HOUSE-WARMING
On a Sunday afternoon in October, when Abraham Woodstock had lain in
his grave for three months, Waymark met Julian Casti by appointment in
Sloane Square, and they set forth together on a journey to Peckham.
They were going thither by invitation, and, to judge from the laughter
which accompanied their talk, their visit was likely to afford them
entertainment. The merriment on Julian's side was not very natural; he
looked indeed too ill to enjoy mirth of any kind. As they stood in the
Square, waiting for an omnibus, he kept glancing uneasily about him,
especially in the direction whence they had come. It had the appearance
of a habit, but before they had stood much more than a minute, he
started and exclaimed in a low voice to his companion--
"I told you so. She is just behind there. She has come round by the
back streets, just to see if I'd told her the truth."
Waymark glanced back and shrugged his shoulders.
"Pooh! Never mind," he said. "You're used to it."
"Used to it! Yes," Julian returned, his face flushing suddenly a deep
red, the effect of extraordinary excitement; "and it is driving me mad."
Then, after a fit of coughing--
"She found my poem last night, and burnt it."
"Burnt it?"
"Yes; simply because she could not understand it. She said she thought
it was waste paper, but I saw, I saw."
The 'bus they waited for came up, and they went on their way. On
reaching the neighbourhood of Peckham, they struck off through a
complex of small new streets, apparently familiar to Waymark, and came
at length to a little shop, also very new, the windows of which
displayed a fresh-looking assortment of miscellaneous goods. There was
half a large cheese, marked by the incisions of the tasting-knife; a
boiled ham, garlanded; a cone of brawn; a truncated pyramid of spiced
beef, released from its American tin; also German sausage and other
dainties of the kind. Then there were canisters of tea and coffee, tins
of mustard, a basket of eggs, some onions, boxes of baking-powder and
of blacking; all arranged so as to make an impression on the
passers-by; everything clean and bright. Above the window stood in
imposing gilt letters the name of the proprietor: O'Gree.
They entered. The shop was very small and did not contain much stock.
The new shelves showed a row of biscuit-tins, but little else, and from
the ceiling hung balls of string. On the counter lay an inviting round
of boiled beef. Odours of provisions and of fresh paint were strong in
the air. Every thing gleamed from recent scrubbing and polishing; the
floor only emphasised its purity by a little track where a child's
shoes had brought in mud from the street; doubtless it had been washed
over since the Sunday morning's custom had subsided. Wherever the walls
would have confessed their bareness the enterprising tradesman had hung
gorgeous advertising cards. At the sound of the visitors' footsteps,
the door leading out of the shop into the parlour behind opened
briskly, a head having previously appeared over the red curtain, and
Mr. O'Gree, in the glory of Sunday attire, rushed forward with eager
hands. His welcome was obstreperous.
"Waymark, you're a brick! Mr. Casti, I'm rejoiced to receive you in my
establishment! You're neither a minute too soon nor a minute too late.
Mrs. O'Gree only this moment called out from the kitchen that the
kettle was boiling and the crumpets at the point of perfection! I knew
your punctuality of old, Waymark. Mr. Casti, how does it strike you?
Roaring trade, Waymark! Done two shillings and threepence three
farthings this Sunday morning. Look here, me boy,--ho, ho!"
He drew out the till behind the counter, and jingled his hand in
coppers. Then he rushed about in the wildest fervour from object to
object, opening tins which he had forgotten were empty, making passes
at the beef and the ham with a formidable carving-knife, demonstrating
the use of a sugar-chopper and a coffee-grinder, and, lastly, calling
attention with infinite glee to a bad halfpenny which he had detected
on the previous afternoon, and had forthwith nailed down to the
counter, _in terrorem_. Then he lifted with much solemnity a hinged
portion of the counter, and requested his visitors to pass into the
back-parlour. Here there was the same perfect cleanliness, though the
furniture was scant and very simple. The round table was laid for tea,
with a spotless cloth, plates of a very demonstrative pattern, and
knives and forks which seemed only just to have left the ironmonger's
shop.
