I
1
“Aequam memento rebus in arduis
Servare mentem:”--Horace.
In the City of Liverpool, on a January day of 1905, the Board-room of
“The Island Navigation Company” rested, as it were, after the labours
of the afternoon. The long table was still littered with the ink, pens,
blotting-paper, and abandoned documents of six persons--a deserted
battlefield of the brain. And, lonely, in his chairman's seat at the top
end old Sylvanus Heythorp sat, with closed eyes, still and heavy as an
image. One puffy, feeble hand, whose fingers quivered, rested on the arm
of his chair; the thick white hair on his massive head glistened in the
light from a green-shaded lamp. He was not asleep, for every now and
then his sanguine cheeks filled, and a sound, half sigh, half grunt,
escaped his thick lips between a white moustache and the tiny tuft of
white hairs above his cleft chin. Sunk in the chair, that square thick
trunk of a body in short black-braided coat seemed divested of all neck.
Young Gilbert Farney, secretary of “The Island Navigation Company,”
entering his hushed Board-room, stepped briskly to the table,
gathered some papers, and stood looking at his chairman. Not more than
thirty-five, with the bright hues of the optimist in his hair, beard,
cheeks, and eyes, he had a nose and lips which curled ironically. For,
in his view, he was the Company; and its Board did but exist to chequer
his importance. Five days in the week for seven hours a day he wrote,
and thought, and wove the threads of its business, and this lot came
down once a week for two or three hours, and taught their grandmother
to suck eggs. But watching that red-cheeked, white-haired, somnolent
figure, his smile was not so contemptuous as might have been expected.
For after all, the chairman was a wonderful old boy. A man of go and
insight could not but respect him. Eighty! Half paralysed, over head and
ears in debt, having gone the pace all his life--or so they said!--till
at last that mine in Ecuador had done for him--before the secretary's
day, of course, but he had heard of it. The old chap had bought it up
on spec'--“de l'audace, toujours de l'audace,” as he was so fond of
saying--paid for it half in cash and half in promises, and then--the
thing had turned out empty, and left him with L20,000 worth of the old
shares unredeemed. The old boy had weathered it out without a bankruptcy
so far. Indomitable old buffer; and never fussy like the rest of them!
Young Farney, though a secretary, was capable of attachment; and his
eyes expressed a pitying affection. The Board meeting had been long and
“snadgy”--a final settling of that Pillin business. Rum go the chairman
forcing it on them like this! And with quiet satisfaction the secretary
thought 'And he never would have got it through if I hadn't made up my
mind that it really is good business!' For to expand the company was
to expand himself. Still, to buy four ships with the freight market
so depressed was a bit startling, and there would be opposition at
the general meeting. Never mind! He and the chairman could put it
through--put it through. And suddenly he saw the old man looking at him.
Only from those eyes could one appreciate the strength of life yet
flowing underground in that well-nigh helpless carcase--deep-coloured
little blue wells, tiny, jovial, round windows.
A sigh travelled up through layers of flesh, and he said almost
inaudibly:
“Have they come, Mr. Farney?”
“Yes, sir. I've put them in the transfer office; said you'd be with them
in a minute; but I wasn't going to wake you.”
“Haven't been asleep. Help me up.”
Grasping the edge of the table with his trembling hands, the old man
pulled, and, with Farney heaving him behind, attained his feet. He stood
about five feet ten, and weighed fully fourteen stone; not corpulent,
but very thick all through; his round and massive head alone would have
outweighed a baby. With eyes shut, he seemed to be trying to get the
better of his own weight, then he moved with the slowness of a barnacle
towards the door. The secretary, watching him, thought: 'Marvellous old
chap! How he gets about by himself is a miracle! And he can't retire,
they say-lives on his fees!'
But the chairman was through the green baize door. At his tortoise gait
he traversed the inner office, where the youthful clerks suspended their
figuring--to grin behind his back--and entered the transfer office,
where eight gentlemen were sitting. Seven rose, and one did not. Old
Heythorp raised a saluting hand to the level of his chest and moving to
an arm-chair, lowered himself into it.
“Well, gentlemen?”
One of the eight gentlemen got up again.
“Mr. Heythorp, we've appointed Mr. Brownbee to voice our views. Mr.
Brownbee!” And down he sat.
Mr. Brownbee rose a stoutish man some seventy years of age, with little
grey side whiskers, and one of those utterly steady faces only to be
seen in England, faces which convey the sense of business from father
to son for generations; faces which make wars, and passion, and free
thought seem equally incredible; faces which inspire confidence, and
awaken in one a desire to get up and leave the room. Mr. Brownbee rose,
and said in a suave voice:
“Mr. Heythorp, we here represent about L14,000. When we had the pleasure
of meeting you last July, you will recollect that you held out a
prospect of some more satisfactory arrangement by Christmas. We are now
in January, and I am bound to say we none of us get younger.”
From the depths of old Heythorp a preliminary rumble came travelling,
reached the surface, and materialised--
“Don't know about you--feel a boy, myself.”
