CHAPTER IV

'Mr. Wigmore, I will be frank with you. If I asked an equivalent for the

value of my business as a business, I could not expect you to agree to such

a proposal. But, to speak honestly, my health has suffered a good deal from

overwork, and I must take into consideration the great probability that in

any case, before long, I shall be obliged to find some position where the

duties were less exhausting.'

'Good gracious!' exclaimed the listener. 'Why, you'll kill yoursel, sir.

And I'm bound to say, you look far from well.'

Topham smiled pathetically, paused a moment as if to reflect, and continued

in the same tone of genial confidence. Let us consider the matter in

detail. Do you propose, Mr. Wigmore, to withdraw from business at once?'

The fruiterer replied that he could do so at very short notice. Questioned

as to his wishes regarding a place of residence, he declared that he was

ready to live in any place where, being unknown, he could make, as it were,

a new beginning.

'You would not feel impatient,' said Topham, 'if, say, two or three years

had to elapse before you could be ordained?'

'Impatient,' said the other cheerily. 'Why, if it took ten years I would go

through with it. When I make up my mind about a thing, I'm not easily

dismayed. If I could have your help, sir--'

The necessity of making a definite proposal turned Topham pale; he was so

afraid of asking too much. Almost in spite of himself, he at length spoke.

'Suppose we say--if I reside with you--that you pay me a salary of, well,

£200 a year?'

The next moment he inwardly raged. Wigmore's countenance expressed such

contentment, that it was plain the good man would have paid twice that sum.

'Ass!' cried Topham, in his mind. 'I always undervalue myself.'

* * * * *

It was late that evening when Starkey came home; to his surprise he found

that Topham was later still. In vain he sat writing until past one o'clock.

Topham did not appear, and indeed never came back at all. The overworked

corresponding tutor was taking his ease at the seaside on the strength of a

quarter's salary in advance, which Mr. Wigmore, tremulously anxious to

clinch their bargain, had insisted on paying him. Before leaving London he

had written to Starkey, apologising for his abrupt departure, 'The result

of unforeseen circumstances.' He enclosed six penny stamps in repayment of

a sum lent, and added--

'When I think of my great debt to you I despair of expressing my gratitude.

Be assured, however, that the name of Starkey will always be cherished in

my remembrance.'

Under that name Topham dwelt with the retired shopkeeper, and assiduously

discharged his tutorial duties. A day came when, relying upon the

friendship between them, and his pupil's exultation in the progress

achieved, the tutor unbosomed himself. Having heard the whole story,

Wigmore laughed a great deal, and declared that such a fellow as Starkey

was rightly served.

'But,' he inquired, after reflection, 'how was it the man never wrote to

ask why I sent no more work?'

'That asks for further confession. While at the seaside I wrote, in a

disguised hand, a letter supposed to come from a brother of yours in which

I said you were very ill and must cease your correspondence. Starkey hadn't

the decency to reply, but if he had done so I should have got his letter at

the post-office.'

Mr. Wigmore looked troubled for a moment. However, this too was laughed

away, and the pursuit of gentility went on as rigorously as ever.

But Topham, musing over his good luck, thought with a shiver on how small

an accident it had depended. Had Starkey been at home when the fruiterer

called, he, it was plain, would have had the offer of this engagement.

'With the result that dear old Wigmore would have been bled for who knows

how many years by a mere swindler. Whereas he is really being educated,

and, for all I know, may some day adorn the Church of England.' Such

thoughts are very consoling.

A LODGER IN MAZE POND

Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room,

with a cigar and a review. At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in

August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, there

entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by

all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering

newspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, and

shuddered.

The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution

as his kindly nature permitted.

'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbable

man.

'Dying?'

Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about

him. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the

morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.

'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do you

think?'

'Very possibly.'

'A remarkable man, that--a _most_ remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale's

the other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded one

of Coleridge, or Macaulay,--that kind of thing. Certainly most brilliant

talk. I can't remember what it was all about--something literary. A sort of

fantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he is

a great friend of yours?'

'Oh, we have known each other for a long time.'

'Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine--walking one of the

hospitals--that kind of thing.'

'Yes, he's at Guy's.'

To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went to

glance at the _Times_. He read the news concerning the great physician.

Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.

By midday he was at London Bridge. He crossed to the Surrey side, turned

immediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaulted

thoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station. It was like the

mouth of some monstrous cavern. Out of glaring daylight he passed into

gloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lamps

gave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most of

them occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed over

indeterminate odours of dampness. There was great concourse of drays and

waggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and above

thundered the trains. The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed of

infinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases,

packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing. A

curve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; till

midway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a sudden

appeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the surprise of any one who

should have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificent

plane-trees, golden in the August sunshine--one of the abrupt contrasts

which are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those who

wander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave of

commerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses--some with quaint

tumbling roofs--and byways little frequented.

The planes grow at the back of Guy's Hospital, and close by is a short

narrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond. It consists for the most

part of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medical

students. At one of these houses Harvey Munden plied the knocker.

He was answered by a trim, rather pert-looking girl, who smiled familiarly.

'Mr. Shergold isn't in, sir,' she said at once, anticipating his question.

'But he _will_ be very soon. Will you step in and wait?'

'I think I will.'

As one who knew the house, he went upstairs, and entered a sitting-room on

the first floor. The girl followed him.

'I haven't had time to clear away the breakfast things,' she said, speaking

rapidly and with an air. 'Mr. Shergold was late this mornin'; he didn't get

up till nearly ten, an' then he sat writin' letters. Did he know as you was

comin', sir?'

'No; I looked in on the chance of finding him, or learning where he was.'

'I'm sure he'll be in about half-past twelve, 'cause he said to me as he

was only goin' to get a breath of air. He hasn't nothing to do at the

'ospital just now.'

'Has he talked of going away?'

'Going away?' The girl repeated the words sharply, and examined the

speaker's face. 'Oh, he won't be goin' away just yet, I think.'

Munden returned her look with a certain curiosity, and watched her as she

began to clink together the things upon the table. Obviously she esteemed

herself a person of some importance. Her figure was not bad, and her

features had the trivial prettiness so commonly seen in London girls of the

lower orders,--the kind of prettiness which ultimately loses itself in fat

and chronic perspiration. Her complexion already began to show a tendency

to muddiness, and when her lips parted, they showed decay of teeth. In

dress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaborate

arrangement; she had dirty hands.

Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden had

no leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the girl took herself off, he

drew a breath of satisfaction, and smiled the smile of an intellectual man

who has outlived youthful follies.

He stepped over to the lodger's bookcase. There were about a hundred

volumes, only a handful of them connected with medical study. Seeing a

volume of his own Munden took it down and idly turned the pages; it

surprised him to discover a great many marginal notes in pencil, and an

examination of these showed him that Shergold must have gone carefully

through the book with an eye to the correction of its style; adjectives

were deleted and inserted, words of common usage removed for others which

only a fine literary conscience could supply, and in places even the

punctuation was minutely changed. Whilst he still pondered this singular

manifestation of critical zeal, the door opened, and Shergold came in.

A man of two-and-thirty, short, ungraceful, ill-dressed, with features as

little commonplace as can be imagined. He had somewhat a stern look, and on

his brow were furrows of care. Light-blue eyes tended to modify the all but

harshness of his lower face; when he smiled, as on recognising his friend,

they expressed a wonderful innocence and suavity of nature; overshadowed,

in thoughtful or troubled mood, by his heavy eyebrows, they became deeply

pathetic. His nose was short and flat, yet somehow not ignoble; his full

lips, bare of moustache, tended to suggest a melancholy fretfulness. But

for the high forehead, no casual observer would have cared to look at him a

second time; but that upper story made the whole countenance vivid with

intellect, as though a light beamed upon it from above.

'You hypercritical beggar!' cried Harvey, turning with the volume in his

hand. 'Is this how you treat the glorious works of your contemporaries?'

Shergold reddened and was mute.

'I shall take this away with me,' pursued the other, laughing. 'It'll be

worth a little study.'

'My dear fellow--you won't take it ill of me--I didn't really mean it as a

criticism,' the deep, musical voice stammered in serious embarrassment.

'Why, wasn't it just this kind of thing that caused a quarrel between

George Sand and Musset?'

'Yes, yes; but George Sand was such a peremptory fellow, and Musset such a

vapourish young person. Look! I'll show you what I meant.'

'Thanks,' said Munden, 'I can find that out for myself.' He thrust the book

into his coat-pocket. 'I came to ask you if you are aware of your uncle's

condition.'

'Of course I am.

'When did you see him last?'

'See him?' Shergold's eyes wandered vaguely. 'Oh, to talk with him, about a

month ago.'

'Did you part friendly?'

'On excellent terms. And last night I went to ask after him. Unfortunately

he didn't know any one, but the nurse said he had been mentioning my name,

and in a kind way.'

'Capital! Hadn't you better walk in that direction this afternoon?'

'Yes, perhaps I had, and yet, you know, I hate to have it supposed that I

am hovering about him.'

'All the same, go.'

Shergold pointed to a chair. 'Sit down a bit. I have been having a talk

with Dr. Salmon. He discourages me a good deal. You know it's far from

certain that I shall go on with medicine.'

'Far from certain!' the other assented, smiling. 'By the bye, I hear that

you have been in the world of late. You were at Lady Teasdale's not long

ago.'

'Well--yes--why not?'

Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident,--Shergold seemed

unable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and kept

glancing nervously towards the door.

'I was delighted to hear it,' said his friend. 'That's a symptom of health.

Go everywhere; see everybody--that's worth seeing. They got you to talk, I

believe?'

'Who has been telling you? I'm afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I had

shivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it. But some one

brought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of which

I wanted to relieve my mind. And, after all, there's a pleasure in talking

to intelligent people. Henry Wilt was there with his daughters. Clever

girls, by Jove! And Mrs. Peter Rayne--do you know her?'

'Know of her, that's all.'

'A splendid woman--brains, brains! Upon my soul, I know no such delight as

listening to a really intellectual woman, when she's also beautiful. I

shake with delight--and what women one does meet, nowadays! Of course the

world never saw their like. I have my idea of Aspasia--but there are lots

of grander women in London to-day. One ought to live among the rich. What a

wretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads,

however laudable your motive! Since I got back among the better people my

life has been trebled--oh, centupled--in value!'

