_Which contains Some Hints towards the Making of a Baronet_
A door opened, and the echoing tramp of feet on the carpetless boards
of the corridor outside ushered the entrance of two men into a large
room, wholly devoid of furnishment--the plaster of its walls as bare as
its ceiling and floor.
The short, stout, red-faced man shut the door with a slam that
resounded through the empty place, thrust his thumbs in the armholes of
his waistcoat, and said with pride:
“Now, sir; how do you call that for a stoodio!”
In the fading daylight the younger man, dandified, self-possessed,
deliberate, dressed in the severest high fashion of the day, stepped to
the end of the great empty place and surveyed it calmly:
“Ah, Mr. Malahide--it is the sort of room I should delight to furnish
as I liked--and then live in it,” he said; and he sighed: “I have the
palatial instincts.”
He spoke with a charm of accent and of manner that drew the frank
admiration of the vulgar other; indeed, the stout Mr. Malahide was
looking at a handsome young Englishman in all the first graceful vigour
of early manhood--for Bartholomew Doome’s lithe slender build gave him
an easy carriage of the body that told of well-knit strength, and put
aside the hint of effeminacy suggested by the great beauty of the head.
As the stout man had said to his wife this very morning: “You could
find it in your heart to stroke him down with yer ’and, like a dam
race-’orse.”
Mr. Malahide pushed his silk hat back upon his florid head and looked
thereby even more vulgar than his Maker had intended him:
“Well,” said he--“ye like it, eh, sir?”
The smile still flickered about Bartholomew Doome’s lips:
“May I ask, Mr. Malahide,” he said drily--“what I am doing here?”
The fat little man kicked out his legs:
“That’s just it, sir,” said he--“that’s just it. Well, you see, it’s
this way. Now, Mr. Doome, I’m a pretty good-hearted, but rather damn
vulgar man----”
He waited patiently for an answer.
Doome looked at him steadily:
“Yes,” said he--“by the splendour of God, you are.”
“Good. Now, sir, I’ve made my bit of money in the house-furniture
business already; but Tankerton Wollup he’s at the top; and he’s dead
sure to become a bloomin’ baronet; and he’s as vulgar as I am.”
He paused, eyeing the floor at his feet, meditatively.
Doome nodded:
“I will only interrupt you to question the accuracy of your statements,
Mr. Malahide,” he said grimly.
Pompey Malahide laughed:
“Good,” said he. “Well, where Tankerton Wollup can climb, Pompey
Malahide can get his boots--and he’s going to--though Wollup’s father
did have the business shrewdness to christen him Tankerton--if you can
call it christening in Wardour Street.... Tankerton Wollup! Mine called
me Pompey! but, bless him, the old man’s only fault was his sentiment.
Pompey! Why, Tankerton’s a name to conjure with! Who’d suspect that his
Christian name was Isaac? And if yer had seen the dirty hole in the
city where he began and---- But, steady, Pompey, my boy--we mustn’t
rake up the manufacture of antique things. Besides, luck has been with
him all through--he is even a _red_ Jew.... However, sir, you have
brought to my shops of late more than one tip-top swell that bought the
real old stuff; and I don’t mind tellin’ you that that’s the side of my
business I intend to develop.... Wollup and me began life by debauching
public taste--and he’s chucking it--and it’s time I did.... I want to
meet my God like a man----”
Doome coughed:
“I thought it was as a baronet,” he said.
The dealer laughed loud and long:
“God! what a wit you have! Now, sir, don’t you hit me on the neck....
Well, I’ve got clear enough eyes to discover that _you_ know the good
stuff when you see it at sales, just by the good taste that’s born
in you. Now, it’s no manner o’ use putting that good stuff in _my_
windows--the people that furnish their houses slap through from my
shops don’t know the good stuff when they see it; and, I’ll be honest
with you, sir, I’ll be damned if _I_ do--and my partner, that did,
died last Saturday. You see, sir, the fact is I’m in a hole. I know
good stuff if it’s been the fashion long enough--but I have not the
knowledge to _set_ the fashion. _You_ have, but you can’t for want of
means; whilst I want to and have the means. I hope I’m not talkin’ like
a bleating cad,” he said.
Bartholomew Doome watched the fat, downright little dealer out of
languid eyes; but his alert mind followed every hint. And he had,
besides, a very soft corner in his heart for the man. But he said not a
word.