The eight gentlemen looked at him. Was he going to try and put them off
again? Mr. Brownbee said with unruffled calm:
“I'm sure we're very glad to hear it. But to come to the point. We
have felt, Mr. Heythorp, and I'm sure you won't think it unreasonable,
that--er--bankruptcy would be the most satisfactory solution. We have
waited a long time, and we want to know definitely where we stand; for,
to be quite frank, we don't see any prospect of improvement; indeed, we
fear the opposite.”
“You think I'm going to join the majority.”
This plumping out of what was at the back of their minds produced in
Mr. Brownbee and his colleagues a sort of chemical disturbance. They
coughed, moved their feet, and turned away their eyes, till the one who
had not risen, a solicitor named Ventnor, said bluffly:
“Well, put it that way if you like.”
Old Heythorp's little deep eyes twinkled.
“My grandfather lived to be a hundred; my father ninety-six--both of
them rips. I'm only eighty, gentlemen; blameless life compared with
theirs.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Brownbee said, “we hope you have many years of this life
before you.”
“More of this than of another.” And a silence fell, till old Heythorp
added: “You're getting a thousand a year out of my fees. Mistake to kill
the goose that lays the golden eggs. I'll make it twelve hundred. If you
force me to resign my directorships by bankruptcy, you won't get a rap,
you know.”
Mr. Brownbee cleared his throat:
“We think, Mr. Heythorp, you should make it at least fifteen hundred. In
that case we might perhaps consider--”
Old Heythorp shook his head.
“We can hardly accept your assertion that we should get nothing in the
event of bankruptcy. We fancy you greatly underrate the possibilities.
Fifteen hundred a year is the least you can do for us.”
“See you d---d first.”
Another silence followed, then Ventnor, the solicitor, said irascibly:
“We know where we are, then.”
Brownbee added almost nervously:
“Are we to understand that twelve hundred a year is your--your last
word?”
Old Heythorp nodded. “Come again this day month, and I'll see what I can
do for you;” and he shut his eyes.
Round Mr. Brownbee six of the gentlemen gathered, speaking in low
voices; Mr. Ventnor nursed a leg and glowered at old Heythorp, who sat
with his eyes closed. Mr. Brownbee went over and conferred with Mr.
Ventnor, then clearing his throat, he said:
“Well, sir, we have considered your proposal; we agree to accept it for
the moment. We will come again, as you suggest, in a month's time.
“We hope that you will by then have seen your way to something more
substantial, with a view to avoiding what we should all regret, but
which I fear will otherwise become inevitable.”
Old Heythorp nodded. The eight gentlemen took their hats, and went out
one by one, Mr. Brownbee courteously bringing up the rear.
The old man, who could not get up without assistance, stayed musing in
his chair. He had diddled 'em for the moment into giving him another
month, and when that month was up-he would diddle 'em again! A month
ought to make the Pillin business safe, with all that hung on it. That
poor funkey chap Joe Pillin! A gurgling chuckle escaped his red lips.
What a shadow the fellow had looked, trotting in that evening just a
month ago, behind his valet's announcement: “Mr. Pillin, sir.”
What a parchmenty, precise, thread-paper of a chap, with his bird's claw
of a hand, and his muffled-up throat, and his quavery:
“How do you do, Sylvanus? I'm afraid you're not--”
“First rate. Sit down. Have some port.”
“Port! I never drink it. Poison to me! Poison!”
“Do you good!”
“Oh! I know, that's what you always say.”
“You've a monstrous constitution, Sylvanus. If I drank port and smoked
cigars and sat up till one o'clock, I should be in my grave to-morrow.
I'm not the man I was. The fact is, I've come to see if you can help me.
I'm getting old; I'm growing nervous....”
“You always were as chickeny as an old hen, Joe.”
“Well, my nature's not like yours. To come to the point, I want to sell
my ships and retire. I need rest. Freights are very depressed. I've got
my family to think of.”
“Crack on, and go broke; buck you up like anything!”
“I'm quite serious, Sylvanus.”
“Never knew you anything else, Joe.”
A quavering cough, and out it had come:
“Now--in a word--won't your 'Island Navigation Company' buy my ships?”
A pause, a twinkle, a puff of smoke. “Make it worth my while!” He
had said it in jest; and then, in a flash, the idea had come to him.
Rosamund and her youngsters! What a chance to put something between them
and destitution when he had joined the majority! And so he said: “We
don't want your silly ships.”
That claw of a hand waved in deprecation. “They're very good
ships--doing quite well. It's only my wretched health. If I were a
strong man I shouldn't dream....”
“What d'you want for 'em?” Good Lord! how he jumped if you asked him a
plain question. The chap was as nervous as a guinea-fowl!
“Here are the figures--for the last four years. I think you'll agree
that I couldn't ask less than seventy thousand.”
Through the smoke of his cigar old Heythorp had digested those figures
slowly, Joe Pillin feeling his teeth and sucking lozenges the while;
then he said:
“Sixty thousand! And out of that you pay me ten per cent., if I get it
through for you. Take it or leave it.”
“My dear Sylvanus, that's almost-cynical.”
