Mr. Verinder gave his orders now--foolish ones, as such orders
always are. Miss Verinder was not to leave the house except when
accompanied by her maid, or her mother. In the case of her issuing
forth with Louisa Hodson, she was to account for the time spent
while away. Louisa must also account for it. Miss Verinder was to
go about with her mother as much as possible; to fulfil all social
engagements that had already been made; to do the afternoon drives
in Hyde Park, together with both her parents, and so on.
During the course of the morning he called upon his solicitors in
Spring Gardens, and saw the head of the firm, Mr. Williams. He
desired Mr. Williams to find out all about Anthony Dyke. “Find out
everything you can for me. I want the fullest information I can
get.” Mr. Williams, promising to do so, noticed that his client and
old friend looked gloomy and depressed; and the brief interview
terminated at once, without passing into the pleasant general chat
that was customary when Mr. Verinder came to Spring Gardens.
It has been said that Mr. Verinder had a love of law and order.
Truly, he adored them. We are all of us what our antecedent
history makes us; and Mr. Verinder, looking backward far beyond
his own birth, behind his grandfather’s birth even, could see such
beneficent factors as open markets, stable rates of exchange,
organised means of transport, together with banking and credit
systems that are really based on the confidence inspired by a firm
government--he could see all this not only as the solid foundation
on which the British Empire had been raised, but as the prime cause
of the success of those paper mills in the midlands from which he
and his family derived their wealth. The mills had long ceased to
give any trouble, they just went on; and he merely drew dividends
or travelled by train occasionally to attend board meetings. But,
of course, except for law and order, the mills could not have
maintained their initial impetus so comfortably.
He was proud to think that the mills made paper used by government
offices, and that his son Eustace--now aged thirty-three--was
actually a government official. Eustace, after taking honours
at the venerable long-established institution known as Oxford
University, had entered the Board of Trade--not to stay there for
ever, but as a step in his career; whereby he would lay up such
a store of useful knowledge with regard to the wider aspects of
national commerce as should enable him later on, when he went into
Parliament, handsomely to assist the government of the day instead
of hampering them with unenlightened criticism.
Except in relation to classical music, Mr. Verinder himself was
never critical. He was content to bow to acknowledged authority
in every form; respecting heads of professions and submitting to
expert opinions; believing in the wisdom of judges on the bench,
the art of Royal Academicians, the inspired logical faculty of
bishops in conclave. Although a stout Anglican, he could not in any
circumstances have brought himself to speak disparagingly of the
Pope.
Simply but completely he loved his house, taking daily pleasure in
its largeness, its unostentatious splendour, its immense comfort.
As he lay in bed at night he liked to think of the number of
people sleeping under his roof; also their dependence on him the
chieftain, who took care of their food and their well-being, who
had provided two bath-rooms solely for the servants’ use--one under
the tiles for the women, one down in the basement for the men. It
was a grand, well-managed house. It was his castle, his stronghold.
He looked at it with satisfaction every time that he walked or
drove up to it.
There was no taint of meanness in this feeling. He remembered with
unselfish gladness that several of his friends were almost if not
quite as fortunate. Mrs. Bell had one of the largest houses in
Queen’s Gate, and throughout the whole Cromwell Road there was
nothing bigger than Mrs. Clutton’s mansion. When speaking of these
ladies he rarely omitted to mention the fact.
He loved his neighbourhood too. In imagination he could see it
as finally completed, with the College of Music, the Colonial
Institute, and all the other fine edifices grouping together--much
as it is to-day. The Albert Hall was especially dear to him. He
owned a box in it; some of his money went annually towards its
maintenance. The vast and noble arena had no traditions earlier
than the Prince Consort, but, oh, what glorious traditions since!
It would be not too much to say that he derived a subtle kind of
intellectual support from the adjacency of the Albert Hall. It
stood there so close, unshakable, giving him a sensation directly
due to its height above the eye and its stretch to either hand;
solid and calm in its triumphant common-sense. For, if you want a
building to hold the greatest possible number of people, then make
it circular and avoid corners. Add a dome to render it sightly, but
do not sacrifice use to ornamentation.
