Lucian swooped down upon the humble dwelling in which his less fortunate
fellow resided, like an angel who came to destroy rather than to save.
He took everything into his own hands, as soon as the field of
operations lay open to him, and it was quite ten minutes before Sprats,
by delicate finesse, managed to shut him up in one room with the
invalid, while she and the wife talked practical matters in another. At
the end of an hour she got him safely away from the house. He was in a
pleasurable state of mind; the situation had been full of charm to him,
and he walked out into the street gloating over the fact that the sick
man and his wife and children were now fed and warmed and made generally
comfortable, and had money in the purse wherewith to keep the wolf from
the door for many days. His imagination had seized upon the misery which
the unlucky couple must have endured before help came in their way: he
conjured up the empty pocket, the empty cupboard, the blank despair that
comes from lack of help and sympathy, the heart sickness which springs
from the powerlessness to hope any longer. He had read of these things
but had never seen them: he only realised what they meant when he looked
at the faces of the sick man and his wife as he and Sprats left them.
Striding away at Sprats’s side, his head drooping towards his chest and
his hands plunged in his pockets, Lucian ruminated upon these things and
became so keenly impressed by them that he suddenly paused and uttered a
sharp exclamation.
‘By George, Sprats!’ he said, standing still and staring at her as if he
had never seen her before, ‘what an awful thing poverty must be! Did
that ever strike you?’
‘Often,’ answered Sprats, with laconic alacrity, ‘as it might have
struck you, too, if you’d kept your eyes open.’
‘I am supposed to have excellent powers of observation,’ he said
musingly, ‘but somehow I don’t think I ever quite realised what poverty
meant until to-night. I wonder what it would be like to try it for a
while--to go without money and food and have no hope?--but, of course,
one couldn’t do it--one would always know that one could go back to
one’s usual habits, and so on. It would only be playing at being poor. I
wonder, now, where the exact line would be drawn between the end of hope
and the beginning of despair?--that’s an awfully interesting subject,
and one that I should like to follow up. Don’t you think----’
‘Lucian,’ said Sprats, interrupting him without ceremony, ‘are we going
to stand here at the street corner all night while you moon about
abstract questions? Because if you are, I’m not.’
Lucian came out of his reverie and examined his surroundings. He had
come to a halt at a point where the Essex Road is transected by the New
North Road, and he gazed about him with the expression of a traveller
who has wandered into strange regions.
‘This is a quarter of the town which I do not know,’ he said. ‘Not very
attractive, is it? Let us walk on to those lights--I suppose we can find
a hansom there, and then we can get back to civilisation.’
They walked forward in the direction of Islington High Street: round
about the Angel there was life and animation and a plenitude of bright
light; Lucian grew interested, and finally asked a policeman what part
of the town he found himself in. On hearing that that was Islington he
was immediately reminded of the ‘Bailiff’s Daughter’ and began to recall
lines of it. But Islington and old ballads were suddenly driven quite
out of his thoughts by an object which had no apparent connection with
poetry.
Sprats, keeping her eyes open for a hansom, suddenly missed Lucian from
her side, and turned to find him gazing at the windows of a little
café-restaurant with an Italian name over its door and a suspicion of
Continental cookery about it. She turned back to him: he looked at her
as a boy might look whose elder sister catches him gazing into the
pastry-cook’s window.
‘I say, Sprats,’ he said coaxingly, ‘let’s go in there and have supper.
It’s clean, and I’ve suddenly turned faint--I’ve had nothing since
lunch. Dinner will be all over now at home, and besides, we’re miles
away. I’ve been in these places before--they’re all right, really,
something like the _ristoranti_ in Italy, you know.’
Sprats was hungry too. She glanced at the little café--it appeared to be
clean enough to warrant one in eating, at any rate, a chop in it.
‘I think I should like some food,’ she said.
‘Come on, then,’ said Lucian gaily. ‘Let’s see what sort of place it
is.’
He pushed open the swinging doors and entered. It was a small place,
newly established, and the proprietor and his wife, two Italians, and
their Swiss waiter were glad to see customers who looked as if they
would need something more than a cup of coffee and a roll and butter.