“Too good a price--you'll never get it without me.”
“But a--but a commission! You could never disclose it!”
“Arrange that all right. Think it over. Freights'll go lower yet. Have
some port.”
“No, no! Thank you. No! So you think freights will go lower?”
“Sure of it.”
“Well, I'll be going. I'm sure I don't know. It's--it's--I must think.”
“Think your hardest.”
“Yes, yes. Good-bye. I can't imagine how you still go on smoking those
things and drinking port.
“See you in your grave yet, Joe.” What a feeble smile the poor fellow
had! Laugh-he couldn't! And, alone again, he had browsed, developing the
idea which had come to him.
Though, to dwell in the heart of shipping, Sylvanus Heythorp had lived
at Liverpool twenty years, he was from the Eastern Counties, of a
family so old that it professed to despise the Conquest. Each of its
generations occupied nearly twice as long as those of less tenacious
men. Traditionally of Danish origin, its men folk had as a rule bright
reddish-brown hair, red cheeks, large round heads, excellent teeth and
poor morals. They had done their best for the population of any county
in which they had settled; their offshoots swarmed. Born in the
early twenties of the nineteenth century, Sylvanus Heythorp, after an
education broken by escapades both at school and college, had fetched
up in that simple London of the late forties, where claret, opera, and
eight per cent. for your money ruled a cheery roost. Made partner in his
shipping firm well before he was thirty, he had sailed with a wet sheet
and a flowing tide; dancers, claret, Cliquot, and piquet; a cab with a
tiger; some travel--all that delicious early-Victorian consciousness of
nothing save a golden time. It was all so full and mellow that he was
forty before he had his only love affair of any depth--with the daughter
of one of his own clerks, a liaison so awkward as to necessitate a
sedulous concealment. The death of that girl, after three years, leaving
him a natural son, had been the chief, perhaps the only real, sorrow
of his life. Five years later he married. What for? God only knew! as
he was in the habit of remarking. His wife had been a hard, worldly,
well-connected woman, who presented him with two unnatural children,
a girl and a boy, and grew harder, more worldly, less handsome, in the
process. The migration to Liverpool, which took place when he was sixty
and she forty-two, broke what she still had of heart, but she lingered
on twelve years, finding solace in bridge, and being haughty towards
Liverpool. Old Heythorp saw her to her rest without regret. He had
felt no love for her whatever, and practically none for her two
children--they were in his view colourless, pragmatical, very unexpected
characters. His son Ernest--in the Admiralty--he thought a poor, careful
stick. His daughter Adela, an excellent manager, delighting in spiritual
conversation and the society of tame men, rarely failed to show him that
she considered him a hopeless heathen. They saw as little as need be of
each other. She was provided for under that settlement he had made on
her mother fifteen years ago, well before the not altogether unexpected
crisis in his affairs. Very different was the feeling he had bestowed
on that son of his “under the rose.” The boy, who had always gone by his
mother's name of Larne, had on her death been sent to some relations of
hers in Ireland, and there brought up. He had been called to the Dublin
bar, and married, young, a girl half Cornish and half Irish; presently,
having cost old Heythorp in all a pretty penny, he had died impecunious,
leaving his fair Rosamund at thirty with a girl of eight and a boy of
five. She had not spent six months of widowhood before coming over from
Dublin to claim the old man's guardianship. A remarkably pretty woman,
like a full-blown rose, with greenish hazel eyes, she had turned up one
morning at the offices of “The Island Navigation Company,” accompanied
by her two children--for he had never divulged to them his private
address. And since then they had always been more or less on his hands,
occupying a small house in a suburb of Liverpool. He visited them there,
but never asked them to the house in Sefton Park, which was in fact his
daughter's; so that his proper family and friends were unaware of their
existence.
Rosamund Larne was one of those precarious ladies who make uncertain
incomes by writing full-bodied storyettes. In the most dismal
circumstances she enjoyed a buoyancy bordering on the indecent; which
always amused old Heythorp's cynicism. But of his grandchildren Phyllis
and Jock (wild as colts) he had become fond. And this chance of getting
six thousand pounds settled on them at a stroke had seemed to him
nothing but heaven-sent. As things were, if he “went off”--and, of
course, he might at any moment, there wouldn't be a penny for them; for
he would “cut up” a good fifteen thousand to the bad. He was now giving
them some three hundred a year out of his fees; and dead directors
unfortunately earned no fees! Six thousand pounds at four and a half per
cent., settled so that their mother couldn't “blue it,” would give them
a certain two hundred and fifty pounds a year-better than beggary. And
the more he thought the better he liked it, if only that shaky chap, Joe
Pillin, didn't shy off when he'd bitten his nails short over it!
Four evenings later, the “shaky chap” had again appeared at his house in
Sefton Park.
“I've thought it over, Sylvanus. I don't like it.
“No; but you'll do it.”
“It's a sacrifice. Fifty-four thousand for four ships--it means a
considerable reduction in my income.”
“It means security, my boy.”
“Well, there is that; but you know, I really can't be party to a secret
commission. If it came out, think of my name and goodness knows what.”
