THE TIME SPIRIT
[Illustration: Three pairs of eyes met in challenge]
[PAGE 84]
THE
TIME SPIRIT
_A Romantic Tale_
BY
J. C. SNAITH
AUTHOR OF “THE COMING,” “THE SAILOR,” ETC.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK 1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ARRIVAL 1
II. AUNT ANNIE AND AUNTY HARRIET 32
III. FLOWING WATER 68
IV. BRIDPORT HOUSE 87
V. ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS 120
VI. PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 149
VII. A TRAGIC COIL 170
VIII. A BUSY MORNING 186
IX. AN INTERLUDE 210
X. TIME’S REVENGE 232
XI. A BOMB 253
XII. ARDORS AND ENDURANCES 273
XIII. EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST 293
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
Three pairs of eyes met in challenge _Frontispiece_
“How did you come by it, Joe?” 24
“You give up your young man--simply because of that?” 198
“We mustn’t build castles,” she sighed, and the light
fringed her eyelids 296
THE TIME SPIRIT
CHAPTER I
THE ARRIVAL
I
THE fog of November in its descent upon Laxton, one of London’s
busiest suburbs, had effaced the whole of Beaconsfield Villas,
including the Number Five on the fanlight over the door of the last
house but two in the row. To a tall girl in black on her way from the
station this was a serious matter. She was familiar with the lie of
the land in the light of day and in darkness less than Cimmerian, but
this evening she had to ask a policeman, a grocer’s boy, and a person
of no defined status, before a kid-gloved hand met the knocker of her
destination.
It was the year 1890. Those days are very distant now. Victoria
the Good was on the throne of Britain. W.G. went in first for
Gloucestershire; Lohmann and Lockwood bowled for Surrey. The hansom was
still the gondola of London. The Tube was not, and eke the motor-bus.
The _Daily Mail_ had not yet invented Lord Northcliffe. Orville Wright
had not made good. William Hohenzollern used to come over to see his
grandmother.
Indeed, on this almost incredibly distant evening in the world’s
history, his grandmother in three colors and a widow’s cap, with a blue
ribbon across her bosom, surmounted the sitting-room chimney-piece of
Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas. And at the other end of the room,
over the dresser, was an old gentleman with a beard, by common consent
the wisest man in the realm, who talked about “splendid isolation,” and
gave Heligoland to deep, strong, patient Germany in exchange for a tiny
strip of Africa.
Yes, there were giants in those days. And no doubt there are giants in
these. But it is not until little Miss Clio trips in with her scroll
that we shall know for certain, shall we?
* * * * *
At the first crisp tap the door of Number Five was flung open.
“Harriet, so here you are!”
There was welcome in the eyes as well as in the voice of the eager,
personable creature who greeted the visitor. There was welcome also in
the gush of mingled gas and firelight from a cosy within.
“How are you, Eliza?”
The tall girl asked the question, shut the door, and kissed her
sister, all in one breath, so that only a minute quantity of a London
“partickler” was able to follow her into the room.
The hostess pressed Harriet into a chair, as near the bright fire as
she could be persuaded to sit.
“What a night! I was half afraid you wouldn’t face it.”
“I always try to keep a promise.” The quiet, firm voice had a gravity
and a depth which made it sound years older than that of the elder
sister.
“I know you do--and that’s a lot to say of anyone. How’s your health,
my dear? It’s very good to see you after all these months.”
Chattering all the time with the artlessness of a nature wholly
different from that of her visitor, Eliza Kelly took the kettle from
the hob and made the tea.
Beyond a superficial general likeness there was nothing to suggest the
near relationship of these two. The air and manner which invested the
well-made coat and skirt, the lady-like muff and stole, with a dignity
rather austere, were not to be found in the unpretentious front parlor
opening on to the street, or in its brisk, voluble, easy-going mistress.
“Harriet, you are really all right again?” Eliza impulsively poured
out the tea before it had time to brew, thereby putting herself to the
trouble of returning it to the pot.
“Oh, yes.” Harriet removed her gloves elegantly. She was quite a
striking-looking creature of nine-and-twenty. In spite of a recent
illness, she had an air of strength and virility. The face and brow had
been cast in a mold of serious beauty, the eyes, a clear deep gray,
were strongholds of good sense. Even without the aid of a considered,
rather formidable manner, this young woman would have exacted respect
anywhere.
“Take a muffin while it’s warm.”
Harriet did so.
“I had no idea your illness was going to be so bad.”
The younger woman would not own that her illness had been anything of
the kind; she was even inclined to make light of it.
“Why, you’ve been away weeks and weeks. And Aunt Annie says you’ve had
to have an operation.”
“Only a slight one.” The tone was casual. “Nothing to speak of.”
“Nothing to speak of! Aunt Annie says you have been at Brighton I don’t
know how long.”
“Well, you know,” said Harriet in a discreet, rather charming voice,
“they thought I was run down and that I ought to have a good rest. You
see, the long illness of her Grace was very trying for those who had to
look after her.”
“I suppose so. Although her Grace has been dead nearly two years.
Anyhow, I hope the Family paid your expenses.” The elder sister and
prudent housewife looked at Harriet keenly.
