and had spoken to him once or twice. It was also true that
Burnaby had never given any evidence of wishing to follow up the
acquaintanceship. Bit of a swell, Burnaby, connected with all sorts
of people, member of half a dozen clubs, didn’t race but went in for
golf, and had a shooting box in Scotland. Some said he had political
ambitions, and meant to try for Parliament at the next election. He
didn’t racket round in a check suit and a white stock and mix with
grooms and farm hands; he kept up the flair of the gentleman, the
big man, even in the country. He had two cars, and three acres of
conservatory, and peacocks, and a son in the diplomatic service,
a daughter married to a bishop. His wife, too, came of a poor
but aristocratic family. Over at the “Five Gables” they kept nine
gardeners and twenty odd servants. Everything was done tip-top.
Lewis Wonnicott turned and regarded his one old man gardener, trying
the new mower, which Mrs. Mounthead had been so rude about to
Dorothy. Poor Dorothy! She was touchy, that’s what it was. Of course
she _did_ think of the children--no getting away from it. She was
ambitious more for them than for herself or himself. She had given
up being ambitious for him. He knew that she looked upon him as a
slacker, a kind of cabbage. Well, perhaps he had been. He hadn’t
accomplished all he ought to. He had loved the land, the feel of
horse-flesh, the smell of wet earth when the morning dews were on it.
He had been a failure ... a failure. He was not up to county people.
He was unworthy of his dear wife’s ambitions. Jiminy-Piminy! It would
be a squeeze to send Ralph up to Cambridge next year!
He looked across the valley at the five red gables among the elms,
and sighed.
“Lucky devil!” he murmured. “Damn it all! I suppose I must go.”
VII
“You don’t seem to realize the importance of it,” said Gwendolen
St. John Burnaby as her husband leant forward on his seat on the
terrace, and tickled the ear of Jinks, the Airedale. “A career in
the diplomatic service without influence is about as likely to be
a success as a--as a performance on a violin behind a sound-proof
curtain. There’s Lal, wasting his--his talents and genius at that
wretched little embassy at Oporto, and all you’ve got to do is to
drive three miles to Crawshay Park and put the matter before Sir
Septimus.”
“These things always seem so simple to women,” answered Sir John, a
little peevishly.
“Well, isn’t it true? Do you deny that he has the power?”
“Of course he has power, my dear, but you may not realize the kind
of life a man like that lives. Every minute of the day is filled up,
all kinds of important things crowding each other out. He’s always
been friendly enough to me, and yet every time I meet him I have an
idea he has forgotten who I am. He deals in movements in which men
are only pawns. If I told him about Lal he would say yes, he would
do what he could--make a note of it, and forget about it directly I
turned my back.”
Mrs. St. John Burnaby stamped her elegant Louis heels.
“Is nothing ever worth trying?”
“Don’t be foolish, Gwen, haven’t I tried? Haven’t I ambition?”
“For yourself, yes. I am thinking of Lal.”
“Women always think of their sons before their husbands. He knows
I’ve backed his party for all I’m worth. He knows I’m standing for
the constituency next time. When I get elected will be the moment. I
shall then have a tiny atom of power. For a man without even a vote
in Parliament do you think Letter is going to waste his time?”
“Obstinate!” muttered Mrs. Burnaby with metallic clearness. The
little lines round the eyes and mouth of a face that had once been
beautiful became accentuated in the clear sunlight. The constant
stress of ambitious desires had quickened her vitality, but in the
process had aged her body before its time. She knew that her husband
was ambitious, too, but there was always just that little something
he lacked in the great moments, just that little special effort that
might have landed him among the gods--or in the House of Lords. He
had been successful enough in a way. He had made money--a hundred
thousand or so--in brokerage and dealing indirectly in various
manufactured commodities; but he had not even attained a knighthood
or a seat in Parliament. His heavy dark face betokened power and
courage, but not vision. He was indeed as she had said--obstinate. In
minnow circles he might appear a triton, but living within the same
county as Sir Septimus Letter--Bah!
About to leave him, her movement was arrested by the approach of a
butler followed by a gentleman in a check suit and a white stock,
looking self-conscious.
Mrs. St. John Burnaby raised her lorgnette. “One of these local
people,” she reflected.
On being announced the gentleman in the check suit exclaimed rapidly:
“Excuse the liberty I take--neighbours, don’t you know. Remember me
at the Constitutional, Mr. Burnaby? Thought I would drop in and pay
my respects.”
St. John Burnaby nodded.