“It won't come out.”
“Yes, yes, so you say, but--”
“All you've got to do's to execute a settlement on some third parties
that I'll name. I'm not going to take a penny of it myself. Get your
own lawyer to draw it up and make him trustee. You can sign it when the
purchase has gone through. I'll trust you, Joe. What stock have you got
that gives four and a half per cent.?”
“Midland”
“That'll do. You needn't sell.”
“Yes, but who are these people?”
“Woman and her children I want to do a good turn to.” What a face the
fellow had made! “Afraid of being connected with a woman, Joe?”
“Yes, you may laugh--I am afraid of being connected with someone else's
woman. I don't like it--I don't like it at all. I've not led your life,
Sylvanus.”
“Lucky for you; you'd have been dead long ago. Tell your lawyer it's an
old flame of yours--you old dog!”
“Yes, there it is at once, you see. I might be subject to blackmail.”
“Tell him to keep it dark, and just pay over the income, quarterly.”
“I don't like it, Sylvanus--I don't like it.”
“Then leave it, and be hanged to you. Have a cigar?”
“You know I never smoke. Is there no other way?”
“Yes. Sell stock in London, bank the proceeds there, and bring me six
thousand pounds in notes. I'll hold 'em till after the general meeting.
If the thing doesn't go through, I'll hand 'em back to you.”
“No; I like that even less.”
“Rather I trusted you, eh!”
“No, not at all, Sylvanus, not at all. But it's all playing round the
law.”
“There's no law to prevent you doing what you like with your money. What
I do's nothing to you. And mind you, I'm taking nothing from it--not a
mag. You assist the widowed and the fatherless--just your line, Joe!”
“What a fellow you are, Sylvanus; you don't seem capable of taking
anything seriously.”
“Care killed the cat!”
Left alone after this second interview he had thought: 'The beggar'll
jump.'
And the beggar had. That settlement was drawn and only awaited
signature. The Board to-day had decided on the purchase; and all that
remained was to get it ratified at the general meeting. Let him but get
that over, and this provision for his grandchildren made, and he would
snap his fingers at Brownbee and his crew-the canting humbugs! “Hope you
have many years of this life before you!” As if they cared for anything
but his money--their money rather! And becoming conscious of the length
of his reverie, he grasped the arms of his chair, heaved at his own
bulk, in an effort to rise, growing redder and redder in face and neck.
It was one of the hundred things his doctor had told him not to do for
fear of apoplexy, the humbug! Why didn't Farney or one of those young
fellows come and help him up? To call out was undignified. But was he to
sit there all night? Three times he failed, and after each failure sat
motionless again, crimson and exhausted; the fourth time he succeeded,
and slowly made for the office. Passing through, he stopped and said in
his extinct voice:
“You young gentlemen had forgotten me.”
“Mr. Farney said you didn't wish to be disturbed, sir.”
“Very good of him. Give me my hat and coat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. What time is it?”
“Six o'clock, sir.”
“Tell Mr. Farney to come and see me tomorrow at noon, about my speech
for the general meeting.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good-night to you.”
“Good-night, Sir.”
At his tortoise gait he passed between the office stools to the door,
opened it feebly, and slowly vanished.
Shutting the door behind him, a clerk said:
“Poor old chairman! He's on his last!”
Another answered:
“Gosh! He's a tough old hulk. He'll go down fightin'.”
2
Issuing from the offices of “The Island Navigation Company,” Sylvanus
Heythorp moved towards the corner whence he always took tram to Sefton
Park. The crowded street had all that prosperous air of catching or
missing something which characterises the town where London and New
York and Dublin meet. Old Heythorp had to cross to the far side, and he
sallied forth without regard to traffic. That snail-like passage had in
it a touch of the sublime; the old man seemed saying: “Knock me down and
be d---d to you--I'm not going to hurry.” His life was saved perhaps ten
times a day by the British character at large, compounded of phlegm and
a liking to take something under its protection. The tram conductors on
that line were especially used to him, never failing to catch him under
the arms and heave him like a sack of coals, while with trembling hands
he pulled hard at the rail and strap.
“All right, sir?”
“Thank you.”
He moved into the body of the tram, where somebody would always get up
from kindness and the fear that he might sit down on them; and there he
stayed motionless, his little eyes tight closed. With his red face, tuft
of white hairs above his square cleft block of shaven chin, and his big
high-crowned bowler hat, which yet seemed too petty for his head with
its thick hair--he looked like some kind of an idol dug up and decked
out in gear a size too small.
One of those voices of young men from public schools and exchanges where
things are bought and sold, said:
“How de do, Mr. Heythorp?”
Old Heythorp opened his eyes. That sleek cub, Joe Pillin's son! What
a young pup-with his round eyes, and his round cheeks, and his little
moustache, his fur coat, his spats, his diamond pin!
“How's your father?” he said.
“Thanks, rather below par, worryin' about his ships. Suppose you haven't
any news for him, sir?”
