PURELY COMMERCIAL
I
"Well," said Mrs. Welwyn, taking off her apron, "the beds are done,
anyway. One less to make," she added philosophically, "now that
Pumpherston has hopped it. That's something."
"We could do with the rent of his room for all that, Mother," commented
practical Amelia.
"That's true, dearie," sighed Mrs. Welwyn. "Well, perhaps we shall get
another lodger. Where's your father, by the way?"
"He went out half an hour ago. I expect he's at the Museum."
"Did Mr. Dick see him?"
"I don't know."
"And Mr. Dick said he did n't want to see me?" Mrs. Welwyn spoke rather
wistfully.
"That was what he said," admitted 'Melia in a respectful tone.
"I don't suppose he's very anxious to see any of us much," said Mrs.
Welwyn candidly. "We must just get the idea out of our heads, that's
all. Forget it! Then, there's that broker's insect. We are going to
get _him_ paid off double-quick, or I 'm a Dutchman. I don't know how
it's going to be done. Still, we have got round worse corners than
this, have n't we, duckie?"
"Yes, Mother," said Amelia bravely.
Martha Welwyn suddenly flung her arms round her little daughter.
"My precious," she whispered impulsively, "I would n't mind if it was
n't for you children." Her voice broke. "God pity women!"
"Mother, Mother!" cried little 'Melia reprovingly. "That's not like
you!" And she hugged her tearful but contrite parent back to
cheerfulness again.
A door banged downstairs, and the two fell apart guiltily.
"That's Tilly," said Mrs. Welwyn. "We must n't be downhearted, or
she'll scold us. Bustle about!"
With great vigour and presence of mind this excellent woman snatched the
cloth off the table and shook it severely. Amelia, having hastily
removed a tear from her mother's cheek with a duster, opened the piano
and began to wipe down the keys, to the accompaniment of an inharmonious
chromatic scale.
The door flew open and Tilly marched in, humming a cheerful air.
"Such luck, Mother!" she cried.
For a moment Martha Welwyn was deceived. She whirled round excitedly.
"What do you mean, dearie?" she exclaimed.
"I've got a berth--with Madame Amelie--old Mrs. Crump, you know--in
Earl's Court Road. One of her girls is leaving--"
"Got the sack?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn, rearranging the tablecloth.
"No. She's only"--Tilly's voice quavered ever so slightly--"going to be
married. I've got her place, and I 'm once more an independent lady."
"That's capital news, Tilly," said Mrs. Welwyn heartily. At any rate,
her daughter would have something to occupy her mind.
"Now the next thing to do," proceeded Tilly with great animation, "is to
get rid of the broker's man. We ought to be able to raise the money all
right. I'm at work again. Dad has had an offer of newspaper articles;
and if only we can get Mr. Pumpherston's room let--"
"The broker's man has gone, Sis," said Amelia.
"Gone?" cried Tilly and Mrs. Welwyn in a breath.
"Well, gone out, anyhow. I saw him shuffling across the Square half an
hour ago."
"My lord will find the chain up when he comes back," said Mrs. Welwyn
grimly.
"Still, we must find the money," persisted Tilly. "We have never been
in debt yet, and we are never going to be." Her slight figure stiffened
proudly. "Independence! That's the only thing worth having in this
world. Be independent! Owe nothing to nobody!"
Certainly, whether she derived it from her father's ancestry or her
mother's solid worth, Tilly Welwyn was composed of good fibre. With
flushed cheeks and unnaturally bright eyes she turned to the mirror over
the drawing-room mantelpiece and began to take off her hat.
"It's a mystery to me," ruminated the puzzled Mrs. Welwyn, "why that
creature went out. He must have known we would n't let him in again."
"Perhaps Dicky kicked him out," suggested that small hero-worshipper,
Amelia, with relish.
Tilly turned sharply.
"Who?" she asked. A hatpin tinkled into the fender.
Little 'Melia bit her lip, and turned scarlet.
"Mr. Dick, dearie," said Mrs. Welwyn, coming to the rescue. "He looked
in this morning."
"What for?" asked Tilly, groping for the hatpin.
"I don't know. I did n't see him," admitted her mother reluctantly.
"I do," said 'Melia, having decided to get things over at once. "He
left a letter for you, Sis."
Tilly rose to her feet again, keeping her back to her audience.
"Where is it?" she enquired unsteadily.
"Here," said Amelia, with a hand in the pocket of her pinafore.
"Put it on the table," said Tilly, standing on tiptoe while she patted
her brown hair into position before the glass. "I'll read it
presently."
"There's the front-door bell!" said Mrs. Welwyn nervously. "What are we
to do if it's Russell again?"
"Lock the door," said Amelia promptly.
"I don't know, I'm sure," said Mrs. Welwyn doubtfully. "I wonder what
the law is. I wish Daddy was in." She considered, perplexed. "Anyhow,
I'll go down and see. Come with me, 'Melia," she added tactfully.
The pair slipped out of the room and went downstairs, leaving Tilly
alone with her letter.