“Everything, even my railway fare.” A fine note came into the voice of
Harriet Sanderson.
“Lucky you to be in such service,” said Eliza in a tone of envy.
Slowly the color deepened in Harriet’s cheek.
“By the way, what are you doing at Buntisford? Does it mean you’ve left
Bridport House for good?”
“It does, I suppose.”
“But I thought Buntisford had been closed for years?”
“His Grace had it opened again, so that he can go down there when he
wants to be quiet. He was always fond of it. There’s a bit of rough
shooting and a river, and it’s within thirty miles of London; he finds
it very convenient. Of course, it’s quite small and easy to manage.”
“What is your position there?”
“I’m housekeeper,” said Harriet. “That is to say, I manage everything.”
The elder sister looked at her with incredulity, in which a little awe
was mingled. “Housekeeper--to the Duke of Bridport--and you not yet
thirty, Hattie. Gracious, goodness, what next!”
The visitor smiled at this simplicity. “It’s hardly so grand as it
sounds. The house doesn’t need much in the way of servants; the Family
never go there. His Grace comes down now and again for a week-end when
he wants to be alone. Just himself--there’s never anyone else.”
“But housekeeper!” Eliza was still incredulous. “At twenty-nine! I call
it wonderful.”
“Is it so remarkable?” Harriet’s calmness seemed a little uncanny.
“The dad would have thought so, had he lived to see it. He always
thought the world of the Family.”
The younger sister smiled at this artlessness.
“Every reason to do so, no doubt,” she said with a brightening eye and
a rush of warmth to her voice. “I am sure there couldn’t be better
people in this world than the Dinnefords.”
“That was the father’s opinion, anyway. He always said they knew how to
treat those who served them.”
“Not a doubt of that,” said Harriet. “They have been more than good to
me.” The color flowed over her face. “And his Grace often speaks of
the father. He says he was his right hand at Ardnaleuchan, and that he
saved him many a pound in a twelvemonth.”
“I expect he did,” said Eliza, her own eyes kindling. “He simply
worshiped the Family. Mother used to declare that he would have sold
his soul for the Dinnefords.”
“He was a very good man,” said Harriet simply.
“It would have been a proud day for him, Hattie, had he lived to see
you where you are now. And not yet thirty--with all your life before
you.”
But the words of the elder sister brought a look of constraint to the
face of Harriet. Mistaking the cause, Eliza was puzzled. “And it won’t
be my opinion only,” she said. “Aunt Annie I’m sure will think as I do.
She’ll say you’ve had a wonderful piece of luck.”
“But the position _does_ mean great responsibility”--there was a sudden
change in Harriet’s tone.
Eliza kept her eyes on the face of the younger woman, that fine Scots
face, so full of resolution and character. “Whatever it may be, Hattie,
I’m thinking you’ll just about be able to manage it.”
“I mean to try.” Harriet spoke very slowly and softly. “I mean to show
myself worthy of his Grace’s confidence.”
The elder sister smiled an involuntary admiration; there was such a
calm force about the girl. “And, of course, it means that you are made
for life.”
But in the eyes of Harriet was a fleck of anxiety. “Ah! you don’t know.
It’s a big position--an awfully big position.”
Eliza agreed.
“There are times when it almost frightens me.” Harriet spoke half to
herself.
“Everything has to run like clockwork, of course,” said the
sympathetic Eliza. “And it’s bound to make the upper servants at
Bridport House very jealous.”
“It may.” The deep tone had almost an edge of disdain. “Anyhow it
doesn’t matter. I don’t go to Bridport House now.”
“But you can’t tell me, my dear, that they like to hear of her Grace’s
second maid holding the keys in the housekeeper’s room.”
The calm Harriet smiled. “But it’s only Buntisford, after all. You
speak as if it was Bridport House or Ardnaleuchan.”
Eliza shook a knowledgeable head. “They won’t like it all the same,
Hattie. The dad wouldn’t have, for one. He was all his life on the
estate, but he was turned fifty before he rose to be factor at
Ardnaleuchan.”
“Well, Eliza”--there was a force, a decision in the words which made an
end of criticism--“it’s just a matter for the Duke. The place is not of
my seeking. I was asked to take it--what else could I do?”
“Don’t think I blame you. If it’s the wish of his Grace there is no
more to be said. Still, there’s no denying you’ve a big responsibility.”
At these words a shadow came into the resolute eyes.
Said the elder sister reassuringly, “You’ll be equal to the position,
never fear. That head of yours is a good one, Hattie. Even Aunt Annie
admits that. By the way, have you seen her lately?”
“Seen--Aunt Annie?” said Harriet defensively. The sudden mention of
that name produced an immediate change of tone in her distinguished
niece.
“She’s been asking about you. She wants very much to see you.”
The shadow deepened in Harriet’s eyes. But an instant later she had
skillfully covered an air of growing constraint by a conventional
question.
“How’s Joe, Eliza?”
“Pretty much as usual. He’ll be off duty soon.”
