures all carefully formed, and the beautifully ruled

lines. Cissy adored him. He took her on his knee, and she leaned her

hollow cheek against his handsome face. She would have probably rushed

to death to serve him. His height, his brightness, his rings, his

spotted neckties--all seemed so perfect, so beautiful, to her; and when

he brought his fiddle she would sit and look at him, her little hands

clasped with an intensity of love that was strange and pitiful. Swaying

from side to side, he ran on from tune to tune--waltzes, reminiscences

from operas, fragments of overtures, delightful snatches from Schubert;

and when he introduced Willy to one tune--a tune in which all his

_might-have-been_ was bound--the dry man seemed to grow drier: perhaps

it brought a glow of pleasure to his heart: but be this as it may, he

only sat and puffed more emphatically at his pipe.