The proprietor bowed himself double and ushered them to the most
comfortable corner in his establishment: he produced a lengthy _menu_
and handed it to Lucian with great _empressement_; the waiter stood
near, deeply interested; the proprietor’s wife, gracious of figure and
round of face, leaned over the counter thinking of the coins which she
would eventually deposit in her cash drawer. Lucian addressed the
proprietor in Italian and discussed the _menu_ with him; while they
talked, Sprats looked about her, wondering at the red plush seats, the
great mirrors in their gilded frames, and the jars of various fruits and
conserves arranged on the counter. Every table was adorned with a
flowering plant fashioned out of crinkled paper; the ceiling was picked
out in white and gold; the Swiss waiter’s apron and napkin were very
stiffly starched; the proprietor wore a frock coat, which fitted very
tightly at the waist, and his wife’s gown was of a great smartness.
Sprats decided that they were early customers in the history of the
establishment--besides themselves there were only three people in the
place: an old gentleman with a napkin tucked into his neckband, who was
eating his dinner and reading a newspaper propped up against a bottle,
and a pair of obvious lovers who were drinking _café-au-lait_ in a quiet
corner to the accompaniment of their own murmurs.
‘I had no idea that I was so hungry,’ said Lucian when he and the
proprietor had finally settled upon what was best to eat and drink. ‘I
am glad I saw this place: it reminds me in some ways of Italy. I say, I
don’t believe those poor people had had much to eat to-day, Sprats--it
is a most fortunate thing that I happened to hear of them. My God! I
wouldn’t like to get down to that stage--it must be dreadful, especially
when there are children.’
Sprats leaned her elbows on the little table, propped her chin in her
hands, and looked at him with a curious expression which he did not
understand. A half-dreamy, half-speculative look came into her eyes.
‘I wonder what you would do if you _did_ get down to that stage?’ she
said, with a rather quizzical smile.
Lucian stared at her.
‘I? Why, what do you mean?’ he said. ‘I suppose I should do as other men
do.’
‘It would be for the first time in your life, then,’ she answered. ‘I
fancy seeing you do as other men do in any circumstances.’
‘But I don’t think I could conceive myself at such a low ebb as that,’
he said.
Sprats still stared at him with a speculative expression.
‘Lucian,’ she said suddenly, ‘do you ever think about the future?
Everything has been made easy for you so far; does it ever strike you
that fortune is in very truth a fickle jade, and that she might desert
you?’
He looked at her as a child looks who is requested to face an unpleasant
contingency.
‘I don’t think of unpleasant things,’ he answered. ‘What’s the good? And
why imagine possibilities which aren’t probabilities? There is no
indication that fortune is going to desert me.’
‘No,’ said Sprats, ‘but she might, and very suddenly too. Look here,
Lucian; I’ve the right to play grandmother always, haven’t I, and
there’s something I want to put before you plainly. Don’t you think you
are living rather carelessly and extravagantly?’
Lucian knitted his brows and stared at her.
‘Explain,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I don’t think it wants much explanation. You
don’t bother much about money matters, do you?’
He looked at her somewhat pityingly.
‘How can I do that and attend to my work?’ he asked. ‘I could not
possibly be pestered with things of that sort.’
‘Very well,’ said Sprats, ‘and Haidee doesn’t bother about them either.
Therefore, no one bothers. I know your plan, Lucian--it’s charmingly
simple. When Lord Simonstower left you that ten thousand pounds you paid
it into a bank, didn’t you, and to it you afterwards added Haidee’s two
thousand when you were married. Twice a year Mr. Robertson pays your
royalties into your account, and the royalties from your tragedy go to
swell it as well. That’s one side of the ledger. On the other side you
and Haidee each have a cheque-book, and you draw cheques as you please
and for what you please. That’s all so, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, regarding her with amazement, ‘of course it is;
but just think what a very simple arrangement it is.’
‘Admirably simple,’ Sprats replied, laughing, ‘so long as there is an
inexhaustible fund to draw upon. But seriously, Lucian, haven’t you been
drawing on your capital? Do you know, at this moment, what you are
worth?--do you know how you stand?’