'My boy,' remarked Munden quietly, 'didn't I say something to this effect

on a certain day nine years ago?'

'Don't talk of it,' the other replied, waving his hand in agitation. 'We'll

never look back at that.'

'Your room is stuffy,' said Munden, rising. 'Let us go and have lunch

somewhere.'

'Yes, we will! Just a moment to wash my hands--I've been in the

dissecting-room.'

The friends went downstairs. At the foot they passed the landlady's

daughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to pass

into the street, her voice made itself heard behind him.

'Shall you want tea, Mr. Shergold?'

Munden turned sharply and looked at the girl. Shergold did not look at her,

but he delayed for a moment and appeared to balance the question. Then, in

a friendly voice, he said--

'No, thank you. I may not be back till late in the evening.' And he went on

hurriedly.

'Cheeky little beggar that,' Munden observed, with a glance at his friend.

'Oh, not a bad girl in her way. They've made me very comfortable. All the

same, I shan't grieve when the day of departure comes.'

It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold. At two-and-twenty he

found himself launched upon the world, with a university education

incomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket. A little management, a

little less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to go

forward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry was

a Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility. He

got a place in an office, and he began to write poetry--some of which was

published and duly left unpaid for. A year later there came one fateful day

when he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to be

married. His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor--a tall,

pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at a

tobacconist's shop, where she served. He was going to marry her on

principle--principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youth

who has lived demurely, more among books than men. Harvey Munden flew into

a rage, and called upon the gods in protest. But Shergold was not to be

shaken. The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him during

conversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and he

would not betray it. She had excellent dispositions; he would educate her.

The friends quarrelled about it, and Shergold led home his bride.

With the results which any sane person could have foretold. The marriage

was a hideous disaster; in three years it brought Shergold to an attempted

suicide, for which he had to appear at the police-court. His relative, the

distinguished doctor, who had hitherto done nothing for him, now came

forward with counsel and assistance. Happily the only child of the union

had died at a few weeks old, and the wife, though making noisy proclamation

of rights, was so weary of her husband that she consented to a separation.

But in less than a year the two were living together again; Mrs. Shergold

had been led by her relatives to believe that some day the poor fellow

would have his uncle's money, and her wiles ultimately overcame Shergold's

resistance. He, now studying law at the doctor's expense, found himself

once more abandoned, and reduced to get his living as a solicitor's clerk.

His uncle had bidden him good-bye on a postcard, whereon was illegibly

scribbled something about 'damned fools.'

He bore the burden for three more years, then his wife died. One night,

after screaming herself speechless in fury at Shergold's refusal to go with

her to a music-hall, she had a fit on the stairs, and in falling received

fatal injuries.

The man was free, but terribly shattered. Only after a long sojourn abroad,

at his kinsman's expense, did he begin to recover health. He came back and

entered himself as a student at Guy's, greatly to Dr. Shergold's

satisfaction. His fees were paid and a small sum was allowed him to live

upon--a very small sum. By degrees some old acquaintances began to see him,

but it was only quite of late that he had accepted invitations from people

of social standing, whom he met at the doctor's house. The hints of his

story that got about made him an interesting figure, especially to women,

and his remarkable gifts were recognised as soon as circumstances began to

give him fair play. All modern things were of interest to him, and his

knowledge, acquired with astonishing facility, formed the fund of talk

which had singular charm alike for those who did and those who did not

understand it. Undeniably shy, he yet, when warmed to a subject, spoke with

nerve and confidence. In days of jabber, more or less impolite, this

appearance of an articulate mortal, with soft manners and totally

unaffected, could not but excite curiosity. Lady Teasdale, eager for the

uncommon, chanced to observe him one evening as he conversed with his

neighbour at the dinner-table; later, in the drawing-room, she encouraged

him with flattery of rapt attention to a display of his powers; she

resolved to make him a feature of her evenings. Fortunately, his kindred

with Dr. Shergold made a respectable introduction, and Lady Teasdale

whispered it among matrons that he would inherit from the wealthy doctor,

who had neither wife nor child. He might not be fair to look upon, but

handsome is that handsome has.

And now the doctor lay sick unto death. Society was out of town, but Lady

Teasdale, with a house full of friends about her down in Hampshire, did not

forget her _protégé_; she waited with pleasant expectation for the young

man's release from poverty.

It came in a day or two. Dr. Shergold was dead, and an enterprising

newspaper announced simultaneously that the bulk of his estate would pass

to Mr. Henry Shergold, a gentleman at present studying for his uncle's

profession. This paragraph caught the eye of Harvey Munden, who sent a line

to his friend, to ask if it was true. In reply he received a mere postcard:

'Yes. Will see you before long.' But Harvey wanted to be off to Como, and

as business took him into the city, he crossed the river and sought Maze

Pond. Again the door was opened to him by the landlady's daughter; she

stood looking keenly in his face, her eyes smiling and yet suspicious.

'Mr. Shergold in?' he asked carelessly.

'No, he isn't.' There was a strange bluntness about this answer. The girl

stood forward, as if to bar the entrance, and kept searching his face.

'When is he likely to be?'

'I don't know. He didn't say when he went out.'

A woman's figure appeared in the background. The girl turned and said

sharply, 'All right, mother, it's only somebody for Mr. Shergold.'

'I'll go upstairs and write a note,' said Munden, in a rather peremptory

voice.

The other drew back and allowed him to pass, but with evident

disinclination. As he entered the room, he saw that she had followed. He

went up to a side-table, on which lay a blotting-book, with other

requisites for writing, and then he stood for a moment as if in meditation.

'Your name is Emma, isn't it?' he inquired, looking at the girl with a

smile.

'Yes, it is.'

'Well then, Emma, shut the door, and let's have a talk. Your mother won't

mind, will she?' he added slyly.

The girl tossed her head.

'I don't see what it's got to do with mother.' She closed the door, but did

not latch it. 'What do you want to talk about?'

'You're a very nice girl to look at, Emma, and I've always admired you when

you opened the door to me. I've always liked your nice, respectful way of

speaking, but somehow you don't speak quite so nicely to-day. What has put

you out?'

Her eyes did not quit his face for a moment; her attitude betokened the

utmost keenness of suspicious observation.

'Nothing's put me out, that I know of.'

'Yet you don't speak very nicely--not very respectfully. Perhaps'--he

paused--'perhaps Mr. Shergold is going to leave?'

'P'r'aps he may be.'

'And you're vexed at losing a lodger.'

He saw her lip curl and then she laughed.

'You're wrong there.'

'Then _what_ is it?'

He drew near and made as though he would advance a familiar arm. Emma

started back.

'All right,' she exclaimed, with an insolent nod. 'I'll tell Mr. Shergold.'

'Tell Mr. Shergold? Why? What has it to do with him?'

'A good deal.'

'Indeed? For shame, Emma! I never expected _that_!'

'What do you mean?' she retorted hotly. 'You keep your impudence to

yourself. If you want to know, Mr. Shergold is going to _marry_ me--so

there!'

The stroke was effectual. Harvey Munden stood as if transfixed, but he

recovered himself before a word escaped his lips.

'Ah, that alters the case. I beg your pardon. You won't make trouble

between old friends?'

Vanity disarmed the girl's misgiving. She grinned with satisfaction.

'That depends how you behave.'

'Oh, you don't know me. But promise, now; not a word to Shergold.'

She gave a conditional promise, and stood radiant with her triumph.

'Thanks, that's very good of you. Well, I won't trouble to leave a note.

You shall just tell Shergold that I am leaving England to-morrow for a

holiday. I should _like_ to see him, of course, and I may possibly look

round this evening. If I can't manage it, just tell him that I think he

ought to have given me a chance of congratulating him. May I ask when it is

to be?'

Emma resumed an air of prudery, 'Before very long, I dessay.'

'I wish you joy. Well, I mustn't talk longer now, but I'll do my best to

look in this evening, and then we can all chat together.'

He laughed and she laughed back; and thereupon they parted.

A little after nine that evening, when only a grey reflex of daylight

lingered upon a cloudy sky, Munden stood beneath the plane-trees by Guy's

Hospital waiting. He had walked the length of Maze Pond and had ascertained

that his friend's window as yet showed no light; Shergold was probably

still from home. In the afternoon he had made inquiry at the house of the

deceased doctor, but of Henry nothing was known there; he left a message

for delivery if possible, to the effect that he would call in at Maze Pond

between nine and ten.

At a quarter past the hour there appeared from the direction of London

Bridge a well-known figure, walking slowly, head bent. Munden moved

forward, and, on seeing him, Shergold grasped his hand feverishly.

'Ha! how glad I am to meet you, Munden! Come; let us walk this way.' He

turned from Maze Pond. 'I got your message up yonder an hour or two ago. So

glad I have met you here, old fellow.'

'Well, your day has come,' said Harvey, trying to read his friend's

features in the gloom.

'He has left me about eighty thousand pounds,' Shergold replied, in a low,

shaken voice. 'I'm told there are big legacies to hospitals as well.

Heavens! how rich he was!'

'When is the funeral?'

'Friday.'

'Where shall you live in the meantime?'

'I don't know--I haven't thought about it.'

'I should go to some hotel, if I were you,' said Munden, 'and I have a

proposal to make. If I wait till Saturday, will you come with me to Como?'

Shergold did not at once reply. He was walking hurriedly, and making rather

strange movements with his head and arms. They came into the shadow of the

vaulted way beneath London Bridge Station. At this hour the great tunnel

was quiet, save when a train roared above; the warehouses were closed; one

or two idlers, of forbidding aspect, hung about in the murky gaslight, and

from the far end came a sound of children at play.

'You won't be wanted here?' Munden added.

'No--no--I think not.' There was agitation in the voice.

'Then you will come?'

'Yes, I will come.' Shergold spoke with unnecessary vehemence and laughed

oddly.

'What's the matter with you?' his friend asked.

'Nothing--the change of circumstances, I suppose. Let's get on. Let us go

somewhere--I can't help reproaching myself; I ought to feel or show a

decent sobriety; but what was the old fellow to me? I'm grateful to him.'

'There's nothing else on your mind?'

Shergold looked up, startled.

'What do you mean? Why do you ask?'