“Oh, yes, yes, quite. I remember, Mr.--er--Mr.----”
“Wonnicott.”
“Oh yes, of course. How do you do? My wife--Mr. Wonnicott.”
The wife and the Wonnicott bowed to each other, and there was an
uncomfortable pause. At last Mr. Wonnicott managed to say:
“We live over at Wimpstone, just across the valley--my wife, the
girls are at school, boy’s up at Rugby.”
“Oh yes--really?” This was Mrs. Burnaby, who was thinking to herself:
“The man looks like a dog fancier.”
“Very good school,” said St. John Burnaby. “Hot to-day, isn’t it!”
“Yes, it’s exceedingly warm.”
“Do you golf?”
“No, I don’t golf. I ride a bit.”
“You must excuse me,” said Mrs. St. John Burnaby, “I have got to get
a trunk call to London.”
She fluttered away across the terrace, and into the house. Mr.
Wonnicott chatted away for several minutes, but St. John Burnaby was
preoccupied and monosyllabic. The visitor was relieved to rescue his
hat at last and make his escape. Walking down the drive he thought:
“It’s no good. He dislikes me.”
As a matter of fact St. John Burnaby was not thinking about him at
all. He was thinking of Sir Septimus Letter, the big man, the power
he would have liked to have been. He ground his teeth and clenched
his fists:
“Damn it!” he muttered, “I will not appeal for young Lal. Let him
fight his own battles.”
VIII
On a certain day that summer when the sun was at its highest in the
heavens, Sir Septimus Letter stood by the bureau in his cool library
and conversed with his private secretary.
Sir Septimus was wearing what appeared to be a ready-made navy
serge suit and a low collar. His hands were thrust into his trouser
pockets. The sallow face was heavily marked, the strangely restless
eyes peered searchingly beneath dark brows which almost met in one
continuous line. The chin was finely modelled, but not too strong.
It was not indeed what is usually known as a strong face. It had
power, but of the kind which has been mellowed by the friction of
every human experience. It had alert intelligence, a penetrating
absorption, above all things it indicated vision. The speech and the
movements were incisive; the short wiry body a compact tissue of
nervous energy. He listened with the watchful intensity of a dog at a
rabbit-hole. Through the door at the end of the room could be heard
the distant click of many typewriters.
The secretary was saying:
“The third reading of the Nationalization of Paper Industries Bill
comes on at five-thirty, sir. Boneham will be up, and I do not think
you will be called till seven. You will, of course, however, wish to
hear what he has to say.”
“I know what he’ll say. You can cut that out, Roberts. Get Libby to
give me a précis at six forty-five.”
“Very good, sir. Then there will be time after the Associated News
Service Board at four to see the minister with regard to this
question of packing meetings in East Riding. Lord Lampreys said
he would be pleased if I could fix an appointment. He has some
information.”
“Right. What line are Jennins and Castwell taking over this?”
“They’re trying to side-track the issue. They have every
un-associated newspaper in the North against you.”
“H’m, h’m. Well, we’ve fought them before.”
“Yes, sir. The pressure is going to be greater this time, but
everyone has confidence you will get them down.”
The little man’s eyes sparkled. “Roberts, get through on the private
wire to--Lambe; no, get through to all of them, and make it quite
clear. This is not to be a party question. They’re to work the
unctious rectitude stuff, you know--liberty of the subject and so on.”
“Very good, sir. The car comes at one-fifteen. You are lunching
with Cranmer at Shorn Towers, the Canadian paper interests will be
strongly represented there. I will be at Whitehall Court at three
with the despatches. It would be advisable, if possible, to get Loeb
of the finance committee. Oh, by the way, sir, I had to advise you
from Loeb. They have received a cabled report of the expert’s opinion
from Labrador. There are two distinct seams of coal on that land you
bought in ’07. A syndicate from Buffalo have made an offer. They
offer a million and a quarter dollars down.”
“What did we pay?”
“One hundred and twenty thousand.”
“Don’t sell.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Have you seen my wife, lately?”
“I have not seen Lady Letter for some days, sir. I believe she is at
Harrogate.”
The little man sighed, and drew out a cigarette case, opened it and
offered one to Roberts, who accepted it with an elegant gesture. Then
he snapped it to, and replaced it in his pocket.
“Damn it, Roberts, Reeves says I mustn’t smoke.”
“Oh, dear!--only a temporary disability I trust, sir.”
“Everything is temporary, Roberts.”
With his hands still in his pockets, he walked abstractedly out of
the room. A little ormolu clock in the outer corridor indicated
twenty minutes to one. The car was due at one-fifteen. Thirty-five
minutes: oh, to escape for only that brief period! Through the glass
doors he could see his sister, talking to two men in golfing clothes,
some of the house party. The house party was a perpetual condition at
Crawshay. He turned sharply to the right, and went through a corridor
leading out to the rear of the garage. He hurried along and escaped
to a path between two tomato houses. In a few moments he was lost to
sight. He passed through a shrubbery, and came to a clearing. Without
slackening his pace, he walked across it, and got amongst some
trees. The trees of Crawshay Park--his trees!... He looked up at the
towering oaks and elms. Were they his trees--because he had bought
them? They were there years before he was born. They would be there
years after his death. He was only passing through them--a fugitive.
“Everything is temporary, Roberts----” Yes, even life itself. Jennins
and Castwell! Of course they wanted to get him down! Were they the
only ones? Does one struggle to the top without hurting others to
get there? Does one get to the top without making enemies? Does one
get to the top without suffering, and bitterness, and remorse? The
park sloped down to a low stone wall, with an opening where one could
obtain a glorious view across the weald of Sussex. The white ribbon
of a road stretched away into infinity.
As he stood there, he saw a dark swarthy figure clamber down a bank,
and stand hesitating in the middle of the road. He was a tramp with
a stubbly red beard nearly concealing his face, and a filthy black
green suit. In his hand he carried a red handkerchief containing his
worldly belongings--a door-knob, a portion of a foot-rule, a tin mug
stolen from a workhouse, some date stones, an onion, the shutter of a
camera, and two empty match boxes.
Sir Septimus did not know this fact; he merely regarded the tramp
as an abstraction. He observed him hesitate, exchange a word with a
field labourer, look up at the sky, hunch his shoulders, and suddenly
set out with long swinging strides down the white road. Whither?
There stirred within the breast of the millionaire a curious wistful
longing. Oh, to be free! To be free! To walk across those hills
without a care, without a responsibility. The figure, with its easy
gait, fascinated him. The dark form became smaller and smaller,
swallowed up in the immensity of nature. With a groan, Sir Septimus
Letter buried his face in his hands and murmured:
“Lucky devil!... lucky devil! O God! If I could die....”
THE FUNNY MAN’S DAY
His round fat little face appeared seraphic in sleep. If only the
hair were not graying at the temples and getting very, very thin
on top, and the lines about the eyes and mouth becoming rather too
accentuated, it might have been the head of one of Donatello’s
_bambini_. It was not until Mrs. Lamb, his ancient housekeeper,
bustled into the room with a can and said: “Your water, Mr.
Basingstoke”--the intrusion causing him to open his eyes--that it
became apparent that he was a man past middle-age. His eyes were
very large--“goose-gog eyes” the children called them. As elderly
people will, it took him some few moments to focus his mentality.
A child will wake up, and carry on from the exact instant it went
to sleep; but it takes a middle-aged man or woman a moment or so to
realize where they are, what day in the week it is, what happened
yesterday, what is going to happen to-day, whether they are happy
or not. Certainly with regard to the latter query there is always
a sub-conscious pressure which warns them. Almost before they
have decided which day in the week it is, a voice is whispering:
“Something occurred yesterday to make you unhappy,” or “Things are
going well. You are happy just now,” and then the true realization
of their affairs, and loves, and passions unfolds itself. They
continue yesterday’s story.
As to James Jasper Basingstoke, it was not his business to indulge in
the slightest apprehension with regard to his condition of happiness
or unhappiness. He was a funny man. It was his profession, his
mission, his natural gift. From early morning, when his housekeeper
awakened him, till, playing with the children--all the children
adored him--practising, interviewing managers and costumiers,
dropping into the club and exchanging stories with some of the other
“dear old boys,” right on until he had finished his second show at
night it was his mission to leave behind him a long trail of smiles
and laughter. Consequently, he merely sat up in bed, blinked and
called out:
“I am deeply indebted to your Lambship.”
“Nibby’s got hiccups,” replied that lady, who was not unused to
this term of address. Nibby was Mrs. Lamb’s grandson. His real name
was Percy Alexander. The granddaughter’s name was Violetta Gladys,
and she was known as Tibby. They lived next door. These names, of
course, had been invented by the Funny Man, who lived in a world of
make-believe, where no one at all was known by their real name. He
himself was known in the theatrical profession as “Willy Nilly.”
