A LETTER FROM WIGBOROUGH
Dear Bill,--At last I find myself with an hour or so to spare, so here
goes! How are you all? Well, I hope. I received your little present on
the anniversary. Many thanks, old girl. How on earth do you remember the
date of everybody's birthday? Honestly, I should have let it pass
without noticing if that wee book had not arrived two days before. So
you see, you _are_ of some use in the world after all! (This is a joke.)
How's Mac getting on with the etching? Tell him I've taken to using only
forty per cent. nitric acid in distilled water. This gives very good
results for all ordinary work, much more certain than the nitrous, and
doesn't make such a stink. There's no demand just now for modern work,
in England at any rate. I can hardly believe what you say about the
shows in New York. London's dead for etchers. Every dealer is clamorous
for copies of the old masters. The rotten thing is that it pays better
than doing original work, you know. I have a job on now--twenty plates
at L50 a plate, simply copying Girtins and Bartolozzis. I shall do four
plates a year. I take things pretty easily, work in the morning, potter
round the garden in the afternoon, tennis and cycling when the weather
permits. This has been a terrible summer. English weather gets worse, I
believe. We had rain for a solid week in July. I was out on a tramp
through the midlands and got caught in it, which reminds me of a most
remarkable chap I met at the time. I really must tell you about him,
because I don't remember anyone who has so impressed his _personality_
upon me as this man did.
"It was this way. I had been sketching round about Market Overton, and
getting rather sick of the incessant rain, so I packed up my knapsack
and started home. It really is much more jolly walking in the rain than
sitting in a stuffy inn parlour waiting for it to stop. Well, at
Peterboro' I heard the country eastward was flooded and farmers ruined.
Of course, my road lay through March and Ely to Newmarket and
Colchester, and I wouldn't believe the boys who called to me that I'd be
stopped; but sure enough, not two miles east of Peterboro' the road slid
under water and people were punting themselves about on doors, and
cooking their grub upstairs. In the fields the hay-cocks and corn-ricks
were just showing themselves above the water. It made one's heart ache
for the farmers. Well, I turned back, of course, and took the London
road to Huntingdon, which runs high all the way to Alconbury. I was
getting jolly tired and wondering if I should find a decent bed before I
reached Huntingdon, when I came to Saxon Cross. At the cross-roads
stands a fine inn all by itself, and to judge by the names and addresses
in the visitors' book, it is nearly as well known in America as in
England. The Saxon Cross Hotel is not really a hotel at all, being a
hunting inn. But it is very comfortable, with brushes hung all round
the walls and fine old engravings of sporting scenes in all the rooms.
"At first I only went into the bar-parlour to get a drink. It was rather
dark in there, for it was very near sunset and the windows were small,
and I had slipped off my knapsack and dropped into a big comfortable
chair before I noticed a clean-shaven man with a big hooked nose and
gleaming eyes seated in the far corner. It was like the beak of a bird,
that nose, and I was so fascinated by it that I didn't answer the
landlord when he came in and said 'Good evening.' The man opposite said
'Good evening' too, so I suppose that it must have been just a mistaken
idea of mine, but I really thought at first that he had something
against me, his glance was so confoundedly malevolent. He was a tall
young chap in a Norfolk suit with a soft silk collar and scarlet tie,
russia-leather shoes and a watch in an alligator case on his left wrist.
A gentleman evidently by the look of him and when he said to me, in the
refined voice of the ordinary university man, 'Are you walking down
country?' I made up my mind that he was O. K. and began to converse.
"One thing rather puzzled me, and that was the fact that he and the
landlord did not speak to each other. While I was drinking my whisky
they both talked to me and I to them, but they did not exchange a word.
I thought it was strange that a landlord should ignore a guest like
that, especially as the guest didn't look as if he would stand much
ignoring. Indeed, there was a sort of glint in his dark eyes as he made
the most ordinary remark that struck me as particularly baleful.
However, we talked of the floods and my tramp and hunting, etc., and
finally I decided to stop the night there. The landlord went off to
order supper and my new friend came over and sat down beside me. Somehow
or other I found myself talking over old times. On thinking the matter
over I have come to the conclusion that it was his use of one or two
words like 'tool,' meaning 'to run hard,' that led me to accept him as
one of us. 'Topping' was another word. Before I was aware of it, and
without his definitely stating the fact, I was treating him as a
public-school man.
"'Do you know Surrey?' he asked me. 'It's rather jolly.'
"'I know Guildford,' I said. 'I was at school there.'
"'Were you really?' he replied, and he began to hum '_As I was going to
Salisbury_,' which is Winchester and nothing else as you will remember.
That settled it, and I asked him whose house he was in. 'Jerry Bud's,'
he told me. 'I was in old Martin's,' I said. 'Did you know Belvoir? He
was in Bud's.'
"'The wine merchant's son?' he said, and I nodded.
"He gave me a curious look at this, as though he was suspicious of me.
'Seen him lately?' he asked. 'Not for years,' I said. 'What became of
him?' 'Oh, I don't know,' he said as though relieved. 'I thought
perhaps _you'd_ kept it up. He went into the army, I believe.'
"We talked on like this, giving each other little items of information
about different fellows we knew, and gradually I gave him my own
history, what there is of it. There isn't much, as you know; Slade,
Beaux Arts, Chelsea, and now Wigborough. He wasn't a bit interested,
didn't seem to know what the word _artist_ meant. Regular stereotyped
public-school man in that. And he didn't offer me a drink, I noticed,
after we had had a peg or two at my expense. However, when the bath was
ready and I got up to go to it, he said, 'I'll take supper with you if
you don't mind.' I said, 'with pleasure,' 'charmed,' of course, and all
that sort of thing, and went off. I met the landlord as I was coming
down and buttonholed him. He told me all about it at once.
"'Mr. Carville, sir? Yes, that's his name. Well, it's a rather curious
case. I don't know what to make of it myself. He came down here with a
party of university gentlemen about a month ago. Very nice gentlemen
they were, sir, and were very free with their money, Mr. Carville
especially. And then they all went off except him with a motorin' party
that spent a week-end here. Mr. Carville he said they was coming back,
you see, and he'd wait for 'em. Well, that's three weeks gone and he's
still here as you see. He says that he expects a cheque any day, but up
to the present----.'
"'Why, hasn't he got any money?' I said.
"'Well, at present, sir, there's a month's bill. Bein' a gentleman, of
course, I knew it 'ud be all right, so I let it run.'
"'Perhaps he's overdrawn,' I said.
"'It's possible, sir,' said the landlord.
"Well, I went down to supper, full of the poor chap's story, and found
him at the table walking into a hefty veal-and-ham pie, and with a
bottle of wine at his elbow.
"'Come on,' he says, 'or you'll be too late.'
"We went at it and made a good meal, and he accepted one of my cigars.
It suddenly occurred to me that I knew nothing definite about the man.
He hadn't even told me his profession. He wasn't _Church_, that was
clear. He wasn't Navy. I didn't think he was Bar either. Army? Yes, but
you know a chap in the army is bound to let something out about himself
in the course of conversation. And, moreover, you don't find army men
hiding in hunting hotels in July. Carville? Carville? And then I decided
he was proud and kept quiet for fear I would offer him a loan. Poor
chap!
"There was no one else staying at the Saxon Cross Hotel that night, and
we had the big smoking-room to ourselves. And after a time I put it to
him pointblank: 'What on earth are you hanging about down here for,
man?'
"'Simply because,' said he, 'I haven't the cash to pay my bill, and the
inland revenue has run dry.'
"'Where do you bank?' I asked, and he slapped his pocket.
"'Pa's bank,' he replied, 'but he is in a bit of a temper with me, I
think. If I could only get up to town.'
"'Why didn't you explain to the landlord?' I asked him. He looked at me
with a scowl. 'I don't explain anything to people of that class,' he
said.
"'What'll you take?' I asked him, and he leaned over and put his face
close to mine. 'Oh, damn the money,' he said. 'The fellow will take an
IOU if you endorse it.' 'Nay,' I said. 'Let me pay it, and when your
ship comes home, all right.' He took another whisky. 'Will you?' he
said. 'Will you help a stranger like that?'
"'An old public school man is not a stranger,' I said. 'I think your
pals are rather a rotten lot to leave you in the lurch like this.' 'Fair
weather friends,' he answered. 'Young men with too much money. Very
decent chaps so long as you have plenty of cash. Very awkward. I have
business in town as a matter of fact. Will you really take my IOU for
this? It's only a few quid, you know.'
"It was fourteen pounds, and took up the balance of my holiday stock.
Rather foolish I know you will say, but after all we ought to stand by
each other. And it was worth it. Honestly, it was worth it! That chap
became the most animated creature in Huntingdonshire when the
arrangement was concluded. He opened the piano and sang song after song,
he jabbered at me in French, he got on the big table and danced, he took
a tumbler and a napkin and did conjuring tricks, he ordered a bottle of
brandy and cigars. I was rather tired when I came in, but he would have
none of it. He told me stories, and I judged he must have traveled a
good deal. He asked me if I knew anything about automobiles. I rather
wondered at this. 'I am going to take up an agency,' he said. 'That's
why I want to get to town.' It seemed a mad thing for a gentleman to do,
and I said so. He darted a fierce look at me over his glass of brandy.
'It takes a gentleman to sell to a gentleman,' he said.
"I didn't lie awake very long after we did go to bed, I can assure you.
We took our candles, I remember, and I told him we must breakfast
together. The next thing I remember was the chambermaid knocking at my
door and saying it was ten o'clock. Of course he was gone. You've been
expecting me to tell you that, I suppose. So he had gone and I was
fourteen pounds to the bad, unless he redeemed his IOU. He had told the
landlord to drive him into Peterboro'; and as I came down to breakfast
the trap returned. Of course, neither of us ever expected to see him
again, and when I looked at his IOU in the cold light of the day, it
seemed a very flimsy guarantee for my money. There was only one thing
about that IOU. It was written on the unused page torn from a letter,
and the watermark of the paper was Lydgate Bond. It was the same size as
Trojan Club paper too, for you know I belong to the Trojan Club, and
Trojans are not men who write to outsiders much. Not on club paper
anyway. In fact, the very audacity of the man led me to blame myself for
doubting him. He had not behaved just as a gentleman should, but on the
other hand he had done nothing underhand. There was a damn-you look
about him that made it unbelievable that he was a fraud. Soon after
breakfast I set out on my tramp, and, going through Stilton and
Huntingdon, made for Cambridge. All the way along I could not help
thinking about my boon companion of the night before, and wondering if I
should ever meet him again. It seemed very unlikely. He was so
interesting, quite apart from his peculiar financial position, and he
gave one such an impression of indomitable will power, with his
hawk-like face and brilliant eyes, that I wished I had made some
sketches of him. But he had not even asked to see my portfolio.
"Two or three days later I reached home, and in the general worry of
getting into harness again I forgot my gentleman for a while. It so
happened, however, that my dealer, about a fortnight later, asked me to
run up and call at his place in the Haymarket, as he had a commission
for me and his client wanted to see me. I biked into Colchester and took
the train to London. Business over, I went round to look in at the
Trojan's before I took a taxi for Liverpool Street. Just as I turned
into Dover Street, an enormous claret-coloured car came up with a
horrible noise on the horn, and stopped at the Trojan's door-step. I
know there are plenty of cars of large size about, but this one was
overwhelming. Everything about it was huge. The head-light was as big as
a dog-kennel, and the steering-wheel was a yard across. As the car
stopped, a lot of fellows got out of the _tonneau_ and the driver
followed, taking off his goggles.