Old Heythorp nodded. The young man was one of his pet abominations,
embodying all the complacent, little-headed mediocrity of this new
generation; natty fellows all turned out of the same mould, sippers and
tasters, chaps without drive or capacity, without even vices; and he did
not intend to gratify the cub's curiosity.
“Come to my house,” he said; “I'll give you a note for him.”
“Tha-anks; I'd like to cheer the old man up.”
The old man! Cheeky brat! And closing his eyes he relapsed into
immobility. The tram wound and ground its upward way, and he mused. When
he was that cub's age--twenty-eight or whatever it might be--he had done
most things; been up Vesuvius, driven four-in-hand, lost his last penny
on the Derby and won it back on the Oaks, known all the dancers and
operatic stars of the day, fought a duel with a Yankee at Dieppe and
winged him for saying through his confounded nose that Old England was
played out; been a controlling voice already in his shipping firm; drunk
five other of the best men in London under the table; broken his neck
steeple-chasing; shot a burglar in the legs; been nearly drowned, for a
bet; killed snipe in Chelsea; been to Court for his sins; stared a ghost
out of countenance; and travelled with a lady of Spain. If this young
pup had done the last, it would be all he had; and yet, no doubt, he
would call himself a “spark.”
The conductor touched his arm.
“'Ere you are, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He lowered himself to the ground, and moved in the bluish darkness
towards the gate of his daughter's house. Bob Pillin walked beside him,
thinking: 'Poor old josser, he is gettin' a back number!' And he said:
“I should have thought you ought to drive, sir. My old guv'nor would
knock up at once if he went about at night like this.”
The answer rumbled out into the misty air:
“Your father's got no chest; never had.”
Bob Pillin gave vent to one of those fat cackles which come so readily
from a certain type of man; and old Heythorp thought:
'.aughing at his father! Parrot!'
They had reached the porch.
A woman with dark hair and a thin, straight face and figure was
arranging some flowers in the hall. She turned and said:
“You really ought not to be so late, Father! It's wicked at this time of
year. Who is it--oh! Mr. Pillin, how do you do? Have you had tea? Won't
you come to the drawing-room; or do you want to see my father?”
“Tha-anks! I believe your father--” And he thought: 'By Jove! the old
chap is a caution!' For old Heythorp was crossing the hall without
having paid the faintest attention to his daughter. Murmuring again:
“Tha-anks awfully; he wants to give me something,” he followed. Miss
Heythorp was not his style at all; he had a kind of dread of that thin
woman who looked as if she could never be unbuttoned. They said she was
a great churchgoer and all that sort of thing.
In his sanctum old Heythorp had moved to his writing-table, and was
evidently anxious to sit down.
“Shall I give you a hand, sir?”
Receiving a shake of the head, Bob Pillin stood by the fire and watched.
The old “sport” liked to paddle his own canoe. Fancy having to lower
yourself into a chair like that! When an old Johnny got to such a state
it was really a mercy when he snuffed out, and made way for younger men.
How his Companies could go on putting up with such a fossil for chairman
was a marvel! The fossil rumbled and said in that almost inaudible
voice:
“I suppose you're beginning to look forward to your father's shoes?”
Bob Pillin's mouth opened. The voice went on:
“Dibs and no responsibility. Tell him from me to drink port--add five
years to his life.”
To this unwarranted attack Bob Pillin made no answer save a laugh; he
perceived that a manservant had entered the room.
“A Mrs. Larne, sir. Will you see her?”
At this announcement the old man seemed to try and start; then he
nodded, and held out the note he had written. Bob Pillin received it
together with the impression of a murmur which sounded like: “Scratch a
poll, Poll!” and passing the fine figure of a woman in a fur coat, who
seemed to warm the air as she went by, he was in the hall again before
he perceived that he had left his hat.
A young and pretty girl was standing on the bearskin before the fire,
looking at him with round-eyed innocence. He thought: 'This is better; I
mustn't disturb them for my hat'. and approaching the fire, said:
“Jolly cold, isn't it?”
The girl smiled: “Yes-jolly.”
He noticed that she had a large bunch of violets at her breast, a lot
of fair hair, a short straight nose, and round blue-grey eyes very frank
and open. “Er” he said, “I've left my hat in there.”
“What larks!” And at her little clear laugh something moved within Bob
Pillin.
“You know this house well?”
She shook her head. “But it's rather scrummy, isn't it?”
Bob Pillin, who had never yet thought so answered:
“Quite O.K.”
The girl threw up her head to laugh again. “O.K.? What's that?”
Bob Pillin saw her white round throat, and thought: 'She is a ripper!'
And he said with a certain desperation:
“My name's Pillin. Yours is Larne, isn't it? Are you a relation here?”
“He's our Guardy. Isn't he a chook?”
That rumbling whisper like “Scratch a Poll, Poll!” recurring to Bob
Pillin, he said with reservation:
“You know him better than I do.” “Oh! Aren't you his grandson, or
something?”
Bob Pillin did not cross himself.
“Lord! No! My dad's an old friend of his; that's all.”
“Is your dad like him?”
“Not much.”
