“Diseases, sir.”
“Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?”
“Pardon?”
“Was there a serious dispute about diseases?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, what was the subject of the dispute?”
“We was arguin’ as to where Wych Street was, sir.”
“What’s that?” said his lordship.
“The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych
Street was.”
“Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of
what is now the Gaiety Theatre?”
Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner.
“Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the same street you
mention, though, if I may be allowed to qualify your lordship’s
description of the locality, may I suggest that it was a little
farther east--at the side of the old Globe Theatre, which was
adjacent to St. Martin’s in the Strand? That is the street you were
all arguing about, isn’t it, Mrs. Dawes?”
“Well, sir, my aunt, who died from eating tinned lobster, used to
work at a corset shop. I ought to know.”
His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather
peevishly:
“Mr. Lowes-Parlby, when I was your age I used to pass through Wych
Street every day of my life. I did so for nearly twelve years. I
think it hardly necessary for you to contradict me.”
The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dispute with a justice,
although that justice be a hopeless old fool; but another eminent
K.C., an elderly man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the
court, and said:
“If I may be allowed to interpose, your lordship, I also spent a
great deal of my youth passing through Wych Street. I have gone into
the matter, comparing past and present ordnance survey maps. If I am
not mistaken, the street the witness was referring to began near the
hoarding at the entrance to Kingsway and ended at the back of what is
now the Aldwych Theatre.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Backer!” exclaimed Lowes-Parlby.
His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out:
“The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case.”
It certainly was, but the brief passage-of-arms left an unpleasant
tang of bitterness behind. It was observed that Mr. Lowes-Parlby
never again quite got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination
that he had shown in his treatment of the earlier witnesses. The
coloured man, Harry Jones, had died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the
proprietor of the “Wagtail,” Baldwin Meadows, Mr. Dawes and the man
who was stabbed in the wrist, all gave evidence of a rather nugatory
character. Lowes-Parlby could do nothing with it. The findings of
this special inquiry do not concern us. It is sufficient to say that
the witnesses already mentioned all returned to Wapping. The man
who had received the thrust of a hatpin through his wrist did not
think it advisable to take any action against Mrs. Dawes. He was
pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required as a witness
of an abortive discussion.
* * * * *
In a few weeks’ time the great Aztec Street siege remained only a
romantic memory to the majority of Londoners. To Lowes-Parlby the
little dispute with Justice Pengammon rankled unreasonably. It is
annoying to be publicly snubbed for making a statement which you
know to be absolutely true, and which you have even taken pains to
verify. And Lowes-Parlby was a young man accustomed to score. He made
a point of looking everything up, of being prepared for an adversary
thoroughly. He liked to give the appearance of knowing everything.
The brilliant career just ahead of him at times dazzled him. He was
one of the darlings of the gods. Everything came to Lowes-Parlby.
His father had distinguished himself at the Bar before him, and
had amassed a modest fortune. He was an only son. At Oxford he had
carried off every possible degree. He was already being spoken of for
very high political honours.
But the most sparkling jewel in the crown of his successes was
Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of Lord Vermeer, the Minister
for Foreign Affairs. She was his _fiancée_, and it was considered
the most brilliant match of the season. She was young and almost
pretty, and Lord Vermeer was immensely wealthy and one of the
most influential men in Great Britain. Such a combination was
irresistible. There seemed to be nothing missing in the life of
Francis Lowes-Parlby, K.C.
* * * * *
One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at the Aztec Street
inquiry was old Stephen Garrit. Stephen Garrit held a unique but
quite inconspicuous position in the legal world at that time. He was
a friend of judges, a specialist at various abstruse legal rulings,
a man of remarkable memory, and yet--an amateur. He had never taken
silk, never eaten the requisite dinners, never passed an examination
in his life; but the law of evidence was meat and drink to him. He
passed his life in the Temple, where he had chambers. Some of the
most eminent counsel in the world would take his opinion, or come
to him for advice. He was very old, very silent and very absorbed.
He attended every meeting of the Aztec Street inquiry, but from
beginning to end he never volunteered an opinion.
After the inquiry was over, he went and visited an old friend at the
London Survey Office. He spent two mornings examining maps. After
that he spent two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway and
Aldwych; then he worked out some careful calculations on a ruled
chart. He entered the particulars in a little book which he kept for
purposes of that kind, and then retired to his chambers to study
other matters. But, before doing so, he entered a little apophthegm
in another book. It was apparently a book in which he intended to
compile a summary of his legal experiences. The sentence ran:
“The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient
data.”
Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story at all, except for
the fact that he was present at the dinner at Lord Vermeer’s, where a
rather deplorable incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that in
the circumstances it is useful to have such a valuable and efficient
witness.
Lord Vermeer was a competent, forceful man, a little quick-tempered
and autocratic. He came from Lancashire, and before entering politics
had made an enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure, and
starch.
It was a small dinner party, with a motive behind it. His principal
guest was Mr. Sandeman, the London agent of the Ameer of Bakkan.
Lord Vermeer was very anxious to impress Mr. Sandeman and to be very
friendly with him: the reasons will appear later. Mr. Sandeman was a
self-confessed cosmopolitan. He spoke seven languages and professed
to be equally at home in any capital in Europe. London had been
his headquarters for over twenty years. Lord Vermeer also invited
Mr. Arthur Toombs, a colleague in the Cabinet, his prospective
son-in-law, Lowes-Parlby, K.C., James Trolley, a very tame Socialist
M.P., and Sir Henry and Lady Breyd, the two latter being invited, not
because Sir Henry was of any use, but because Lady Breyd was a pretty
and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal guest. The sixth
guest was Stephen Garrit.
The dinner was a great success. When the succession of courses
eventually came to a stop, and the ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer
conducted his male guests into another room for a ten minutes’ smoke
before rejoining them. It was then that the unfortunate incident
occurred. There was no love lost between Lowes-Parlby and Mr.
Sandeman. It is difficult to ascribe the real reason of their mutual
animosity, but on the several occasions when they had met there had
invariably passed a certain sardonic by-play. They were both clever,
both comparatively young, each a little suspect and jealous of the
other; moreover, it was said in some quarters that Mr. Sandeman had
had intentions himself with regard to Lord Vermeer’s daughter, that
he had been on the point of a proposal when Lowes-Parlby had butted
in and forestalled him.
Mr. Sandeman had dined well, and he was in the mood to dazzle with
a display of his varied knowledge and experiences. The conversation
drifted from a discussion of the rival claims of great cities to the
slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. There had been a slightly
acrimonious disagreement between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman as
to the claims of Budapest and Lisbon, and Mr. Sandeman had scored
because he extracted from his rival a confession that, though he had
spent two months in Budapest, he had only spent two days in Lisbon.
Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. Lowes-Parlby
changed the subject abruptly.
“Talking of landmarks,” he said, “we had a queer point arise in
that Aztec Street Inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a
discussion between a crowd of people in a pub. as to where Wych
Street was.”
“I remember,” said Lord Vermeer. “A perfectly absurd discussion. Why,
I should have thought that any man over forty would remember exactly
where it was.”
“Where would you say it was, sir?” asked Lowes-Parlby.
“Why, to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended
at the second turning after the Law Courts, going west.”
Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat
and said, in his supercilious, oily voice:
“Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and Vienna, and Lisbon, every
brick and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London
even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of Wych Street.
When I was a student I used to visit there to buy books. It ran
parallel to New Oxford Street on the south side, just between it and
Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
There was something about this assertion that infuriated
Lowes-Parlby. In the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so
insufferably asserted. In the second place, he was already smarting
under the indignity of being shown up about Lisbon. And then there
suddenly flashed through his mind the wretched incident when he had
been publicly snubbed by Justice Pengammon about the very same point;
and he knew that he was right each time. Damn Wych Street! He turned
on Mr. Sandeman.
“Oh, nonsense! You may know something about these--eastern cities;
you certainly know nothing about London if you make a statement
like that. Wych Street was a little farther east of what is now the
Gaiety Theatre. It used to run by the side of the old Globe Theatre,
parallel to the Strand.”
The dark moustache of Mr. Sandeman shot upward, revealing a narrow
line of yellow teeth. He uttered a sound that was a mingling of
contempt and derision; then he drawled out:
“Really? How wonderful--to have such comprehensive knowledge!”
He laughed, and his small eyes fixed his rival. Lowes-Parlby flushed
a deep red. He gulped down half a glass of port and muttered just
above a whisper: “Damned impudence!” Then, in the rudest manner he
could display, he turned his back deliberately on Sandeman and walked
out of the room.
* * * * *
In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps.
The whole thing was so absurd--so utterly undignified. As though
_he_ didn’t know! It was the little accumulation of pinpricks all
arising out of that one argument. The result had suddenly goaded
him to--well, being rude, to say the least of it. It wasn’t that
Sandeman mattered. To the devil with Sandeman! But what would his
future father-in-law think? He had never before given way to any
show of ill-temper before him. He forced himself into a mood of
rather fatuous jocularity. Adela was at her best in those moods.