Joe Kelly was Eliza’s husband, and a member of the Metropolitan police
force. In the eyes of her family, Eliza Sanderson had married beneath
her. But Joe, if a rough diamond, was a good fellow, and Eliza could
afford not to be over-sensitive on the score of public opinion. Joe had
no superficial graces, it was as much as he could do to write a line
in his notebook, high rank in his calling was not prophesied by his
best friends, but his wife knew she was well off. They had been married
eight years, and if only Providence had blessed a harmonious union in
a becoming manner, Eliza Kelly would not have found it in her heart to
envy the greatest lady in the land. But Providence had not done so, the
more was the pity.
“By the way,”--Eliza suddenly broke a silence--“there’s a piece of news
for you, Hattie. A friend is coming to see you at five.”
“A friend--to see me!”
“To see you, my dear. In fact, I might say an admirer. Can’t you guess
who?”
“I certainly can’t.”
“Then I think you ought.” Mischief had yielded to laughter of a rather
quizzical kind.
“I didn’t know that I had any admirers--in Laxton.”
The touch of manner delicately suggested ducal circles.
“You can have a husband for the asking, our Harriet.” The eternal
feminine was now in command of the situation.
Harriet frowned.
“I can’t think who it can be.”
“No?” laughed the tormentress. “You are not going to tell me you have
forgotten the young man you met the last time you were here?”
It seemed that the distinguished visitor had.
“I do call that hard lines,” mocked Eliza. “You have really forgotten
him?”
“I really have!”
“He has talked of you ever since. When was Miss Sanderson coming again?
Could he be invited to meet her? He wanted to see her aboot something
verra impoortant.”
A light dawned upon Harriet’s perplexity.
“Surely you don’t mean--you don’t mean that red-headed young
policeman----?”
“Dugald Maclean. Of course, I do. He has invited himself to meet you at
five o’clock.” Eliza sat back in her chair and laughed at the face of
Harriet, but the face of Harriet showed it was hardly a laughing matter.
“Well!” she cried. Her eyes were smiling, yet they could not veil their
look of deep annoyance.
“Now, Hattie,” admonished the voice of maternal wisdom, “there’s no
need to take offense. Don’t forget you are twenty-nine, Dugald Maclean
is a smart young man, and Joe says he’ll make his way in the world. Of
course, you hold a very high position now, but if you don’t want to
find yourself on the shelf it’s time you began to think very seriously
about a husband.”
“We will change the subject, if you don’t mind.” The tone revealed a
wide gulf between the outlook of Eliza Kelly and that of a confidential
retainer in the household of the Duke of Bridport.
“Very well, my dear. But don’t bite. Have the last piece of muffin. And
then I’ll toast another for Constable Maclean.”
II
The clock on the chimney-piece struck five. Before its last echo had
died there came a loud knock on the front door.
Constable Maclean was a ruddy young Scotsman. He was tall, lean,
large-boned, with prominent teeth and ears. Although freckled like a
turkey’s egg, he was not a bad-looking fellow. His boots, however,
took up a lot of space in a small room, and the manner of his entrance
suggested that the difficult operation known as “falling over oneself”
was in the act of consummation. But there was an intense earnestness in
his manner, and a personal force in his look, which gave a redeeming
grace of character to a shy awkwardness, verging on the grotesque.
“Good afternune,” said Constable Maclean, removing his helmet with a
polite grimace.
One of the ladies shook hands, the other welcomed the young man with
a cordial good-evening and bade him sit down. Constable Maclean,
encumbered with a regulation overcoat, sat down rather like a
performing bear.
At first conversation languished. Yet no welcome could have been more
cordial than Eliza’s. She felt like a mother to this young man. It was
her nature to feel like a mother to every young man. Moreover, Dugald
Maclean, as he sat perspiring with nervousness on the edge of a chair
much too small for him, seemed to need some large-hearted woman to feel
like a mother towards him.
Miss Harriet Sanderson was to blame, no doubt, for the young
policeman’s aphasia. Her coolness and ease, with a half quizzical, half
ironical look surmounting it, seemed to increase the bashfulness of
Dugald Maclean whenever he ventured to look at her out of the tail of
his eye.
It was clear that the young man was suffering acutely. Nature had
intended him to be expansive--not in the Sassenach sense perhaps,--but
given the time and the place and a right conjunction of the planets,
Dugald Maclean had social gifts, at least they were so assessed at
Carrickmachree in his native Caledonia. Moreover, he was rather proud
of them. He was an ambitious and gifted young police officer. For many
moons he had been looking forward to this romantic hour. Since a first
chance meeting with the semi-divine Miss Sanderson he had been living
in the hope of a second, yet now by the courtesy of Providence it was
granted to him he might never have seen a woman before.
The lips of Constable Maclean were dry, his tongue clove to the roof of
an amazingly capacious mouth. As for Miss Sanderson, mere silence began
to achieve wonders in the way of gentle, smiling irony. But the hostess
was more humane. For one thing she was married, and although Fate had
been cruel, she had a sacred instinct which made her regard every young
man as a boy of her own.
Every moment the situation became more delicate, but Eliza’s handling
of it was superb. She brewed a fresh cup of tea for Constable Maclean,
and then plied the toasting-fork to such purpose that the young man
became so busy devouring muffins that for a time he forgot his shame.