“Now, Mr. Doome, I like you--though they do say you are the wickedest
man in London----”
Bartholomew Doome flushed with pleasure--he was easily flattered by
genuine praise.
“Oh! Mr. Malahide!” he protested.
“Yes,” said the fat important little man, “I like you.”
Bartholomew Doome bowed. The dealer put out a hand.
“Don’t you sneer, Mr. Doome. A man can’t give more than he’s got--and
liking’s the biggest thing he’s got--to bestow.”
Bartholomew Doome smiled:
“You will know when I sneer, Mr. Malahide--I do not feel like it yet,”
he said.
“No; well, I’m glad of that, sir.... Because--I’m going to ask you if
you’ll accept an offer. You can but refuse it, when all’s said--and
break my heart.... I wouldn’t dare to make it, but I’m a shrewd
business man, and I’ve hunted up one or two young fellows I’ve seen
about with you, and asked them how you lived--and it has emboldened
me----”
“One moment, Mr. Malahide. I will ask you no names, but--may I ask how
my friends solved the problem?”
The fat dealer laughed embarrassedly:
“They said they were damned if they knew.”
Doome smiled:
“Yes,” said he--“that sounds like my friends.... And the fact is I
scarcely know myself.”
The dealer nodded:
“Well, sir; what I propose is this: I am not fool enough to think you
will turn shopman--it would ruffle you to death--and you’d make a poor
one when you did it--your university career has spoilt you for success
in business. But if you’ll drop in casually when I ring you up--there’s
a telephone in the next room--and give me an opinion whenever I want
it; and if you’ll let me furnish this room as your studio with anything
you like, just for an advertisement for me amongst your swell friends
and the newspapers--if you’ll give me the benefit of your good taste
and advice on my better-class furnishing business--I only ask for your
mornings--I’ll give you a thousand pound a year for it.”
He peered anxiously at the smart young fellow before him, and added
hoarsely:
“For God’s sake don’t say No. There’s my hand on it--or you can take
time to think it out if you like.”
He held out a fat jolly vulgar hand.
Bartholomew Doome grasped the hand:
“I’ll do it,” he said. “And I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Malahide,
I’ll be glad to do it.”
“Right-o!” bawled the fat little dealer, his red face perspiring with
glee as he walked briskly up and down rubbing his hands in his relief.
“By Rupert, I’m born to luck. Got _that_ beastly job over.... Well,
sir, the day after to-morrow you are free of all my shops, or anywhere
you like to pick things up; and just you order what you wish for this
room--there’s a couple of rather nice little rooms off it, and a jolly
little hall--do it all regardless of cost. And--oh yes---- Now look
here, Mr. Doome, to-day I cast the die. I’m straight off to give orders
to compete for a big hotel.”
He came close to Doome and whispered as though he feared the very walls
might hear. Doome listened closely.
The fat little man stood back a pace:
“Eh? Pretty strenuous idea, that!... Ye see, Wollup he did the one just
opposite.... Now, I don’t mind even dropping a bit of money over it.
Can you go over Wollup’s upholstery debauch to-morrow morning, then
meet me opposite after lunch, and just give me tips to lick Wollup off
his bunyanny feet?”
Doome nodded.
“Good!” said the beaming Pompey. “My manager will be at my elbow making
notes. Don’t take no notice of him. Just you plan the hotel like a
lady’s boodywar, in good colour and telling style--the sort o’ thing
that pleases the eye so you want to kiss it. Make it _sing_--like a
ruddy violin. It’s got to put me in front of Tankerton Wollup. See?
Just come in, sir, as if you had a mortgage on the place--don’t mind
me--and--well, it’ll be a bit of All-Right-O! See?... Oh,” he added,
growing suddenly serious--“look here, Mr. Doome--you see--my boy’s at
Harrow, so he’s all safe from me, bless the lad; but--my girls are
springing up--rising sixteen one of ’em--and--they are fine stylish
girls, too--but--sometimes--I have my qualms that I rub them on the raw
a bit. Now, you might give me a hint--now and again--if I--well--_you_
know! Just say: Malahide, my boy, you’re on the vulgar side, see?”
“Off side, eh?”
“That’s it.”
Doome laughed:
“You’ll be a baronet yet,” said he.