"Supposing he rushes in the moment we open the door?" whispered Amelia,
as they consulted on the mat. "What then?"
"We'll put the chain up first, and then open the door a crack," said
Mrs. Welwyn.
This procedure was adopted, with the result that Mr. Mainwaring and Lady
Adela, waiting patiently upon the steps outside, were eventually
confronted, after certain mysterious clankings had taken place within,
with a vision of two apprehensive countenances, one childish and the
other middle-aged, set one upon another against a black background in a
frame eight feet high and three inches wide. It was but a glimpse, for
the vision was hardly embodied when it faded from view with uncanny
suddenness: and after a further fantasia upon the chain, the door was
tugged open, to reveal the shrinking figures of Mrs. Welwyn and Amelia.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Welwyn," said Lady Adela. "I hope you will forgive
this early call, but we are anxious to have a talk with--er--Miss
Welwyn."
Miss Welwyn's agitated parent ushered the visitors into the dining-room,
bidding Amelia run upstairs and give warning of the coming interview.
Resistance did not occur to her.
Amelia found her sister sitting motionless on the edge of a chair, with
her arms upon the table. In her hands she held an open letter, which she
was not reading. Her grey eyes, wide open, unblinking, were fixed on
vacancy. Her lips moved, as if repeating some formula.
Amelia touched her softly on the arm.
"Tilly," she whispered, "they want to see you."
Tilly roused herself.
"Who?" she asked dreamily.
The question was answered by the appearance in the doorway of Lady
Adela, followed by her husband. Tilly rose, thrust the letter into her
belt, and greeted her visitors.
"How do you do?" she said mechanically. "Won't you sit down?"
Lady Adela, singling out that well-tried friend of yesterday, the sofa,
sank down upon it. Mr. Mainwaring remained standing behind. Little
'Melia, after one sympathetic glance in the direction of her sister,
gently closed the door and joined her mother on the landing outside.
"'Melia," announced that harassed chatelaine, "there's the front door
again! It must be Stillbottle this time. Supposing he meets _them_?"
"It don't signify if he does," replied her shrewd little daughter.
"They have met once already. Still, we may as well keep him out."
Mother and daughter accordingly proceeded to a repetition of their
previous performance with the door-chain. As before, the front door was
ultimately flung open with abject expressions of regret.
On the steps stood a small, sturdy, spectacled young clergyman.
"Oh, good-morning," he exclaimed. "I am so sorry to trouble you, but I
have been asked by a friend to look at your vacant room. Might I do it
now?"
This was familiar ground, and Mrs. Welwyn escorted the stranger upstairs
with a sigh of relief.
"My friend proposes to move in almost immediately," explained Mr.
Rylands, mounting at a distressingly rapid pace, "if they are
satisfactory. That is--of course"--he added in a panic--"I am sure they
will be satisfactory. But my friend proposes to move in at once."
His approval of the late lair of the bellicose Pumpherston when--almost
before--the panting Mrs. Welwyn had pulled up the blind and unveiled its
glories, erred on the side of the ecstatic. The terms asked for the
dingy but speckless apartment were not excessive, and Mr. Rylands agreed
to them at once.
"May I ask, sir," enquired Mrs. Welwyn, as they descended the
staircase--"did some one recommend us? We like to know who our friends
are."
Mr. Rylands was quite prepared for this question.
"As a matter of fact," he explained volubly, "I believe the gentleman
saw the card in the window; and being particularly fond of Russell
Square, and--and its associations, and so on, he decided to come and
reside here. He will send his luggage round this afternoon."
By this time they had passed the closed drawing-room door and were in
the hall again.
"Will you give me the gentleman's name, sir, please?" asked Mrs. Welwyn,
in obedience to a reminding gleam in the eye of her small daughter, who
was standing full in the open doorway, apparently with the intention of
collaring Mr. Rylands low. "I suppose he can give a reference, or pay a
week in advance? That's our usual--"
"Certainly, by all means," said Rylands hurriedly. Like most men, he
found it almost as delicate and embarrassing an undertaking to discuss
money matters with a woman as to make love to her. "In point of fact,"
he continued, searching furtively in his pocket, "my friend would like
to pay a month in advance. He is anxious to make quite sure of the
rooms, so--oh, I beg your pardon!" (This to little 'Melia, into whom he
had cannoned heavily in a misguided but characteristic attempt to walk
out of the house backwards.) "_Good_-morning!"
And the Reverend Godfrey Rylands, thrusting a warm bank-note into Mrs.
Welwyn's palm, stumbled down the steps into the Square, and set off at a
most unclerical pace in the direction of Piccadilly. He was going to
lunch, it will be remembered, with Connie Carmyle.
"He never left the new lodger's name," recollected Mrs. Welwyn, too
late.
"No, but he left a five-pound note," said practical Amelia.
II
Meanwhile, upstairs, Lady Adela was concluding a stately and
well-balanced harangue. Of her two auditors Mr. Mainwaring appeared to
be paying more attention. He looked supremely unhappy.