Eliza could toast and butter a muffin with anyone, Constable Maclean
could eat a muffin with anyone--thus things began to go better. And
when, without turning a hair, the young man entered upon his third
muffin, Miss Sanderson dramatically unbent.
“Allow me to give you another cup of tea.” The voice was melody.
A succession of guttural noises, which might be interpreted as “Thank
ye kindly, miss,” having come apparently from the boots of Constable
Maclean, Miss Harriet Sanderson handed him a second cup of tea.
Still, the conversation did not prosper. But the perfect hostess,
kneeling before the fire in order to toast muffin the fifth, had still
her best card to play. It was the ace of trumps, in fact, and when she
rose to spread butter over a sizzling, delicious, corrugated surface,
she decided that the time had come to make use of it.
Perhaps the factor in the situation which moved her to this step was
that only one muffin now remained for her husband when he came off duty
half-an-hour hence, and that his young colleague of the X Division
seemed ready to go on devouring them until the crack of doom.
“That reminds me,” Eliza suddenly remarked as she cut the fifth muffin
in half, “I promised Mrs. Norris I would go across after tea to have a
look at her latest.”
“You are not going out, Eliza, such a night as this?” said Harriet in a
voice of consternation.
“A promise is a promise, my dear, you know that. Mrs. Norris has just
had her sixth--the sweetest little boy. Some people have all the luck.”
“But the fog--you can’t see a yard in front of you!”
“It’s only just across the street, my dear.”
III
As soon as Eliza, hatted and cloaked, had gone to see Mrs. Norris’s
latest, a change came over Constable Maclean. He was a young man of
big ideas. But all that they had done for him so far was to turn life
into a tragedy. By nature fiercely sensitive, the shyness which made
his life a burden had a trick of crystallizing at the most inconvenient
moments into a kind of dumb madness. A crisis of this kind was upon him
now. Yet he had a will of iron. And in order to keep faith with the
highest law of his being that will was always forcing him to do things,
and say things, which people who did not happen to be Dugald Maclean
could only regard as perfectly amazing.
His acquaintance with Miss Sanderson was very slight. They came from
neighboring villages in their native Scotland; many times he had gazed
from afar on his beautiful compatriot, but only once before could he
really be said to have met her. That was months ago, in that very room,
when he had been but a few days in London. Since then a very ambitious
young man had thought about her a great deal. The force and charm of
her personality had cast a spell upon him; this was a demonic woman if
ever there was one; he had hardly guessed that such creatures existed.
It would be wrong to say that he was in love with her; his passion was
centered upon ideas and not upon people; yet Harriet Sanderson was
already marked in the catalogue as the property of Dugald Maclean.
“Do you like vairse?” inquired the young man, with an abruptness which
startled her.
The unexpected question was far from the present plane of her thoughts,
but it was answered to the best of her ability.
“Yes, I like it very much,” she said, tactfully.
“I’m gled.” Constable Maclean unbuttoned his great coat.
Somewhere in the mind of Harriet lurked the romantic hope that this
remarkable young man was about to produce a hare or a rabbit after the
manner of a wonder-worker at the Egyptian Hall. But in this she was
disappointed. He simply took forth from an inner pocket of his tunic
several sheets of neatly-folded white foolscap, and handed them to Miss
Sanderson without a word. He then folded his arms Napoleonically and
watched the force of their impact upon her.
“You wish me to read _this_?” she asked, after a brief but sharp
mingling of confusion and surprise.
The young man nodded.
With fingers that trembled a little, she unrolled the sheets of a fair,
well-written copy of “Urban Love, a trilogy.”
She read the poem line by line, ninety-six in all, with the face of a
sphinx.
“What do ye think o’ it, Miss Sanderrson?” There was a slight tremor in
the voice of the author. The silence which had followed the reading of
“Urban Love, a trilogy” had proved a little too much, even for that
will of iron.
“It is very nice, if I may say so, very nice indeed,” said Miss
Sanderson cautiously.
“I’ll be doin’ better than that, I’m thinkin’.” A certain rigidity came
into the voice of the author of the poem. The word “nice,” was almost
an affront; it had come upon his ear like a false quantity upon that of
a classical scholar.
“Did you really do it all by yourself?” The inquiry was due less to
the performance, which Harriet was quite unable to judge, than to the
author’s almost terrible concentration of manner, which clearly implied
that it would not do to take such an achievement for granted.
“Every worrd, Miss Sanderrson. Except----”
“Except what, Mr. Maclean?”
“Mr. Lonie, the Presbyterian Minister, helped me a bit wi’ the
scansion.”
“If I may say so, I think it is remarkably clever.”
It appeared, however, that these pages were only the opening stanzas of
a poem which was meant to have many. They were still in the limbo of
time, behind the high forehead of the author, but upon a day they would
burst inevitably upon an astonished world. Would Miss Sanderson accept
the dedication?
Miss Sanderson, blushing a little from acute surprise, said that
nothing would give her greater pleasure. She was amazed, she wanted to
laugh, but the intense, almost truculent earnestness of the young man
had put an enchantment upon her.