‘I don’t suppose that I do,’ he answered. ‘But why all this questioning?
I know that Robertson pays a good deal into my account twice a year, and
the royalties from the tragedy were big, you know.’
‘But still, Lucian, you’ve drawn off your capital,’ she urged. ‘You have
spent just what you pleased ever since you left Oxford, and Haidee
spends what she pleases. You must have spent a lot on your Italian tour
last year, and you are continually running over to Paris. You keep up an
expensive establishment; you indulge expensive tastes; you were born, my
dear Lucian, with the instincts of an epicure in everything.’
‘And yet I am enjoying a supper in an obscure little café!’ he exclaimed
laughingly. ‘There’s not much extravagance here.’
‘You may gratify epicurean tastes by a sudden whim to be Spartan-like,’
answered Sprats. ‘I say that you have the instincts of an epicure, and
you have so far gratified them. You’ve never known what it was, Lucian,
to be refused anything, have you? No: well, that naturally inclines you
to the opinion that everything will always be made easy for you. Now
supposing you lost your vogue as a poet--oh, there’s nothing impossible
about it, my dear boy!--the public are as fickle as fortune herself--and
supposing your next tragedy does not catch the popular taste--ah, and
that’s not impossible either--what are you going to do? Because, Lucian,
you must have dipped pretty heavily into your capital, and if you want
some plain truths from your faithful Sprats, you spend a great deal more
than you earn. Now give me another potato, and tell me plainly if you
know how much your royalties amounted to last year and how much you and
Haidee spent.’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Lucian. ‘I could tell by asking my bankers. Of
course I have spent a good deal of money in travel, and in books, and in
pictures, and in furnishing a house--could I have laid out Lord
Simonstower’s legacy in better fashion? And I do earn large sums--I had
a small fortune out of _Domitia_, you know.’
‘There is no doubt,’ she replied, ‘that you have had enough money to
last you for all the rest of your life if it had been wisely invested.’
‘Do you mean to say that I have no investments?’ he said, half angrily.
‘Why, I have thousands of pounds invested in pictures, books, furniture,
and china--my china alone is worth two thousand.’
‘Dear boy, I don’t doubt it,’ she answered soothingly, ‘but you know it
doesn’t produce any interest. I like you to have pretty things about
you, but you have precious little modesty in your mighty brain, and you
sometimes indulge tastes which only a millionaire ought to possess.’
‘Well,’ he said, sighing, ‘I suppose there’s a moral at the end of the
sermon. What is it, Sprats? You are a brick, of course--in your way
there’s nobody like you, but when you are like this you make me think of
mustard-plaisters.’
‘The moral is this,’ she answered: ‘come down from the clouds and
cultivate a commercial mind for ten minutes. Find out exactly what you
have in the way of income, and keep within it. Tell Haidee exactly how
much she has to spend.’
‘You forget,’ he said, ‘that Haidee has two thousand pounds of her own.
It’s a very small fortune, but it’s hers.’
‘Had, you mean, not has,’ replied Sprats. ‘Haidee must have spent her
small fortune twice over, if not thrice over.’
‘It would be an unkind thing to be mean with her,’ said Lucian, with an
air of wise reflection. ‘If Haidee had married Darlington she would have
had unlimited wealth at her disposal; as she preferred to throw it all
aside and marry me, I can’t find it in me to deny her anything. No,
Sprats--poor little Haidee must have her simple pleasures even if I
have to deny myself of my own.’
‘Oh, did you ever hear such utter rot!’ Sprats exclaimed. ‘Catch you
denying yourself of anything! Dear boy, don’t be an ass--it’s bad form.
And Haidee’s pleasures are not simple.’
‘They are simple in comparison with what they might have been if she had
married Darlington,’ he said.
‘Then why didn’t she marry Darlington?’ inquired Sprats.
‘Because she married me,’ answered Lucian. ‘She gave up the millionaire
for the struggling poet, as you might put it if you were writing a
penny-dreadful. No; seriously, Sprats, I think there’s a good deal due
to Haidee in that respect. I think she is really easily contented. When
you come to think of it, we are not extravagant--we like pretty things
and comfortable surroundings, but when you think of what some people
do----’
‘Oh, you’re hopeless, Lucian!’ she said. ‘I wish you’d been sent out to
earn your living at fifteen. Honour bright--you’re living in a world of
dreams, and you’ll have a nasty awakening some day.’