"Yes, my dear Bill, it is just as you imagine. The driver was my
companion of the Saxon Cross Hotel. He recognized me at once as I turned
to enter the Club. He really was a big man and he looked much bigger in
his long motoring overall than in his knickerbockers. 'Great Scott!' he
exclaimed. 'It's you! Do come in. I say, you chaps,' he called. 'Here's
a bit of luck. A friend of mine,' I was introduced, and he towered over
me smiling, his great hook nose dividing his face and distracting one's
attention from his eyes. We sat down to tea, and he told the other men
the tale of our meeting, omitting any mention of the fourteen pounds,
however, for which I was rather glad. I shouldn't like those chaps to
think I was a bally usurer. I made a move to go, but he wouldn't hear of
it. I was to go to his place to dinner. We went in the car. It was more
like an omnibus than a private vehicle. I sat beside him as we flew down
Dover Street, across Piccadilly and into St. James'. He told me he had
sold three cars like this in a week to Lord This and the Duke of That--I
forget the names. He told me, moreover, that his commission on each car
was four hundred pounds. And when we reached his chambers and I saw his
furniture and flowers and pictures and servants' livery, I could quite
believe it. He was living at the rate of ten thousand a year. Well, we
dined as we were, Carville insisting that as I was up from the country
they should bar evening dress for one night. This was rather pretty in
its way, and I found he was a curious mixture of prettiness and
downright brutal ruthlessness. I found a man I knew slightly among the
guests, a chap named Effon, son of the soap man, and he told me that
Carville was one of the most extraordinary men he had ever met, that
women would almost come to him at the crooking of his finger, and even
men of mature age were dominated by him. And, as a matter of fact, soon
after Effon told me this, there was a case in point. Carville's flat
looked from the second floor on St. James' Street. One of the men who
lived at Chislehurst wanted to catch the 12.6 at Victoria and mentioned
casually to the servant to bring a car round. 'You won't catch the
12.6,' says Carville. 'Oh, yes, I shall,' said the other man. 'I bet you
a fiver you won't,' says Carville. 'Done,' said the other. It was about
twenty minutes to twelve then, and in the buzz of conversation and a
couple of games of cards Carville forgot his bet for a moment. Suddenly
he saw that the fellow was gone. He rushed to the door and found it
locked. Of course we all saw the game, and believed that Carville would
laugh and admit himself out-manoeuvred. Not a bit of it. He turned on
us, one hand on the door handle, and his face grew absolutely black with
rage. Honest Injun, I was scared of him then! He bounded across the
room, opened the window, sprang out upon the big stone coping and ran
along to the next flat. Here he opened the window--(I've heard afterward
that the people were just getting into bed)--stepped in, explained he
was doing it for a bet, ran to the door, down the stairs, and taking a
flying leap from the top step landed with both feet on the bonnet of
the car just as it was starting. Of course, he smashed the sparking
plugs, ignition gear and a lot of other details. We all crowded to the
window and looked out. He had won his bet.
"He came back smiling and assuring the chap that the morning would do
just as well for Chislehurst. The party broke up soon after and we went
to bed. At breakfast the next morning he was charming, wrote me a cheque
for the money, sitting in a gilt chair and writing on a Louis Seize
secretaire.
"'I forgot about you,' he told me. 'I had to rush round rather when I
came to town, and it put the matter out of my head. You don't go in for
motoring, I suppose, down in Essex?' I said, no, I was working. He
looked at his watch. 'I race to-day at three,' he said. 'Where?' I
asked. 'I'd like to go to see it.' 'Ashby-de-la-Zouch,' he answered. 'It
takes just three hours to run down.' Of course, I couldn't go down into
Leicestershire, and said so. He smiled 'another time.' We exchanged
cards again and his man called a cab for me. A chauffeur came up with a
prodigiously long-bonneted and low-seated machine, and Carville followed
me down stairs. He got in and waved his hand. With a spring the car
leaped from the kerb--no other word will describe the starting of that
car. I suppose it must have been at least a hundred horse power. In a
flash it was round the corner and gone. I climbed into my cab and made
my humble way to Liverpool Street, eventually reaching Wigborough, and
taking up the daily round and the common task.
"Now what do you think of that chap, Bill? I think you will disapprove,
because for all your wild-West adventures, San Francisco earthquakes,
etc., you are a steady-going old girl and object to such rampaging
persons as this Carville. But I have been thinking that after all, if
one is an artist, everything in the world has a certain 'value.' I don't
quite know how to explain what I really do feel, but anyhow men like
Carville appear to me as vivid bits of _colour_ in the composition of
life. Taken by themselves they are all out of drawing, and too loud, but
in the general arrangement they fit in perfectly. They inspire one's
imagination too, don't you think? I shall never forget that chap's black
rage, his blazing eyes, his hooked nose as he stood by the locked door.
I wonder what the people next door thought, just getting into bed!
"This is a letter, eh! Well, I must dry up, or I shall never get to bed.
If I see any more of my strange friend I'll let you know. Love to all at
Netley as usual. When are you coming home to dear old rainy England?
"Yours ever,
"CECIL.
"P. S.--If you could get me some of those jolly little paper fans you
sent me from Chinatown last Christmas, please do.
"CECIL."