They stood together in the black shadow of an interval between two lamps.

After reflecting for a moment, Munden decided to speak.

'I called at your lodgings early to-day, and somehow I got into talk with

the girl. She was cheeky, and her behaviour puzzled me. Finally she made an

incredible announcement--that you had asked her to marry you. Of course

it's a lie?'

'To marry her?' exclaimed the listener hoarsely, with an attempt at

laughter. 'Do you think that likely--after all I have gone through?'

'No, I certainly don't. It staggered me. But what I want to know is, can

she cause trouble?'

'How do I know?--a girl will lie so boldly. She might make a scandal, I

suppose; or threaten it, in hope of getting money out of me.'

'But is there any ground for a scandal?' demanded Harvey.

'Not the slightest, as you mean it.'

'I'm glad to hear that. But she may give you trouble. I see the thing

doesn't astonish you very much; no doubt you were aware of her character.'

'Yes, yes; I know it pretty well. Come, let us get out of this squalid

inferno; how I hate it! Have you had dinner? I don't want any. Let us go to

your rooms, shall we? There'll be a hansom passing the bridge.'

They walked on in silence, and when they had found a cab they drove

westward, talking only of Dr. Shergold's affairs. Munden lived in the

region of the Squares, hard by the British Museum; he took his friend into

a comfortably furnished room, the walls hidden with books and prints, and

there they sat down to smoke, a bottle of whisky within easy reach of both.

It was plain to Harvey that some mystery lay in his friend's reserve on the

subject of the girl Emma; he was still anxious, but would not lead the talk

to unpleasant things. Shergold drank like a thirsty man, and the whisky

seemed to make him silent. Presently he fell into absolute muteness, and

lay wearily back in his chair.

'The excitement has been too much for you,' Munden remarked.

Shergold looked at him, with a painful embarrassment in his features; then

suddenly he bent forward.

'Munden, it's I who have lied. I _did_ ask that girl to marry me.'

'When?'

'Last night.'

'Why?'

'Because for a moment I was insane.' They stared at each other.

'Has she any hold upon you?' Munden asked slowly.

'None whatever, except this frantic offer of mine.'

'Into which she inveigled you?'

'I can't honestly say she did; it was entirely my own fault. She has never

behaved loosely, or even like a schemer. I doubt whether she knew anything

about my uncle, until I told her last night.'

He spoke rapidly, in a thick voice, moving his arms in helpless

protestation. His look was one of unutterable misery.

'Well,' observed Munden, 'the frenzy has at all events passed. You have the

common-sense to treat it as if it had never been; and really I am tempted

to believe that it was literal lunacy. Last night were you drunk?'

'I had drunk nothing. Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I am a fool

about women. I don't know what it is--certainly not a sensual or passionate

nature; mine is nothing of the sort. It's sheer sentimentality, I suppose.

I can't be friendly with a woman without drifting into mawkish

tenderness--there's the simple truth. If I had married happily, I don't

think I should have been tempted to go about philandering. The society of a

wife I loved and respected would be sufficient. But there's that need in

me--the incessant hunger for a woman's sympathy and affection. Such a

hideous mistake as mine when I married would have made a cynic of most men;

upon me the lesson has been utterly thrown away. I mean that, though I can

talk of women rationally enough with a friend, I am at their mercy when

alone with them--at the mercy of the silliest, vulgarest creature. After

all, isn't it very much the same with men in general? The average man--how

does he come to marry? Do you think he deliberately selects? Does he fall

in love, in the strict sense of the phrase, with that one particular girl?

No; it comes about by chance--by the drifting force of circumstances. Not

one man in ten thousand, when he thinks of marriage, waits for the ideal

wife--for the woman who makes capture of his soul or even of his senses.

Men marry without passion. Most of us have a very small circle for choice;

the hazard of everyday life throws us into contact with this girl or that,

and presently we begin to feel either that we have compromised ourselves,

or that we might as well save trouble and settle down as soon as possible,

and the girl at hand will do as well as another. More often than not it is

the girl who decides for us. In more than half the marriages it's the woman

who has practically proposed. She puts herself in a man's way. With her it

rests almost entirely whether a man shall think of her as a possible wife

or not. She has endless ways of putting herself forward without seeming to

do so. As often as not, it's mere passivity that effects the end. She has

only to remain seated instead of moving away; to listen with a smile

instead of looking bored; to be at home instead of being out,--and she is

making love to a man. In a Palace of Truth how many husbands would have to

confess that it decidedly surprised them when they found themselves engaged

to be married? The will comes into play only for a moment or two now and

then. Of course it is made to seem responsible, and in a sense it _is_

responsible, but, in the vast majority of cases, purely as an animal

instinct, confirming the suggestion of circumstances.'

'There's something in all this,' granted the listener, 'but it doesn't

explain the behaviour of a man who, after frightful experience in

marriage--after recovering his freedom--after finding himself welcomed by

congenial society--after inheriting a fortune to use as he likes--goes and

offers himself to an artful hussy in a lodging-house.'

'That's the special case. Look how it came to pass. Months ago I knew I was

drifting into dangerous relations with that girl. Unfortunately I am not a

rascal: I can't think of girls as playthings; a fatal conscientiousness in

an unmarried man of no means. Day after day we grew more familiar. She used

to come up and ask me if I wanted anything; and of course I knew that she

began to come more often than necessary. When she laid a meal for me, we

talked--half an hour at a time. The mother, doubtless, looked on with

approval; Emma had to find a husband, and why not me as well as another?

They knew I was a soft creature--that I never made a row about

anything--was grateful for anything that looked like kindness--and so on.

Just the kind of man to be captured. But no--I don't want to make out that

I am their victim; that's a feeble excuse, and a worthless one. The average

man would either have treated the girl as a servant, and so kept her at her

distance, or else he would have alarmed her by behaviour which suggested

anything you like but marriage. As for me, I hadn't the common-sense to

take either of these courses. I made a friend of the girl; talked to her

more and more confidentially; and at last--fatal moment--told her my

history. Yes, I was ass enough to tell that girl the whole story of my

life. Can you conceive such folly?

'Yet the easiest thing in the world to understand. We were alone in the

house one evening. After trying to work for about an hour I gave it up. I

knew that the mother was out, and I heard Emma moving downstairs. I was

lonely and dispirited--wanted to talk--to talk about myself to some one who

would give a kind ear. So I went down, and made some excuse for beginning a

conversation in the parlour. It lasted a couple of hours; we were still

talking when the mother came back. I didn't persuade myself that I cared

for Emma, even then. Her vulgarisms of speech and feeling jarred upon me.

But she was feminine; she spoke and looked gently, with sympathy. I enjoyed

that evening--and you must bear in mind what I have told you before, that I

stand in awe of refined women. I am their equal, I know; I can talk with

them; their society is an exquisite delight to me;--but when it comes to

thinking of intimacy with one of them--! Perhaps it is my long years of

squalid existence. Perhaps I have come to regard myself as doomed to life

on a lower level. I find it an impossible thing to imagine myself offering

marriage--making love--to a girl such as those I meet in the big houses.'

'You will outgrow that,' said Munden.

'Yes, yes,--I hope and believe so. And wouldn't it be criminal to deny

myself even the chance, now that I have money? All to-day I have been

tortured like a soul that beholds its salvation lost by a moment's weakness

of the flesh. You can imagine what my suffering has been; it drove me into

sheer lying. I had resolved to deny utterly that I had asked Emma to marry

me--to deny it with a savage boldness, and take the consequences.'

'A most rational resolve, my dear fellow. Pray stick to it. But you haven't

told me yet how the dizzy culmination of your madness was reached. You say

that you proposed _last night_?'

'Yes--and simply for the pleasure of telling Emma, when she had accepted

me, that I had eighty thousand pounds! You can't understand that? I suppose

the change of fortune has made me a little light-headed; I have been going

about with a sense of exaltation which has prompted me to endless follies.

I have felt a desire to be kind to people--to bestow happiness--to share my

joy with others. If I had some of the doctor's money in my pocket, I should

have given away five-pound notes.'

'You contented yourself,' said Munden, laughing, 'with giving a

promissory-note for the whole legacy.'

'Yes; but try to understand. Emma came up to my room at supper-time, and as

usual we talked. I didn't say anything about my uncle's death--yet I felt

the necessity of telling her creep fatally upon me. There was a conflict in

my mind, between common-sense and that awful sentimentality which is my

curse. When Emma came up again after supper, she mentioned that her mother

was gone with a friend to a theatre. "Why don't you go?" I said. "Oh, I

don't go anywhere." "But after all," I urged consolingly, "August isn't

exactly the time for enjoying the theatre." She admitted it wasn't; but

there was the Exhibition at Earl's Court, she had heard so much of it, and

wanted to go. "Then suppose we go together one of these evenings?"

'You see? Idiot!--and I couldn't help it. My tongue spoke these imbecile

words in spite of my brain. All very well, if I had meant what another man

would; but I didn't, and the girl knew I didn't. And she looked at me--and

then--why, mere brute instinct did the rest--no, not mere instinct, for it

was complicated with that idiot desire to see how the girl would look, hear

what she would say, when she knew that I had given her eighty thousand

pounds. You can't understand?'

'As a bit of morbid psychology--yes.'

'And the frantic proceeding made me happy! For an hour or two I behaved as

if I loved the girl with all my soul. And afterwards I was still happy. I

walked up and down my bedroom, making plans for the future--for her

education, and so on. I saw all sorts of admirable womanly qualities in

her. I _was_ in love with her, and there's an end of it!'

Munden mused for a while, then laid down his pipe.

'Remarkably suggestive, Shergold, the name of the street in which you have

been living. Well, you don't go back there?'

'No. I have come to my senses. I shall go to an hotel for to-night, and

send presently for all my things.'

'To be sure, and on Saturday--or on Friday evening, if you like, we leave

England.'

It was evident that Shergold rejoiced with trembling.

'But I can't stick to the lie.' he said. 'I shall compensate the girl. You

see, by running away I make confession that there's something wrong. I

shall see a solicitor and put the matter into his hands.'

'As you please. But let the solicitor exercise his own discretion as to

damages.'

'Damages!' Shergold pondered the word. 'I suppose she won't drag me into

court--make a public ridicule of me? If so, there's an end of my hopes. I

couldn't go among people after that.'