They would have lots of fun together in the days to come. Her almost
pretty, not too clever, face was dimpled with kittenish glee. Life
was a tremendous rag to her. They were expecting Toccata, the famous
opera-singer. She had been engaged at a very high fee to come on from
Covent Garden. Mr. Sandeman was very fond of music.
Adela was laughing and discussing which was the most honourable
position for the great Sandeman to occupy. There came to Lowes-Parlby
a sudden abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be to him
when they were not just fooling? He immediately dismissed the
curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The splendid proportions of
the room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses quickened
his perceptions. His career.... The door opened. But it was not La
Toccata. It was one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby turned
again to his inamorata.
“Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in
the library?”
Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his heart beat quickly. An
incontrollable presage of evil racked his nerve centres. Something
had gone wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In
a crisis--well, he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at
Adela, and said:
“Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse me, dear.”
He followed the impressive servant out of the room. His foot had
barely touched the carpet of the library when he realized that his
worst apprehensions were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment
he thought Lord Vermeer was alone, then he observed old Stephen
Garrit, lying in an easy-chair in the corner like a piece of crumpled
parchment. Lord Vermeer did not beat about the bush. When the door
was closed, he bawled out, savagely:
“What the devil have you done?”
“Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is it Sandeman...?”
“Sandeman has gone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him.
My prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!”
“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realize....”
“Realize! Sit down, and don’t assume for one moment that you continue
to be my prospective son-in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable
piece of effrontery, not only to him, but to me.”
“But I....”
“Listen to me. Do you know that the Government were on the verge of
concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that
the position was just touch-and-go? The concessions we were prepared
to make would have cost the State thirty million pounds, and it
would have been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap!
Bakkan is one of the most vulnerable outposts of the Empire. It is a
terrible danger zone. If certain Powers can usurp our authority--and,
mark you, the whole blamed place is already riddled with this new
pernicious doctrine--you know what I mean--before we know where we
are the whole East will be in a blaze. India! My God! This contract
we were negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And
you, you blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word
the whole thing depends.”
“I really can’t see, sir, how I should know all this.”
“You can’t see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way.
You insulted him about the merest quibble--in my house!”
“He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I
corrected him.”
“Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in
the moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act
in the way you did. And you--you think of going into politics!”
The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed.
Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled:
“I’m very sorry.”
“I don’t want your sorrow. I want something more practical.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman’s, find him, and apologize.
Tell him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If
you can’t find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I
give you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered
a handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house
again, you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I
possess will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you
have dishonoured. Now you can go.”
Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at
Knightsbridge. Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer
had given him till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done
should be done after a night’s reflection. The fundamental purposes
of his being were to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great
crossing. Some deep instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is
it that a point comes when success demands that a man shall sell
his soul? It was all so absurdly trivial--a mere argument about the
position of a street that had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer said,
what did it matter about Wych Street?
Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but
would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument
about a street?
In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting
a pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for
companionship at such a moment--the right companionship. How lovely
it would be to have--a woman, just the right woman, to talk this all
over with; someone who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision
came to him of Adela’s face grinning about the prospective visit
of La Toccata, and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in
his ears. Would Adela be--just the right woman? In very truth, did
he really love Adela? Or was it all--a rag? Was life a rag--a game
played by lawyers, politicians, and people?
The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind
principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was
past midnight when he suddenly muttered a low “Damn!” and walked to
the bureau. He took up a pen and wrote:
DEAR MR. SANDEMAN,--
I must apologize for acting so rudely to you last night. It
was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since find, on
going into the matter, that you were quite right about the
position of Wych Street. I can’t think how I made the mistake.
Please forgive me.
Yours cordially,
FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY.
Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have
imagined at that point that the matter was finished. But there are
certain little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of
stilling, and they kept Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night.
He kept on repeating to himself, “It’s all positively absurd!” But
the little greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they began
to group things into two definite issues. On the one side, the
great appearances; on the other, something at the back of it all,
something deep, fundamental, something that could only be expressed
by one word--truth. If he had _really_ loved Adela--if he weren’t
so absolutely certain that Sandeman was wrong and he was right--why
should he have to say that Wych Street was where it wasn’t?
“Isn’t there, after all,” said one of the little demons, “something
which makes for greater happiness than success? Confess this, and
we’ll let you sleep.”
Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons
possess. However full our lives may be, we ever long for moments of
tranquillity. And conscience holds before our eyes the mirror of
an ultimate tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly not himself.
The gay, debonair, and brilliant egoist was tortured, and tortured
almost beyond control; and it had all apparently arisen through the
ridiculous discussion about a street. At a quarter past three in the
morning he arose from his bed with a groan, and, going into the
other room, he tore the letter to Mr. Sandeman to pieces.
* * * * *
Three weeks later old Stephen Garrit was lunching with the Lord Chief
Justice. They were old friends, and they never found it incumbent to
be very conversational. The lunch was an excellent, but frugal, meal.
They both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and their drink was water.
It was not till they reached the dessert stage that his lordship
indulged in any very informative comment, and then he recounted to
Stephen the details of a recent case in which he considered that the
presiding judge, by an unprecedented paralogy, misinterpreted the Law
of Evidence. Stephen listened with absorbed attention. He took two
cob-nuts from the silver dish, and turned them over meditatively,
without cracking them. When his lordship had completely stated his
opinion and peeled a pear, Stephen mumbled:
“I have been impressed, very impressed indeed. Even in my own field
of--limited observation--the opinion of an outsider, you may say--so
often it happens--the trouble caused by an affirmation without
sufficiently established data. I have seen lives lost, ruin brought
about, endless suffering. Only last week, a young man--a brilliant
career--almost shattered. People make statements without----”
He put the nuts back on the dish and then, in an apparently
irrelevant manner, he said abruptly:
“Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?”
The Lord Chief Justice grunted.
“Wych Street! Of course I do.”
“Where would you say it was, my lord?”
“Why, here, of course.”
His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the
tablecloth.
“It used to run from there to here.”
Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the plan. He
took a long time to do this, and when he had finished his hand
instinctively went toward a breast pocket where he kept a notebook
with little squared pages. Then he stopped and sighed. After all, why
argue with the law? The law was like that--an excellent thing, not
infallible, of course (even the plan of the Lord Chief Justice was a
quarter of a mile out), but still an excellent, a wonderful thing. He
examined the bony knuckles of his hands and yawned slightly.
“Do you remember it?” said the Lord Chief Justice.
Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way
off:
“Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street.”
THE OCTAVE OF JEALOUSY
I
A tramp came through a cutting by old Jerry Shindle’s nursery, and
crossing the stile, stepped into the glare of the white road. He
was a tall swarthy man with stubbly red whiskers which appeared to
conceal the whole of his face, except a small portion under each eye
about the size of a two shilling piece. His skin showed through the
rents in a filthy old black green garment, and was the same colour as
his face, a livid bronze. His toes protruded from his boots, which
seemed to be homemade contraptions of canvas and string. He carried
an ash stick, and the rest of his worldly belongings in a spotted
red and white handkerchief. His worldly belongings consisted of some
rags, a door-knob, a portion of a foot-rule, a tin mug stolen from a
workhouse, half a dozen date stones, a small piece of very old bread,
a raw onion, the shutter of a camera, and two empty matchboxes.
He looked up and down the road as though uncertain of his direction.
To the north it curved under the wooded opulence of Crawshay Park. To
the south it stretched like a white ribbon across a bold vista of
shadeless downs. He was hungry and he eyed, critically, the potential
possibilities of a cottage standing back from the road. It was a
shabby little three-roomed affair with fowls running in and out of
the front door, some washing on a line, and the sound of a child
crying within. While he was hesitating, a farm labourer came through
a gate to an adjoining field, and walked toward the cottage. He,
too, carried property tied up in a red handkerchief. His other hand
balanced a steel fork across his left shoulder. He was a thick-set,
rather dour-looking man. As he came up the tramp said:
“Where does this road lead to, mate?”
The labourer replied brusquely:
“Pondhurst.”
“How far?”
“Three and a half miles.”
Without embroidering this information any further he walked stolidly
across the road and entered the garden of the cottage. The tramp
watched him put the fork down by the lintel of the door. He saw
him enter the cottage, and he heard a woman’s voice. He sighed and
muttered into his stubbly red beard: “Lucky devil!” Then, hunching
his shoulders, he set out with long flat-footed strides down the
white road which led across the downs.
II
Having kicked some mud off his boots, the labourer, Martin Crosby,
said to his wife:
“Dinner ready?”
Emma Crosby was wringing out some clothes. Her face was shiny with
the steam and the heat of the day. She answered petulantly: