Sylvanus Heythorp seldom went to bed before one or rose before eleven.
The latter habit alone kept his valet from handing in the resignation
which the former habit prompted almost every night.
Propped on his pillows in a crimson dressing-gown, and freshly shaved,
he looked more Roman than he ever did, except in his bath. Having
disposed of coffee, he was wont to read his letters, and The Morning
Post, for he had always been a Tory, and could not stomach paying a
halfpenny for his news. Not that there were many letters--when a man has
reached the age of eighty, who should write to him, except to ask for
money?
It was Valentine's Day. Through his bedroom window he could see the
trees of the park, where the birds were in song, though he could not
hear them. He had never been interested in Nature--full-blooded men with
short necks seldom are.
This morning indeed there were two letters, and he opened that which
smelt of something. Inside was a thing like a Christmas card, save that
the naked babe had in his hands a bow and arrow, and words coming out
of his mouth: “To be your Valentine.” There was also a little pink note
with one blue forget-me-not printed at the top. It ran:
“DEAREST GUARDY,--I'm sorry this is such a mangy little valentine; I
couldn't go out to get it because I've got a beastly cold, so I asked
Jock, and the pig bought this. The satin is simply scrumptious. If you
don't come and see me in it some time soon, I shall come and show it
to you. I wish I had a moustache, because my top lip feels just like a
matchbox, but it's rather ripping having breakfast in bed. Mr. Pillin's
taking us to the theatre the day after to-morrow evening. Isn't it
nummy! I'm going to have rum and honey for my cold.
“Good-bye,
“Your PHYLLIS.”
So this that quivered in his thick fingers, too insensitive to feel it,
was a valentine for him!
Forty years ago that young thing's grandmother had given him his last.
It made him out a very old chap! Forty years ago! Had that been
himself living then? And himself, who, as a youth came on the town
in 'forty-five? Not a thought, not a feeling the same! They said you
changed your body every seven years. The mind with it, too, perhaps!
Well, he had come to the last of his bodies, now! And that holy woman
had been urging him to take it to Bath, with her face as long as
a tea-tray, and some gammon from that doctor of his. Too full a
habit--dock his port--no alcohol--might go off in a coma any night!
Knock off not he! Rather die any day than turn tee-totaller! When a man
had nothing left in life except his dinner, his bottle, his cigar, and
the dreams they gave him--these doctors forsooth must want to cut them
off! No, no! Carpe diem! while you lived, get something out of it. And
now that he had made all the provision he could for those youngsters,
his life was no good to any one but himself; and the sooner he went off
the better, if he ceased to enjoy what there was left, or lost the power
to say: “I'll do this and that, and you be jiggered!” Keep a stiff lip
until you crashed, and then go clean! He sounded the bell beside him
twice-for Molly, not his man. And when the girl came in, and stood,
pretty in her print frock, her fluffy over-fine dark hair escaping from
under her cap, he gazed at her in silence.
“Yes, sirr?”
“Want to look at you, that's all.”
“Oh I an' I'm not tidy, sirr.”
“Never mind. Had your valentine?”
“No, sirr; who would send me one, then?”
“Haven't you a young man?”
“Well, I might. But he's over in my country.
“What d'you think of this?”
He held out the little boy.
The girl took the card and scrutinised it reverently; she said in a
detached voice:
“Indeed, an' ut's pretty, too.”
“Would you like it?”
“Oh I if 'tis not taking ut from you.”
Old Heythorp shook his head, and pointed to the dressing-table.
“Over there--you'll find a sovereign. Little present for a good girl.”
She uttered a deep sigh. “Oh! sirr, 'tis too much; 'tis kingly.”
“Take it.”
She took it, and came back, her hands clasping the sovereign and the
valentine, in an attitude as of prayer.
The old man's gaze rested on her with satisfaction.
“I like pretty faces--can't bear sour ones. Tell Meller to get my bath
ready.”
When she had gone he took up the other letter--some lawyer's writing,
and opening it with the usual difficulty, read:
“February 13, 1905.
“SIR,--Certain facts having come to my knowledge, I deem it my duty to
call a special meeting of the shareholders of 'The Island Navigation
Coy.,' to consider circumstances in connection with the purchase of Mr.
Joseph Pillin's fleet. And I give you notice that at this meeting your
conduct will be called in question.
“I am, Sir,
“Yours faithfully,
“CHARLES VENTNOR.
“SYLVANUS HEYTHORP,ESQ.”
Having read this missive, old Heythorp remained some minutes without
stirring. Ventnor! That solicitor chap who had made himself unpleasant
at the creditors' meetings!
There are men whom a really bad bit of news at once stampedes out of all
power of coherent thought and action, and men who at first simply do not
take it in. Old Heythorp took it in fast enough; coming from a lawyer it
was about as nasty as it could be. But, at once, with stoic wariness
his old brain began casting round. What did this fellow really know?
And what exactly could he do? One thing was certain; even if he knew
everything, he couldn't upset that settlement. The youngsters were all
right. The old man grasped the fact that only his own position was at
stake. But this was enough in all conscience; a name which had been
before the public fifty odd years--income, independence, more perhaps.
It would take little, seeing his age and feebleness, to make his
Companies throw him over. But what had the fellow got hold of? How
decide whether or no to take notice; to let him do his worst, or try and
get into touch with him? And what was the fellow's motive? He held ten
shares! That would never make a man take all this trouble, and over a
purchase which was really first-rate business for the Company. Yes!
His conscience was quite clean. He had not betrayed his Company--on the
contrary, had done it a good turn, got them four sound ships at a low
price--against much opposition. That he might have done the Company a
better turn, and got the ships at fifty-four thousand, did not trouble
him--the six thousand was a deuced sight better employed; and he had not
pocketed a penny piece himself! But the fellow's motive? Spite? Looked
like it. Spite, because he had been disappointed of his money, and
defied into the bargain! H'm! If that were so, he might still be got
to blow cold again. His eyes lighted on the pink note with the blue
forget-me-not. It marked as it were the high water mark of what was left
to him of life; and this other letter in his hand-by Jove! Low water
mark! And with a deep and rumbling sigh he thought: 'No, I'm not going
to be beaten by this fellow.'
“Your bath is ready, sir.”
Crumpling the two letters into the pocket of his dressing-gown, he said:
“Help me up; and telephone to Mr. Farney to be good enough to come
round.” ....
An hour later, when the secretary entered, his chairman was sitting by
the fire perusing the articles of association. And, waiting for him to
look up, watching the articles shaking in that thick, feeble hand, the
secretary had one of those moments of philosophy not too frequent with
his kind. Some said the only happy time of life was when you had no
passions, nothing to hope and live for. But did you really ever reach
such a stage? The old chairman, for instance, still had his passion for
getting his own way, still had his prestige, and set a lot of store by
it! And he said:
“Good morning, sir; I hope you're all right in this east wind. The
purchase is completed.”
“Best thing the company ever did. Have you heard from a shareholder
called Ventnor. You know the man I mean?”
“No, sir. I haven't.”
“Well! You may get a letter that'll make you open your eyes. An impudent
scoundrel! Just write at my dictation.”
“February 14th, 1905.
“CHARLES VENTNOR, Esq.
“SIR,--I have your letter of yesterday's date, the contents of which I
am at a loss to understand. My solicitors will be instructed to take the
necessary measures.”
'.hew What's all this about?' the secretary thought.
“Yours truly....”
“I'll sign.” And the shaky letters closed the page: “SYLVANUS HEYTHORP.”
“Post that as you go.”
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“Nothing, except to let me know if you hear from this fellow.”
When the secretary had gone the old man thought: 'So! The ruffian hasn't
called the meeting yet. That'll bring him round here fast enough if it's
his money he wants-blackmailing scoundrel!'
“Mr. Pillin, sir; and will you wait lunch, or will you have it in the
dining-room?”
“In the dining-room.”
At sight of that death's-head of a fellow, old Heythorp felt a sort of
pity. He looked bad enough already--and this news would make him look
worse. Joe Pillin glanced round at the two closed doors.
“How are you, Sylvanus? I'm very poorly.” He came closer, and lowered
his voice: “Why did you get me to make that settlement? I must have been
mad. I've had a man called Ventnor--I didn't like his manner. He asked
me if I knew a Mrs. Larne.”
“Ha! What did you say?”
“What could I say? I don't know her. But why did he ask?”
“Smells a rat.”
Joe Pillin grasped the edge of the table with both hands.
“Oh!” he murmured. “Oh! don't say that!”
Old Heythorp held out to him the crumpled letter.
When he had read it Joe Pillin sat down abruptly before the fire.
“Pull yourself together, Joe; they can't touch you, and they can't upset
either the purchase or the settlement. They can upset me, that's all.”
Joe Pillin answered, with trembling lips:
“How you can sit there, and look the same as ever! Are you sure they
can't touch me?”
Old Heyworth nodded grimly.
“They talk of an Act, but they haven't passed it yet. They might prove
a breach of trust against me. But I'll diddle them. Keep your pecker up,
and get off abroad.”
“Yes, yes. I must. I'm very bad. I was going to-morrow. But I don't
know, I'm sure, with this hanging over me. My son knowing her makes it
worse. He picks up with everybody. He knows this man Ventnor too. And
I daren't say anything to Bob. What are you thinking of, Sylvanus? You
look very funny!”
Old Heythorp seemed to rouse himself from a sort of coma.
“I want my lunch,” he said. “Will you stop and have some?”
Joe Pillin stammered out:
“Lunch! I don't know when I shall eat again. What are you going to do,
Sylvanus?”
“Bluff the beggar out of it.”
“But suppose you can't?”
“Buy him off. He's one--of my creditors.”
Joe Pillin stared at him afresh. “You always had such nerve,” he
said yearningly. “Do you ever wake up between two and four? I do--and
everything's black.”
“Put a good stiff nightcap on, my boy, before going to bed.”
“Yes; I sometimes wish I was less temperate. But I couldn't stand it.
I'm told your doctor forbids you alcohol.”
“He does. That's why I drink it.”
Joe Pillin, brooding over the fire, said: “This meeting--d'you think
they mean to have it? D'you think this man really knows? If my name gets
into the newspapers--” but encountering his old friend's deep little
eyes, he stopped. “So you advise me to get off to-morrow, then?”
Old Heythorp nodded.
“Your lunch is served, sir.”
Joe Pillin started violently, and rose.
“Well, good-bye, Sylvanus-good-bye! I don't suppose I shall be back till
the summer, if I ever come back!” He sank his voice: “I shall rely on
you. You won't let them, will you?”
Old Heythorp lifted his hand, and Joe Pillin put into that swollen
shaking paw his pale and spindly fingers. “I wish I had your pluck,” he
said sadly. “Good-bye, Sylvanus,” and turning, he passed out.
Old Heythorp thought: 'Poor shaky chap. All to pieces at the first
shot!' And, going to his lunch, ate more heavily than usual.
2
Mr. Ventnor, on reaching his office and opening his letters, found, as
he had anticipated, one from “that old rascal.” Its contents excited in
him the need to know his own mind. Fortunately this was not complicated
by a sense of dignity--he only had to consider the position with an eye
on not being made to look a fool. The point was simply whether he set
more store by his money than by his desire for--er--Justice. If not, he
had merely to convene the special meeting, and lay before it the plain
fact that Mr. Joseph Pillin, selling his ships for sixty thousand
pounds, had just made a settlement of six thousand pounds on a lady
whom he did not know, a daughter, ward, or what-not--of the purchasing
company's chairman, who had said, moreover, at the general meeting,
that he stood or fell by the transaction; he had merely to do this,
and demand that an explanation be required from the old man of such a
startling coincidence. Convinced that no explanation would hold water,
he felt sure that his action would be at once followed by the collapse,
if nothing more, of that old image, and the infliction of a nasty slur
on old Pillin and his hopeful son. On the other hand, three hundred
pounds was money; and, if old Heythorp were to say to him: “What do
you want to make this fuss for--here's what I owe you!” could a man of
business and the world let his sense of justice--however he might itch
to have it satisfied--stand in the way of what was after all also his
sense of Justice?--for this money had been owing to him for the deuce of
along time. In this dilemma, the words:
“My solicitors will be instructed” were of notable service in
helping him to form a decision, for he had a certain dislike of other
solicitors, and an intimate knowledge of the law of libel and slander;
if by any remote chance there should be a slip between the cup and
the lip, Charles Ventnor might be in the soup--a position which he
deprecated both by nature and profession. High thinking, therefore,
decided him at last to answer thus:
“February 19th, 1905.
“SIR,--I have received your note. I think it may be fair, before taking
further steps in this matter, to ask you for a personal explanation
of the circumstances to which I alluded. I therefore propose with your
permission to call on you at your private residence at five o'clock
to-morrow afternoon.
“Yours faithfully, “CHARLES VENTNOR.
“SYLVANUS HEYTHORP, Esq.”
Having sent this missive, and arranged in his mind the damning, if
circumstantial, evidence he had accumulated, he awaited the hour with
confidence, for his nature was not lacking in the cock-surety of a
Briton. All the same, he dressed himself particularly well that
morning, putting on a blue and white striped waistcoat which, with a
cream-coloured tie, set off his fulvous whiskers and full blue eyes;
and he lunched, if anything, more fully than his wont, eating a stronger
cheese and taking a glass of special Club ale. He took care to be late,
too, to show the old fellow that his coming at all was in the nature of
an act of grace. A strong scent of hyacinths greeted him in the hall;
and Mr. Ventnor, who was an amateur of flowers, stopped to put his nose
into a fine bloom and think uncontrollably of Mrs. Larne. Pity! The
things one had to give up in life--fine women--one thing and another.
Pity! The thought inspired in him a timely anger; and he followed the
servant, intending to stand no nonsense from this paralytic old rascal.
The room he entered was lighted by a bright fire, and a single electric
lamp with an orange shade on a table covered by a black satin cloth.
There were heavily gleaming oil paintings on the walls, a heavy old
brass chandelier without candles, heavy dark red curtains, and an
indefinable scent of burnt acorns, coffee, cigars, and old man. He
became conscious of a candescent spot on the far side of the hearth,
where the light fell on old Heythorp's thick white hair.
“Mr. Ventnor, sir.”
The candescent spot moved. A voice said: “Sit down.”
Mr. Ventnor sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the fire; and,
finding a kind of somnolence creeping over him, pinched himself. He
wanted all his wits about him.
The old man was speaking in that extinct voice of his, and Mr. Ventnor
said rather pettishly:
“Beg pardon, I don't get you.”
Old Heythorp's voice swelled with sudden force:
“Your letters are Greek to me.”
“Oh! indeed, I think we can soon make them into plain English!”
“Sooner the better.”
Mr. Ventnor passed through a moment of indecision. Should he lay
his cards on the table? It was not his habit, and the proceeding was
sometimes attended with risk. The knowledge, however, that he could
always take them up again, seeing there was no third person here to
testify that he had laid them down, decided him, and he said:
“Well, Mr. Heythorp, the long and short of the matter is this: Our
friend Mr. Pillin paid you a commission of ten per cent. on the sale
of his ships. Oh! yes. He settled the money, not on you, but on your
relative Mrs. Larne and her children. This, as you know, is a breach of
trust on your part.”
The old man's voice: “Where did you get hold of that cock-and-bull
story?” brought him to his feet before the fire.
“It won't do, Mr. Heythorp. My witnesses are Mr. Pillin, Mrs. Larne, and
Mr. Scriven.”
“What have you come here for, then--blackmail?”
Mr. Ventnor straightened his waistcoat; a rush of conscious virtue had
dyed his face.
“Oh! you take that tone,” he said, “do you? You think you can ride
roughshod over everything? Well, you're very much mistaken. I advise you
to keep a civil tongue and consider your position, or I'll make a beggar
of you. I'm not sure this isn't a case for a prosecution!”
“Gammon!”
The choler in Charles Ventnor kept him silent for a moment; then he
burst out:
“Neither gammon nor spinach. You owe me three hundred pounds, you've
owed it me for years, and you have the impudence to take this attitude
with me, have you? Now, I never bluster; I say what I mean. You just
listen to me. Either you pay me what you owe me at once, or I call this
meeting and make what I know public. You'll very soon find out where you
are. And a good thing, too, for a more unscrupulous--unscrupulous---” he
paused for breath.
Occupied with his own emotion, he had not observed the change in old
Heythorp's face. The imperial on that lower lip was bristling, the
crimson of those cheeks had spread to the roots of his white hair.
He grasped the arms of his chair, trying to rise; his swollen hands
trembled; a little saliva escaped one corner of his lips. And the words
came out as if shaken by his teeth:
“So-so-you-you bully me!”
Conscious that the interview had suddenly passed from the phase of
negotiation, Mr. Ventnor looked hard at his opponent. He saw nothing
but a decrepit, passionate, crimson-faced old man at bay, and all the
instincts of one with everything on his side boiled up in him. The
miserable old turkey-cock--the apoplectic image! And he said:
“And you'll do no good for yourself by getting into a passion. At your
age, and in your condition, I recommend a little prudence. Now just take
my terms quietly, or you know what'll happen. I'm not to be intimidated
by any of your airs.” And seeing that the old man's rage was such that
he simply could not speak, he took the opportunity of going on: “I don't
care two straws which you do--I'm out to show you who's master. If you
think in your dotage you can domineer any longer--well, you'll find two
can play at that game. Come, now, which are you going to do?”
The old man had sunk back in his chair, and only his little deep-blue
eyes seemed living. Then he moved one hand, and Mr. Ventnor saw that
he was fumbling to reach the button of an electric bell at the end of a
cord. 'I'll show him,' he thought, and stepping forward, he put it out
of reach.
Thus frustrated, the old man remained-motionless, staring up. The word
“blackmail” resumed its buzzing in Mr. Ventnor's ears. The impudence
the consummate impudence of it from this fraudulent old ruffian with one
foot in bankruptcy and one foot in the grave, if not in the dock.
“Yes,” he said, “it's never too late to learn; and for once you've come
up against someone a leetle bit too much for you. Haven't you now? You'd
better cry 'Peccavi.'.
Then, in the deathly silence of the room, the moral force of his
position, and the collapse as it seemed of his opponent, awakening a
faint compunction, he took a turn over the Turkey carpet to readjust his
mind.
“You're an old man, and I don't want to be too hard on you. I'm only
showing you that you can't play fast and loose as if you were God
Almighty any longer. You've had your own way too many years. And now
you can't have it, see!” Then, as the old man again moved forward in his
chair, he added: “Now, don't get into a passion again; calm yourself,
because I warn you--this is your last chance. I'm a man of my word; and
what I say, I do.”
By a violent and unsuspected effort the old man jerked himself up and
reached the bell. Mr. Ventnor heard it ring, and said sharply:
“Mind you, it's nothing to me which you do. I came for your own good.
Please yourself. Well?”
He was answered by the click of the door and the old man's husky voice:
“Show this hound out! And then come back!”
Mr. Ventnor had presence of mind enough not to shake his fist.
Muttering: “Very well, Mr. Heythorp! Ah! Very well!” he moved with
dignity to the door. The careful shepherding of the servant renewed the
fire of his anger. Hound! He had been called a hound!
3
After seeing Mr. Ventnor off the premises the man Meller returned to his
master, whose face looked very odd--“all patchy-like,” as he put it in
the servants' hall, as though the blood driven to his head had mottled
for good the snowy whiteness of the forehead. He received the unexpected
order:
“Get me a hot bath ready, and put some pine stuff in it.”
When the old man was seated there, the valet asked:
“How long shall I give you, sir?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lying in that steaming brown fragrant liquid, old Heythorp heaved a
stertorous sigh. By losing his temper with that ill-conditioned cur he
had cooked his goose. It was done to a turn; and he was a ruined man.
If only--oh! if only he could have seized the fellow by the neck and
pitched him out of the room! To have lived to be so spoken to; to have
been unable to lift hand or foot, hardly even his voice--he would sooner
have been dead! Yes--sooner have been dead! A dumb and measureless
commotion was still at work in the recesses of that thick old body,
silver-brown in the dark water, whose steam he drew deep into his
wheezing lungs, as though for spiritual relief. To be beaten by a cur
like that! To have that common cad of a pettifogging lawyer drag him
down and kick him about; tumble a name which had stood high, in the
dust! The fellow had the power to make him a byword and a beggar! It
was incredible! But it was a fact. And to-morrow he would begin to do
it--perhaps had begun already. His tree had come down with a crash!
Eighty years-eighty good years! He regretted none of them-regretted
nothing; least of all this breach of trust which had provided for his
grandchildren--one of the best things he had ever done. The fellow was
a cowardly hound, too! The way he had snatched the bell-pull out of
his reach-despicable cur! And a chap like that was to put “paid” to the
account of Sylvanus Heythorp, to “scratch” him out of life--so near the
end of everything, the very end! His hand raised above the surface fell
back on his stomach through the dark water, and a bubble or two rose.
Not so fast--not so fast! He had but to slip down a foot, let the water
close over his head, and “Good-bye” to Master Ventnor's triumph Dead men
could not be kicked off the Boards of Companies. Dead men could not be
beggared, deprived of their independence. He smiled and stirred a little
in the bath till the water reached the white hairs on his lower lip.
It smelt nice! And he took a long sniff: He had had a good life, a good
life! And with the thought that he had it in his power at any moment to
put Master Ventnor's nose out of joint--to beat the beggar after all, a
sense of assuagement and well-being crept over him. His blood ran
more evenly again. He closed his eyes. They talked about an
after-life--people like that holy woman. Gammon! You went to sleep--a
long sleep; no dreams. A nap after dinner! Dinner! His tongue sought his
palate! Yes! he could eat a good dinner! That dog hadn't put him off his
stroke! The best dinner he had ever eaten was the one he gave to Jack
Herring, Chichester, Thornworthy, Nick Treffry and Jolyon Forsyte at
Pole's. Good Lord! In 'sixty--yes--'sixty-five? Just before he fell in
love with Alice Larne--ten years before he came to Liverpool. That was
a dinner! Cost twenty-four pounds for the six of them--and Forsyte
an absurdly moderate fellow. Only Nick Treff'ry and himself had been
three-bottle men! Dead! Every jack man of them. And suddenly he thought:
'.y name's a good one--I was never down before--never beaten!'
A voice above the steam said:
“The twenty minutes is up, sir.”
“All right; I'll get out. Evening clothes.”
And Meller, taking out dress suit and shirt, thought: 'Now, what does
the old bloomer want dressin' up again for; why can't he go to bed and
have his dinner there? When a man's like a baby, the cradle's the place
for him.'....
An hour later, at the scene of his encounter with Mr. Ventnor, where
the table was already laid for dinner, old Heythorp stood and gazed. The
curtains had been drawn back, the window thrown open to air the room,
and he could see out there the shapes of the dark trees and a sky
grape-coloured, in the mild, moist night. It smelt good. A sensuous
feeling stirred in him, warm from his bath, clothed from head to foot in
fresh garments. Deuce of a time since he had dined in full fig! He
would have liked a woman dining opposite--but not the holy woman; no,
by George!--would have liked to see light falling on a woman's shoulders
once again, and a pair of bright eyes! He crossed, snail-like, towards
the fire. There that bullying fellow had stood with his back to
it--confound his impudence!--as if the place belonged to him. And
suddenly he had a vision of his three secretaries' faces--especially
young Farney's as they would look, when the pack got him by the throat
and pulled him down. His co-directors, too! Old Heythorp! How are the
mighty fallen! And that hound jubilant!
His valet passed across the room to shut the window and draw the
curtains. This chap too! The day he could no longer pay his wages, and
had lost the power to say “Shan't want your services any more”--when he
could no longer even pay his doctor for doing his best to kill him off!
Power, interest, independence, all--gone! To be dressed and undressed,
given pap, like a baby in arms, served as they chose to serve him, and
wished out of the way--broken, dishonoured!
By money alone an old man had his being! Meat, drink, movement, breath!
