“Brought down a figure; thought perhaps a little ventriloquism would be a
novelty.”
“Anything you do will be sure to be appreciated. I’ve been thinking ever
since I met you of the perfectly splendid way you entertained at that
party.”
“Good man!”
“And I do feel it’s most awfully kind of you to come all this distance
just to oblige me. Let’s go upstairs, shall we, Mr. Cartwright? I’ll
take you to the room that used to be called the nursery.”
He got rid of his overcoat there, and, asking me for a pair of scissors,
went carefully with them around the edge of his shirt cuffs. I inquired
whether he had been going out to many parties since I last saw him: he
replied that he had no right to complain; there were plenty of
exceedingly clever people about and he could only regard himself as
cleverish. I exhibited the soldiers that mother had given me for my
birthday. He took the blue men, I took the red, and he was Napoleon and
I Wellington. We sat upon the floor, and he was so very good as to show
me exactly what happened at the battle of Waterloo, an incident of
peculiar interest to me, because it occurred on one of the few dates I am
able to retain in my memory.
“But, Mr. Cartwright, how is it you know so much about this?” He was
moving some dominoes up from the right to represent the approach of
Blucher and the German troops.
“Used to be a soldier man,” he replied.
“Why ever didn’t you stay in the army, and become a Field Marshal?”
“By Jove!” he cried, “that would have been a rattling good idea. Wonder
I didn’t think of it at the time.”
“Is it too late now?”
“Surely not,” he answered promptly, “for such an exceptionally fortunate
person as I am. Anyway, so far as 1815 is concerned, Blucher, you see,
had Grouchy to compete with—this double-six is Grouchy, with thirty-five
thousand men—but Blucher outmarched him, came up, and—” He swept the
rest of his blue men down with a wave of the hand, and hummed “Rule,
Britannia.”
I expressed a wish that he had selected the reds, so that he might have
won; but he remarked in a change of mood that anything like success in
any game would, by reason of its novelty, have given him serious alarm.
I asked how the time was going.
“Lent my watch to a relative,” he mentioned. “A rather distant relative;
but I see a good deal of him, from the waist upwards.”
And he went to the mantelpiece to inspect the clock.
“Little man,” in a sharp voice, “who is this?”
“That? Oh, that’s dear mother.”
He looked at it closely, whistled a tune softly.
“I shall have to catch an earlier train,” he announced suddenly. “I’m
sorry. You make my apologies to every one, and say the muddle was
entirely mine.”
“But you can’t, Mr. Cartwright. There’s nothing before the six minutes
to eight.”
My governess came in, and he replaced the frame quickly. My governess
has sometimes complained that the house is lacking in male society; she
took advantage of this opportunity to talk with great vivacity, and, in
tones very different from those she uses in addressing me, inquired with
affectation concerning the theatres in town, and entertainments
generally. Fearing she would try Mr. Cartwright’s patience, as she has
often tried mine, I endeavoured to detach her; but the task proved one
beyond my abilities, and she went on to submit, with deference, that what
was required was an increase of merriment in life, a view that, coming
from her, amazed me into silence. Mr. Cartwright answered that in his
opinion life was full of rollicking fun, completely furnished with joy.
“What a gift,” cried my governess, “to be able always to see the cheerful
side! It means, of course, that you have been singularly free from
anything like disaster. Tell me, now, what is the nearest to a sad
experience that you ever had?”
“I expect we ought to be getting downstairs,” he remarked.
In the hall I introduced Mr. Cartwright, with pride, to my mother.
“Charmed to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. My mother can be
very pleasant, and if, at the moment, she gave signs of agitation, it was
not to be wondered at; I myself felt nervous. “My boy tells me that you
are going to be so very kind—” She appeared unable to go on with the
sentence.
“I was glad,” he said, “to find he had not forgotten me. It isn’t
everybody who has a good memory.”
“It isn’t everybody who cares to possess one,” she said, with some
spirit. “I have heard of cases where men forget their real names.”
“I have heard of cases,” he remarked, “where women have been in a great
hurry to change theirs.”
It struck me they were not hitting it off, as one might say, and I took
his hand and led him into the drawing-room, where the children were
having refreshment between the dances. He made himself at home with them
at once, danced a quadrille with the smallest girl, consulted with my
governess about the playing of some accompaniments, and amused her by a
remark which he made. A man who could make my governess laugh was a man
capable of anything. Going to the end of the room, he took a figure of a
boy in a Tam o’ Shanter cap out of his bag, and, setting it upon his
knee, started absolutely the best entertainment I have seen in the whole
course of my existence. We all rested on the floor; my mother stood near
the doorway, but I was too much interested in Mr. Cartwright’s
performance to pay attention to her. When I did look around once, to get
her to join in the applause, I found she was looking hard at my friend,
trying, I suppose, to find out how he did it. He began to sing, with the
figure making absurd interruptions that sent us all into fits of
laughter; my mother, still serious, took a chair. Mr. Cartwright had a
good voice; I don’t know whether you would call it a baritone or a tenor,
but it was so pleasant to listen to that I half agreed with a sensible
girl sitting just in front of me, who said she wished the figure would
cease interfering.