“I am distressed to hear that,” exclaimed Willy Nilly. “Hiccoughs
at nine o’clock in the morning! You don’t say so! I always looked
upon it as a nocturnal disease. The result of too many hic, hæc, hock
cups.”
“You must have your fun, Mr. Basingstoke, but the pore little feller
has been very bad ever since he woke up.”
Willy Nilly leapt out of bed and rolled across to the chest of
drawers. He there produced a bottle containing little white capsules,
two of which he handed to Mrs. Lamb.
“Crunch these up and swallow with a little milk, then lie on his back
and think of emerald green parrots flying above a dark forest, where
monkeys are hanging by their tails. In our profession the distress
of hiccoughs is quite prevalent and we always cure it in this way. A
man who can’t conquer hiccoughs can never expect to top the bill. Now
tell Master Nibby that, dear lady.”
Mrs. Lamb looked at the white capsules interestedly.
“Do you really mean that, Mr. Basingstoke?”
The little fat man struck a dramatic situation.
“Did you ever find me not a man of my word, Lady Lamb?”
“You are a ONE,” replied the housekeeper, and retired, holding the
capsules carefully balanced in the centre of her right palm, as
though they contained some secret charm which she was fearful of
dispelling by her contact.
The little fat man thrust out his arms in the similitude of some
long-forgotten clumsy exercise. Then he regarded himself in the
mirror.
“Not too thumbs up, old boy, not too thumbs up. It’s going, you know.
All the Apollo beauty--Oh, you little depraved ruffian, go and hold
your head under the tap.”
No, no, it was not the business of Willy Nilly to be depressed by
these reflections either in the mirror or upon the mind. He seized
the strop suspended from a hook on the architrave of the window and
began to flash his razor backward and forward whilst he sang:
“Oh, what care I for a new feather bed,
And a sheet turned down so bravely--O.”
The raggle-taggle gypsies accompanied him intermittently throughout
the whole operation of shaving, including the slight cut just beneath
the lobe of his left ear. The business of washing and dressing was
no perfunctory performance with the Funny Man. He had a personality
to sustain. Moreover, among the programme of activities for the day
included attendance at a wedding. There is nothing at which a funny
man can be so really funny as at a wedding. One funny man at least
is almost essential for the success of this time-honoured ritual.
And this was a very, very special wedding; the wedding of his two
dearest and greatest friends, Katie Easebrook, the pretty comedienne,
and Charlie Derrick, that most brilliant writer of ballads. A swell
affair it was to be in Clapham Parish Church, with afterward a
reception at the Hautboy Hotel--everything to be done “in the best
slap-up style, old boy.”
No wonder Willy Nilly took an unconscionable time folding his
voluminous black stock, adorned with the heavy gold pin, removing the
bold check trousers from withunder the mattress, tugging at the crisp
white waistcoat till it adapted itself indulgently to the curves of
his figure, and hesitating for fully five minutes between the claims
of seven different kinds of kid gloves. A man who tops the bill at
even a suburban music hall cannot afford to neglect these things.
It was fully three quarters of an hour before he presented himself
in the dining-room below. Mrs. Lamb appeared automatically with the
teapot and his one boiled egg.
“You’d hardly believe it,” she said, “but Nibby took them white pills
and his hiccups is abated.”
“Ah! What did you expect, my good woman? Was Willy Nilly likely to
deceive an innocent child? Did he think of emerald green parrots and
a dark forest?”
“I told him what you said, Mr. Basingstoke. Here’s the letters and
the newspaper.”
The Funny Man’s correspondence was always rather extensive,
consisting for the most part of letters from unknown people
commencing: “Dear Sir,--I wrote the enclosed words for a comic song
last Sunday afternoon. I should think set to music you would make
them very funny----” or “Dear Sir,--I had a good idea for a funny
stunt for you. Why not sing a song dressed up as a curate called:
‘The higher I aspire I espy her,’ and every time you come to the
word higher, you trip up over a piece of orange peel. I leave it to
you about payment for this idea, but I may say I am in straitened
circumstances, and my wife is expecting another next March.”
There was a certain surprising orderliness about the Funny Man’s
methods. Receipts were filed, accounts kept together and paid fairly
regularly, suggestions and ideas were carefully considered, begging
letters placed together, with a sigh, “in case anything could be done
a little later on, old boy.” Occasionally would come a chatty letter
from some old friend “on the road,” or from his married sister in
Yorkshire. But for the most part his correspondence was not of an
intimate nature.