Nor, for the life of him, could he understand why certain folk
tried to belittle the merit of the Albert Memorial. To him it
seemed a very beautiful monument. He rejoiced even in its accessory
groups of sculpture, admiring the taste and judgment that had led
the artist to select a camel as symbolic of Africa and an elephant
for Asia; often, when alone, he would mount the broad steps and
study the reliefs about the square base; with the assistance of the
chiselled names, he distinguished certain English Worthies, pausing
here and there to gaze reverently at the genial attitude of Barry
or the contemplative brow of Wren. English Worthies--the very title
was pleasant to him; so honest and unpretentious. English Worthies!
He was almost one himself--of course on a small scale, in a humble
way.
He thought of Dyke as a subversive agency--an enemy to peace;
something unamenable, uncontrollable, that suddenly threatened him,
his family, and the whole neighbourhood. He began to hate Dyke, as
the best of men begin to hate the thing they dread. It appeared
to him now that he had seen through Dyke from the first moment,
but that he had refused to be guided or warned by the clear light
of his own intuitive intelligence. “I’d like to know that girl
over there. Who is she?” when Dyke said something of that sort, he
should have resented it as an impertinence and not accepted it as a
compliment. Then Dyke had laughed, blatantly--offensively, if you
came to think of it. “Pardon me for being a untutored savage.”
But, no, one cannot pardon savagery--except in savage lands, at
a remote distance, beyond the pale. One has to protect oneself
against its effects. He wished that somehow he could get the
whip-hand of Dyke. And yet even now, so kindly and trustful was he
by nature, that at the very moment of dreading and hating Dyke, he
could not believe the man really meant mischief.
Within his narrow limits he was always generous-minded. Markedly so
with regard to money matters--and perhaps there is still no surer
test of a person’s magnanimity than that which can be obtained by
a record of his consistent attitude towards hard cash. Unlike many
men who have all the money that they require, he did not crave for
more. No petty gains or economies ever lured him. For instance,
although Emmeline had come into the enjoyment of her income, he
had never suggested or dreamed of suggesting that she should make
any contribution to household expenses. She was freely welcome to
bed and board, the attendance of Louisa, the use of the carriages.
He had advised her to draw only such a portion of her income as
she needed, leaving Mr. Williams of Spring Gardens to reinvest all
surplus; and it made him happy to feel that she was doing this, and
increasing her modest capital quarter by quarter.
Now, not unnaturally, he thought--as Mrs. Verinder had already
thought--that, so far as a whip-hand over Emmeline was concerned,
the soundness of her financial position robbed him of much
desirable power.
This was Mr. Verinder. Unless one knew him and did him justice,
one could not understand his state of mind. He was not in any
respects the conventional old-fashioned father that lingered in the
comic literature of the period. About him there was nothing either
grotesque or preposterous.
After all, it was only 1895; say twenty-seven years ago--yesterday.
There are large numbers of people to-day who think as he did then.
There are men at his club and at other clubs saying in essence
just what he used to say--when, not thinking of Emmeline, but
merely generalising, he spoke of fin-de-siècle girls who mistake
license for freedom, of regrettable up-to-date ideas, of the danger
of abusing the word progress and pulling down before you have
learnt to build up;--men who have passed through the devastating
experience of the world-war and are less shaken by its rivers of
blood, its fiery chaos, its starving millions, than by the social
readjustments it has occasioned--“the passing of the old order,” as
they call it--and the fact that half the members of the club won’t
even trouble to put on a white shirt and a black tie for dinner.
* * * * *
A week passed, and, to Mr. Verinder’s supreme satisfaction,
Emmeline showed herself altogether docile and amenable. She
attended parties, she drove in the park, she spent afternoons and
evenings with their friend Mrs. Bell, at Queen’s Gate, and was
punctually brought home from these visits by Louisa. Mr. Verinder
highly approved of them. Mrs. Bell was devoted to Emmeline,
had always admired and made much of the child. Here would be a
good influence. But not a hint had been given to Mrs. Bell of
any trouble in the air. The only people who knew of the cause
of anxiety were Margaret--and presumably Pratt--and, of course,
Eustace.