‘I have given the outer world something of value from my world of
dreams,’ he said, smiling at her.
‘You have written some very beautiful poetry, and you are a marvellously
gifted man who ought to feel the responsibility of your gifts,’ she said
gravely. ‘And all I want is to keep you, if I can, from the rocks on
which you might come to grief. I’m sure that if you took my advice about
business matters you would avoid trouble in the future. You’re too
cock-sure, too easy-going, too thoughtless, Lucian, and this is a hard
and a cruel world.’
‘It’s been a very pleasant world to me so far,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had
a care or a trouble; I’ve heaps of friends, and I’ve always got
everything that I wanted. Why, it’s a very pleasant world! You, Sprats,
have found it so, too.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have found it pleasant, but it is hard and cruel
nevertheless, and one realises it sometimes when one least expects to.
One may wake out of a dream to a very cruel reality.’
‘You speak as of a personal experience,’ he said smiling. ‘And yet I
swear you never had one.’
‘I don’t want you to have one,’ she answered.
‘Is sermonising a cruel reality?’ he asked with a mock grimace.
‘No, it’s a necessary thing; and that reminds me that I have not quite
finished mine. Look here, Lucian, here’s a straight question to you. Do
you think it a good thing to be so very friendly with Mr. Darlington?’
Lucian dropped his knife and fork and stared at her in amazement.
‘Why on earth not?’ he said. ‘Darlington is an awfully good fellow. Of
course, I know that he must have felt it when Haidee ran away with me,
but he has been most kind to both of us--we have had jolly times on his
yacht and at his Scotch place; and you know, Sprats, when you can’t
afford things yourself it’s rather nice to have friends who can give
them to you.’
‘Lucian, that’s a piece of worldliness that’s unworthy of you,’ she
said. ‘Well, I can’t say anything against Mr. Darlington. He seems kind,
and he is certainly generous and hospitable, but it is well known that
he was very, very much in love with Haidee, and that he felt her loss a
good deal.’
‘Yes, it was awfully hard on him,’ said Lucian, stroking his chin with a
thoughtful air; ‘and of course that’s just why one feels that one ought
to be nice to him. He and Haidee are great friends, and that’s far
better than that he should cherish any bitter feelings against her
because she preferred me to him.’
Sprats looked at him with the half-curious, half-speculative expression
which had filled her eyes in the earlier stages of their conversation.
They had now finished their repast, and she drew on her gloves.
‘I want to go home to my children,’ she said. ‘One of the babies has
croup, and it was rather bad when I left. Pay the bill, Lucian, and get
them to call a hansom.’
Lucian put his hands in his pockets, and uttered a sudden exclamation of
dismay.
‘I haven’t any money,’ he said. ‘I left it all with poor Watson. Have
you any?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘of course I haven’t. You dragged me away in my
dinner-dress, and it hasn’t even a pocket in it. What are you going to
do?’
‘What an awkward predicament!’ said Lucian, searching every pocket. ‘I
don’t know what to do--I haven’t a penny.’
‘Well, you must walk back to Mr. Watson’s and get some money there,’
said Sprats. ‘You will be back in ten minutes.’
‘What! borrow money from a man to whom I have just given it?’ he cried.
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’
Sprats uttered an impatient exclamation.
‘Well, do something!’ she said. ‘We can’t sit here all night.’
Lucian summoned the proprietor and explained the predicament. The
situation ended in a procession of two hansom cabs, in one of which rode
Sprats and Lucian, in the other the Swiss waiter, who enjoyed a long
drive westward and finally returned to the heights of Islington with the
amount of the bill and a substantial gratuity in his pocket. As Sprats
pointed out with force and unction, Lucian’s foolish pride in not
returning to the Watsons and borrowing half a sovereign had increased
the cost of their supper fourfold. But Lucian only laughed, and Sprats
knew that the shillings thrown away were to him as things of no
importance.