'I don't see why not. But your solicitor will probably manage the affair.

They have their methods,' Munden added drily.

Early the next morning Shergold despatched a telegram to Maze Pond,

addressed to his landlady. It said that he would be kept away by business

for a day or two. On Friday he attended his uncle's funeral, and that

evening he left Charing Cross with Harvey Munden, _en route_ for Como.

There, a fortnight later, Shergold received from his solicitor a

communication which put an end to his feigning of repose and hopefulness.

That he did but feign, Harvey Munden felt assured; signs of a troubled

conscience, or at all events of restless nerves, were evident in all his

doing and conversing; now he once more made frank revelation of his

weakness.

'There's the devil to pay. She won't take money. She's got a lawyer, and is

going to bring me into court. I've authorised Reckitt to offer as much as

five thousand pounds,--it's no good. He says her lawyer has evidently

encouraged her to hope for enormous damages, and then she'll have the

satisfaction of making me the town-talk. It's all up with me, Munden. My

hopes are vanished like--what is it in Dante?--_il fumo in aere ed in aqua

la schiuma_!'

Smoking a Cavour, Munden lay back in the shadow of the pergola, and seemed

to disdain reply.

'Your advice?'

'What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- do

her worst!'

Shergold winced.

'We mustn't forget that it's all my fault.'

'Yes, just as it's your own fault you didn't die on the day of your birth!'

'I must raise the offer--'

'By all means; offer ten thousand. I suppose a jury would give her two

hundred and fifty.'

'But the scandal--the ridicule--'

'Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom and

save your life.'

'That's one way of looking at it. I half believe it might be effectual.'

He kept alone for most of the day. In the evening, from nine to ten, he

went upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunk

in a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short,

nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And when

the next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, a

waiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started for

London,' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean to

do is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of _that_ is

too much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a few

days.'

The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt. His next letter from

Shergold came in about ten days; it informed him very briefly that the

writer was 'about to be married,' and that in less than a week he would

have started with his wife on a voyage round the world. Harvey did not

reply; indeed, the letter contained no address.

One day in November he was accosted at the club by his familiar bore.

'So your friend Shergold is dead?'

'Dead? I know nothing of it.'

'Really? They talked of it last night at Lady Teasdale's. He died a few

days ago, at Calcutta. Dysentery, or something of that kind. His wife

cabled to some one or other.'

THE SALT OF THE EARTH

Strong and silent the tide of Thames flowed upward, and over it swept the

morning tide of humanity. Through white autumnal mist yellow sunbeams

flitted from shore to shore. The dome, the spires, the river frontages

slowly unveiled and brightened: there was hope of a fair day.

Not that it much concerned this throng of men and women hastening to their

labour. From near and far, by the league-long highways of South London,

hither they converged each morning, and joined the procession across the

bridge; their task was the same to-day as yesterday, regardless of gleam or

gloom. Many had walked such a distance that they plodded wearily, looking

neither to right nor left. The more vigorous strode briskly on, elbowing

their way, or nimbly skipping into the road to gain advance; yet these also

had a fixed gaze, preoccupied or vacant, seldom cheerful. Here and there a

couple of friends conversed; girls, with bag or parcel and a book for the

dinner hour, chattered and laughed; but for the most part lips were mute

amid the clang and roar of heavy-laden wheels.

It was the march of those who combat hunger with delicate hands: at the

pen's point, or from behind the breastwork of a counter, or trusting to

bare wits pressed daily on the grindstone. Their chief advantage over the

sinewy class beneath them lay in the privilege of spending more than they

could afford on house and clothing; with rare exceptions they had no hope,

no chance, of reaching independence; enough if they upheld the threadbare

standard of respectability, and bequeathed it to their children as a

solitary heirloom. The oldest looked the poorest, and naturally so; amid

the tramp of multiplying feet, their steps had begun to lag when speed was

more than ever necessary; they saw newcomers outstrip them, and trudged

under an increasing load.

No eye surveying this procession would have paused for a moment on Thomas

Bird. In costume there was nothing to distinguish him from hundreds of

rather shabby clerks who passed along with their out-of-fashion chimney-pot

and badly rolled umbrella; his gait was that of a man who takes no exercise

beyond the daily walk to and from his desk; the casual glance could see

nothing in his features but patient dullness tending to good humour. He

might be thirty, he might be forty--impossible to decide. Yet when a ray of

sunshine fell upon him, and he lifted his eyes to the eastward promise,

there shone in his countenance something one might vainly have sought

through the streaming concourse of which Thomas Bird was an unregarded

atom. For him, it appeared, the struggling sunlight had a message of hope.

Trouble cleared from his face; he smiled unconsciously and quickened his

steps.

For fifteen years he had walked to and fro over Blackfriars Bridge, leaving

his home in Camberwell at eight o'clock and reaching it again at seven.

Fate made him a commercial clerk as his father before him; he earned more

than enough for his necessities, but seemed to have reached the limit of

promotion, for he had no influential friends, and he lacked the capacity to

rise by his own efforts. There may have been some calling for which Thomas

was exactly suited, but he did not know of it; in the office he proved

himself a trustworthy machine, with no opportunity of becoming anything

else. His parents were dead, his kindred scattered, he lived, as for

several years past, in lodgings. But it never occurred to him to think of

his lot as mournful. A man of sociable instincts, he had many

acquaintances, some of whom he cherished. An extreme simplicity marked his

tastes, and the same characteristic appeared in his conversation; an easy

man to deceive, easy to make fun of, yet impossible to dislike, or

despise--unless by the despicable. He delighted in stories of adventure, of

bravery by flood or field, and might have posed--had he ever posed at

all--as something of an authority on North Pole expeditions and the

geography of Polynesia.

He received his salary once a month, and to-day was pay-day: the

consciousness of having earned a certain number of sovereigns always set

his thoughts on possible purchases, and at present he was revolving the

subject of his wardrobe. Certainly it needed renewal, but Thomas could not

decide at which end to begin, head or feet. His position in a leading house

demanded a good hat, the bad weather called for new boots. Living

economically as he did, it should have been a simple matter to resolve the

doubt by purchasing both articles, but, for one reason and another, Thomas

seldom had a surplus over the expenses of his lodgings; in practice he

found it very difficult to save a sovereign for other needs.

When evening released him he walked away in a cheerful frame of mind,

grasping the money in his trousers' pocket, and all but decided to make

some acquisition on the way home. Near Ludgate Circus some one addressed

him over his shoulder.

'Good evening, Tom; pleasant for the time of year.'

The speaker was a man of fifty, stout and florid--the latter peculiarity

especially marked in his nose; he looked like a substantial merchant, and

spoke with rather pompous geniality. Thrusting his arm through the clerk's,

he walked with him over Blackfriars Bridge, talking in the friendliest

strain of things impersonal. Beyond the bridge--

'Do you tram it?' he asked, glancing upwards.

'I think so, Mr. Warbeck,' answered the other, whose tone to his

acquaintance was very respectful.

'Ah! I'm afraid it would make me late.--Oh, by the bye, Tom, I'm really

ashamed--most awkward that this kind of thing happens so often, but--could

you, do you think?--No, no; one sovereign only. Let me make a note of it by

the light of this shop-window. Really, the total is getting quite

considerable. Tut, tut! You shall have a cheque in a day or two. Oh, it

can't run on any longer; I'm completely ashamed of myself. Entirely

temporary--as I explained. A cheque on Wednesday at latest. Good-bye, Tom.'

They shook hands cordially, and Mr. Warbeck went off in a hansom. Thomas

Bird, changing his mind about the tram, walked all the way home, and with

bent head. One would have thought that he had just done something

discreditable.

He was wondering, not for the first time, whether Mrs. Warbeck knew or

suspected that her husband was in debt to him. Miss Warbeck--Alma

Warbeck--assuredly had never dreamed of such a thing. The system of casual

loans dated from nearly twelve months ago, and the total was now not much

less than thirty pounds. Mr. Warbeck never failed to declare that he was

ashamed of himself, but probably the creditor experienced more discomfort

of that kind. At the first playful demand Thomas felt a shock. He had known

the Warbecks since he was a lad, had always respected them as somewhat his

social superiors, and, as time went on, had recognised that the difference

of position grew wider: he remaining stationary, while his friends

progressed to a larger way of living. But they were, he thought, no less

kind to him; Mrs. Warbeck invited him to the house about once a month, and

Alma--Alma talked with him in such a pleasant, homely way. Did their

expenditure outrun their means? He would never have supposed it, but for

the City man's singular behaviour. About the cheque so often promised he

cared little, but with all his heart he hoped Mrs. Warbeck did not know.

Somewhere near Camberwell Green, just as he had resumed the debate about

his purchases, a middle-aged woman met him with friendly greeting. Her

appearance was that of a decent shopkeeper's wife.

'I'm so glad I've met you, Mr. Bird. I know you'll be anxious to hear how

our poor friend is getting on.'

She spoke of the daughter of a decayed tradesman, a weak and overworked

girl, who had lain for some weeks in St. Thomas's Hospital. Mrs. Pritchard,

a gadabout infected with philanthropy, was fond of discovering such cases,

and in everyday conversation made the most of her charitable efforts.

'They'll allow her out in another week,' she pursued. 'But, of course, she

can't expect to be fit for anything for a time. And I very much doubt

whether she'll ever get the right use of her limbs again. But what we have

to think of now is to get her some decent clothing. The poor thing has

positively nothing. I'm going to speak to Mrs. Doubleday, and a few other

people. Really, Mr. Bird, if it weren't that I've presumed on your good

nature so often lately--'

She paused and smiled unctuously at him.

'I'm afraid I can't do much,' faltered Thomas, reddening at the vision of a

new 'chimney-pot.'

'No, no; of course not. I'm sure I should never expect--it's only that

every little--_however_ little--_does_ help, you know.'

Thomas thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out a florin, which Mrs.

Pritchard pursed with effusive thanks.

Certain of this good woman's critics doubted her competence as a trustee,

but Thomas Bird had no such misgiving. He talked with kindly interest of

the unfortunate girl, and wished her well in a voice that carried

conviction.