Another week passed. The twelfth of July with its dinner party lay
behind them. That feast, although shorn of its guest of honour,
had not proved too dismal, all things considered. And in those
two weeks not a sign from the enemy. Lulled into a sense of false
security, Mr. Verinder began to feel easy in his mind.
Then he discovered that Dyke had been out of London for a
fortnight. Dyke was in Scotland, giving lectures at the great
Scottish cities. “Taking the hat round,” as he had himself
described it. A banquet had been given in his honour at Edinburgh,
with many notabilities present; the speechifying was recorded by
the public press.
After another week or ten days Dyke returned to London. His
return was chronicled in all the newspapers. They again began to
make a fuss about him. And Mr. Verinder, at his club, had the
mortification of hearing his praises sung by certain members of it.
He had dined here, at Mr. Verinder’s club, last night--a little
dinner in his honour, given by Duff-Steele, a personal friend of
Mr. Verinder’s--with So-and-so, and So-and-so--and a few more. Dyke
had kept them there yarning until two or three in the morning.
They said, in effect, that he was entirely fascinating; a great
irresponsible child, full of the most infectious gaiety. A real
tip-topper, madcap, dare-devil--whatever you like--but evidently
behind it all, a heart of gold. How he had talked! How he had
laughed!
When Mr. Verinder reached home that afternoon Mrs. Verinder at once
reported that Emmeline had become restless--very restless indeed.
She felt that it would be necessary to watch her closely.
They did it for the next week or so, but Mr. Verinder had the
uncomfortable sensation, shared by his wife, that no matter how
carefully you watched, more was going on than met the eye. An
atmosphere of suspicion permeated all the reception rooms of the
house; Mr. Verinder’s discomfort and annoyance increased day by day.
Although Mr. Williams of Spring Gardens had long ago written to say
he was prepared to communicate the result of his investigations,
Mr. Verinder had not yet gone to receive them. He went now, after
luncheon one day, and took Eustace from the Board of Trade with him.
* * * * *
There is a candour and unpretentiousness about the very best sort
of solicitors that is sometimes almost startling to their clients.
If you speak of investments, a really good solicitor will say at
once that he is not a business man; if you speak of an attack on
your character or a possible career for your children, he will say
he is not a man of the world; if you are involved in a wrangle and
fancy you have publicly libelled your adversary, he will say that
he is not a lawyer. He doesn’t in the least mean that he will not
carry through to a triumphant conclusion the affair, whatever it
is, that you are bringing to him; he only means that he lays no
claim to keeping a mass of encyclopædic knowledge on the tip of
his tongue, to giving oracular decisions at a moment’s notice, or
seeing through a brick wall without the aid of a periscope. He will
take a little time going into the matter thoroughly, obtaining
counsel’s opinion, doing everything necessary. Meanwhile and at
once, in your presence, he often consults his books of reference;
and it must be confessed that this reliance on books and the
guileless manner of speaking about them does often disconcert,
if it does not shake a client. “You doubt if your bargain is
clinched?” says the really eminent solicitor; and he rings the bell
for his clerk. “Bring me that book on Contracts, latest edition.
And see if we have a directory of county court judges downstairs. I
want to ascertain if there is any county court south of the Thames.
And, look here, go upstairs and give my compliments to Mr. Cyril
and ask him if he knows whether the Stock Exchange is open on Bank
Holidays.”