"We pass, you observe, Mr. Casti," cried the ex-teacher, "from the
region of commerce to that of domestic intimacy. Here Mrs. O'Gree
reigns supreme, as indeed she does in the other department, as far as
presiding genius goes. She's in all places at once, like a birrud! Mr.
Casti," in a whisper, "I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to
one of the most remarkable women it was ever your lot to meet; a
phenomenon of--"
The inner door opened, and the lady herself interrupted these eulogies.
Sally was charming. Her trim little body attired in the trimmest of
homely dresses, her sharp little face shining and just a little red
with excitement, her quick movements, her laughing eyes, her restless
hands graced with the new wedding-ring--all made up a picture of which
her husband might well be proud. He stood and gazed at her in frank
admiration; only when she sprang forward to shake hands with Waymark
did he recover himself sufficiently to go through the ceremony of
introducing Julian. It was done with all stateliness.
"An improvement this on the masters' room, eh, Waymark?" cried Mr.
O'Gree. Then, suddenly interrupting himself, "And that reminds me!
We've got a lodger."
"Already?"
"And who d'ye think? Who d'ye think? You wouldn't guess if you went on
till Christmas. Ho, ho, ho! I'm hanged if I tell you. Wait and see!"
"Shall I call him down?" asked Sally, who in the meantime had brought
in the tea-pot, and the crumpets, and a dish of slices from the round
of beef on the counter, and boiled eggs, and sundry other dainties.
O'Gree, unable to speak for mirth, nodded his head, and presently Sally
returned, followed by--Mr. Egger. Waymark scarcely recognised his old
friend, so much had the latter changed: instead of the old woe-begone
look, Egger's face wore a joyous smile, and his outer man was so vastly
improved that he had evidently fallen on a more lucrative profession.
Waymark remembered O'Gree's chance meeting with the Swiss, but had
heard nothing of him since; nor indeed had O'Gree till a day or two ago.
"How do things go?" Waymark inquired heartily. "Found a better school?"
"No, no, my friend," returned Egger, in his very bad English. "At the
school I made my possible; I did till I could no more. I have made like
Mr. O'Gree; it is to say, quite a change in my life. I am waiter at a
restaurant. And see me; am I not the better quite? No fear!" This
cockneyism came in with comical effect. "I have enough to eat and to
drink, and money in my pocket. The school may go to ----"
O'Gree coughed violently to cover the last word, and looked
reproachfully at his old colleague. Poor Egger, who had been carried
away by his joyous fervour, was abashed, and glanced timidly at Sally,
who replied by giving him half a dozen thick rounds of German sausage.
On his requesting mustard, she fetched some from the shop and mixed it,
but, in doing so, had the misfortune to pour too much water.
"There!" she exclaimed; "I've doubted the miller's eye."
O'Gree laughed when he saw Waymark looking for an explanation.
"That's a piece of Weymouth," he remarked. "Mrs. O'Gree comes from the
south-west of England," he added, leaning towards Casti. "She's
constantly teaching me new and interesting things. Now, if I was to
spill the salt here--"
He put his hand on the salt-cellar, as if to do so, but Sally rapped
his knuckles with a fork.
"None of your nonsense, sir! Give Mr. Casti some more meat, instead."
It was a merry party. The noise of talk grew so loud that it was only
the keenness of habitual attention on Sally's part which enabled her to
observe that a customer was knocking on the counter. She darted out,
but returned with a disappointed look on her face.
"Pickles?" asked her husband, frowning.
Sally nodded.
"Now, look here, Waymark," cried O'Gree, rising in indignation from his
seat. "Look here, Mr. Casti. The one drop of bitterness in our cup
is--pickles; the one thing that threatens to poison our happiness
is--pickles. We're always being asked for pickles; just as if the
people knew about it, and came on purpose!"
"Knew about what?" asked Waymark, in astonishment.