His lodgings were a pair of very small, mouldy, and ill-furnished rooms; he

took them unwillingly, overcome by the landlady's doleful story of their

long lodgerless condition, and, in the exercise of a heavenly forbearance,

remained year after year. The woman did not cheat him, and Thomas knew

enough of life to respect her for this remarkable honesty; she was simply

an ailing, lachrymose slut, incapable of effort. Her son, a lad who had

failed in several employments from sheer feebleness of mind and body,

practically owed his subsistence to Thomas Bird, whose good offices had at

length established the poor fellow at a hairdresser's. To sit frequently

for an hour at a time, as Thomas did, listening with attention to Mrs.

Batty's talk of her own and her son's ailments, was in itself a marvel of

charity. This evening she met him as he entered, and lighted him into his

room.

'There's a letter come for you, Mr. Bird. I put it down somewheres--why,

now, where _did_ I--? Oh, 'ere it is. You'll be glad to 'ear as Sam did his

first shave to-day, an' his 'and didn't tremble much neither.'

Burning with desire to open the letter, which he saw was from Mrs. Warbeck,

Thomas stood patiently until the flow of words began to gurgle away amid

groans and pantings.

'Well,' he cried gaily, 'didn't I promise Sam a shilling when he'd done his

first shave? If I didn't I ought to have done, and here it is for him.'

Then he hurried into the bedroom, and read his letter by candle-light. It

was a short scrawl on thin, scented, pink-hued notepaper. Would he do Mrs.

Warbeck the 'favour' of looking in before ten to-night? No explanation of

this unusually worded request; and Thomas fell at once into a tremor of

anxiety. With a hurried glance at his watch, he began to make ready for the

visit, struggling with drawers which would neither open nor shut, and

driven to despair by the damp condition of his clean linen.

In this room, locked away from all eyes but his own, lay certain relics

which Thomas worshipped. One was a photograph of a girl of fifteen. At that

age Alma Warbeck promised little charm, and the photograph allowed her

less; but it was then that Thomas Bird became her bondman, as he had ever

since remained. There was also a letter, the only one that he had ever

received from her--'Dear Mr. Bird,--Mamma says will you buy her some more

of those _jewjewbs_ at the shop in the city, and bring them on

Sunday.--Yours sincerely, Alma Warbeck'--written when she was sixteen,

seven years ago. Moreover, there was a playbill, used by Alma on the single

occasion when he accompanied the family to a theatre.

Never had he dared to breathe a syllable of what he thought--'hoped' would

misrepresent him, for Thomas in this matter had always stifled hope.

Indeed, hope would have been irrational. In the course of her teens Alma

grew tall and well proportioned; not beautiful of feature, but pleasing;

not brilliant in personality, but good-natured; fairly intelligent and

moderately ambitious. She was the only daughter of a dubiously active

commission-agent, and must deem it good fortune if she married a man with

three or four hundred a year; but Thomas Bird had no more than his twelve

pounds a month, and did not venture to call himself a gentleman. In Alma he

found the essentials of true ladyhood--perhaps with reason; he had never

heard her say an ill-natured thing, nor seen upon her face a look which

pained his acute sensibilities; she was unpretentious, of equal temper,

nothing of a gossip, kindly disposed. Never for a moment had he flattered

himself that Alma perceived his devotion or cared for him otherwise than as

for an old friend. But thought is free, and so is love. The modest clerk

had made this girl the light of his life, and whether far or near the rays

of that ideal would guide him on his unworldly path.

New shaven and freshly clad, he set out for the Warbecks' house, which was

in a near part of Brixton. Not an imposing house by any means, but an

object of reverence to Thomas Bird. A servant whom he did not

recognise--servants came and went at the Warbecks'--admitted him to the

drawing-room, which was vacant; there, his eyes wandering about the

gimcrack furniture, which he never found in the same arrangement at two

successive visits, he waited till his hostess came in.

Mrs. Warbeck was very stout, very plain, and rather untidy, yet her

countenance made an impression not on the whole disagreeable; with her wide

eyes, slightly parted lips, her homely smile, and unadorned speech, she

counteracted in some measure the effect, upon a critical observer, of the

pretentious ugliness with which she was surrounded. Thomas thought her a

straightforward woman, and perhaps was not misled by his partiality.

Certainly the tone in which she now began, and the tenor of her remarks,

repelled suspicion of duplicity.

'Well, now, Mr. Thomas, I wish to have a talk.' She had thus styled him

since he grew too old to be called Tom; that is to say, since he was

seventeen. He was now thirty-one. 'And I'm going to talk to you just like

the old friends we are. You see? No nonsense; no beating about the bush.

You'd rather have it so, wouldn't you?' Scarce able to articulate, the

visitor showed a cheery assent. 'Yes, I was sure of that. Now--better come

to the point at once--my daughter is--well, no, she isn't yet, but the fact

is I feel sure she'll very soon be engaged.'

The blow was softened by Thomas's relief at discovering that money would

not be the subject of their talk, yet it fell upon him, and he winced.

'You've expected it,' pursued the lady, with bluff good-humour. 'Yes, of

course you have.' She said ''ave,' a weakness happily unshared by her

daughter. 'We don't want it talked about, but I know you can hold your

tongue. Well, it's young Mr. Fisher, of Nokes, Fisher and Co. We haven't

known him long, but he took from the first to Alma, and I have my reasons

for believing that the feeling is _mutial_, though I wouldn't for the world

let Alma hear me say so.'

Young Mr. Fisher. Thomas knew of him; a capable business man, and son of a

worthy father. He kept his teeth close, his eyes down.

'And now,' pursued Mrs. Warbeck, becoming still more genial, 'I'm getting

round to the unpleasant side of the talk, though I don't see that it _need_

be unpleasant. We're old friends, and where's the use of being friendly if

you can't speak your mind, when speak you must? It comes to this: I just

want to ask you quite straightforward, not to be offended or take it ill if

we don't ask you to come here till this business is over and settled. You

see? The fact is, we've told Mr. Fisher he can look in whenever he likes,

and it might happen, you know, that he'd meet you here, and, speaking like

old friends--I think it better not.'

A fire burned in the listener's cheeks, a noise buzzed in his ears. He

understood the motive of this frank request; humble as ever--never humbler

than when beneath this roof--he was ready to avow himself Mr. Fisher's

inferior; but with all his heart he wished that Mrs. Warbeck had found some

other way of holding him aloof from her prospective son-in-law.

'Of course,' continued the woman stolidly, 'Alma doesn't know I'm saying

this. It's just between our two selves. I haven't even spoken of it to Mr.

Warbeck. I'm quite sure that you'll understand that we're obliged to make a

few changes in the way we've lived. It's all very well for you and me to be

comfortable together, and laugh and talk about all sorts of things, but

with one like Alma in the 'ouse, and the friends she's making and the

company that's likely to come here--now you _do_ see what I mean, _don't_

you, now? And you won't take it the wrong way? No, I was sure you wouldn't.

There, now, we'll shake 'ands over it, and be as good friends as ever.' The

handshaking was metaphorical merely. Thomas smiled, and was endeavouring to

shape a sentence, when he heard voices out in the hall.

'There's Alma and her father back,' said Mrs. Warbeck. 'I didn't think

they'd come back so soon; they've been with some new friends of ours.'

Thomas jumped up.

'I can't--I'd rather not see them, please, Mrs. Warbeck. Can you prevent

it?' His voice startled her somewhat, and she hesitated. A gesture of

entreaty sent her from the room. As the door opened Alma was heard laughing

merrily; then came silence. In a minute or two the hostess returned and the

visitor, faltering, 'Thank you. I quite understand,' quietly left the

house.

For three weeks he crossed and recrossed Blackfriars Bridge without meeting

Mr. Warbeck. His look was perhaps graver, his movements less alert, but he

had not noticeably changed; his life kept its wonted tenor. The

florid-nosed gentleman at length came face to face with him on Ludgate Hill

in the dinner-hour--an embarrassment to both. Speedily recovering

self-possession Mr. Warbeck pressed the clerk's hand with fervour and drew

him aside.

'I've been wanting to see you, Tom. So you keep away from us, do you? I

understand. The old lady has given me a quiet hint. Well, well, you're

quite right, and I honour you for it, Tom. Nothing selfish about _you_; you

keep it all to yourself; I honour you for it, my dear boy. And perhaps I

had better tell you, Alma is to be married in January. After that, same as

before, won't it be?--Have a glass of wine with me? No time? We must have a

quiet dinner together some evening; one of the old chop houses.--There was

something else I wanted to speak about, but I see you're in a hurry. All

right, it'll do next time.'

He waved his hand and was gone. When next they encountered Mr. Warbeck made

bold to borrow ten shillings, without the most distant allusion to his

outstanding debt.

Thomas Bird found comfort in the assurance that Mrs. Warbeck had kept _her_

secret as the borrower kept _his_.

Alma's father was not utterly dishonoured in his sight.

One day in January, Thomas, pleading indisposition, left work at twelve. He

had a cold and a headache, and felt more miserable than at any time since

his school-days. As he rode home in an omnibus Mr. and Mrs. Warbeck were

entertaining friends at the wedding-breakfast, and Thomas knew it. For an

hour or two in the afternoon he sat patiently under his landlady's talk,

but a fit of nervous exasperation at length drove him forth, and he did not

return till supper-time. Just as he sat down to a basin of gruel, Mrs.

Batty admitted a boy who brought him a message. 'Mother sent me round, Mr.

Bird,' said the messenger, 'and she wants to know if you could just come

and see her; it's something about father. He had some work to do, but he

hasn't come home to do it.'

Without speaking Thomas equipped himself and walked a quarter of a mile to

the lodgings of a married friend of his--a clerk chronically out of work,

and too often in liquor. The wife received him with tears. After eight

weeks without earning a penny, her husband had obtained the job of

addressing five hundred envelopes, to be done at home and speedily. Tempted

forth by an acquaintance 'for half a minute' as he sat down to the task, he

had been absent for three hours, and would certainly return unfit for work.

'It isn't only the money,' sobbed his wife, 'but it might have got him more

work, and now, of course, he's lost the chance, and we haven't nothing more

than a crust of bread left. And--'

Thomas slipped half-a-crown into her hand and whispered, 'Send Jack before

the shops close.' Then, to escape thanks, he shouted out, 'Where's these

blessed envelopes, and where's the addresses? All right, just leave me this

corner of the table and don't speak to me as long as I sit here.'