Mr. Williams, of Spring Gardens, or his firm, had long conducted
the affairs of the Verinder family in a most efficient style. He
himself relied greatly on his books, which he kept in handsome
book-cases in his own room. This solid old-world room was lighted
by narrow windows with reflecting mirrors above them, and had
no encumbrances of deed boxes and that sort of thing; a large
beautifully neat table for Mr. Williams, a fine comfortable
leather-seated chair for visitors, the picture of a marine battle
over the chimneypiece, and one or two marble busts on top of the
book-cases--that was all; and with these simple surroundings the
owner of the room worked in it very happily and contentedly;
looking up with a friendly smile as you came in at the door, and
showing himself as a shortish, stoutish, fresh-complexioned person
of sixty-five or a little more. As his intimates knew, he had only
one sorrow in life--the certainty that sooner or later this room,
the whole Queen Anne house, and the rest of Spring Gardens, would
be swept away by London’s unbridled rage for street improvements.
But he hoped they would last his time.
He begged Mr. Verinder and Mr. Eustace Verinder to sit down, and
with an air of innocent triumph said that he had found out a great
deal about Anthony Dyke.
“I may say that directly you mentioned the name, it seemed familiar
to me.”
“It is familiar to everyone,” said old Mr. Verinder rather
irritably, and his son sneered. Eustace had a trick of sneering and
saying pointed things, in a polite Oxford manner on which he had
superimposed a slight veneer of officialness.
“To begin with,” said Mr. Williams, “he is a married man.”
“Yes, I knew that,” said Mr. Verinder.
“Oh, you did? But he is not living with his wife.”
“So I understood.”
“They have been separated for years--and there is a reason.” And
Mr. Williams explained how he had found it all in his book. “I have
it all here under my hand”; and he laid his hand on the useful
volume, lying there on the table. “As soon as you told me the
name it aroused associations in my memory--apart from his public
performances, you know. There was a law suit--years ago--quite an
important case. Mrs. Dyke proved to be out of her mind--immediately
after the wedding--and Dyke tried to get the marriage annulled, on
the grounds that her people had deceived him. He failed of course.”
Mr. Verinder had not known about the madness, and he sat frowning
and brooding over it. Then presently he asked what Mr. Williams had
discovered about the man himself.
“Yes,” said Mr. Williams, “I have his whole record here.” And he
began to read from a paper of notes, saying that Anthony Dyke left
Africa for Australia in such and such a year; was thanked by the
government of Queensland for explorations in the interior of the
continent in the year 1885; and in 1887 made his first Antarctic
cruise, which resulted in the discovery of the island now known
as Anthony Dyke Land. It was of course all in the books, and Mr.
Verinder, who already knew it by heart, interrupted very irritably.
“Yes, yes, yes. No more than that? Very good.” Then, after
exchanging a glance with Eustace, he said, “Williams, the fact
is--Frankly, our trouble is this. He is paying undesirable
attentions to my daughter.”
“Oh, really?” Mr. Williams showed suitable distress as well as
surprise, and he looked across at the bookcases. “Which of your
daughters?”
“My unmarried daughter.”
“Oh, really? Miss Emmeline!”
“Yes. What would you advise me to do?”
“Ah, that’s somewhat difficult to say. Off-hand, I should scarcely
like--”
And another look given by Mr. Williams to the book-shelves was that
of a timid swimmer who feels deep water under him and sees the
solid shore fast receding. “From what you have let fall--well, so
little to go on, from what you _have_ let fall.”
Mr. Verinder let everything fall, and pressed for counsel.
And then Mr. Williams, bracing himself to the effort and striking
out boldly, advised that in his opinion Dyke should be at once
tackled.
“Tackled?” said Mr. Verinder. “What do you mean by tackled?”
Mr. Williams meant brought to book, called to account, and so
forth; and he said something that Mr. Verinder grasped at because
it echoed a hope that he was still glad not to abandon altogether.
Mr. Williams considered that, although there had been impropriety
in Dyke’s attitude, they might be very wrong in assuming that he
really entertained bad motives.
“Why jump to the conclusion that he intends harm? Tackle him, and
he himself may express regret and discontinue the annoyance. Would
you wish me to write him a letter?”
“No,” said Mr. Verinder. “But perhaps an interview here, in your
presence?”