“What a pity! It would have been lovely if they'd been Tweedles.”
Bob Pillin thought: 'This bit is something new. I wonder what her
Christian name is.' And he said:
“What did your godfather and godmothers in your baptism---?”
The girl laughed; she seemed to laugh at everything.
“Phyllis.”
Could he say: “Is my only joy”? Better keep it! But-for what? He
wouldn't see her again if he didn't look out! And he said:
“I live at the last house in the park-the red one. D'you know it? Where
do you?”
“Oh! a long way--23, Millicent Villas. It's a poky little house. I hate
it. We have awful larks, though.”
“Who are we?”
“Mother, and myself, and Jock--he's an awful boy. You can't conceive
what an awful boy he is. He's got nearly red hair; I think he'll be just
like Guardy when he gets old. He's awful!”
Bob Pillin murmured:
“I should like to see him.”
“Would you? I'll ask mother if you can. You won't want to again; he goes
off all the time like a squib.” She threw back her head, and again Bob
Pillin felt a little giddy. He collected himself, and drawled:
“Are you going in to see your Guardy?”
“No. Mother's got something special to say. We've never been here
before, you see. Isn't he fun, though?”
“Fun!”
“I think he's the greatest lark; but he's awfully nice to me. Jock calls
him the last of the Stoic'uns.”
A voice called from old Heythorp's den:
“Phyllis!” It had a particular ring, that voice, as if coming from
beautifully formed red lips, of which the lower one must curve the least
bit over; it had, too, a caressing vitality, and a kind of warm falsity.
The girl threw a laughing look back over her shoulder, and vanished
through the door into the room.
Bob Pillin remained with his back to the fire and his puppy round eyes
fixed on the air that her figure had last occupied. He was experiencing
a sensation never felt before. Those travels with a lady of Spain,
charitably conceded him by old Heythorp, had so far satisfied the
emotional side of this young man; they had stopped short at Brighton
and Scarborough, and been preserved from even the slightest intrusion of
love. A calculated and hygienic career had caused no anxiety either
to himself or his father; and this sudden swoop of something more than
admiration gave him an uncomfortable choky feeling just above his high
round collar, and in the temples a sort of buzzing--those first symptoms
of chivalry. A man of the world does not, however, succumb without a
struggle; and if his hat had not been out of reach, who knows whether he
would not have left the house hurriedly, saying to himself: “No, no,
my boy; Millicent Villas is hardly your form, when your intentions are
honourable”? For somehow that round and laughing face, bob of glistening
hair, those wide-opened grey eyes refused to awaken the beginnings of
other intentions--such is the effect of youth and innocence on even the
steadiest young men. With a kind of moral stammer, he was thinking: 'Can
I--dare I offer to see them to their tram? Couldn't I even nip out
and get the car round and send them home in it? No, I might miss
them--better stick it out here! What a jolly laugh! What a tipping
face--strawberries and cream, hay, and all that! Millicent Villas!' And
he wrote it on his cuff.
The door was opening; he heard that warm vibrating voice: “Come along,
Phyllis!”--the girl's laugh so high and fresh: “Right-o! Coming!” And
with, perhaps, the first real tremor he had ever known, he crossed
to the front door. All the more chivalrous to escort them to the tram
without a hat! And suddenly he heard: “I've got your hat, young man!”
And her mother's voice, warm, and simulating shock: “Phyllis, you awful
gairl! Did you ever see such an awful gairl; Mr.---”
“Pillin, Mother.”
And then--he did not quite know how--insulated from the January air by
laughter and the scent of fur and violets, he was between them walking
to their tram. It was like an experience out of the “Arabian Nights,” or
something of that sort, an intoxication which made one say one was going
their way, though one would have to come all the way back in the same
beastly tram. Nothing so warming had ever happened to him as sitting
between them on that drive, so that he forgot the note in his pocket,
and his desire to relieve the anxiety of the “old man,” his father. At
the tram's terminus they all got out. There issued a purr of invitation
to come and see them some time; a clear: “Jock'll love to see you!” A
low laugh: “You awful gairl!” And a flash of cunning zigzagged across
his brain. Taking off his hat, he said:
“Thanks awfully; rather!” and put his foot back on the step of the tram.
Thus did he delicately expose the depths of his chivalry!
“Oh! you said you were going our way! What one-ers you do tell! Oh!” The
words were as music; the sight of those eyes growing rounder, the most
perfect he had ever seen; and Mrs. Larne's low laugh, so warm yet so
preoccupied, and the tips of the girl's fingers waving back above her
head. He heaved a sigh, and knew no more till he was seated at his
club before a bottle of champagne. Home! Not he! He wished to drink and
dream. “The old man” would get his news all right to-morrow!
3
The words: “A Mrs. Larne to see you, sir,” had been of a nature to
astonish weaker nerves. What had brought her here? She knew she mustn't
come! Old Heythorp had watched her entrance with cynical amusement. The
way she whiffed herself at that young pup in passing, the way her eyes
slid round! He had a very just appreciation of his son's widow; and a
smile settled deep between his chin tuft and his moustache. She lifted
his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her splendid bust, and said:
“So here I am at last, you see. Aren't you surprised?”