Between half-past nine and half-past twelve, at the rate of eighty an hour,

he addressed all but half the five hundred envelopes. Then his friend

appeared, dolefully drunk. Thomas would not look at him.

'He'll finish the rest by dinner to-morrow,' said the miserable wife, 'and

that's in time.'

So Thomas Bird went home. He felt better at heart, and blamed himself for

his weakness during the day. He blamed himself often enough for this or

that, knowing not that such as he are the salt of the earth.

THE PIG AND WHISTLE

'I possess a capital of thirty thousand pounds. One-third of this is

invested in railway shares, which bear interest at three and a half per

cent.; another third is in Government stock, and produces two and

three-quarters per cent.; the rest is lent on mortgages, at three per cent.

Calculate my income for the present year.'

This kind of problem was constantly being given out by Mr. Ruddiman,

assistant master at Longmeadows School. Mr. Ruddiman, who had reached the

age of five-and-forty, and who never in his life had possessed

five-and-forty pounds, used his arithmetic lesson as an opportunity for

flight of imagination. When dictating a sum in which he attributed to

himself enormous wealth, his eyes twinkled, his slender body struck a

dignified attitude, and he smiled over the class with a certain genial

condescension. When the calculation proposed did not refer to personal

income it generally illustrated the wealth of the nation, in which Mr.

Ruddiman had a proud delight. He would bid his youngsters compute the

proceeds of some familiar tax, and the vast sum it represented rolled from

his lips on a note of extraordinary satisfaction, as if he gloried in this

evidence of national prosperity. His salary at Longmeadows just sufficed to

keep him decently clad and to support him during the holidays. He had been

a master here for seven years, and earnestly hoped that his services might

be retained for at least seven more; there was very little chance of his

ever obtaining a better position, and the thought of being cast adrift, of

having to betake himself to the school agencies and enter upon new

engagements, gave Mr. Ruddiman a very unpleasant sensation. In his time he

had gone through hardships such as naturally befall a teacher without

diplomas and possessed of no remarkable gifts; that he had never broken

down in health was the result of an admirable constitution and of much

native cheerfulness. Only at such an establishment as Longmeadows--an

old-fashioned commercial 'academy,' recommended to parents by the

healthiness of its rural situation--could he have hoped to hold his ground

against modern educational tendencies, which aim at obliterating Mr.

Ruddiman and all his kind. Every one liked him; impossible not to like a

man so abounding in kindliness and good humour; but his knowledge was

anything but extensive, and his methods in instruction had a fine flavour

of antiquity. Now and then Mr. Ruddiman asked himself what was to become of

him when sickness or old age forbade his earning even the modest income

upon which he could at present count, but his happy temper dismissed the

troublesome reflection. One thing, however, he had decided; in future he

would find some more economical way of spending his holidays. Hitherto he

had been guilty of the extravagance of taking long journeys to see members

of his scattered family, or of going to the seaside, or of amusing himself

(oh, how innocently!) in London. This kind of thing must really stop. In

the coming summer vacation he had determined to save at least five

sovereigns, and he fancied he had discovered a simple way of doing it.

On pleasant afternoons, when he was 'off duty,' Mr. Ruddiman liked to have

a long ramble by himself about the fields and lanes. In solitude he was

never dull; had you met him during one of these afternoon walks, more

likely than not you would have seen a gentle smile on his visage as he

walked with head bent. Not that his thoughts were definitely of agreeable

things; consciously he thought perhaps of nothing at all; but he liked the

sunshine and country quiet, and the sense of momentary independence. Every

one would have known him for what he was. His dress, his gait, his

countenance, declared the under-master. Mr. Ruddiman never carried a

walking-stick; that would have seemed to him to be arrogating a social

position to which he had no claim. Generally he held his hands together

behind him; if not so, one of them would dip its fingers into a waistcoat

pocket and the other grasp the lapel of his coat. If anything he looked

rather less than his age, a result, perhaps, of having always lived with

the young. His features were agreeably insignificant; his body, though

slight of build, had something of athletic outline, due to long practice at

cricket, football, and hockey.

If he had rather more time than usual at his disposal he walked as far as

the Pig and Whistle, a picturesque little wayside inn, which stood alone,

at more than a mile from the nearest village. To reach the Pig and Whistle

one climbed a long, slow ascent, and in warm weather few pedestrians, or,

for the matter of that, folks driving or riding, could resist the

suggestion of the ivy-shadowed porch which admitted to the quaint parlour.

So long was it since the swinging sign had been painted that neither of Pig

nor of Whistle was any trace now discoverable; but over the porch one read

clearly enough the landlord's name: William Fouracres. Only three years ago

had Mr. Fouracres established himself here; Ruddiman remembered his

predecessor, with whom he had often chatted whilst drinking his modest

bottle of ginger beer. The present landlord was a very different sort of

man, less affable, not disposed to show himself to every comer. Customers

were generally served by the landlord's daughter, and with her Mr. Ruddiman

had come to be on very pleasant terms.

But as this remark may easily convey a false impression, it must be added

that Miss Fouracres was a very discreet, well-spoken, deliberate person, of

at least two-and-thirty. Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a year

before anything save brief civilities passed between them. In the second

twelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchanging

reminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects of

the county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of the

fashion of bicycling. In the third year they were quite intimate; so

intimate, indeed, that when Mr. Fouracres chanced to be absent they spoke

of his remarkable history. For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had a

history worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from the

landlord's own lips. Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon the

subject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was far

from agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem by

taking the same view of the matter.

Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, the

under-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that of

refreshing himself at the familiar little inn. He entered by the ivied

porch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the bar

sewing. Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dress

from neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness and

coolness. She had a fresh complexion, and features which made no

disagreeable impression. At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as her

habit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled the

discreetest of modest welcomes.

'Good day, Miss Fouracres,' said the under-master, after his usual little

cough.

'Good day, sir,' was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiar

note of honesty. Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance's

name.

'Splendid weather for the crops. I'll take a ginger-beer, if you please.'

'Indeed, that it is, sir. Ginger-beer; yes, sir.'

Then followed two or three minutes of silence. Miss Fouracres had resumed

her sewing, though not her seat. Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage more

gravely than usual.

'How is Mr. Fouracres?' he asked at length.

'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the subdued reply, 'that he's thinking about

the Prince.'

'Oh, dear!' sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer had

distressing significance. 'That's a great pity.'

'Yes, sir. And I'm sorry to say,' went on Miss Fouracres, in the same

confidential tone, 'that the Prince is coming here. I don't mean _here_,

sir, to the Pig and Whistle, but to Woodbury Manor. Father saw it in the

newspaper, and since then he's had no rest, day or night. He's sitting out

in the garden. I don't know whether you'd like to go and speak to him,

sir?'

'I will. Yes, I certainly will. But there's something I should like to ask

you about first, Miss Fouracres. I'm thinking of staying in this part of

the country through the holidays'--long ago he had made known his

position--'and it has struck me that perhaps I could lodge here. Could you

let me have a room? Just a bedroom would be enough.'

'Why, yes, sir,' replied the landlord's daughter. 'We have two bedrooms,

you know, and I've no doubt my father would be willing to arrange with

you.'

'Ah, then I'll mention it to him. Is he in very low spirits?'

'He's unusual low to-day, sir. I shouldn't wonder if it did him good to see

you, and talk a bit.'

Having finished his ginger-beer, Mr. Ruddiman walked through the house and

passed out into the garden, where he at once became aware of Mr. Fouracres.

The landlord, a man of sixty, with grizzled hair and large, heavy

countenance, sat in a rustic chair under an apple-tree; beside him was a

little table, on which stood a bottle of whisky and a glass. Approaching,

Mr. Ruddiman saw reason to suspect that the landlord had partaken too

freely of the refreshment ready to his hand. Mr. Fouracres' person was in a

limp state; his cheeks were very highly coloured, and his head kept nodding

as he muttered to himself. At the visitor's greeting he looked up with a

sudden surprise, as though he resented an intrusion on his privacy.

'It's very hot, Mr. Fouracres,' the under-master went on to remark with

cordiality.

'Hot? I dare say it is,' replied the landlord severely. 'And what else do

you expect at this time of the year, sir?'

'Just so, Mr. Fouracres, just so!' said the other, as good-humouredly as

possible. 'You don't find it unpleasant?'

'Why should I, sir? It was a good deal hotter day than this when His Royal

Highness called upon me; a good deal hotter. The Prince didn't complain;

not he. He said to me--I'm speaking of His Royal Highness, you understand;

I hope you understand that, sir?'

'Oh, perfectly!'

'His words were--"Very seasonable weather, Mr. Fouracres." I'm not likely

to forget what he said; so it's no use you or any one else trying to make

out that he didn't say that. I tell you he _did_! "Very season weather, Mr.

Fouracres"--calling me by name, just like that. And it's no good you nor

anybody else--'

The effort of repeating the Prince's utterance with what was meant to be a

princely accent proved so exhausting to Mr. Fouracres that he sank together

in his chair and lost all power of coherent speech. In a moment he seemed

to be sleeping. Having watched him a little while, Mr. Ruddiman spoke his

name, and tried to attract his attention; finding it useless he went back

into the inn.

'I'm afraid I shall have to put it off to another day, was his remark to

the landlord's daughter. 'Mr. Four-acres is--rather drowsy.'

'Ah, sir!' sighed the young woman. 'I'm sorry to say he's often been like

that lately.'

Their eyes met, but only for an instant. Mr. Ruddiman looked and felt

uncomfortable.

'I'll come again very soon, Miss Fouracres,' he said. 'You might just speak

to your father about the room.'

'Thank you, sir. I will, sir.'