When all his money was gone the holy woman would let him know it fast
enough. They would all let him know it; or if they didn't, it would be
out of pity! He had never been pitied yet--thank God! And he said:
“Get me up a bottle of Perrier Jouet. What's the menu?”
“Germane soup, sir; filly de sole; sweetbread; cutlet soubees, rum
souffly.”
“Tell her to give me a hors d'oeuvre, and put on a savoury.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the man had gone, he thought: 'I should have liked an oyster--too
late now!' and going over to his bureau, he fumblingly pulled out the
top drawer. There was little in it--Just a few papers, business papers
on his Companies, and a schedule of his debts; not even a copy of his
will--he had not made one, nothing to leave! Letters he had never kept.
Half a dozen bills, a few receipts, and the little pink note with the
blue forget-me-not. That was the lot! An old tree gives up bearing
leaves, and its roots dry up, before it comes down in a wind; an old
man's world slowly falls away from him till he stands alone in the
night. Looking at the pink note, he thought: 'Suppose I'd married
Alice--a man never had a better mistress!' He fumbled the drawer to; but
still he strayed feebly about the room, with a curious shrinking from
sitting down, legacy from the quarter of an hour he had been compelled
to sit while that hound worried at his throat. He was opposite one of
the pictures now. It gleamed, dark and oily, limning a Scots Grey who
had mounted a wounded Russian on his horse, and was bringing him
back prisoner from the Balaclava charge. A very old friend--bought in
'.ifty-nine. It had hung in his chambers in the Albany--hung with him
ever since. With whom would it hang when he was gone? For that holy
woman would scrap it, to a certainty, and stick up some Crucifixion or
other, some new-fangled high art thing! She could even do that now if
she liked--for she owned it, owned every mortal stick in the room, to
the very glass he would drink his champagne from; all made over under
the settlement fifteen years ago, before his last big gamble went wrong.
“De l'audace, toujours de l'audace!” The gamble which had brought him
down till his throat at last was at the mercy of a bullying hound.
The pitcher and the well! At the mercy---! The sound of a popping cork
dragged him from reverie. He moved to his seat, back to the window, and
sat down to his dinner. By George! They had got him an oyster! And he
said:
“I've forgotten my teeth!”
While the man was gone for them, he swallowed the oysters, methodically
touching them one by one with cayenne, Chili vinegar, and lemon. Ummm!
Not quite what they used to be at Pimm's in the best days, but not
bad--not bad! Then seeing the little blue bowl lying before him, he
looked up and said:
“My compliments to cook on the oysters. Give me the champagne.” And he
lifted his trembling teeth. Thank God, he could still put 'em in for
himself! The creaming goldenish fluid from the napkined bottle slowly
reached the brim of his glass, which had a hollow stem; raising it to
his lips, very red between the white hairs above and below, he drank
with a gurgling noise, and put the glass down-empty. Nectar! And just
cold enough!
“I frapped it the least bit, sir.”
“Quite right. What's that smell of flowers?”
“It's from those 'yacinths on the sideboard, sir. They come from Mrs.
Larne, this afternoon.”
“Put 'em on the table. Where's my daughter?”
“She's had dinner, sir; goin' to a ball, I think.”
“A ball!”
“Charity ball, I fancy, sir.”
“Ummm! Give me a touch of the old sherry with the soup.”
“Yes, sir. I shall have to open a bottle:”
“Very well, then, do!”
On his way to the cellar the man confided to Molly, who was carrying the
soup:
“The Gov'nor's going it to-night! What he'll be like tomorrow I dunno.”
The girl answered softly:
“Poor old man, let um have his pleasure.” And, in the hall, with the
soup tureen against her bosom, she hummed above the steam, and thought
of the ribbons on her new chemises, bought out of the sovereign he had
given her.
And old Heythorp, digesting his osyters, snuffed the scent of the
hyacinths, and thought of the St. Germain, his favourite soup. It
would n't be first-rate, at this time of year--should be made with
little young home-grown peas. Paris was the place for it. Ah! The French
were the fellows for eating, and--looking things in the face! Not
hypocrites--not ashamed of their reason or their senses!
The soup came in. He sipped it, bending forward as far as he could, his
napkin tucked in over his shirt-front like a bib. He got the bouquet of
that sherry to a T--his sense of smell was very keen to-night; rare old
stuff it was--more than a year since he had tasted it--but no one drank
sherry nowadays, hadn't the constitution for it! The fish came up,
and went down; and with the sweetbread he took his second glass of
champagne. Always the best, that second glass--the stomach well warmed,
and the palate not yet dulled. Umm! So that fellow thought he had him
beaten, did he? And he said suddenly:
“The fur coat in the wardrobe, I've no use for it. You can take it away
to-night.”
With tempered gratitude the valet answered:
“Thank you, sir; much obliged, I'm sure.” So the old buffer had found
out there was moth in it!
“Have I worried you much?”
“No, sir; not at all, sir--that is, no more than reason.”