Tilly sat bolt upright on a hard chair, staring straight through Lady
Adela at the opposite wall. Occasionally her hand stole to her belt. It
is regrettable to have to add, in the interests of strict veracity, that
the greater part of Lady Adela's carefully reasoned and studiously
moderate address was flowing in at one ear and out at the other. Tilly
had no clear idea that she was being spoken to; she was only vaguely
conscious that any one was speaking at all. All her thoughts were
concentrated on the last page of Dicky's letter--all she had read so
far. She sat quite still, occasionally nodding intelligently to put her
visitors at their ease. Once or twice her lips moved, as if repeating
some formula.
"Do not imagine, Miss Welwyn," Lady Adela was saying, "that we are in
any way angry or resentful at what has occurred. We are merely grieved,
but at the same time _relieved_. So far from wishing you ill in
consequence of this attempt upon your part to--to better yourself, my
husband and I are here to offer to do something for you. You must not
think that we want to be unkind or harsh. This is a difficult and
painful interview for both of us--"
"For all of us, Miss Welwyn," murmured Mr. Mainwaring.
"You appreciate that fact, I hope, Miss Welwyn," said Lady Adela in a
slightly louder tone; for the girl made no sign.
Tilly nodded her head absently.
"He loves me! He loves me!" she murmured to herself. "He loves me
still!"
Lady Adela ploughed on. She was a kindly woman, and in her heart she
felt sorry for Tilly. Not that this fact assisted her to understand
Tilly's point of view, or to remember what Dicky had never forgotten,
namely, that the girl before her was a lady. She laboured, too, under a
grievous disadvantage. Deep feeling was to her a thing unknown. She
had never thrilled with tremulous rapture. The sighing of a wounded
spirit had no meaning for her. Her heart was a well-regulated and
rhythmatic organ, and had always beaten in accordance with the laws of
what its owner called common sense. It had never fluttered or stood
still.
Lady Adela had married her husband because he was rich and she was the
youngest daughter of a great but impoverished house; and after the
singular but ineradicable habit of her sex, she had founded her entire
conception of life upon her own experience of it. To her, marriage was
a matter neither of romance nor affinity. It was a contract: a sacred
contract, perhaps,--in her own case it had even been fully choral,--but
a mere matter of business for all that. To her, her son's ideal bride
was a well-bred young woman with the same tastes and social circle as
himself, and possibly a little money of her own. It had never occurred
to her that Love contained any other elements. Accordingly she ploughed
on; trying to be fair; quite prepared to be generous. She offered to
"advance" Tilly in life. She talked vaguely of setting her up "in a
little business." She remarked several times that she was anxious to do
the right thing, adding as in duty bound that certain conditions would
be attached to any arrangement which might be made, "the nature of which
you can probably imagine for yourself, my dear." She begged Tilly to
think things over, and assured her that no reasonable request would be
refused. Altogether Lady Adela's was a very conciliatory and
well-balanced proposition. Had it been made by an encroaching railway
company to a landed proprietor in compensation for compulsory ejection
from his property, or by a repentant motorist to an irate henwife, it
might fairly have been regarded as a model of justice and equity. As a
scheme for snatching an amiable but weak-minded young man from the
clutches of a designing harpy, it erred if anything on the side of
generosity. But as a tactful attempt to convey to a young girl the
information that she could never marry the man she loved, it was a piece
of gross brutality. But Lady Adela did not know this.
Fortunately Tilly heard little or nothing. Occasionally a stray sentence
focused itself on her mind. "My husband and I communicated our views to
our son this morning," was one. "Impart our decision _ourselves_ ...
avoid the necessity of a painful interview ... unnecessary
correspondence," and the like--the disconnected phrases fell upon her
ears; but throughout it all the girl sat with her head in the clouds,
fingering her letter and hugging her secret. Once Lady Adela, in a
flight of oratory, half-rose from her seat. Tilly, with a vague hope
that the call was over, put out a hand, which was ignored.
But the interview came to an end at last; and Lady Adela, conscious of a
difficult task adequately and tactfully performed, but secretly troubled
by Tilly's continuous apathy, rose to her feet. Tilly mechanically
stood up, too.
"Good-morning, Miss Welwyn," said Lady Adela, offering her hand. "We
have to thank you for a patient hearing."
Tilly smiled politely, shook hands, but said nothing. Mr. Mainwaring,
his heart sore for the girl, timidly signalled to his wife to leave her
in peace.
"Do not trouble to show us out," said Lady Adela; and departed
imposingly through the door.
With a long sigh of relief Tilly dropped back into her seat. Suddenly
she was aware that she was not yet alone. Mr. Mainwaring had lingered
in the room. He came forward now, and took the girl's hand in both of
his.
"My dear, my dear!" he said quickly. "I wish you were my daughter. God
give you a good husband!"
There was an ominous cough upon the landing outside; and the old
gentleman, recalled to a sense of duty, trotted obediently out of the
room, closing the door behind him.
Tilly snatched the letter from her belt.
"He loves me!" she murmured. "He loves me! He loves me still!"
She was not referring to Mr. Mainwaring senior.