And, with another uneasy glance, which was not returned, the under-master

went his way. Descending towards Longmeadows, he thought over the

innkeeper's story, which may be briefly related. Some ten years before this

Mr. Fouracres occupied a very comfortable position; he was landlord of a

flourishing inn--called an hotel--in a little town of some importance as an

agricultural centre, and seemed perfectly content with the life and the

society natural to a man so circumstanced. His manners were marked by a

certain touch of pompousness, and he liked to dwell upon the excellence of

the entertainment which his house afforded, but these were innocent

characteristics which did not interfere with his reputation as a sensible

and sound man of business. It happened one day that two gentlemen on

horseback, evidently riding for their pleasure, stopped at the inn door,

and, after a few inquiries, announced that they would alight and have

lunch. Mr. Fouracres--who himself received these gentlemen--regarded one of

them with much curiosity, and presently came to the startling conclusion

that he was about to entertain no less a person than the Heir Apparent. He

knew that the Prince was then staying at a great house some ten miles away,

and there could be no doubt that one of his guests had a strong resemblance

to the familiar portraits of His Royal Highness. In his excitement at the

supposed discovery, Mr. Fouracres at once communicated it to those about

him, and in a very few minutes half the town had heard the news. Of course

the host would allow no one but himself to wait at the royal table--which

was spread in the inn's best room, guarded against all intrusion. In vain,

however, did he listen for a word from either of the gentlemen which might

confirm his belief; in their conversation no name or title was used, and no

mention made of anything significant. They remained for an hour. When their

horses were brought round for them a considerable crowd had gathered before

the hotel, and the visitors departed amid a demonstration of exuberant

loyalty. On the following day, one or two persons who had been present at

this scene declared that the two gentlemen showed surprise, and that,

though both raised their hats in acknowledgment of the attention they

received, they rode away laughing.

For the morrow brought doubts. People began to say that the Prince had

never been near the town at all, and that evidence could be produced of his

having passed the whole day at the house where he was a visitor. Mr.

Fouracres smiled disdainfully; no assertion or argument availed to shake

his proud assurance that he had entertained the Heir to the Throne. From

that day he knew no peace. Fired with an extraordinary arrogance, he viewed

as his enemy every one who refused to believe in the Prince's visit; he

quarrelled violently with many of his best friends; he brought insulting

accusations against all manner of persons. Before long the man was honestly

convinced that there existed a conspiracy to rob him of a distinction that

was his due. Political animus had, perhaps, something to do with it, for

the Liberal newspaper (Mr. Fouracres was a stout Conservative) made more

than one malicious joke on the subject. A few townsmen stood by the

landlord's side and used their ingenuity in discovering plausible reasons

why the Prince did not care to have it publicly proclaimed that he had

visited the town and lunched at the hotel. These partisans scorned the

suggestion that Mr. Fouracres had made a mistake, but they were unable to

deny that a letter, addressed to the Prince himself, with a view to putting

an end to the debate, had elicited (in a secretarial hand) a brief denial

of the landlord's story. Evidently something very mysterious underlay the

whole affair, and there was much shaking of heads for a long time.

To Mr. Fouracres the result of the honour he so strenuously vindicated was

serious indeed. By way of defiance to all mockers he wished to change the

time-honoured sign of the inn, and to substitute for it the Prince of

Wales's Feathers. On this point he came into conflict with the owner of the

property, and, having behaved very violently, received notice that his

lease, just expiring, would not be renewed. Whereupon what should Mr.

Fouracres do but purchase land and begin to build for himself an hotel

twice as large as that he must shortly quit. On this venture he used all,

and more than all, his means, and, as every one had prophesied, he was soon

a ruined man. In less than three years from the fatal day he turned his

back upon the town where he had known respect and prosperity, and went

forth to earn his living as best he could. After troublous wanderings, on

which he was accompanied by his daughter, faithful and devoted, though she

had her doubts on a certain subject, the decayed publican at length found a

place of rest. A small legacy from a relative had put it in his power to

make a new, though humble, beginning in business; he established himself at

the Pig and Whistle.

The condition in which he had to-day been discovered by Mr. Ruddiman was

not habitual with him. Once a month, perhaps, his melancholy thoughts drove

him to the bottle; for the most part he led a sullen, brooding life,

indifferent to the state of his affairs, and only animated when he found a

new and appreciative listener to the story of his wrongs. That he had been

grievously wronged was Mr. Fouracres' immutable conviction. Not by His

Royal Highness; the Prince knew nothing of the strange conspiracy which had

resulted in Fouracres' ruin; letters addressed to His Royal Highness were

evidently intercepted by underlings, and never came before the royal eyes.

Again and again had Mr. Fouracres written long statements of his case, and

petitioned for an audience. He was now resolved to adopt other methods; he

would use the first opportunity of approaching the Prince's person, and

lifting up his voice where he could not but be heard. He sought no vulgar

gain; his only desire was to have this fact recognised, that he had,

indeed, entertained the Prince, and so put to shame all his scornful

enemies. And now the desired occasion offered itself. In the month of

September His Royal Highness would be a guest at Woodbury Manor, distant

only some couple of miles from the Pig and Whistle. It was the excitement

of such a prospect which had led Mr. Fouracres to undue indulgence under

the apple-tree this afternoon.

A week later Mr. Ruddiman again ascended the hill, and, after listening

patiently to the narrative which he had heard fifty times, came to an

arrangement with Mr. Fouracres about the room he wished to rent for the

holidays. The terms were very moderate, and the under-master congratulated

himself on this prudent step. He felt sure that a couple of months at the

Pig and Whistle would be anything but disagreeable. The situation was high

and healthy; the surroundings were picturesque. And for society, well,

there was Miss Fouracres, whom Mr. Ruddiman regarded as a very sensible and

pleasant person.

Of course, no one at Longmeadows had an inkling of the under-master's

intention. On the day of 'breaking up' he sent his luggage, as usual, to

the nearest railway station, and that same evening had it conveyed by

carrier to the little wayside inn, where, much at ease in mind and body, he

passed his first night.

He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader. In

the garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, and

there, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in the

golden age. Now and then he tried to awaken his host's interest in

questions of national finance. It was one of Mr. Ruddiman's favourite

amusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by the

Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his own

financial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament.

All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, and

his mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus be

added to the national wealth. But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemed

trivial. A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimes

giving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygone

glories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge.

Much more satisfactory were the conversations between Mr. Ruddiman and his

host's daughter; they were generally concerned with the budget, not of the

nation, but of the Pig and Whistle. Miss Fouracres was a woman of much

domestic ability; she knew how to get the maximum of comfort out of small

resources. But for her the inn would have been a wretched little place--as,

indeed, it was before her time. Miss Fouracres worked hard and prudently.

She had no help; the garden, the poultry, all the cares of house and inn

were looked after by her alone--except, indeed, a few tasks beyond her

physical strength, which were disdainfully performed by the landlord. A

pony and cart served chiefly to give Mr. Fouracres an airing when his life

of sedentary dignity grew burdensome. One afternoon, when he had driven to

the market town, his daughter and her guest were in the garden together,

gathering broad beans and gossiping with much contentment.

'I wish I could always live here!' exclaimed Mr. Ruddiman, after standing

for a moment with eyes fixed meditatively upon a very large pod which he

had just picked.

Miss Fouracres looked at him as if in surprise, her left hand clasping her

chin.

'Ah, you'd soon get tired of it, sir.'

'I shouldn't! No, I'm sure I shouldn't. I like this life. It suits me. I

like it a thousand times better than teaching in a school.'

'That's your fancy, sir.'

As Miss Fouracres spoke a sound from the house drew her attention; some one

had entered the inn.

'A customer?' said Mr. Ruddiman. 'Let me go and serve him--do let me!'

'But you wouldn't know how, sir.'

'If it's beer, and that's most likely, I know well enough. I've watched you

so often. I'll go and see.'

With the face of a schoolboy he ran into the house, and was absent about

ten minutes. Then he reappeared, chinking coppers in his hand and laughing

gleefully.

'A cyclist! Pint of half-and-half! I served him as if I'd done nothing else

all my life.'

Miss Fouracres looked at him with wonder and admiration. She did not laugh;

demonstrative mirth was not one of her characteristics; but for a long time

there dwelt upon her good, plain countenance a half-smile of placid

contentment. When they went in together, Mr. Ruddiman begged her to teach

him all the mysteries of the bar, and his request was willingly granted. In

this way they amused themselves until the return of the landlord, who, as

soon as he had stabled his pony, called Mr. Ruddiman aside, and said in a

hoarse whisper--

'The Prince comes to-morrow!'

'Ha! does he?' was the answer, in a tone of feigned interest.

'I shall see him. It's all settled. I've made friends with one of the

gardeners at Woodbury Manor, and he's promised to put me in the way of

meeting His Royal Highness. I shall have to go over there for a day or two,

and stay in Woodbury, to be on the spot when the chance offers.'

Mr. Fouracres had evidently been making his compact with the aid of strong

liquor; he walked unsteadily, and in other ways betrayed imperfect command

of himself. Presently, at the tea-table, he revealed to his daughter the

great opportunity which lay before him, and spoke of the absence from home

it would necessitate.

'Of course you'll do as you like, father,' replied Miss Fouracres, with her

usual deliberation, and quite good-humouredly, 'but I think you're going on

a fool's errand, and that I tell you plain. If you'd just forget all about

the Prince, and settle down quiet at the Pig and Whistle, it 'ud be a good

deal better for you.'

The landlord regarded her with surprise and scorn. It was the first time

that his daughter had ventured to express herself so unmistakably.

'The Pig and Whistle!' he exclaimed. 'A pothouse! I who have kept an hotel

and entertained His Royal Highness. You speak like an ignorant woman. Hold

your tongue, and don't dare to let me hear your voice again until to-morrow

morning!'

Miss Fouracres obeyed him. She was absolutely mute for the rest of the

evening, save when obliged to exchange a word or two with rustic company or

in the taproom. Her features expressed uneasiness rather than

mortification.

The next day, after an early breakfast, Mr. Fouracres set forth to the town

of Woodbury. He had the face of a man with a fixed idea, and looked more

obstinate, more unintelligent than ever. To his daughter he had spoken only

a few cold words, and his last bidding to her was 'Take care of the

pothouse!' This treatment gave Miss Fouracres much pain, for she was a

softhearted woman, and had never been anything but loyal and affectionate

to her father all through his disastrous years. Moreover, she liked the Pig

and Whistle, and could not bear to hear it spoken of disdainfully. Before

the sound of the cart had died away she had to wipe moisture from her eyes,

and at the moment when she was doing so Mr. Ruddiman came into the parlour.

'Has Mr. Fouracres gone?' asked the guest, with embarrassment.

'Just gone, sir,' replied the young woman, half turned away, and nervously

fingering her chin.

'I shouldn't trouble about it if I were you, Miss Fouracres,' said Mr.