Mr. Williams, not taking to this idea, suggested that it would be
better to get hold of Dyke informally; and after further talk it
was decided that Eustace Verinder should go to him not for the real
tackling, but for a preliminary skirmish in which an interview with
the young lady’s father should be arranged.
“You know him personally?” asked Mr. Williams.
“No,” said Eustace, sneering slightly. “As yet I have not had the
privilege of setting eyes on this gentleman.”
“One moment,” said Mr. Williams, picking up the notes. “I have his
address here. It is care of his bankers--a bank in Fleet Street.”
But the Verinders were better informed. Dyke’s visiting cards told
them that he belonged to a club in Pall Mall--one of the oldest and
best clubs in the street.
“When will you go there?” asked Mr. Williams.
“Now,” said Eustace resolutely.
He parted with his father in Cockspur Street, and strolled on to
Pall Mall by himself.
It was now what journalists of those days called the apotheosis of
the London season; what was then considered a flood of traffic came
pouring down Waterloo Place; large open carriages with a mother
and one daughter on the back seat, and a red book and another
daughter on the front seat, swept across to and from Carlton House
Terrace, while splendid padded veterans at the corner outside the
Senior and sedate members of the Government outside the Athenæum
took off their silk hats or even kissed the tips of their gloved
fingers. The pavements of Pall Mall were full of gentlemen in
black coats and top hats, with here and there a white waistcoat
and a button-hole to light up the throng; the sentry in scarlet
and bearskin outside the War Office stood presenting arms to
the passage of a field officer; and one had a sensation of the
further glories at the end of the street--Marlborough House, with
the Prince and Princess of Wales perhaps just emerging from the
gates, the old palace where a brilliant levée had taken place that
morning, the drive shaded by close-standing elms along which people
drove to daylight drawing-rooms--an impression of the leisurely
pomp, the well-ordered stately calm of the whole realm.
It was 1895, essentially yesterday, and yet, if judged by external
aspect alone, another world--the world in which people behaved
with dignity, looked pleasant, and never did objectionable things.
Eustace Verinder, tall, dark, already bald under his silk hat,
looking like the cabinet-minister that he intended later on to be,
formed a small but harmonious part of this world; and his blood
boiled tepidly at the thought that any intruder should dare at
once to violate the governing code of good manners and menace his
sister’s fair name.
As he approached Dyke’s club an amazingly incongruous figure came
down its steps. It was a tall big man in a sombrero hat, with a
canvas wallet slung over his back and a long staff in his hand;
he looked like a pilgrim, like a youthful Tolstoy, like anything
strange and odd and absurdly out of place. Eustace noticed the
outlandish dun colour of his flannel suit, the huge collar of
his flannel shirt flapping over his jacket and all open at the
hairy throat, and, feeling shocked at such a moving outrage to
convention, stared after him as he stalked across the roadway and
disappeared into St. James Square.
The hall porter told Eustace that Mr. Dyke had just left the club.
“Just this minute, sir. Shall I send the boy to see if he can catch
him?”
Eustace said no, it did not matter. He felt that he ought to have
guessed, after all his father had told him. But it was so far worse
than one could imagine. He went away feeling profoundly disgusted.
To dress like that, in London, at half past three P.M., with the
season at its apotheosis!
Anthony Dyke had, in fact, dressed like that only because he
was going for a walk. He felt that, yielding to civilization’s
enticements, he had been for some time sitting too much, eating
too much, above all else sleeping too much, and he needed a walk.
He had therefore slipped on what seemed to him very suitable
attire for the purpose, gone to the club coffee-room to fill his
wallet with some fruit and a few rolls of bread--and now was off.
Naturally, with the hero of the Andes, a walk meant a walk. He
would go straight ahead, over Hampstead Heath into Hertfordshire,
round that county and any other counties adjacent; he would walk
all night, and probably all day to-morrow; then he would come back,
have a bath, and feel thoroughly refreshed--the limbs loosened by
gentle exercise, civilization’s rust rubbed out of his joints and
the mind clarified by avoidance of slumber.