"Why, that we mayn't sell 'em! A few doors off there's a scoundrel of a
grocer. Now, his landlord's the same as ours, and when we took this
shop there was one condition attached. Because the grocer sells
pickles, and makes a good thing of them, we had to undertake that, in
that branch of commerce, we wouldn't compete with him. Pickles are
forbidden."
Waymark burst into a most unsympathetic roar of laughter, but with
O'Gree the grievance was evidently a serious one, and it was some few
moments before he recovered his equanimity. Indeed it was not quite
restored till the entrance of another customer, who purchased two
ounces of butter. When, in the dead silence which ensued, Sally was
heard weighing out the order, O'Gree's face beamed; and when there
followed the chink of coins in the till, he brought his fist down with
a triumphant crash upon the table.
When tea was over, O'Gree managed to get Waymark apart from the rest,
and showed him a small photograph of Sally which had recently been
taken.
"Sally's great ambition," he whispered, "is to be taken cabinet-size,
and in a snow-storm. You've seen the kind of thing in the shop-windows?
We'll manage that before long, but this will do for the present. You
don't see a face like that every day; eh, Waymark?"
Sally, her housewifery duly accomplished in the invisible regions, came
back and sat by the fireside. She had exchanged her work-a-day costume
for one rather more ornate. Noticeable was a delicate gold chain which
hung about her neck, and Waymark smiled when he presently saw her take
out her watch and seem to compare its time with that of the clock on
the mantelpiece. It was a wedding present from Ida.
Sally caught the smile, and almost immediately came over to a seat by
Waymark; and, whilst the others were engaged in loud talk, spoke with
him privately.
"Have you seen her lately?" she asked.
"Not for some weeks," the other replied, shaking his head.
"Well, it's the queerest thing I ever knew, s'nough! But, there," she
added, with an arch glance, "some men are that stupid--"
Waymark laughed slightly, and again shook his head.
"All a mistake," he said.
"Yes, that's just what it is, you may depend upon it. I more'n half
believe you're telling fibs."
Tumblers of whisky were soon smoking on the table, and all except Casti
laughed and talked to their heart's content. Casti was no kill-joy; he
smiled at all that went on, now and then putting in a friendly word;
but the vitality of the others was lacking in him, and the weight which
crushed him night and day could not so easily be thrown aside. O'Gree
was abundant in reminiscences of academic days, and it would not have
been easy to resist altogether the comical vigour of his stories, all
without one touch of real bitterness or malice.
"Bedad," he cried, "I sent old Pendy a business prospectus, with my
compliments written on the bottom of it. I thought he might perhaps be
disposed to give me a contract for victualling the Academy. I wish he
had, for the boys' sake."
Then, to bring back completely the old times, Mr. Egger was prevailed
upon to sing one of his _Volkslieder_, that which had been Waymark's
especial favourite, and which he had sung--on an occasion memorable to
Sally and her husband--in the little dining-room at Richmond.
"_Die Schwalb'n flieg'n fort, doch sie zieh'n wieder her; Der Mensch
wenn er fortgeht, er kommt nimmermehr!_"
Waymark was silent for a little after that.
When it was nearly eleven o'clock, Casti looked once or twice meaningly
at Waymark, and the friends at length rose to take their leave, in
spite of much protest. O'Gree accompanied them as far as the spot where
they would meet the omnibus, then, with assurances that to-night had
been but the beginning of glorious times, sent them on their way.
Julian was silent during the journey home; he looked very wearied. For
lack of a timely conveyance the last mile or so had to be walked.
Julian's cough had been bad during the evening, and now the cold
night-air seemed to give him much trouble. Presently, just as they
turned a corner, a severe blast of wind met them full in the face.
Julian began coughing violently, and all at once became so weak that he
had to lean against a palisading. Waymark, looking closer in alarm, saw
that the handkerchief which the poor fellow was holding to his mouth
was covered with blood.
"We must have a cab," he exclaimed. "It is impossible for you to walk
in this state."
Julian resisted, with assurances that the worst was over for the time.