“Afraid I have. Very sorry--can't help it. You'll find that, when you
get like me.”
“Yes, sir; I've always admired your pluck, sir.
“Um! Very good of you to say so.”
“Always think of you keepin' the flag flying', sir.”
Old Heythorp bent his body from the waist.
“Much obliged to you.”
“Not at all, sir. Cook's done a little spinach in cream with the
soubees.”
“Ah! Tell her from me it's a capital dinner, so far.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alone again, old Heythorp sat unmoving, his brain just narcotically
touched. “The flag flyin'--the flag flyin'.” He raised his glass and
sucked. He had an appetite now, and finished the three cutlets, and all
the sauce and spinach. Pity! he could have managed a snipe fresh shot! A
desire to delay, to lengthen dinner, was strong upon him; there were
but the souffle' and the savoury to come. He would have enjoyed, too,
someone to talk to. He had always been fond of good company--been good
company himself, or so they said--not that he had had a chance of late.
Even at the Boards they avoided talking to him, he had noticed for a
long time. Well! that wouldn't trouble him again--he had sat through his
last Board, no doubt. They shouldn't kick him off, though; he wouldn't
give them that pleasure--had seen the beggars hankering after his
chairman's shoes too long. The souffle was before him now, and lifting
his glass, he said:
“Fill up.”
“These are the special glasses, sir; only four to the bottle.”
“Fill up.”
The servant filled, screwing up his mouth.
Old Heythorp drank, and put the glass down empty with a sigh. He had
been faithful to his principles, finished the bottle before touching
the sweet--a good bottle--of a good brand! And now for the souffle!
Delicious, flipped down with the old sherry! So that holy woman was
going to a ball, was she! How deuced funny! Who would dance with a
dry stick like that, all eaten up with a piety which was just sexual
disappointment? Ah! yes, lots of women like that--had often noticed
'.m--pitied 'em too, until you had to do with them and they made you as
unhappy as themselves, and were tyrants into the bargain. And he asked:
“What's the savoury?”
“Cheese remmykin, sir.”
His favourite.
“I'll have my port with it--the 'sixty-eight.” The man stood gazing with
evident stupefaction. He had not expected this. The old man's face was
very flushed, but that might be the bath. He said feebly:
“Are you sure you ought, sir?”
“No, but I'm going to.”
“Would you mind if I spoke to Miss Heythorp, Sir?”
“If you do, you can leave my service.”
“Well, Sir, I don't accept the responsibility.”
“Who asked you to?”
“No, Sir....”
“Well, get it, then; and don't be an ass.”
“Yes, Sir.” If the old man were not humoured he would have a fit,
perhaps!
And the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths. He felt happy, his
whole being lined and warmed and drowsed--and there was more to come!
What had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good
dinner? Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? No,
they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. A
man had nothing but his pluck--they only tried to undermine it, and make
him squeal for help. He could see his precious doctor throwing up his
hands: “Port after a bottle of champagne--you'll die of it!” And a very
good death too--none better. A sound broke the silence of the closed-up
room. Music? His daughter playing the piano overhead. Singing too! What
a trickle of a voice! Jenny Lind! The Swedish nightingale--he had never
missed the nights when she was singing--Jenny Lind!
“It's very hot, sir. Shall I take it out of the case?”
Ah! The ramequin!
“Touch of butter, and the cayenne!”
“Yes, sir.”
He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better.
With cheese--port! He drank one glass, and said:
“Help me to my chair.”
And settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell
on the little low table by his side, he murmured:
“Bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes.”
To-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had
finished. As old Horace said:
“Aequam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem.”
And, raising his glass, he sipped slowly, spilling a drop or two,
shutting his eyes.
The faint silvery squealing of the holy woman in the room above, the
scent of hyacinths, the drowse of the fire, on which a cedar log had
just been laid, the feeling of the port soaking down into the crannies
of his being, made up a momentary Paradise. Then the music stopped; and
no sound rose but the tiny groans of the log trying to resist the fire.
Dreamily he thought: 'Life wears you out--wears you out. Logs on a
fire!' And he filled his glass again. That fellow had been careless;
there were dregs at the bottom of the decanter and he had got down to
them! Then, as the last drop from his tilted glass trickled into the
white hairs on his chin, he heard the coffee tray put down, and taking
his cigar he put it to his ear, rolling it in his thick fingers. In
prime condition! And drawing a first whiff, he said:
“Open that bottle of the old brandy in the sideboard.”
“Brandy, sir? I really daren't, sir.”
“Are you my servant or not?”
“Yes, sir, but---”
A minute of silence, then the man went hastily to the sideboard, took
out the bottle, and drew the cork. The tide of crimson in the old man's
face had frightened him.
“Leave it there.”
The unfortunate valet placed the bottle on the little table. 'I'll have
to tell her,' he thought; 'but if I take away the port decanter and the
glass, it won't look so bad.' And, carrying them, he left the room.