Ruddiman in a tone of friendly encouragement. 'He'll soon be back, he'll

soon be back, and you may depend upon it there'll be no harm done.'

'I hope so, sir, but I've an uneasy sort of feeling; I have indeed.'

'Don't you worry, Miss Fouracres. When the Prince has gone away he'll be

better.'

Miss Fouracres stood for a moment with eyes cast down, then, looking

gravely at Mr. Ruddiman, said in a sorrowful voice--

'He calls the Pig and Whistle a pothouse.'

'Ah, that was wrong of him!' protested the other, no less earnestly. 'A

pothouse, indeed! Why, it's one of the nicest little inns you could find

anywhere. I'm getting fond of the Pig and Whistle. A pothouse, indeed! No,

I call that shameful.'

The listener's eyes shone with gratification.

'Of course we've got to remember,' she said more softly, 'that father has

known very different things.'

'I don't care what he has known!' cried Mr. Ruddiman. 'I hope I may never

have a worse home than the Pig and Whistle. And I only wish I could live

here all the rest of my life, instead of going back to that beastly

school!'

'Don't you like the school, Mr. Ruddiman?'

'Oh, I can't say I _dis_like it. But since I've been living here--well,

it's no use thinking of impossibilities.'

Towards midday the pony and trap came back, driven by a lad from Woodbury,

who had business in this direction. Miss Fouracres asked him to unharness

and stable the pony, and whilst this was being done Mr. Ruddiman stood by,

studiously observant. He had pleasure in every detail of the inn life.

To-day he several times waited upon passing guests, and laughed exultantly

at the perfection he was attaining. Miss Fouracres seemed hardly less

pleased, but when alone she still wore an anxious look, and occasionally

heaved a sigh of trouble.

Mr. Ruddiman, as usual, took an early supper, and soon after went up to his

room. By ten o'clock the house was closed, and all through the night no

sound disturbed the peace of the Pig and Whistle.

The morrow passed without news of Mr. Fouracres. On the morning after, just

as Mr. Ruddiman was finishing his breakfast, alone in the parlour, he heard

a loud cry of distress from the front part of the inn. Rushing out to see

what was the matter, he found Miss Fouracres in agitated talk with a man on

horseback.

'Ah, what did I say!' she cried at sight of the guest. 'Didn't I _know_

something was going to happen? I must go at once--I must put in the pony--'

'I'll do that for you,' said Mr. Ruddiman. 'But what has happened?'

The horseman, a messenger from Woodbury, told a strange tale. Very early

this morning, a gardener walking through the grounds at Woodbury Manor, and

passing by a little lake or fishpond, saw the body of a man lying in the

water, which at this point was not three feet in depth. He drew the corpse

to the bank, and, in so doing, recognised his acquaintance, Mr. Fouracres,

with whom he had spent an hour or two at a public-house in Woodbury on the

evening before. How the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had come to this

tragic end neither the gardener nor any one else in the neighbourhood could

conjecture.

Mr. Ruddiman set to work at once on harnessing the pony, while Miss

Fouracres, now quietly weeping, went to prepare herself for the journey. In

a very few minutes the vehicle was ready at the door. The messenger had

already ridden away.

'Can you drive yourself, Miss Fouracres?' asked Ruddiman, looking and

speaking with genuine sympathy.

'Oh yes, sir. But I don't know what to do about the house. I may be away

all day. And what about you, sir?'

'Leave me to look after myself, Miss Fouracres. And trust me to look after

the house too, will you? You know I can do it. Will you trust me?'

'It's only that I'm ashamed, sir--'

'Not a bit of it. I'm very glad, indeed, to be useful; I assure you I am.'

'But your dinner, sir?'

'Why, there's cold meat. Don't you worry, Miss Fouracres. I'll look after

myself, and the house too; see if I don't. Go at once, and keep your mind

at ease on my account, pray do!'

'It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure it is. Oh, I _knew_ something was

going to happen! Didn't I _say_ so?'

Mr. Ruddiman helped her into the trap; they shook hands silently, and Miss

Fouracres drove away. Before the turn of the road she looked back. Ruddiman

was still watching her; he waved his hand, and the young woman waved to him

in reply.

Left alone, the under-master took off his coat and put on an apron, then

addressed himself to the task of washing up his breakfast things.

Afterwards he put his bedroom in order. About ten o'clock the first

customer came in, and, as luck had it, the day proved a busier one than

usual. No less than four cyclists stopped to make a meal. Mr. Ruddiman was

able to supply them with cold beef and ham; moreover, he cooked eggs, he

made tea--and all this with a skill and expedition which could hardly have

been expected of him. None the less did he think constantly of Miss

Fouracres. About five in the afternoon wheels sounded; aproned and in his

shirt-sleeves, he ran to the door--as he had already done several times at

the sound of a vehicle--and with great satisfaction saw the face of his

hostess. She, too, though her eyes showed she had been weeping long, smiled

with gladness; the next moment she exclaimed distressfully.

'Oh, sir! To think you've been here alone all day! And in an apron!'

'Don't think about me, Miss Fouracres. You look worn out, and no wonder.

I'll get you some tea at once. Let the pony stand here a little; he's not

so tired as you are. Come in and have some tea, Miss Fouracres.'

Mr. Ruddiman would not be denied; he waited upon his hostess, got her a

very comfortable tea, and sat near her whilst she was enjoying it. Miss

Fouracres' story of the day's events still left her father's death most

mysterious. All that could be certainly known was that the landlord of the

Pig and Whistle had drunk rather freely with his friend the gardener at an

inn at Woodbury, and towards nine o'clock in the evening had gone out, as

he said, for a stroll before bedtime. Why he entered the grounds of

Woodbury Manor, and how he got into the pond there, no one could say.

People talked of suicide, but Miss Fouracres would not entertain that

suggestion. Of course there was to be an inquest, and one could only await

the result of such evidence as might be forthcoming. During the day Miss

Fouracres had telegraphed to the only relatives of whom she knew anything,

two sisters of her father, who kept a shop in London. Possibly one of them

might come to the funeral.

'Well,' said Mr. Ruddiman, in a comforting tone, 'all you have to do is to

keep quiet. Don't trouble about anything. I'll look after the business.'

Miss Fouracres smiled at him through her tears.

'It's very good of you, sir, but you make me feel ashamed. What sort of a

day have you had?'

'Splendid! Look here!'

He exhibited the day's receipts, a handful of cash, and, with delight

decently subdued, gave an account of all that had happened.

'I like this business!' he exclaimed. 'Don't you trouble about anything.

Leave it all to me, Miss Fouracres.'

One of the London aunts came down, and passed several days at the Pig and

Whistle. She was a dry, keen, elderly woman, chiefly interested in the

question of her deceased brother's property, which proved to be

insignificant enough. Meanwhile the inquest was held, and all the

countryside talked of Mr. Fouracres, whose story, of course, was published

in full detail by the newspapers. Once more opinions were divided as to

whether the hapless landlord really had or had not entertained His Royal

Highness. Plainly, Mr. Fouracres' presence in the grounds of Woodbury Manor

was due to the fact that the Prince happened to be staying there. In a

state of irresponsibility, partly to be explained by intoxication, partly

by the impulse of his fixed idea, he must have gone rambling in the dark

round the Manor, and there, by accident, have fallen into the water. No

clearer hypothesis resulted from the legal inquiry, and with this all

concerned had perforce to be satisfied. Mr. Fouracres was buried, and, on

the day after the funeral, his sister returned to London. She showed no

interest whatever in her niece, who, equally independent, asked neither

counsel nor help.

Mr. Ruddiman and his hostess were alone together at the Pig and Whistle.

The situation had a certain awkwardness. Familiars of the inn--country-folk

of the immediate neighbourhood--of course began to comment on the state of

things, joking among themselves about Mr. Ruddiman's activity behind the

bar. The under-master himself was in an uneasy frame of mind. When Miss

Fouracres' aunt had gone, he paced for an hour or two about the garden; the

hostess was serving cyclists. At length the familiar voice called to him.

'Will you have your dinner, Mr. Ruddiman?'

He went in, and, before entering the parlour, stood looking at a cask of

ale which had been tilted forward.

'We must tap the new cask,' he remarked.

'Yes, sir, I suppose we must,' replied his hostess, half absently.

'I'll do it at once. Some more cyclists might come.'

For the rest of the day they saw very little of each other. Mr. Ruddiman

rambled musing. When he came at the usual hour to supper, guests were

occupying the hostess. Having eaten, he went out to smoke his pipe in the

garden, and lingered there--it being a fine, warm night--till after ten

o'clock. Miss Fouracres' voice aroused him from a fit of abstraction.

'I've just locked up, sir.'

'Ah! Yes. It's late.'

They stood a few paces apart. Mr. Ruddiman had one hand in his waistcoat

pocket, the other behind his back; Miss Fouracres was fingering her chin.

'I've been wondering,' said the under-master in a diffident voice, 'how

you'll manage all alone, Miss Fouracres.'

'Well, sir,' was the equally diffident reply, 'I've been wondering too.'

'It won't be easy to manage the Pig and Whistle all alone.'

'I'm afraid not, sir.'

'Besides, you couldn't live here in absolute solitude. It wouldn't be

safe.'

'I shouldn't quite like it, sir.'

'But I'm sure you wouldn't like to leave the Pig and Whistle, Miss

Fouracres?'

'I'd much rather stay, sir, if I could any way manage it.'

Mr. Ruddiman drew a step nearer.

'Do you know, Miss Fouracres, I've been thinking just the same. The fact

is, I don't like the thought of leaving the Pig and Whistle; I don't like

it at all. This life suits me. Could you'--he gave a little laugh--'engage

me as your assistant, Miss Fouracres?'

'Oh, sir!'

'You couldn't?'

'How can you think of such a thing, sir.'

'Well, then, there's only one way out of the difficulty that I can see. Do

you think--'

Had it not been dark Mr. Ruddiman would hardly have ventured to make the

suggestion which fell from him in a whisper. Had it not been dark Miss

Fouracres would assuredly have hesitated much longer before giving her

definite reply. As it was, five minutes of conversation solved what had

seemed a harder problem than any the under-master set to his class at

Longmeadows, and when these two turned to enter the Pig and Whistle, they

went hand in hand.