But all this was simply a prelude to the great drama of the emotions
which Constable Maclean had now to unfold. He had broken the ice
with the charmer. The butterfly was pinned down with “Urban Love, a
trilogy,” through its breast. Miss Sanderson had never had time for
reading, therefore she was in nowise literary. Thus, perhaps, it was
less the merit of the work itself, which must be left to the judgment
of scholars, than the force, the audacity, the driving-power of its
author which seemed almost to deliver her captive into his hands.
She, it seemed, was its _onlie_ true begetter. The poem was in her
honor. Heroica, calm and fair, was the protagonist of “Urban Love, a
trilogy,” and she was Heroica. The position was none of her seeking,
but it carried with it grave responsibilities.
In the first place it exposed her to an offer of marriage. “Urban Love,
a trilogy,” had broken so much of the ice that Dugald Maclean plunged
horse, foot and artillery through the hole it had made. At the moment
he could not lead Heroica to the altar; it would hardly be prudent for
a young constable of eight months’ standing to offer to do so, but he
sincerely hoped that she would promise to wait for him.
Galled by the spur of ambition, Dugald Maclean took the whole plunge
where smaller men would have been content merely to try the depth of
the water.
Miss Sanderson was frozen with astonishment. It was true that “Urban
Love, a trilogy,” had half prepared her for a declaration in form,
but she had not foreseen the swiftness of the onset. This was her
first experience of the kind, but she was a woman of the world and she
gathered her dignity about her like a garment.
“Ye’re no offendit, Miss Sanderrson?” There was something titanic in
the slow mustering of his forces to break an arid pause.
“I am not offended, Mr. Maclean.” The tone of Miss Sanderson said she
was offended a little. “But I do think----”
“What do ye think, Miss Sanderrson?” The naïveté of the young man
provoked a sharp intake of breath.
“I think, Mr. Maclean”--the candor of Miss Sanderson was deliberate but
not unkind--“if I were you, before I offered to marry anybody, I should
try seriously to better myself.”
The words, pregnant and uncompromising, were masked by a tone so deep
and calm that a first-rate intellect was able to treat them on their
merits. In spite of a flirtation with the Muses, this young man was a
remarkable combination of wild audacity and extreme shrewdness. He had
a power of mind which enabled him to distinguish the false from the
true. Thus he saw at once, without resentment or pique, that the advice
of Heroica was that of a friend.
She had a strong desire to box the ears of this rawboned young
policeman for his impertinence; but at heart this was a real woman,
and the dynamic forces of her sex were strong in her. It was hard to
keep from laughing in the face of this young man in a hurry, who rushed
his fences in a way that was simply grotesque; yet she could not help
admiring the power within him, and she wished him well.
“It’s gude advice, Miss Sanderrson.” His tone of detachment drew a
ripple from lips that laughed very seldom. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll tak’ it.
But ye’ll bear the matter in mind?”
“I make no rash promises, Mr. Maclean.”
“Well, if ye won’t, ye won’t. But I’m thinkin’ I’d work the better at
the Latin if I could count on ye.”
“Studying Latin, are you, Mr. Maclean?” The surprise of Miss Sanderson
was rather respectful.
“Mr. Lonie is learnin’ me,” said the young man, with a slight touch of
vainglory. “And I’m thinkin’ he’ll verra soon be learnin’ me the Greek.”
“Are you going to college?”
“Maybe ay. Maybe no. You never can tell where a pairson may get to.
Anyhow I’m learnin’ to speak the language. Ae day I’ll be as gude at
the Saxon as you and your sister have become, Miss Sanderrson.”
It was hard not to smile, yet she knew her countrymen too well to treat
such a matter lightly.
“And I’ve a’ready set aboot writin’ for the papers.”
“Begun already to write for the papers, have you, Mr. Maclean?” This
was not a young man to smile at. “Well, wherever you may get to,” Miss
Sanderson’s tone was softer than any she had yet used, “I am sure I
wish you well.”
“Thank ye,” said the young man dryly. “But why not gie a pairson a
helping hand?”
“I am not sure that I like you well enough.” Such candor was extorted
by the seriousness with which she was now having to treat him. “You
see, Mr. Maclean, it is all so sudden. We have only met once before.”
“May I hope, Miss Sanderrson?”
Suddenly he moved his chair towards her and took her hand.
“Mr. Maclean, you may not.” The hand was withdrawn firmly.
“Well, think it owre, Miss Sanderson.”
The young man moved back his chair to its first position in order to
restore the _status quo_.
Harriet shook her head. And then all at once, to the deep consternation
of Constable Maclean, she broke into an anguish of laughter, which good
manners, try as they might, were not able to control.
IV
In the midst of this unseemly behavior on the part of Miss Sanderson,
the door next the street was flung open with violence. A figure Homeric
of aspect emerged from the night.
It was that of Constable Joseph Kelly, of the Metropolitan Police; an
ornament of the X Division, a splendid man to look at, nearly six feet
high. Broad of girth, proportioned finely, his helmet crowned him like
a hero of old. His face, richly tinted by daily and nightly exposure
to the remarkable climate of London, was the color of a ripe apple,
and there presided in it the almost god-like good-humor of the race to
which he belonged.