Slowly the old man drank his coffee, and the liqueur of brandy. The
whole gamut! And watching his cigar-smoke wreathing blue in the orange
glow, he smiled. The last night to call his soul his own, the last night
of his independence. Send in his resignations to-morrow--not wait to be
kicked off! Not give that fellow a chance!
A voice which seemed to come from far off, said:
“Father! You're drinking brandy! How can you--you know it's simple
poison to you!” A figure in white, scarcely actual, loomed up close. He
took the bottle to fill up his liqueur glass, in defiance; but a hand
in a long white glove, with another dangling from its wrist, pulled it
away, shook it at him, and replaced it in the sideboard. And, just as
when Mr. Ventnor stood there accusing him, a swelling and churning in
his throat prevented him from speech; his lips moved, but only a little
froth came forth.
His daughter had approached again. She stood quite close, in white
satin, thin-faced, sallow, with eyebrows raised, and her dark hair
frizzed--yes! frizzed--the holy woman! With all his might he tried to
say: 'So you bully me, do you--you bully me to-night!' but only the word
“so” and a sort of whispering came forth. He heard her speaking. “It's
no good your getting angry, Father. After champagne--it's wicked!” Then
her form receded in a sort of rustling white mist; she was gone; and he
heard the sputtering and growling of her taxi, bearing her to the ball.
So! She tyrannised and bullied, even before she had him at her mercy,
did she? She should see! Anger had brightened his eyes; the room came
clear again. And slowly raising himself he sounded the bell twice, for
the girl, not for that fellow Meller, who was in the plot. As soon as
her pretty black and white-aproned figure stood before him, he said:
“Help me up.”
Twice her soft pulling was not enough, and he sank back. The third time
he struggled to his feet.
“Thank you; that'll do.” Then, waiting till she was gone, he crossed the
room, fumbled open the sideboard door, and took out the bottle. Reaching
over the polished oak, he grasped a sherry glass; and holding the bottle
with both hands, tipped the liquor into it, put it to his lips and
sucked. Drop by drop it passed over his palate mild, very old, old as
himself, coloured like sunlight, fragrant. To the last drop he drank it,
then hugging the bottle to his shirt-front, he moved snail-like to his
chair, and fell back into its depths. For some minutes he remained there
motionless, the bottle clasped to his chest, thinking: 'This is not the
attitude of a gentleman. I must put it down on the table-on the table;'
but a thick cloud was between him and everything. It was with his hands
he would have to put the bottle on the table! But he could not find
his hands, could not feel them. His mind see-sawed in strophe and
antistrophe: “You can't move!”--“I will move!” “You're beaten”--“I'm not
beat.” “Give up”--“I won't.” That struggle to find his hands seemed
to last for ever--he must find them! After that--go down--all
standing--after that! Everything round him was red. Then the red cloud
cleared just a little, and he could hear the clock--“tick-tick-tick”; a
faint sensation spread from his shoulders down to his wrists, down his
palms; and yes--he could feel the bottle! He redoubled his struggle to
get forward in his chair; to get forward and put the bottle down. It
was not dignified like this! One arm he could move now; but he could not
grip the bottle nearly tight enough to put it down. Working his whole
body forward, inch by inch, he shifted himself up in the chair till he
could lean sideways, and the bottle, slipping down his chest, dropped
slanting to the edge of the low stool-table. Then with all his might he
screwed his trunk and arms an inch further, and the bottle stood. He had
done it--done it! His lips twitched into a smile; his body sagged back
to its old position. He had done it! And he closed his eyes ....
At half-past eleven the girl Molly, opening the door, looked at him and
said softly: “Sirr! there's some ladies, and a gentleman!” But he did
not answer. And, still holding the door, she whispered out into the
hall:
“He's asleep, miss.”
A voice whispered back:
“Oh! Just let me go in, I won't wake him unless he does. But I do want
to show him my dress.”
The girl moved aside; and on tiptoe Phyllis passed in. She walked to
where, between the lamp-glow and the fire-glow, she was lighted up.
White satin--her first low-cut dress--the flush of her first supper
party--a gardenia at her breast, another in her fingers! Oh! what a
pity he was asleep! How red he looked! How funnily old men breathed! And
mysteriously, as a child might, she whispered:
“Guardy!”
No answer! And pouting, she stood twiddling the gardenia. Then suddenly
she thought: 'I'll put it in his buttonhole! When he wakes up and sees
it, how he'll jump!'
And stealing close, she bent and slipped it in. Two faces looked at
her from round the door; she heard Bob Pillin's smothered chuckle; her
mother's rich and feathery laugh. Oh! How red his forehead was! She
touched it with her lips; skipped back, twirled round, danced silently a
second, blew a kiss, and like quicksilver was gone.
And the whispering, the chuckling, and one little out-pealing laugh rose
in the hall.
But the old man slept. Nor until Meller came at his usual hour of
half-past twelve, was it known that he would never wake.