Old Heythorp, shook his head.
“I really had to come and see you, Guardy; we haven't had a sight of
you for such an age. And in this awful weather! How are you, dear old
Guardy?”
“Never better.” And, watching her green-grey eyes, he added:
“Haven't a penny for you!”
Her face did not fall; she gave her feather-laugh.
“How dreadful of you to think I came for that! But I am in an awful fix,
Guardy.”
“Never knew you not to be.”
“Just let me tell you, dear; it'll be some relief. I'm having the most
terrible time.”
She sank into a low chair, disengaging an overpowering scent of violets,
while melancholy struggled to subdue her face and body.
“The most awful fix. I expect to be sold up any moment. We may be on the
streets to-morrow. I daren't tell the children; they're so happy, poor
darlings. I shall be obliged to take Jock away from school. And Phyllis
will have to stop her piano and dancing; it's an absolute crisis. And
all due to those Midland Syndicate people. I've been counting on at
least two hundred for my new story, and the wretches have refused it.”
With a tiny handkerchief she removed one tear from the corner of one
eye. “It is hard, Guardy; I worked my brain silly over that story.”
From old Heythorp came a mutter which sounded suspiciously like:
“Rats!”
Heaving a sigh, which conveyed nothing but the generosity of her
breathing apparatus, Mrs. Larne went on:
“You couldn't, I suppose, let me have just one hundred?”
“Not a bob.”
She sighed again, her eyes slid round the room; then in her warm voice
she murmured:
“Guardy, you were my dear Philip's father, weren't you? I've never said
anything; but of course you were. He was so like you, and so is Jock.”
Nothing moved in old Heythorp's face. No pagan image consulted with
flowers and song and sacrifice could have returned less answer. Her dear
Philip! She had led him the devil of a life, or he was a Dutchman! And
what the deuce made her suddenly trot out the skeleton like this? But
Mrs. Larne's eyes were still wandering.
“What a lovely house! You know, I think you ought to help me, Guardy.
Just imagine if your grandchildren were thrown out into the street!”
The old man grinned. He was not going to deny his relationship--it was
her look-out, not his. But neither was he going to let her rush him.
“And they will be; you couldn't look on and see it. Do come to my rescue
this once. You really might do something for them.”
With a rumbling sigh he answered:
“Wait. Can't give you a penny now. Poor as a church mouse.”
“Oh! Guardy
“Fact.”
Mrs. Larne heaved one of her most buoyant sighs. She certainly did not
believe him.
“Well!” she said; “you'll be sorry when we come round one night and sing
for pennies under your window. Wouldn't you like to see Phyllis? I left
her in the hall. She's growing such a sweet gairl. Guardy just fifty!”
“Not a rap.”
Mrs. Larne threw up her hands. “Well! You'll repent it. I'm at my last
gasp.” She sighed profoundly, and the perfume of violets escaped in a
cloud; Then, getting up, she went to the door and called: “Phyllis!”
When the girl entered old Heythorp felt the nearest approach to a
flutter of the heart for many years. She had put her hair up! She was
like a spring day in January; such a relief from that scented humbug,
her mother. Pleasant the touch of her lips on his forehead, the sound of
her clear voice, the sight of her slim movements, the feeling that she
did him credit--clean-run stock, she and that young scamp Jock--better
than the holy woman, his daughter Adela, would produce if anyone were
ever fool enough to marry her, or that pragmatical fellow, his son
Ernest.
And when they were gone he reflected with added zest on the six thousand
pounds he was getting for them out of Joe Pillin and his ships. He
would have to pitch it strong in his speech at the general meeting. With
freights so low, there was bound to be opposition. No dash nowadays;
nothing but gabby caution! They were a scrim-shanking lot on the
Board--he had had to pull them round one by one--the deuce of a tug
getting this thing through! And yet, the business was sound enough.
Those ships would earn money, properly handled-good money.
His valet, coming in to prepare him for dinner, found him asleep. He had
for the old man as much admiration as may be felt for one who cannot put
his own trousers on. He would say to the housemaid Molly: “He's a game
old blighter--must have been a rare one in his day. Cocks his hat at
you, even now, I see!” To which the girl, Irish and pretty, would reply:
“Well, an' sure I don't mind, if it gives um a pleasure. 'Tis better
anyway than the sad eye I get from herself.”
At dinner, old Heythorp always sat at one end of the rosewood table and
his daughter at the other. It was the eminent moment of the day. With
napkin tucked high into his waistcoat, he gave himself to the meal with
passion. His palate was undimmed, his digestion unimpaired. He could
still eat as much as two men, and drink more than one. And while he
savoured each mouthful he never spoke if he could help it. The holy
woman had nothing to say that he cared to hear, and he nothing to say
that she cared to listen to. She had a horror, too, of what she called
“the pleasures of the table”--those lusts of the flesh! She was always
longing to dock his grub, he knew. Would see her further first! What
other pleasures were there at his age? Let her wait till she was eighty.