“Lor’ bless my soul,” said the figure, “thought you’d never get that
note, Mr. Cartwright. Only just managed it.” And, in a confidential
way, “Aren’t you a rotten singer, though? Don’t you think so, strictly
between ourselves? Have you ever tried selling coke? That would be
about your mark, you know!”
We clapped hands and stamped feet when he finished, and even the girls
declared they would rather hear something more from him than go on with
the dances. He looked at his watch, and I called out to him that he was
all right for his train; he had a quarter of an hour to spare. He came
back to the pianoforte. There he touched the keys, making a selection in
his mind.
“No, no!” cried my mother, as the prelude to a song began. “Please, not
that one!”
He changed the air at once, and went off into an Irish song. You know
the kind of tune—one that makes you keep on the move all the time you are
listening. About a ball given by Mrs. O’Flaherty, where the fiddler,
once started, declined to stop, and the couples kept on with the hop,
hop, hop, so that the dance lasted for I forget how long—three weeks, I
think. The couples gradually became tired, the tune went slower and
slower.
“Mr. Cartwright,” cried my governess, in her high voice, “you ought to be
a professional.”
“I am a professional,” he replied.
I rushed like mad out into the hall. I wanted to get the opportunity of
thinking as hard and as swiftly as possible. There was no time to lose;
the station cab stood outside the door, waiting for him I went up, three
stairs at a time, and opened the door of my room; it had been used as a
temporary cloak-room, and jackets and hats were littered all over the
place. As I threw these about—everything had been moved by the servants
with some idea of making elaborate preparations—it struck me it was not
unlike a nightmare; one of those nightmares where you are in a most
terrific hurry, and everything slips away and eludes you. I could have
cried with annoyance at the thought that Mr. Cartwright was now preparing
to leave, asking for me, perhaps, and certainly wondering when and how he
was to receive his fee for making the special visit from town. In my
excitement I took the pillow and threw it into the air; underneath I
found my money-box, and some other articles which had been shifted from
the dressing-table. I seized one of my dumb-bells, smashed the box,
counted out the money with trembling fingers.
“Four and three,” I said to myself. “I shall give him four shillings,
and tell him I’ll send the rest on.”
I slid down two flights. As I neared the landing above the hall I could
hear that music had started afresh and dancing had recommenced. I was
engaged to a rather sensible girl—already referred to—for the polka, and
she would be looking out for me; but for the moment I was too full of
troubles of my own to consider those of other people. The front door was
open, and my mother was waving her hand.
“Mr. Cartwright!” I called out, running past her. “Mr. Cartwright! Oh,
do let me speak to you for a minute.”
“Can’t stop, old boy,” he said from the cab. He seemed rather quiet.
“But I must speak to you. Mother, may I go down to the station with him?
Oh, you are a good sort,” as she nodded her consent. I jumped in, and
the cab started.
I felt so thankful when I saw in his hand an envelope with some pieces of
gold, and I felt proud of her. I might have guessed mother would know
how to do the right thing.
“Little man!” He was looking at a slip of paper with some pencilled
words which the envelope also contained. “Do you ever take advice, I
wonder?”
“Do you, Mr. Cartwright?”
“I find it easier to give. People have been filling me up with it ever
since I was about your age, and some of it has been good, but I have
always done exactly as I pleased.”
“I suppose that’s the best plan.”
“No!” he replied. “It has some advantages, but not many.”
“But aren’t you”—I scarcely knew how to phrase it—“aren’t you exactly
what you want to be, Mr. Cartwright? You’re so good-humoured and jolly.”
He gave a gasp and looked at the window.
“I don’t lose my temper now,” he said. “I used to, and the last time I
lost with it everything that was worth having. Here’s the advice I want
to give you. Forget me, but try to remember this. Quarrel, if you must
quarrel, with the people who don’t matter. Never quarrel with your
friends. I had fierce words once with the best friend a man ever had.”
“What was his name?”
“It has taken her twelve years to forgive me, and in that time I’ve gone
to pieces. All just for the luxury of five minutes of wild talk. Here’s
the station; my wife will be waiting for me at the other end, to take the
money I’ve earned.” He laughed in a peculiar way. “Goodbye, old chap.
Not too big for this, are you?” He placed his hands on either side of my
face. “I wish—oh, I wish you were my boy!”
My mother asked me, when I got back and told her, to show her exactly
where he had kissed me, and she pressed her lips for some moments to the
place on my forehead. Then we went in and brightened up the party.