This emblem of superb manhood was laden heavily. There was his long
overcoat, a tremendous, swelling affair; there was his furled oilskin
cape; at one side of his girdle was his truncheon-case, his lamp at
the other side of it; in his left hand was a modest basket which had
contained his dinner, and in his right was a larger wicker arrangement
which might have contained anything.
“Is that our Harriet?” said Constable Kelly, in the act of closing the
door deftly with his heel. “Good evening, gal. Pleased to see you.”
He set down the large basket on the floor in a rather gingerly manner,
placed the small one on the table, came to Harriet, kissed her audibly,
and then turned to the room’s second occupant with an air of surprise.
“Hello, Scotchie! What are _you_ doing here?”
Before Dugald Maclean could answer the question he was in the throes of
a second attack of dumb madness. This malady made his life a burden.
When only one person was by he seldom had difficulty in expressing
himself, but any addition to the company was apt to plunge him into
hopeless defeat.
“Up to no good, I expect.” Joseph Kelly, disapproval in his eyes,
answered his own question, since other answer there was none. “I never
see such a feller. Been mashing you, Harriet, by the look of him.”
It was a bow drawn at a venture by a shrewd colleague of the X
Division. An immediate effusion of rose pink to the young man’s
freckled countenance was full of information for a close observer.
“Durn me if he hasn’t!” Gargantuan laughter rose to the ceiling.
Harriet blushed. But the look in her face was not discomfiture merely.
There was plain annoyance and a look of rather startled anxiety for
which the circumstances could hardly account.
“Scotchie, you’re a nonesuch.” But Joe suddenly lowered his voice in
answer to the alarm in the face of his sister-in-law. “You are the
limit, my lad. Do you know what he did last week, Harriet? I’ll tell
you.”
“Let me make you a cup of tea, Joe.” And his sister-in-law, who seemed
oddly agitated by his arrival, rose in the humane hope of diverting the
attack.
But the story was too good to remain untold.
“It’ll take the X Division twenty years to live it down.” Kelly
throbbed and gurgled like a donkey-engine as he fixed his youthful
colleague with a somber eye. “This young feller, what do you think he
did last week?”
“The kettle will soon boil, Joe.”
“Harriet!”--the rich rolling voice thrilled dramatically--“about
midnight, last Monday week as ever was, this smart young officer saw
an old party in an eyeglass and a topper and a bit o’ fur round his
overcoat, standin’ on the curb at Piccadilly Circus. He strolls up,
taps him on the shoulder, charges him with loitering with intent and
runs him in.”
“Here’s your tea, Joe.” The voice was sweetly polite.
“And who do you think the old party was, my gal? Only a Director of the
Bank of England--that’s all. The rest of the Force is guying us proper.
They want to know when we are going to lock up the Governor.”
“Joe, your tea!”
“We’ll never get over it, gal, not in my time. Scotchie, you are too
ambitious. There isn’t scope for your abilities in the Metropolitan
Force. Turn your attention to some other branch of the law. You ought
to take chambers in the Temple, you ought, my lad.”
But in answer to the look in the eyes of Harriet, her brother-in-law
checked the laugh that rose again to his lips. There was a strange
anxiety upon her face, an anxiety that was now in some way communicated
to him. It was clear from the glances they exchanged and the silence
that ensued, that both were much embarrassed by the presence of Maclean.
However, after the young man had entered upon a struggle for words
with which to meet this persiflage and they had refused to come forth,
he suddenly noticed that the hands of the clock showed a quarter to six
and he rose determinedly.
“Yes, it’s time you went on duty,” said the sardonic Kelly with an air
of relief.
Constable Maclean, feeling much was at stake, made a great effort
to achieve a dignified exit. He was an odd combination of the
thick-skinned and the hypersensitive. At this moment the shattering wit
of his peer of the X Division made him wish he had never been born, but
he was too dour a fighter to take it lying down.
“Gude-nicht, Miss Sanderrson.” With one more grimace he offered a hand
not indelicately.
“Good-night, Mr. Maclean.” The tone of studied kindness was a salve for
his wounds. The effrontery of this young man did not call for pity. And
yet it was his to receive it from the sterling heart of a true woman.
The smile, the arch glance, the ready handshake did so much to restore
Dugald Maclean in his own esteem, that he was able to retire with even
a touch of swagger, which somehow, in spite of an awkwardness almost
comically ursine, sat uncommonly well on such a dashing young policeman.
Indeed, the exit of Constable Maclean came very near the point of
bravado. For as he passed the large wicker basket which Kelly had
placed on the floor, the young man turned audaciously upon his
tormentor. Said he with a grin of sheer defiance:
“What hae ye gotten i’ the basket, Joe?”
“Never you mind. ’Op it.”
Less out of natural curiosity, which however was very great, than a
desire to show all whom it might concern that he was again his own man,
Dugald Maclean laid his hand on the lid of the basket.
“What hae ye gotten, Joe? Rabbuts?”
“If you must know, it’s a young spannil.” The answer came with rather
truculent hesitation.
“A young spannil, eh? I’m thinkin’ I’ll hae a look.”
“Be off about your duty, my lad.” Joe began to look threatening.
“Juist a speir.”
“’Op it, I tell you.”