But she never would be; too thin and holy!
This evening, however, with the advent of the partridge she did speak.
“Who were your visitors, Father?”
Trust her for nosing anything out! Fixing his little blue eyes on her,
he mumbled with a very full mouth: “Ladies.”
“So I saw; what ladies?”
He had a longing to say: 'Part of one of my families under the rose.'
As a fact it was the best part of the only one, but the temptation
to multiply exceedingly was almost overpowering. He checked himself,
however, and went on eating partridge, his secret irritation crimsoning
his cheeks; and he watched her eyes, those cold precise and round grey
eyes, noting it, and knew she was thinking: 'He eats too much.'
She said: “Sorry I'm not considered fit to be told. You ought not to be
drinking hock.”
Old Heythorp took up the long green glass, drained it, and repressing
fumes and emotion went on with his partridge. His daughter pursed her
lips, took a sip of water, and said:
“I know their name is Larne, but it conveyed nothing to me; perhaps it's
just as well.”
The old man, mastering a spasm, said with a grin:
“My daughter-in-law and my granddaughter.”
“What! Ernest married--Oh! nonsense!”
He chuckled, and shook his head.
“Then do you mean to say, Father, that you were married before you
married my mother?”
“No.”
The expression on her face was as good as a play!
She said with a sort of disgust: “Not married! I see. I suppose those
people are hanging round your neck, then; no wonder you're always in
difficulties. Are there any more of them?”
Again the old man suppressed that spasm, and the veins in his neck and
forehead swelled alarmingly. If he had spoken he would infallibly have
choked. He ceased eating, and putting his hands on the table tried to
raise himself. He could not and subsiding in his chair sat glaring at
the stiff, quiet figure of his daughter.
“Don't be silly, Father, and make a scene before Meller. Finish your
dinner.”
He did not answer. He was not going to sit there to be dragooned and
insulted! His helplessness had never so weighed on him before. It was
like a revelation. A log--that had to put up with anything! A log! And,
waiting for his valet to return, he cunningly took up his fork.
In that saintly voice of hers she said:
“I suppose you don't realise that it's a shock to me. I don't know what
Ernest will think--”
“Ernest be d---d.”
“I do wish, Father, you wouldn't swear.”
Old Heythorp's rage found vent in a sort of rumble. How the devil had he
gone on all these years in the same house with that woman, dining with
her day after day! But the servant had come back now, and putting down
his fork he said:
“Help me up!”
The man paused, thunderstruck, with the souffle balanced. To leave
dinner unfinished--it was a portent!
“Help me up!”
“Mr. Heythorp's not very well, Meller; take his other arm.”
The old man shook off her hand.
“I'm very well. Help me up. Dine in my own room in future.”
Raised to his feet, he walked slowly out; but in his sanctum he did
not sit down, obsessed by this first overwhelming realisation of his
helplessness. He stood swaying a little, holding on to the table, till
the servant, having finished serving dinner, brought in his port.
“Are you waiting to sit down, sir?”
He shook his head. Hang it, he could do that for himself, anyway. He
must think of something to fortify his position against that woman. And
he said:
“Send me Molly!”
“Yes, sir.” The man put down the port and went.
Old Heythorp filled his glass, drank, and filled again. He took a cigar
from the box and lighted it. The girl came in, a grey-eyed, dark-haired
damsel, and stood with her hands folded, her head a little to one side,
her lips a little parted. The old man said:
“You're a human being.”
“I would hope so, sirr.”
“I'm going to ask you something as a human being--not a servant--see?”
“No, sirr; but I will be glad to do anything you like.”
“Then put your nose in here every now and then, to see if I want
anything. Meller goes out sometimes. Don't say anything; Just put your
nose in.”
“Oh! an' I will; 'tis a pleasure 'twill be to do ut.”
He nodded, and when she had gone lowered himself into his chair with a
sense of appeasement. Pretty girl! Comfort to see a pretty face--not a
pale, peeky thing like Adela's. His anger burned up anew. So she counted
on his helplessness, had begun to count on that, had she? She should see
that there was life in the old dog yet! And his sacrifice of the uneaten
souffle, the still less eaten mushrooms, the peppermint sweet with which
he usually concluded dinner, seemed to consecrate that purpose. They all
thought he was a hulk, without a shot left in the locker! He had seen a
couple of them at the Board that afternoon shrugging at each other,
as though saying: 'Look at him!' And young Farney pitying him. Pity,
forsooth! And that coarse-grained solicitor chap at the creditors'
meeting curling his lip as much as to say: 'One foot in the grave!' He
had seen the clerks dowsing the glim of their grins; and that young pup
Bob Pillin screwing up his supercilious mug over his dog-collar. He
knew that scented humbug Rosamund was getting scared that he'd drop off
before she'd squeezed him dry. And his valet was always looking him up
and down queerly. As to that holy woman--! Not quite so fast! Not quite
so fast! And filling his glass for the fourth time, he slowly sucked
down the dark red fluid, with the “old boots” flavour which his soul
loved, and, drawing deep at his cigar, closed his eyes.