His newspaper this morning remained unopened. The contemplation of
his own programme for the day was too absorbing to fritter away
nervous energy on public affairs. Whilst cracking the egg, he
visualized his time-table. At ten o’clock, Chris Read was coming
to try over new songs and stunts. At eleven-fifteen, he had an
appointment with Albus, the costumier in Long Acre, to set the stamp
of his approval upon the wig and nose for his new song: “I’m one
of the Goo-goo boys.” Kate and Charlie’s was at twelve-thirty and
the wedding breakfast at “the Hautboy” at one-forty-five. In the
meantime, he must write two letters and manage to call on old Mrs.
Labbory, his former landlady, who was very, very ill. Poor old soul!
She’d been a brick to him in the old days, when he was sometimes
“out” for seven months in the year, out and penniless. It was only
fair now that he should help her a bit with the rent, and see that
she had everything she needed.
Willy Nilly’s life had been passed through an avenue of landladies,
but the position of Mrs. Labbory was unique. He had been with her
fifteen years and she was intimate with all his intimates.
At three-forty-five was a rehearsal with the Railham Empire
orchestra. He must get that gag right where he bluffs the trombone
player in his song: “Oh, my in-laws, my in-laws, why don’t you leave
me be.” Perhaps a cup of tea somewhere, and then an appointment
at five-fifteen with Welsh, to arrange terms about the renewal of
contract. Knotty and difficult problems--contracts. Everyone trying
to do you down--must have a clear head at five-fifteen. If there’s
time, perhaps pop into the club for half an hour, exchange stories
with Jimmy Landish, or old Blakeney. A chop at six-thirty--giving him
an hour before making-up for the first house. On at eight-twenty.
Three songs and an encore--mustn’t forget to speak to Hignet about
that spotlight, the operator must have been drunk last night. Between
shows interview a local pressman, and a young man who “wants to go
on the stage, but has had no experience.” Dash round for a sandwich
and a refresher. On again at ten-twenty-five. Same three songs, same
encore, same bluff on the trombone player. Ten-fifty, all clear.
Clean up and escape from the theatre if possible.
A last nightcap at the club, perhaps? Oh, but Bird Craft wanted
him to toddle along to his rooms and hear a new song he had just
acquired, “a real winner,” Bird had said it was, about “The girl and
the empty pram.” Must stand by an old pal. Sometime during the day
he must send two suits to be cleaned, and order some new underlinen.
A beastly boring business, ordering vests and pants. He knew nothing
about the qualities of materials--hosiers surely did him over that.
Really a woman’s business, women knew about these things. Mrs. Lamb!
No, not exactly Mrs. Lamb. He couldn’t ask Mrs. Lamb to go and buy
him vests and pants. A woman’s business, a woman----
Heigho! Nearly ten o’clock already. Chris Read might arrive any
minute. The Funny Man dashed downstairs and ran into the house next
door. Tibby had already gone off to school, but Nibby had escaped,
because at the moment of departure his attack of hiccoughs had
reached its apotheosis. Now he was in trouble because it had left
off, and his mother now declared he had been pretending. It took the
Funny Man fifteen minutes to calm this family trouble. Nibby, putting
it on! Nibby, playing the wag! Oh, come! Fie and for shame! Besides,
did Nibby’s mother think that he, Dr. Willy Nilly, the eminent
specialist of Harley Street, was a quack? Were his remedies spurious
remedies?
“Did you think of emerald green parrots in a dark wood, Nibby?”
“Yes.”
“And monkeys hanging by their tails?”
“Yes.”
“There, you see, Mrs. Munro! It was a genuine case, and a genuine
cure.”
“If he really had it, Mr. Basingstoke, I don’t believe it was
thinking about monkeys what cured him; it was them little white
tabloids, and we thank you kindly.”
“Mrs. Munro, here are two tickets for the Railham Empire for the
first house to-morrow night. Come, and bring your husband, and then
you will see that there are more people cured by thinking of monkeys
hanging by their tails than there are by swallowing tabloids. That
is my business. I am a monkey hanging by its tail, and now I must be
off. Good-bye, Nibby old boy. Why, if this isn’t a sixpence under
the mat. Well, well, this is an age of miracles. No, you keep it,
old boy. Good-bye, Mrs. Munro. Come round and see me after the show
to-morrow. Toot-a-loo, my dear.”
Chris was waiting on the doorstep, a fresh-complexioned young man
inclined to corpulence. His face glowed with a kind of vacant
geniality.
“Well, old boy, how goes it?”
“I’ve got a peach this morning, Willy old boy; I think you’ll like
it.”
“Good boy, come on in.”