But in open defiance, Dugald Maclean had already begun to untie the
string which held the lid of the basket in place. The majestic Kelly
rose from his tea. Without further words he seized the young man firmly
from behind by the collar of his coat. And then he hustled him as far
as the door in a very efficient professional manner, straight into the
arms of Eliza, who at that moment was in the act of entering it.
V
At the open door there was a brief scurry of laughter and protest which
ended in a riot of confusion. And then happened an odd thing. But of
the three persons struggling upon the threshold of Number Five only
one was aware of it, and he had the wit to raise a great voice to its
highest pitch in order to conceal a fact so remarkable.
“For heaven’s sake hold your noise, Joe, else you’ll frighten the
neighbors,” said Eliza, getting in it at last and indulging in
suppressed shrieks at the manner of Dugald Maclean’s putting out.
An instant later, the young policeman was in the street and the door of
Number Five, Beaconsfield Villas, had closed upon him. But his singular
exit was merely the prelude to an incident far more amazing.
In the uproar of Joe had been fell design. As soon as it ceased the
reason for it grew apparent. An incredible sound was filling the room.
“Whatever’s that!” Eliza almost shrieked in sheer wonderment.
Harriet’s behavior was different. For a moment she was spellbound. The
look in her eyes verged upon horror.
It seemed that a child was crying lustily.
“Wherever can it be!” cried the frantic Eliza.
A wild glance round the room told Eliza that there was only one place
in which it could be. Her eyes fell at once on the large wicker basket,
which had been set on the floor near the fire.
“Well, in all my born days!”
She rushed to the basket and began furiously to untie the lid. But
the maxim “the more haste the less speed” was as true in 1890 as it
is today. Eliza’s fingers merely served to double and treble knot the
string.
Uncannily calm, Harriet rose from the table, the bread knife in
her hand. In silence she knelt by the hearth and cut the knot. The
deliberation of her movements was in odd contrast to Eliza’s frenzy.
[Illustration: “How did you come by it, Joe?”]
The lid was off the basket in a trice. And the sight within further
emphasized the diverse bearing of the two women. Harriet rose a statue;
Eliza knelt in an ecstasy. One seemed to gloat over the sight that
met her eyes; the other, with the gaze of Jocasta, stood turned to
stone.
It was the sweetest little baby. In every detail immaculate, bright as
a new pin, its long clothes were of a fine quality, and it was wrapped
in a number of shawls. A hot-water bottle was under its tiny toes, and
a bottle of milk by its side.
Eliza’s first act was to take the creature out of its receptacle. And
then began the business of soothing it. Near the fire was a large
rocking-chair, made for motherhood, and here sat Eliza, the foundling
upon her knee. Evidently it had a charming disposition. For in two
shakes of a duck’s tail it was taking its milk as if nothing had
happened. Yet the calm, tense Harriet had a little to do with that.
The milk was her happy thought. Moreover, she tested its quality and
temperature with quite an air of experience. And the effect of the milk
was magical.
As soon as sheer astonishment and the cares of motherhood would permit,
a number of searching questions were put to Constable Kelly.
“How did you come by it, Joe?” was question the first.
Before committing himself in any way, Joe scratched a fair Saxon poll
like a very wise policeman, indeed. It was as if he had said, “Joseph
Kelly, my friend, anything you say now will be used in evidence against
you.”
At last, cocking at Harriet a cautious eye, he replied impressively,
“I’ll tell you.” But it was not until Eliza had imperiously repeated
the question that he came to the point of so doing.
So accustomed was Joseph Kelly to the giving of evidence that
unconsciously he assumed the air of one upon his oath.
“I was _perceding_” said he, “about twenty-past four through Grosvenor
Square, on my way to Victoria, when I see through the fog this bloomin’
contraption on a doorstep.”
“What was the number?” Eliza asked.
“I was so flabbergasted, I forgot to look.”
“Well, really, Joe!”
“When I saw what was in the basket, I was so took, as you might say,
that it was not until I was at the end of the street that I thought of
looking for the number. And then it was too late to swear to the house.”
“In Grosvenor Square?” said Harriet.
“I’m not _per_cisely sure. The fog was so thick in Mayfair you could
hardly see your hand before you. It may have been one of them cross
streets going into Park Lane.”
“A nice one you are, Joe.” And Eliza began to croon softly to the babe
in her arms.
Kelly stroked his head perplexedly.
“I am,” he said, solemnly. “A proper guy I’ll look when I take it to
the Yard tomorrow and they ask me how I come by it.”
“Take it to the where?” asked Eliza sharply.
“To Scotland Yard the first thing in the morning, to the Lost Property
Department.”
“There’s going to be no Scotland Yard for this sweet lamb.”
“If I had done my duty it’d ha’ gone there tonight.”
Said Eliza: “You haven’t done it, Joe, so it’s no use talking. And if I
have a say in the matter, you are not going to do it now.”
Here were the makings of a very pretty quarrel. But Eliza had one
signal advantage. She knew her own mind, whereas Joe evidently did not
know his. By his own admission he had already been guilty of a grave
lapse of duty. And in Eliza’s view that was a strong argument why the
creature should stay where it was. It would be foolish for Joe to give
himself away by taking it to Scotland Yard.