If Waymark would give the support of his arm, he would get on quite
well. There was no overcoming his resolution to proceed.
"There's no misunderstanding this, old fellow," he said, with a laugh,
when they had walked a few paces.
Waymark made no reply.
"You'll laugh at me," Julian went on, "but isn't there a certain
resemblance between my case and that of Keats? He too was a
drug-pounder; he liked it as little as I do; and he died young of
consumption. I suppose a dying man may speak the truth about himself. I
too might have been a poet, if life had dealt more kindly with me. I
think you would have liked the thing I was writing; I'd finished some
three hundred lines; but now you'll never see it. Well, I don't know
that it matters."
Waymark tried to speak in a tone of hopefulness, but it was hard to
give his words the semblance of sincerity.
"Do you remember," Casti continued, "when all my talk used to be about
Rome, and how I planned to see it one day--see it again. I should say?
Strange to think that I really was born in Rome. I used to call myself
a Roman, you know, and grow hot with pride when I thought of it. Those
were dreams. Oh, I was to do wonderful things! Poetry was to make me
rich, and then I would go and live in Italy, and fill my lungs with the
breath of the Forum, and write my great Epic. How good that we can't
foresee our lives!"
"I wish to heaven," Waymark exclaimed, when they were parting, "that
you would be a man and shake this monstrous yoke from off your neck! It
is that that is killing you. Give yourself a chance. Defy everything
and make yourself free."
Julian shook his head sadly.
"Too late! I haven't the courage. My mind weakens with my body."
He went to his lodgings, and, as he anticipated, found that Harriet had
not yet come home. She was almost always out very late, and he had
learnt too well what to expect on her return. In spite of her illness,
of which she made the most when it suited her purpose, she was able to
wander about at all hours with the acquaintances her husband did not
even know by name, and Julian had no longer the strength even to
implore her to have pity on him. He absence racked him with nervous
fears; her presence tortured him to agony. Weakness in him had reached
a criminal degree. Once or twice he had all but made up his mind to
flee secretly, and only let her know his determination when he had
gone; but his poverty interposed such obstacles that he ended by
accepting them as excuses for his hesitation. The mere thought of
fulfilling the duty which he owed to himself, of speaking out with
manly firmness, and telling her that here at length all ended between
them--that was a terror to his soul. So he stayed on and allowed her to
kill him by slow torment. He was at least carrying out to the letter
the promise he had made to her father, and this thought supplied him
with a flattering unction which, such was his disposition, at times
even brought him a moment's solace.
There was no fire in the room; he sank upon a chair and waited. Every
sound in the street below sent the blood back upon his heart. At length
there came the fumbling of a latch-key--he could hear it plainly--and
then the heavy foot ascending the stairs. Her glazed eyes and red
cheeks told the familiar tale. She sat down opposite him and was silent
for a minute, half dozing; then she seemed suddenly to become conscious
of his presence, and the words began to flow from her tongue, every one
cutting him to the quick, poisoning his soul with their venom of
jealousy and vulgar spite. Contention was the breath of her nostrils;
the prime impulse of her heart was suspicion. Little by little she came
round to the wonted topic. Had he been to see his friend the thief? Was
she in prison again yet? Whom had she been stealing from of late? Oh,
she was innocence itself, of course; too good for this evil-speaking
world.
Tonight he could not bear it. He rose from his chair like a drunken
man, and staggered to the door. She sprang after him, but he was just
in time to escape her grasp and spring down the stairs; then, out into
the night. Once before, not quite a month ago, he had been driven thus
in terror from the sound of her voice, and had slept at a coffeehouse.
Now, as soon as he had got out of the street and saw that he was not
being pursued, he discovered that he had given away his last copper for
the omnibus fare. No matter; the air was pleasant upon his throbbing
temples. It was too late to think of knocking at the house where
Waymark lodged. Nothing remained but to walk about the streets all
night, resting on a stone when he became too weary to go further,
sheltering a little here or there when the wind cut him too keenly.
Rather this, oh, a thousand times rather, than the hell behind him.