The argument was sound as far as it went, but when it came to the
business of the Metropolitan Force, Joe was a man with a conscience. As
he said, with a dour look at Harriet, two wrongs didn’t make a right,
and to suppress the truth by keeping the kid would not clear him.
But Eliza was adamant. Joe had made a fool of himself already. He had
nothing to gain by landing himself deeper in the mire, whereas the
heart of a mother had yearned a long eight years for the highest gift
of Providence. The truth was that from the outset Joseph Kelly had
precious little chance of doing his duty in the matter.
Perhaps he knew that. At any rate he did not argue his case as strongly
as he might have done. And Eliza, rocking the babe on her knee, in the
seventh heaven of bliss, rent Joe in pieces, laughed him to scorn.
Harriet, standing by, a curious look on her face, well knew how to
second her; yet the younger woman did not say a word.
In a very few minutes Joe had hauled down his flag. Really he had not
a chance. It was a very serious lapse from the path of duty, but what
could he do, the simpleton!
“‘Finding is keeping’ with this bairn,” said the triumphant Eliza.
It was then that the silent, anxious, hovering Harriet claimed a share
of the spoils of victory.
“Eliza,” she said, “if you are to be the sweet thing’s mother, I must
be its godmother.”
“You shall be, my dear.”
Harriet sealed the compact by a swift, stealthy kiss upon the cheek
of the foundling, who now slept like a cherub on the knee of its new
parent.
“The lamb!” whispered Eliza.
Tears of happiness came into the eyes of the mother-elect. Harriet
turned suddenly away as if unable to bear the sight of them.
Said Joe to himself: “This is what I call a rum ’un.” But even in the
moment of his overthrow, he did not forget the philosophical outlook of
that august body of men, whose trust he had betrayed. He turned to his
long neglected cup of tea, now cold alas! and swallowed it at a gulp.
He then went on with the solemn business of toasting bread and eating
it.
To add to Joe’s sense of defeat, the two women paid him no more
attention now than if he had not been in the room at all.
“The sweetest thing!” whispered the one ecstatically.
“What shall we call it?” whispered the other.
“A boy or a girl?”
“Oh, a girl.”
“How do you know?”
“By its mouth. A boy could never have a mouth like that.”
“I don’t know that, my dear. I’ve seen boys with mouths----”
“But look at the dimples, my dear.”
“I have seen boys with dimples----”
“----Joe Kelly, you are the durnedest fool alive.” This emotioned
statement was the grace to a very substantial slice of buttered toast.
Joe ate steadily, but his countenance now bore a family likeness to
that of a bear.
“Suppose we say Mary? It’s the best name there is, I always think.”
“But it may turn out a George, my dear. I hope it will.”
“I feel sure it’s a Mary,” affirmed the godmother of the sleeping babe.
“I wonder who are the parents?”
“Whoever’s child it may be,” said the mother-elect, “one thing is sure.
They are people well up. I don’t think I ever saw a child so cared for.
And, my dear, look at the shape of that chin and the set of that ear.
And that lovely hand--a perfect picture with its filbert nails. Look at
the fall of those eyelids. No wonder it comes out of Grosvenor Square.”
“Grosvenor Square I’ll not swear to,” came a further interpellation
from the table.
“Get on with your tea, Joe,” said the mother-elect. “What we are
talking of is no concern of yours.”
The miserable Joe took off his boots and put on a pair of carpet
slippers.
“You’ve made a bad slip-up, my boy,” he remarked, as he did so.
The two women continued to croon over the wonder-child. Joe took
a pipe, filled it with shag and lit it dubiously. This was a bad
business. He was a great philosopher, as all policemen are, but
whenever a grim eye strayed across the hearth, it was followed by a
frown and a grunt of perplexity.
Joe smoked solemnly. The women prattled on. But quite suddenly, like
a bolt from a clear sky, there came a very unwelcome intrusion. The
street door was flung open and a young constable entered breathlessly.
Dugald Maclean was received with surprise, anger, and dismay. “Now
then, my lad, what about it?” demanded Joe, with a snarl of suppressed
fury.
“I’m seekin’ ‘Urban Love, a trilogy,’” proclaimed Dugald Maclean; and
he spoke as if the fate of the empires hung upon his finding it.
“Seekin’ what, you durned Scotchman?” said the alarmed and disgusted
Joe.
With deadly composure, Harriet rose from the side of the sleeping babe.
“Mr. Maclean, it is there,” she said, icily. And she pointed to the
table where the precious manuscript reclined.
“Thank ye,” said Dugald, coolly. And he proceeded to button into his
tunic “Urban Love, a trilogy.”
But the mischief was done. The alert eye of an ambitious police
constable had traveled from the open basket at one side of the fire to
the object at the other, sleeping gently now upon Eliza’s knee. A slow
grin crept over a freckled but vulpine countenance.
“Blame my cats,” he muttered, “so there’s the young spannil.”
Joe rose majestically. He said not a word, but again taking the
intruder very firmly by the collar of his regulation overcoat, hustled
him with quiet truculence through the open door into the street.
Closing the door and turning the key, he then went back to his
meditations, looking more than ever like a disgruntled bear.